On the Art of Becoming A Friend to Self

Metaphors help me put myself in more empathetic shoes with healthier perspectives (the plural is important). The idea of building up myself and others toward progress has been significant to me lately. As a follower of Jesus, I am an active construction worker in a Kingdom of souls.

Thinking of each person as a building in construction helps me realize how my words and actions can reinforce a person’s architectural structure, so to speak. If each person’s heart is a potential sculpture, then I understand some bits need to be chipped away with gentle and intentional strokes to reveal an amazing image. And imagining humans as fellow sojourners through the wilderness of life’s valleys and mountains, the significance of individual strengths and weaknesses for a group’s goal becomes visible.

We have three little boys, and their hearts’ shapes matter more to me than anyone’s, which means everyone’s matters to me a great deal because everyone is someone’s baby. (Sad, overwhelmed face.)  All of these metaphors help me envision people as individual jewels in a community setting with a long-term purpose for God’s Kingdom. Including myself. Each day I am the first person either choosing to be my friend or my enemy, which has an impact on all of my activities and relationships.

The second greatest command is hard for me. Jesus wants me to love my neighbor as myself. What does that even mean? People tote it around and pass it out like an easy spelling test, and I feel like a kindergartner trying to ace a quantum physics exam when I haven’t learned to read yet, and neither have the bozos handling the grades.

The blurred lines of how to love a person confound me. “As myself”?! Words like “self” and “love” subtly terrify me. The world’s extreme self-indulgence versus unhealthy church-culture’s self-neglect clouds the direction of how to love myself, and therefore others.

It’s time to blow the smoke away and face the beast. Letting myself be loved, by God and myself and others, is the basis of everything I believe God has been communicating through history about our existence: How to be loved and how to love, how to be like Him. (Matthew 5:37-40; Galatians 5:14)

“Self” conjures guilt for me because of all.the.sermons about “J-O-Y; Jesus first, others second; yourself last.” Maybe healthy people with well-defined emotional boundaries can shape their priorities and live fruitful lives with that acronym. But codependent tendencies transform that acronym into a recipe of self-neglect, irresponsibility, self-loathing, and a victim mentality. Since many starve for this true love, we vacuum up anything that numbs the inevitable suffering of life -- empty calories of comfort, often in the form of isolated addictions or destructive relationships.

“Love” — ugh. This word. Ugh. So many misconceptions and folly parading in a mask of “love.” When I am given the direction to “love,” I feel like someone gave me a raft at the beach and told me to just float until I hit land on the other side of the ocean. I need clarity here. My observation of others is that many people feel the same overwhelmed confusion by this concept. Love is too complex and alive to be reduced to a system, though; and my heart also aches to see it degraded to impulsive feelings. So how to navigate this breathing, beating, persevering part of our minds, bodies, hearts -- souls? Hmm?

Cruelty and bullying obviously are not love. On the other extreme end of the spectrum, though, coddling and enabling are missing the mark too. But how many of us have unfair expectations of ourselves each day -- and we handle our failures to meet those expectations by neglecting or harming ourselves (verbally, emotionally, physically); or we give up on everything, instead of seeking for healthy compromises in between our all-or-nothing thinking? Both are a way of losing self-control; the former by overstepping the bounds of responsibility in a violent way, and the latter by not claiming responsibility in uncomfortable moments of constructive relational interaction. Some moments call for the courage and strength of “tough love,” while others call for the tenderness of mercy and understanding. Not to mention different needs for different personalities with different traumas and strengths. Overload! Why can’t I have a script or a map for these possibilities?

A script and clear paths won’t happen before we start our building, sculpting, sojourning. But we can be given a direction to write or forge our own with some guidelines. God actually gives a lot of guidelines about healthy love that have been corrupted by culture, tradition, and stigma.

LOVE...

• Is patient
• Is kind
• Does not want what belongs to others
• Does not brag
• Is not proud
• Does not dishonor other people/ is NOT rude
• Does not look out for its own interests
• Does not get angry easily
• Does not keep track of others’ wrongs
• Is not happy with evil
• Is full of joy when truth is spoken
• Always protects
• Always trusts
• Always hopes
• Never gives up

1 Corinthians 13

I don’t think anyone would actually come out and say that neglecting oneself is healthy, but enough sermons about how terrible it is to be selfish without clear lines drawn between what it means to take care of oneself as a human with needs and potential in God’s Kingdom VERSUS indulgent, destructive selfishness has created so much sickness in God’s Kingdom. Instead of breaking people down, we want to build them up, right? Ourselves, too, right?

Finding practical tools to practice treating yourself like a friend helps. Every person is different. For me the key is to find TRACTION when I get knocked down the slippery slopes of my self-doubt and -loathing in the face of life’s demands. “Traction” is currently my favorite word because I can sink my teeth into it while I feel my heart’s feet grab hold of something solid and the strength steele me from foundation to dome. Here are some things that help me gain strength:

Unconditional Self-Friendship

• I try to do some kind of devotional, either my breakfast reader or the online She Reads Truth, before my day gets too far away from me. Reminders of God’s big-picture-love still my soul (at least a bit) before I get swept away in the rush of tiny endless questions, homeschool and caring for three babies, plus all the other stuff.

• An imaginary start over button that I can push any time a day while talking to God about it, however many times I need to change my attitude. Even if I JUST pushed it, or I already pushed it twenty times, I can push it again. Pretend it’s there in the air. Push it. It is way better for my husband and kids if I stop and try again than to go down the cycle of failure and self-loathing when I make a mistake.
• If I wouldn’t say or do it to someone else, then I shouldn’t say or do it to myself. Don’t be mean to you. You’re a person. You matter too.
• I hang up signs and scriptures around the house that give me peace and/or courage. What would I tell my best friend if she felt this way?  “Unconditional self-friendship.”
• HALT means stop -- if you’re Hungry Angry Lonely or Tired, stop and take care of yourself (Eat, address the issue, rest). Don’t deprive yourself of physical or emotional needs because you think you deserve to suffer. Enough inevitable suffering goes around in life that we can endure for growth; don’t tear yourself down with meaningless and unnecessary neglect. And have you ever had a successful interaction with loved ones when you were hangry? Taking care of yourself helps you take care of your relationships and loved ones. Remember the cliche example of the oxygen mask on the airplane? You put on yours first, and THEN you can help people. You cannot help anyone if you are passed out.
• Exercise. I know not everyone likes this, but even a simple walk can clear the mind and untangle worries. Breathe. Move. You’ll become one with your mind and body.
• Enjoy the little things. A pretty mug with a hot cup of tea in the morning, and then a pretty jar with a cup of iced tea later in the day, brings me sweet pleasure and refreshment when dealing with responsibilities. It sounds silly, but after years of not sleeping through the night, and not consuming caffeine bc I hate coffee, (and because I got some kind of sick pleasure out of seeing how tough I could be through misery), I realized how significant this “little thing” is to myself and the people I am learning to love better each day.
• Do not compare yourself to others. We each have different personalities, different traumas, different seasons of life, different health issues. You take care of YOU where you ARE. If you have an illness, take the nap you need. If you’re chasing kids (all day and night), don’t bully yourself about a messy house. If you are busy doing good works or celebrating life events or dealing with responsibilities, talk to yourself outloud about what matters most. Don’t miss precious moments for meaningless ones. (Talking to myself. Seriously, you can’t say this stuff out loud enough.)
• Claim your responsibilities. Don’t fall victim to a victim mindset. Facing fears and dealing with life is exhausting, but it builds self-confidence for controllable issues and trust in the Lord for the uncontrollable ones.
• Learn to detach from negativity. People are going to have hard feelings toward you, no matter who you are. Look at criticism realistically. If you need to apologize or change your ways, take responsibility. If you believe you haven’t done anything wrong, push forward and allow yourself to be joyful. Don’t get caught in silly nets that unhappy people throw.

I could probably write dozens of these, but who has time to even read what I already wrote?! Hah! Please feel free to share with me what you like to do to help yourself, anything general or specific?

An arsenal of love with which to love better can’t be too full!

On the Art of IF/WHEN to Accept Help: Anti-depressants

Note: I am not a psychological expert. This post is intended to help people learn more about their own mental health status from my personal experience. Ask an expert and research your options, wherever this leads you.

I have seen several professional counselors for half of my life, and am currently under the guidance of one. Self-harm due to obsessive thoughts of low self-esteem, eating-exercising-body-image-fitness disorder, codependency, and all the anxiety and depression that accompany those, are some of my issues. A drive to compensate where I see irresponsibility or harm in the world leads to overwhelming thoughts that do nothing but paralyze me and make me fear a lot of people. Exhaustion. Weakness. Unfair expectations. Ka-BOOM! I highly advise people to seek counseling for new thinking tools. Life is tough; and many people are unintentionally spreading and catching emotional and relational ignorance, especially in modern church culture in the midst of a wealthy, instantly-gratified, unbalanced and crazy-busy society (in my opinion). Love yourself, maintain your vessel, learn healthier ways, and get traction to gain strength and move onward. My next post will be practical suggestions for mindfulness and self-friendship.

This is a metaphor of what days are like inside my head, describing why I decided to take medicine, and how it has helped:

The train leaves the station every morning, with an itinerary full of discovery and success in a wide-open world that has the adult woman hopping with anticipation before the sun comes up, with hopes like trembling bubbles in a heating teapot. The woman and her kids eat their breakfast quietly, before the excitement of the day begins. They each look forward to meeting Daddy at the end of the day’s work. She knows how blessed and happy her life is. God has given her people and opportunities beyond her best imagining. No place would be better and no better places could be awaiting them.

But in broken minds, whispered fears bombard symphonies of hope. Lightly etched dread covers the vision of elaborately sketched dreams.

The train increases its speed, swaying smoothly. When she looks out the window, expecting to see endless blue skies and wide-open fields of harvest, this woman is confused to see shadows. The sky can’t be seen through the heavy foliage of the humid forest’s chaotic overgrowth of trees and remaining decadent brush. She presses her face and hands against the glass, turning her head at impossible angles to find a spot of light from above. She can tell Light is there, but no rays shine through. 

The woman is startled by the turbulence of the train’s sudden rush over the rails. A rush to make up for lost time. A frenzy to make the most of the fleeting time that remains. Scratchy limbs start to pull against the windows with scraping clatters. They screech against the speeding locomotive with past disappointments and old wounds that bleed with future fears, the present lost in a tangle of bitter guilt and paralyzing anxiety. 

Her kids don’t seem to notice the scary scenery, until they ask another repetitive question or need help with a tiny task; and then they see their mother’s gaze come back to them, vigilant and distracted by specters outside that they can’t see. The children might see the reflection of these rotten fruits in Mommy’s eyes or behaviors, but they can’t understand why she isn’t enjoying another ride — again — on the train that is full of opportunities and grace, like all the sweet days before. 

The woman is trapped in her isolated vision of the forest; and now the dark, twisted arms of the trees have broken through the windows, wrapping themselves around her, slowing the train with forceful stretching as the engine’s perseverance weakly strives with groans and screaming friction to barrel forward through this real, grasping illusion. She wants to believe the tunnel of dark overgrowth will end soon, that if the train keeps pushing, then the vines will release her into the peace and joy her children bright-eye-edly expect to see any moment.  The ones they seem to see already. The outer world isn’t the problem; it’s all inside of her.

The woman feels horror as the vines around her wrists transform from wooded plant cartilage into human flesh, clawed fingers. Her gaze trails up the human arm, with familiar freckles, to be caught by the cruel stare of... the person she sees each day in the mirror. She gasps and looks around to see a forest full of figures that are angry, mean versions of herself. Some are pointing accusing fingers, others are giving critical looks of disapproving doubt, and some are charging, butting her head with theirs and tackling her with shouts of blame and hopelessness. Her mind is overrun by the movement and noise of so many pieces of her / self fighting to destroy her. Panic fills her chest and spreads to her extremities. A scream, will that scare the lying truth-speakers away? Will covering her head and weeping clear the space? 

Her kids! Oh! Her darling babies! Are they witnessing this self destruction? They can’t see or touch it, thankfully, but can they feel it? What if they were in this situation, pummeling themselves unkindly? That seems to conjure an exponential amount more of doubt and blame and doom.

Panic isn’t working. 

Panic is escalating the danger.

[After this happened most days of the week for weeks-days-years, no matter how much I meditated on my Bible or prayed or exercised or ate well or reached out to loved ones (good habits I keep up because they build me), I had to accept that I needed help.  Some outward circumstances fed exhaustion and weakness, BUT I knew/know how blessed and wonderful my life is. Counting my blessings is easy. It wasn’t that. “Too blessed to be depressed” just fed the confounded guilt about why it kept happening. It was internal brain chemistry. So hard for me to accept. I wanted my faith and my thoughts to be in control. Bc that’s the way “it should be.” My counselor explained to me how a brain with out-of-whack chemistry holds on to anxious thoughts that every person normally has and won’t let them go. The medicine helps them move on through, so I can wave goodbye as they pass or ride them to a better place. The rest of the metaphor describes how taking Zoloft (safe for breastfeeding) has helped dilute the concentration of obsessive anxiety, which allows me to find strength to stand and push away the discouragement of the depression.]

What would I tell a friend going through this, the woman thinks? How would I edify my children if an uncontrollable bully was breaking them? 

Breathe...

Take a deep breath. Steady my life energy.

Try to breathe. Steady... Don’t give up. 

Just say, “Jesus.” There is Power in His name, we are promised. It sounds so cheesy. But it’s proven true many times. 

Spell “calm.” Think of an acronym for C-A-L-M: Catastrophe. Absolution. Lift. Mastication. Ha! a chuckle at the randomness. 

Air, anchors of reason, calm...

One tiny gulp of air.

Je-sus.

Two tiny gulps of air.

Keep breathing.

A finale of beating from the hateful selves pounds me into the ground; but instead of fighting, I breathe, saying His name, an internal power force that shields me from the inside-out. It isn’t instant or magical. It’s a process of focusing trust and pushing through repeated practice sessions. 

A light at the end of the forest-tunnel. I will reach it. And I will not give up in the darkness.

I wait for my Good Shepherd to find me, to pick me up and chase away the wolves, trusting that He is my refuge through the storm of self. Even if He is searching for me apart from me, His presence is still assuring me. We are both in this place, even if it is scary. 

Calm.

Sometimes it takes Him a long time to arrive. But arrive He always has. So He will. I know He is searching, always seeking to be reunited with one of his little lambs, and He has never failed to make His way through the twisted and closing forest to bring me back into Light.

I can’t give up. 

Stay. 

Breathe.

... Wait.

Breathe.

... Wait.

Breathe. One.

In through the nose.

Out the mouth.

Two. 

Some sunlight.

Some openness.

And now exhaustion. 

Will I accept rest and recovering grace, or will I fall into hopelessness by dwelling on all the failures before and predicting the next terrifying ride before I recover the mental strength to confront it? 

That’s where the difference in not taking an anti-depressant and taking one has been for me. 

Presence (accepting one moment at a time) and self-friendship (talking to yourself) are utterly vital to pushing through survival to thriving. How to move forward without getting caught up in the outcome? Practice makes progress.

Some days are weaker than others. Some times are more demanding and exhausting. Just like a runner or a gymnast or a weight-lifter has weaker performances for varying reasons, our minds and emotions do too. Sometimes our bodies get infections and we have to recover. Our minds go through seasons too. Sometimes cold winters last longer than we’d choose.

I still have a lot of questions about how my faith and forces of evil affect my mind. But I know that my family and I have more peace with the medicine opening the mean claws in my mind so I can pass through less scathed. 

I hope this helps someone.

On the Art of My Heart

Hey there, Blogosphere!

I haven’t written a post in many moons. My mind is always coming up with ideas to share, mainly about daily life and overcoming depression and anxiety — on a moment-by-moment basis, not a fix-it-forever gimmicky illusion — but those thoughts are usually unfinished distractions in my role as homemaker and homeschool Mom with three mighty, darling boys (ages 7 (in two days), almost 4, and 8 months).

In the days it took me to write this one post over multiple sessions of breastfeeding our third sweet chunk of sugar from Heaven, I became overwhelmed and disrupted by all.the.things. Homeschool. Violin. Halloween costumes. Birthday party activities. Teaching Bible class. Trying to be a somewhat decent friend and family member. Building my running mileage with a thrice post-partum body. And pesky things, like eating and showering and sleeping. Any outer success you see involved a lot of explosive combustion and too much striving. But that’s where the pressure pushes out what doesn’t belong and refines what’s best. Please remember that I am an art piece in progress, not a finished exhibit, as you read. 

Writing is where my abundance of thoughts and emotions can meet on a straight path. Writing is a tool I was given and must use for my own survival. (After running has helped my body and thoughts meet in a safe place.) Hah. November is nearly here, and I cannot possibly write 50,000 words for NaNoWriMo, while doing this life season, but I CAN write a blog post each week (by Friday) for three months. And then we’ll see where I go after that. 

Life moves so fast. Here I am, 32 years old, so blessed and filled. I can’t put into words how richly and deeply I experience every moment of our tiny-but-mighty corner of the world, whether it’s good or bad or ugly. But I deeply like trying to find the words. I have found a deep joy for trying to put the beautiful things God works inside me, the ones that fight against the despicably selfish things, into practice. Just like my little boy’s violin practice or my running goals — practice, repetition, new challenges, necessary changes — so many things — make each day a continued project of life art from my soul, my heart. Looking at it this way helps me overcome the failures and keep moving with the successes.

A dark negativity has always lain under my high hopes — er, more like expectations — for constant improvement. The higher my expectations for things to be the way they “should be,” including myself and the world, the harder disappointment falls on my weak shoulders as reality unfolds before my limited sight of a broken world. Some of my beliefs are cushioned by naïveté, yet centered by some degree of wisdom, and I seek shrewdness to deal with the sorrowful and joyful spectrum of reality in a humbly hopeful way.

I am always on inside, thoughts constantly churning. The process is exhausting and results in a lot of confusion, outer paralyzation, and many blunders. Instead of focusing on the negatives, though, I am searching for ways to nourish this vigilance I have been given. Neurotic or vigilant? Both? Can I connect those two as different sides of a watchful coin? Hah! In a world full of automatic reactions set by the status quo and blind allegiances, it can be useful to constantly sift my heart’s contents and over-analyze my identity as a fellow citizen of Earth under God’s Light. Can sharing my experiences, the thoughts to which I am incredibly sensitive, fan the waning embers in other beautiful but discouraged souls?

Hope exists. Real hope. True faith. Committed love. And none are magical or urgent or instant or painless. My Christian faith assures me there is a Destination. I recognize it is a separate place/realm than this world, across a bridge of death and resurrection. But I go through each day acting like I should already have “arrived” at perfect thoughts and behaviors. I see people treating each other like that person or this person should have arrived too. And then we judge ourselves and others like nincompoops who missed their bus stop. (And even as I write this, I am judging myself and some specific people, honestly.) But maybe if we treated ourselves as constant sojourners, ever-learners, we could see others as the sometimes-desperate-wanderers and other-times-comfortable-travelers and help each other grow from our experiences, instead of rolling over each other and leaving him and her in that pit. (I have so many things I want to add here about boundaries where “victims” claim no responsibility for their own path and pull others into their pits, instead of learning the way out... that’s another post. So complicated, but significant.)

Faith, hope, and love are an intentional and slow process of woven threads through every choice and disruption in our lives, the things we can control and the many we cannot. They shade the happy moments with humble gratitude and strengthen the sad moments with perspective. When the threads break or get tangled by our sins or mistakes, the Master wants to make them beautiful by helping us start again, as we move forward in our stories. He can weave in loose ends or change the design as the process continues. He can help us rest with the purpose of moving forward when the time becomes right.

Each day is a continued piece of the art of my life. I wake up with goals for the future, with disappointments from the past, with plans to do better today than I did yesterday — more with internal responses of peace and compassion than outward accomplishments. But the piece includes it all; and seeing it take shape, accepting that I have responsibility to affect it but no control to rush it, makes it more peaceful, even with the fast pace of life with three kids in this very busy culture.

It’s hard, beautiful work. It’s mine, as a thoughtful investment from God with His oversight. It’s my purpose. And it isn’t an epic direction with a clear script. It’s an unfinished piece of art that becomes more intricate and shapely as I learn more about myself and others and God.

This time last year, I was suffering under a deep depression and anxiety. Several months pregnant with our third child, and homeschooling our then-kindergartener while also raising our then 2-year-old, I couldn’t function. The check marks were accomplished each day. But inside my anxious thoughts were like hundreds of trains barreling through my mind, only to get stuck where they collided with each other in the center of me — until I became paralyzed in the wreck, hopeless about tiny decisions as well as the outlook about significant life missions. I don’t have to share details here.

But I can share generally about where I’ve been, where I am now, and how I keep moving forward in growth.Your day is your art project. Is it a day for changing direction, barreling forward with momentary clarity, or just quietly observing the pretty strokes or the big messes until you know how to proceed with the next tiny stroke? And then the next tiny one, and so on? What is your art today? 

The easy and the hard -- they help me learn what matters most and what I am willing to sacrifice or push through (no matter how long it takes) to attain a Christlike heart in my unique place. I am a vigilant guard and a persevering artist. This helps me grow, instead of giving up because I think a bad-attitude grade ruined my eternal GPA once and for all — a constant process for an ever-enlightened (but very precious and beloved) idiot. 

Some posts to expect include:

• a comparison of life without an anti-depressant versus with one. I had a lot of assumptions and misunderstandings that postponed it longer than I should have, and now I have a clearer view of those.

• unconditional self-friendship. It’s vital. I have so much to share about this. Being kind to oneself, oh.so.hard. But.utterly.important. Taking care of yourself as a vessel for Jesus is NOT the same as selfishness.

• how getting back into running shows me what the tension between resting and working means for progress, as well as some other all or nothing misconceptions that mess up every little thing.

• Boundaries: Compassion, yes. Enabling, no. Urgh.

• Words that strike me, like “unrest” and “stay” and “traction”

• Plus more

Birth Story of Baby 3: Second Unmedicated VBAC

I enjoy sharing birth stories, hearing others and telling my own, because each pregnancy can be so different. You never know exactly how one'll go until it is gone, so sharing stories is an interesting and successful way to gain perspective and educate oneself for preparation about a significant event with many unknown factors. And it's just plain fun!

Before I lose the details to lots of all-night breastfeeding marathons and all-day fun with my husband and THREE BOYS (Yay!!!!!!! For real! Yay!!!!!!!!!), I want to write the story of our third son's birth. It was a FUN one!

Before we had any kids, I had a strong interest in natural childbirth. Looking back, though, I did not know how to educate myself about it. Baby One was late, and my blood pressure got high, so his birth involved pitocin, an eventual epidural, and emergency c-section (because his cord turned out to be wrapped around his chest/shoulders). Scary! Baby Two was a planned unmedicated/natural VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean). You can read about those two in more detail HERE (the link didn't work. Sorry. Dec 2013 is where that story is on this blog.), if you want. 

Our second son, born more than three years ago, came in five hours after we arrived at the hospital ... and I thought THAT was fast.

What did I know!? Haha!

This baby, Baby Three, also was a planned unmedicated VBAC. With Number Two we had prepared for doing it naturally by reading The Bradley Method. I recommend that book because of how it helped me. This time, because of questions I actually had the ability to know to ask after birthing a baby with no medication, my husband and I enlisted in a two-hour private birthing class to help us prepare to do it again. The instructions we received there, as well as the booklet I got to take home and read over the following few weeks, really helped me prepare my mindset. Now that I am on this side of his birth, I really know it helped SO much with helping me feel prepared (for the many different possibilities of timing, positions, etc.), which helped me feel relaxed, not just anxious. (Contact me if you want the Tiny Seeds Birth Services info.) 

Before I share all the details, I feel like knowing "the ending" will make the beginning and middle more fun: My husband and I arrived at the hospital in a *rush*, myself waddling through constant contractions, at 5:10 pm, with him aiding me along the way. Our sweet, precious, darling son was born 39 minutes later. He was two days past his due date.

Our first two children were born one week late, so most of me just assumed Number Three would too. At about 37 weeks pregnant, I started having Braxton-Hicks practice contractions all day, every day, as well as some nights. This did NOT happen with my first two, so my mind started playing the "What if the baby comes early?" game with me -- which drove this pregnant woman bananas! For three-plus weeks.

His Thursday, February 23, due date came. He did not. Ever heard of PregoSaurus!? I just knew it would be at least one more week, just like the first two. Ugh. 

Ha!

The next night, Friday, the Braxton Hicks contractions changed to real ones. I could tell they were different, not painful or unbearable, but lower and more defined, so I started tracking them on my app. They stayed consistent but moved from between eight minutes and almost twenty minutes all night. (They say that when they stay at five minutes apart for an hour, you should head to the hospital.) I did not feel any rush. They did keep me awake, but at the same time I felt relaxed because I just assumed this was the beginning of a two or three day process. (With Baby Two, I did have similar contractions for the two days before he came on his own; so that, in addition to my previously late babies, made me just feel relaxed/annoyed that the time was coming/not yet.) 

Haaaa!

Saturday morning came, contractions stayed consistently between eight and twenty minutes. Still not unbearable, but certainly definite and consistent. We were relaxing at home. I was staying busy with chores and sitting on my medicine ball to wiggle my hips. And starting to feel excited and dreamy.

Nap time -- the contractions were hurting more, but definitely not unbearable, and had been staying closer to 8 or 9 minutes since lunch. I laid down. I couldn't sleep. But I felt very relaxed. So I just closed my eyes. Some contractions hurt enough that I got on all fours to wiggle out my hips through them (which helps take the pressure of baby's head off lower back). I just felt a really strange combination of very relaxed and anxious about when our baby would come.

After nap time. My husband was practicing violin with our 6-year-old, so I tried to play Rescue Bots with our 3-year-old, but the now painful contractions were stopping me... what was the tracker saying? What? Every 4 to 5 minutes!? What! Oh.

Now my excitement and dreaminess was beginning to feel like panic and denial. Nah. Not today. These are just the beginning of a days long process because I am always pregnant for at least 41 weeks. Not today. Not now.

But ouch.

And I can't deny the clock.

I just tried to keep my mind on my 3yo and Rescue Bots. But it was getting harder to do. We were approaching 45 minutes of really painful contractions coming between 3:30 and 5 minutes apart.

When my husband and son were done with violin I tried to let my husband know without getting excited. I really didn't want myself or anyone else (my hubby, our boys, the waiting grandparents, friends) to get really excited if it still wasn't going to happen for a couple days. So I just showed him the contraction tracker information on my phone.

He smiled big.

Then he could see how the pain of contractions was taking my breath away.

He said we needed to get ready.

I kinda held off about ten more minutes, but the contractions were coming between 2 and 3 minutes apart all of a sudden, really bashing me. This was less than an hour from when I had started feeling the painful ones. 

Panic. Tears. Yet excitement.

We need to go!

What if we have a baby in the car?

My mom came as fast as she could to stay with our boys. We left. They were SO excited!

During the twenty-minute ride to the hospital, the very painful contractions were happening 1 to 2 minutes apart. I couldn't remember how to get to the hospital. Even though I know where it is. I tried to think, but gave up. It is a good thing my husband was the driver. Haha! And he stayed so calm and reassuring through every pain and every panic of mine. And even though I had that anxiety and panic, all the things I had learned about relaxing my body were truly helping me just take every contraction one step at a time. It is hard to describe. 

We parked. We got out. My husband later told me he didn't know I could walk that fast. I had to stop when the contractions, a minute apart, got me. I stopped tracking them once we had parked. They were so close and so hard. At that point, the pain was constant, with some waves less intense than the big ones.

I just had to make it to the door. And then to the Admissions desk, where I gasped through gritted teeth, "I'm having a baby!" The receptionist firmly said, "I understand." Hahahaha! It is so funny to remember. She showed Justin where to get me a wheelchair while she got my prepared papers. I tried to walk because I really did NOT want to sit. But the contractions hurt too much to move my feet when they happened, so the wheelchair was the most efficient way to get to my next step: up the elevator and to triage.

When we arrived at triage, the attendant could tell she needed to move fast. I just wanted my clothes off and the baby out. She didn't ask for any information other than contraction timing. She checked me. 

This is the most hilarious response: "You're at a 5 or 6... to an 8. Your cervix is so stretchy that it could be almost anything." (For those who don't know, a cervix should be at least 4cm for the hospital to admit a woman in active labor. 10cm is pushing/arrival size.)

She just got me in a wheelchair and showed Justin to our delivery room, where the three nicest nurses were moving in a flurry to get things ready for a fast baby. Looking back, they reminded me of wonderful medical fairies, the way they were pleasantly and competently busy about my birthing business. 

They hooked up the monitor for the baby's heart and got my IV in, and they tried to ask me questions. Tried. I was in a whole new world of relaxing through intense pain before a huge physical trial. Every time I had a contraction, I wanted to stand up, and they were so nice to let me do it once all the monitors were wired. Funny to me, they did not hook my c-section scar up to any monitors -- which was a *big* deal at the other hospital in our old town with Baby Two. Maybe because it was happening so fast? Maybe because less than one percent of c-section scars ever tear during a VBAC? I wasn't worried about the scar. I was in pain and I just wanted to meet my baby!

This whole time my wonderful husband was speaking the calmest, most affirming words to me, letting me squeeze his hand through the pain, reminding me to keep my jaw and body as relaxed as possible.

My midwife Hannah got there in about five minutes. She said the triage attendant told her that my water was about to burst, and she is just glad she didn't accidentally do that when she checked me (because that would have brought Baby before midwife arrival). Hannah checked and said that was definitely the case. Would I want her to break it? Because then the baby would come immediately. (After it was all finished, she told us if it had broken on its own at home, we would have had a baby on the side of the road.)

Yes. I had thought about that before I even went into labor. I was okay with her breaking it, as long as Baby was safe. 

She pinched the water sack with her gloved fingers. Pop. Sploosh. Here comes the flood.

Ouchy-Wow-a!!!!!!! (Yet still able to breathe and relax through the extremely engaging pain. In a totally different zone to accomplish the necessary event.)

I had to take that blasted hospital gown off. Ugh!!!! (Not because of appearance, but because of functionality.) And they happily accommodated me. Great nurses/midwife! How has anyone not invented something more functional for standard pregnancy attire by this point!? Lol. I needed to move when the pain moved me, not readjust a dang piece of fabric all over my very busy body. Ha! 

They were still letting me stand up beside the bed, and they weren't gonna make me lie down again. (If you are a first-time mommy, know that you can talk to your doctor about different positions. Some may allow you to do your own thing. Or you can find one that does. You do not have to lie back in that bed, unless you want to.) 

Three pushes later (one minute separating each), our third precious son was born to a standing, buck-naked woman and her wonderful, supportive husband. So funny and beautiful to me! I had to step around his cord, in quite a beautiful mess of life liquids, and they placed him in my arms. Happy crying. Joyful crying. Crying in ecstasy that this whole journey of a human's making has resulted in our healthy, beautiful baby. We made it. Together. With our good God. (The nurse got a pic of Justin and me first looking at our son together, but I can never show anyone else, but I am happy we have it.) JOY!!!!! All that pain turns into JOY instantaneously. We waited with all three to learn gender at birth, and my husband got to call it. So exciting! 

And then I got to breastfeed him. He was covered in blood and vernix (he had so much of that in-utero lotion) for two hours, cuddling with me, before they took us to our overnight room. It was really nice to just be in that moment together so peacefully and naturally (as possible in a hospital). 8 lbs., 6 oz and 20.5 inches long. My biggest baby. The darkest hair of our blonde boys. Such a sweet cuddly, fuzzy ball of live wonder and soul!

So much happened SO fast after the waiting of pregnancy. I call it Happiness Whiplash.

God is so good. We are so incredibly thankful for the good health and a happy "endings" (which is really just another beginning). We realize God is the One who sustains us, not happiness. But we praise/bless/thank Him when the circumstances are so delightful. And we pray to glorify Him through trust if/when they are not. 

To His Glory: "Three times I prayed and God said NO"

Words are coming to me today, and I feel like I can put them together in sequences that will build others up. That is a big deal lately, something I haven't been able to do in a while.

I never want to "overshare" in a way that will steal others' joy or make me a target, and sometimes I am unsure of where the boundaries are, but today I feel sure.

Observing myself and others around me, which I do pretty much automatically on an exhausting 24/7 basis, I realize most of us don't know or understand anything about ourselves, much less others, yet we pretend that we do and we try to "control" it all with our beliefs about how we should be, how things should be, how others should be, and we spend so much energy trying to be what we should be that we miss who we are -- and we miss who God is too.

I am blessed to be part of a couple Christian communities where members can be honest about their uncontrollable issues that can lead to sin, but ON THE FLIP SIDE can bring so much glory to God. We each have something: an addiction, a mental illness, a physical cripple, a sexual desire, a past trauma, etc.

But we stay committed to our families on hard days.
We ask for help when the evil is so strong to seduce us.
We feast on God's Word, remembering it is alive and active and that we will always be learning new things about His heart as he builds ours.
We are the support, not the enablers, when people we love need strength to stand back up or go a new direction or a friend to sit by on the curb and cry.
By sharing ourselves we shed light in dark places where moldy sin grows.

But it is so hard to do.

Something I have always struggled with, but barely understand, because it manifests itself in different ways, and because I am human and really just don't know a lot (although I have learned a lot and can always learn more), is depression/anxiety. Some seasons I am strong against it, others I am weak and eaten up with it. The past several months it has exploded. And it has stunk. It stinks, presently. It is still here.

I have begged God to help me be stronger, to help me be a better person, to build my character, to please all the people around me whose outsides lead me to assume they have it all together, so maybe if I please them that means I will be together too. I honestly get angry because I have mistakenly believed the Spirit living in me, with all its wonderful fruits, is something I can control. That I, Nicoll, can force an apple of love, an orange of joy, cherries of patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control to magically appear in the juiciest forms on my branches. But I am not the Gardener, the Builder, the Cultivator. That isn't the way depression/anxiety work, even though I WISH it was. I wish that was the way so many battles worked for so many people I love.

Even though our weaknesses make some days hard, unbearably horrible, I see so much of God's power in our refusal to give in to the Evil One, the one who throws flaming darts at us because he wants us to give up.

The most depressing YET EMPOWERING thing I have heard recently was something a friend shared a couple weeks ago in a video. (Here is the link. It is about ten minutes long, and totally worth your time, if you have it: https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=jRJ2vEy6Kpo ) The speaker in the video also struggles with depression/anxiety, but I believe it is beneficial for any form of uncontrollable weakness that rears its ugly head from time-time. He pointed out the scripture in 2 Corinthians 12:8-10. Everybody really likes the part where Jesus says to Paul, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." But what if we singled out the verse right before that, where Paul says, "Three times I begged the LORD... and he said NO." What if we posted that on our walls or embroidered those on our fancy pillows? The speaker also points out the blind man that Jesus says was born for God's glory in John 9:3. That makes an audience ooh and ahh. But what if you were that man, blind for every day of his life?

So that was the depressing part.

But when you pair it with Jesus's magical mud-spit healing the blind man. And then with Jesus's answer to Paul -- and the person Paul was, through all the persecution and physical discomforts he faced to BOLDLY tell the world of Jesus's salvation: Whoa! "TO GOD BE THE GLORY, GREAT THINGS HE HATH DONE!"

I am going to give birth to our third baby in roughly six weeks. The agony of pregnancy AND birth... holding that precious little human in your arms and kissing his face... the seemingly endless mourning becomes joyful dancing that makes every pain wirth it in a *flash*. It can't be summed up in words.

I have been reading a chapter in Proverbs each day for months, the one that corresponds to the date. On the twenty-fourth of each month, in verse 10, I say, "Ah, CRAP!" because it reads, "If you falter in times of trouble, how small is your strength." That is how my mind works. There is no room for weakness or failure because one bad moment will define my entire being. But I have several bad moments. And I can't give up there, literally or figuratively, because verse 16 says, "for though a righteous man falls seven times, he rises again..."

I can't give up in verse 10 of my life because God's grace makes room for verse 16.

And history has proven that in reality we are all going to fall a lot.

But we will rise again (and again) (and again) (and again)...

I personally have never been one to be peeved that we are seemingly pawns in some kind of eternal battle between good and evil. I know that really bothers some people. And I know my words can't change that. But my breath, my body, my mind, the very things that give me life and personality, are not my own. I did absolutely nothing to initiate myself or keep my systems in rhythm. Nothing I have is my own. I just am. (Even though I put so much pressure on myself to be anybody but me.) And I believe with all my heart -- no matter all the cynical bickering I have listened to and pondered and considered -- that God made me because He loves me. And I am okay if I have no control over the good, the bad, and the ugly that will ultimately bind me to that love forever. I sure do fight to have control. But the more I fight it, the more I have to open my hands in surrender and see who God is. And then the better I understand who I am in a way that allows me to accept myself. Which slowly helps me accept others. And all in the Light of Jesus, the One who helped make me and redeem me, and Whose Words, even if I don't get them, point to the me and the people and the world I can never control because it isn't mine to rule. It will take until eternity for me to accept myself and others, but there is a lot of glory and fruit in the tiny steps I am taking toward that.

So in the meantime, on bad days, when no matter the words I tell myself or read or hear from others, and I still cannot overcome the sorrow, restlessness, hopelessness, and the weariness, what do I do? Do I follow all the bad thoughts in my head that tell me to give up in this way or that way? Or do I just let go and rest in the love of God and the precious support system, the anchors He has provided (my husband, my family, my friends, my umpteenth professional counselor (everyone should have one)) for the times I cannot control my spirit but can lean on His? (And it is so hard, not simple or easy or magical.)

I do have control over one thing: TO NOT GIVE UP, whether that means resting or putting one foot in front of the other or asking for help to keep standing or to make this choice or to not make that choice. I can NOT and will NOT give up. And if I take a step in the wrong direction, I can turn around. I can ask for help to know which way is better. I can ask for help walking to that better path if I have taken several wrong steps. I can surround myself with people who will build me up, not tear me down. And tearing down comes in shameful shapes and enabling ones, so I pray for discernment to seek God's Kingdom while trying to live in His call for justice and His tendency toward mercy.

To go along with my Spiritual fruit control issues, my counselor gave me a metaphor a couple of months ago, very appropriately timed, that has also been carrying me through hard days: Trees. Trees grow and continue to live, even when they are covered in ice and standing strong against icy winds for the months of winter. Not all days are full of blossoms and green leaves. I can be like that too. And I am. All the winters of my life that I look back on with regret, where I feel like I have failed, actually I was a shorter and weaker tree then than I am now, and despite things not going the way I thought they SHOULD, God has still provided fruit and growth in the warm seasons that have made me a closer-to-whole Nicoll than I could have been on my own terms. I am like those trees, covered in snow, appearing to be fruitless for a short time, but appropriately waiting for another season of revival. You have seasons like that too? Right?

I said at the beginning of this that the words came to me in a way I could make them into sense and order, but I still have a life of little loves who require my attention, so maybe this came out terser and less eloquent than I wanted. But I know from what I see in the news and social media and sad faces that I am not alone in an uncontrollable weakness (unique to each person and your story) that requires support through wintry seasons occasionally.

I hope wherever you are today, that you can rest in God's love. It's okay to just be a tree in winter. It's okay to beg God and wait for His answer, whether it is relief or a "no" that displays His power. Don't give up. Your tree is still growing, even if winter has it bogged down right now. You will rise again.