Hello, Good-Bye.

It's with a disappointed heart that I share the following: this blog is going on hiatus until further notice.

I've been writing.  I have.  It's not that I have neglected my art.  Most of what I have been writing has wound up in the mouths of my teenage actors.  I've been writing new plays for them every 6 to 8 weeks or so, and I also feel that the time has come for me to resurrect some of my older skits and plays and give them new life.

In addition, I feel that God is calling me to do a new thing in my life, something that will require me to stretch my faith, embrace my gifts, and trust him in an area of my life that I've always considered a hobby, rather than a professions.  I am not ready to share this new goal just yet, but it will - God willing - involve me reaching out to others like myself to cultivate the link between the dramatic arts and the church.

I want to thank those of you who have read, commented, encouraged and supported me from my first social media posts (yep - myspace) until now.  You have helped carry me through times when I doubted my talent, doubted that I had anything worthwhile to say.  After many years, I believe I am finding my voice, and I know what I want to share.

I still have novels and skits and poems in my head that may never come out, but it's time I sat down at the computer and let them have a real fighting chance to do just that.  

I'm not ready to seal up this chapter of my life just yet, so I'm keeping my "good-bye" open-ended.  It's entirely possible that my path will bring me back here with a lot more to say.  But, for now, I need to step back and give my increasingly limited free time to the words that have been locked in my head for too long.

May God's love sustain you, may you never run out of coffee, and may every cat you encounter remind you of me.

Signing off for now,
Rebecca L. Godlove

Perception, Part 1: Shawn

I love to learn.

When I was a kid, I used to read the encyclopedia.  As a pre-teen, I rejected the banal "Goosebumps" series in favor of books about Greek, Roman and Norse mythology.  I elected to become a Coffee Master at Starbucks because I had the chance to explore more about something I loved.  In nearly every job I've held, I've wound up training or teaching others, because I get excited to share what I learn.

Fabulous Twilight Sparkle GIF found at
 alicemarvels.com.

I learned a lot in college about literature, theatre, and relating to people who are different than me.  I learned a lot in church about my faith and my relationship with God and people.  I learned a lot from my parents (all of them) about life in general, and about myself in particular.

But some of the lessons that have made the biggest impact on my life came from one person in particular: Shawn Speir.

Shawn was my store manager when I worked at the Starbucks in Robinson.  He'd been a shift supervisor when I joined the Starbucks family (well, then it WAS more like a family) in Collier right out of college.  We got along very well, despite numerous differences, and he quickly adopted me as both his little sister and his pet project.  He saw potential in me and he worked hard to help me improve both my hard and soft skills.  Both of us were promoted rather quickly, I to a supervisor and he to an assistant manager.  I remember being crushed the day we learned he was being promoted again, and would no longer be working with us.  He was getting his own store.  I had grown so fond of him and was learning so much from him that I couldn't bear the thought of him leaving.  That week, though, he pulled me aside and told me he wanted me to go with him.  

I probably should make it clear at this point that there was no romance between us.  Despite one person's accusation that we were "involved", I can tell you with absolute certainty that Shawn was not interested in me.  Nor I in him.  Although I must admit, until I met Ross, I was convinced that Shawn had the most beautiful eyes on the planet.

But I digress.

At any rate, hearing him say he wanted to take me, to help me work towards my own goal, which was to become an assistant manager, made my heart happy.  I learned how to drive just so my dad no longer had to take me to work (Collier was just up the road, but Robinson was a different story).  

The reason I share all of this is that Shawn had the unenviable task of teaching me some extremely hard lessons.  He took me on as his own project, took responsibility for me, and in some cases forced me to improve myself as a barista, a manager, and a person.  I remember so many private conversations in the back room on the store, where he'd flail about, hysterically angry about something, then immediately compose himself, return to the sales floor, and address a customer or barista with absolute respect and utter calm.  He was so careful never to crack in front of people.  I, too, found myself angry or upset about something beyond my control, and Shawn would carefully, quietly whisper in my ear to leave the floor and take a break.  Sometimes he'd follow me and clearly, frankly explain what I was doing wrong - it was my attitude, or my tone, or whatever.  Because I knew that he loved me - yes, I like to think we'd grown to love each other like siblings - and because I knew that everything he said was coming from a desire to improve me, I received the criticism.  Sometimes, I responded flatly that I didn't like him or was going to cry, and he nodded and told me to finish my ten-minute break.  

He never gave up on me.

But that wasn't the most important thing I learned from Shawn.

I learned that "perception is reality".

What that means is that a customer doesn't notice or care if you just accidentally spilled a 200 degree Americano all over your arm, because all he sees is you NOT making his latte, and he decides you're lazy or slow.

What that means is that your supervisor doesn't care that you're discussing a very difficult break-up with a co-worker, because all she sees is that you're not making your requisite follow-up calls, and she decides you're avoiding work.

What that means is that it doesn't matter if you want to glorify God, because all people hear coming out of your mouth is condemnation, and they decide that religion isn't worth it.

It's true that we can't decide how other people see us, or our situations.  Each person makes his or her own decisions.  About everything.  And the media is the proof of that.  We see a report about a man being gunned down, and a whole campaign rises up about that, despite the facts about the case not being released.  A celebrity tweets her thoughts about a situation halfway across the globe and she is hailed as a hero for mentioning it.  An overweight woman puts on clothes that make her feel comfortable and pretty, and strangers splash her photo all over Instagram, labeling her with unkind words.

We control our own actions.  We can even control our thoughts.  (I share about that here.) And, though we cannot control others' perceptions of ourselves, we can take those perceptions into consideration when we act.  I'm not saying that we need to tread on eggshells around every person, on every issue, but taking care with our word choices, our tone, our body language - all of that goes a long way in regards to how people see us.

In my next post, I'll share why perception is such a big deal - and how it can change your life.

On Second Thought...

Although I cannot recall the attribution, I recently read somewhere that the first thought that pops into your head about a person or situation is the one you were "trained" to have.  The second thought is the one that defines you as a person.

The idea fascinates me.  As a practicing Christian, I want to be more like Jesus - more loving, more patient, more honest, more encouraging.  Yet I'm appalled, sometimes, by the thoughts that seem to jump into my head.  Seeing a young woman use food stamps while she's pulling out her brand-new iPhone and clicking at it with freshly manicured nails while her three half-dressed children are screaming in the grocery cart.  Obviously she's abusing the system, right?  How could she afford a nice smartphone if she had to apply for government aid?  And for goodness' sake, WHY isn't she taking care of those kids?!

Maybe the phone was a gift.  Maybe her best friend works at a salon and did her nails for free.  And the kids - who knows?  Maybe it was such a nightmare getting them out of the house that one lost a shoe and mom didn't have time to grab it.  Now that I'm a parent, I'm beginning to understand that kids are unpredictable.  They have tantrums at the most inconvenient times.  And sometimes, trying to find an effective method of discipline takes time and lots of trial and error.  I didn't "get" that before Ronen was born.

During my time at Starbucks, I learned a lot about relating to people.  I wasn't the perfect employee, but there were at least a few instances where I seemed to get along with "problem customers" better than some of my peers.  It might have been because, each time a guest treated me rudely or dismissively, I forced myself to think: "Maybe he had a really ugly fight with his wife this morning and he's still shaken about it" or "Maybe she has a meeting at work today that she's not ready for" or "Maybe his kid is failing out of college".  I learned - very slowly - not to take criticism or bad attitudes personally.  I learned to separate what was being said from how it was being said.  

This was incredibly useful, too, later, when I worked for another company in a totally different field.  There was a woman there who was very good at her job, but very abrasive.  She never got that "praise sandwich" memo - you know, where you offer negative feedback to an employee by first encouraging them or reinforcing their positive qualities, then give them the "bad news", and finish with something uplifting?

Image from www.alexanderchrisostomou.co.uk

Yeah, it was like that idea had never crossed her mind.  Most people in the office disliked her, and many outright hated her.  One even asked me, flat-out, "How do you get along with her?"  I replied to this person that, when the woman criticised me, I tried to evaluate what she was saying, rather than how it was coming out of her mouth.  If what she was saying was valid - for example, I'd made a mistake while calculating something - then I accepted it for what it was worth, worked on the problem and moved on.  If it was something without merit - just a lady in a bad mood lashing out - then I dropped it and also moved on.

It wasn't easy and it wasn't something that happened overnight.  I'm also sad to say that it is a skill that never fully translated into my personal life from my professional one.  That's the reason I find myself having the "first thoughts" I mentioned above.  Thoughts of defensiveness.  Of judgment.  Of derision.  Most of them, ultimately, are related to pride or vanity.  "I'm better than than person - in some way."  "I would NEVER make that kind of decision."  "What a stupid thing to say; I'd never comment like that."

This even came up in customer service training at my current job in a pediatric office.  The lecturer spoke about "self-talk", which is in essence, the same thing.  He taught that we might not be able to control how we WANT to react when something happens, but we can "talk ourselves down" to a reasonable place.  It's the same thing as allowing your initial reaction to exist, acknowledging it, and moving on to a more humane or compassionate conclusion.

So I'm trying to be far more conscious of that first thought, and decide what I want to do with it.  Am I going to keep it and make it a part of me?  Or am I going to release it and replace it with a thought that expressed more compassion, more patience, more forgiveness?

The Bible has a lot to say about our thought life, too.  It tells us that God knows our thoughts (1 Corinthians 2:11), as did Jesus when we walked the earth as a man (Luke 9, Luke 11). The best advice the Bible gives about our thought life in regards to others, I think, is in Romans.  Chapter 14, verse 13 admonishes believers to "stop passing judgment on one another.  Instead, make up your mind not to put any stumbling block or obstacle in the way of a brother or sister." This is useful advice that reminds us that we choose to pass judgment and it can cause others to second-guess themselves, as well as make us antagonists.  Are we not supposed to encourage and build up instead of tear down?  Are we not supposed to be a united front for Christ?

Instead of "that driver is a major jagoff" I can choose to give the benefit of the doubt.  Consciously thinking,  "I hope he's not in an accident" or "I hope there's no emergency" allow me to see other people as I'm learning to see myself: flawed, but with potential.

We're all human after all, no?

An Essay About My Church

We are living in a culture in which Christianity has become synonymous with bigotry, hatred, judgment and self-righteousness.  Those who profess the faith are considered foolish, backward, old-fashioned, or hypocritical.  With the increasing acceptance and promotion of alternative lifestyles, Christians who cling to traditional values are labeled as hate-mongers.  

Let me tell you: yes, some of them are.  Or rather, some of us are.  

Although I frequently cringe when I hear stories of Christians acting out hatefully against those with different values and beliefs, I am still a Christian.  I identify as one, and I try to act like one.  

It's not easy.

I have been pretty open about my beliefs about, well, everything.  I never wanted this blog to become political or "religious", and I've tried consciously to stay away from hot-button topics.  Most people who know me know my stance on abortion, homosexual marriage, feminism, and other major issues.  

And, yet, many of the people who disagree with me still consider themselves my friends.  Even when we have  really, REALLY different opinions.  It's not because I subscribe to the "you do you and I'll do me" policy of life (I don't).  It's just because I realize that my words alone, no matter how excellent or persuasive, will probably not convince a person that Jesus is the way to go.  That's God's department, and it's not up to me to "save" people.  My job is to be honest, to tell them about my faith and about Jesus, not to be ashamed of my relationship with Christ, to pray for and with them (if they let me).  My job is to model Christ-like behavior to the best of my ability - which includes respecting others, loving others, and treating others with compassion.  It does not include making excuses for sin - theirs or my own - and it does not include condoning behaviors the Bible calls sinful.  

The key to living this way - at least, trying to live this way - is to find a community that supports you.  If you are a Christian, you need a home church.  I cannot say this enough.  God did not design us to be blowing about in the wind spiritually, so to speak.  The book of Acts talks almost constantly about the believers being together, physically, and being together, spiritually.  Unified.  Joined.  In agreement.

Even us introverts.  

I love my church.  My church was there for me when I was single and lonely (I must qualify that; not all the time I was single I was alone).  They were there for me when I was dating guys who were, well, not for me - and they advised me, but loved me even when I made the wrong choices.  They were there for me when I met Ross.  When I lost my babies.  When my mom died.  When my son was born.  When I struggled to breastfeed, and ultimately failed.  (Well, the women of the church were there for me, anyway - let's not get into semantics on that one.)  

What I love about my church, other than its welcoming nature, is ultimately its honesty and transparency.  Both Pastor Mark and Pastor Stephanie (yes, she is ordained in her own right and not "just" a pastor's wife) are truthful, caring, cautious, and kind.  I say truthful because they don't play games with the congregation.  They don't wheedle us for money; they don't just deliver sugary, watered-down, feel-good messages; they don't manipulate the words of the Bible.  I say caring because I've watched them put the needs of other before themselves, time and again.  Their children.  Their parents.  Their siblings.  Friends.  Church members who need support and guidance.  I've watched them teach others to minister, to pray, to love.  I say cautious because they are careful to obey the Holy Spirit; they allow him to lead, but never function without the Word.  They do not follow every new church fad, but instead cling to the foundation of Christianity: Jesus as the Living Word.  I say kind because I have known them now more than half my life and I've seen them as leaders, as parents, interacting with their own parents, their siblings, their congregations.  And they're the same people in the pulpit as they are in restaurants, at movie theatres, during family meals.

They are not afraid to preach the Gospel with love.

They don't care about the size of the church, as long as it is healthy and continuing to grow spiritually.  They aren't worried about popularity - they want to be relevant without being a "relevant" church.  They want to preach in a way that is easily understood - in bite-sized pieces.  But they encourage others to dig deeper into the Word with in-depth Bible studies and small groups that deal with some pretty heavy stuff.  

In a society in which church-bashing headlines are splattered daily across social media, where quotes are purposely taken out of context to reduce church leaders' credibility, where splinter groups, cults and sects form their own "Christian" special interest hate groups, where even non-Christians will pick and choose which parts of the Gospel they want to accept, where being a conservative white male is now a crime in itself...

...its nice to know there's still a place like this.  With open arms, a warm smile, and yes... a seat for you, too.

In Honor Of...

...the women with arms aching to hold a child.

...the men who haven't yet born the title of "Daddy".

...the children who weren't for this world.

...the victims who received that heart-stopping diagnosis.

I think it is fascinating that Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month is observed in October, at the same time as Breast Cancer Awareness Month.  Both miscarriage and breast cancer can leave a woman feeling deeply violated, less "feminine", and more vulnerable.  They attack the parts of our bodies that identify us as female: our wombs and our breasts.  There is a great deal more to being women than bras and babies, of course, but in the simplest sense, these two tragedies strike at the very heart of femininity.  I know that men can be and are affected by breast cancer and pregnancy loss as well, but on the whole, these are women's struggles with their own bodies.

When I suffered my miscarriages, I felt deeply betrayed by my body.  Biologically speaking, an adult female's body is meant largely to nurture its young.  Three times, my body proved that it was incapable of doing so.  Three times, the test was positive, and three ultrasounds later confirmed that our babies had died within the very cocoon that was meant to sustain them.  

Pregnancy Loss Awareness ribbon
 image from camolove.com

Although I have never been diagnosed with breast cancer, my friends who have say it's rather a whirlwind experience.  One day, things are fine, and the next, you think there might be a lump.  I can't imagine the excruciating frustration and fear that comes with waiting for test results.  Trying to decide how to tell loved ones.  Preparing for surgery, radiation, more tests.  Losing hair.  Losing weight.  Losing strength.  Losing hope.

Ah, hope.  Emily Dickinson called it "that thing with feathers" that keeps us going through stormy seas, that endlessly supplies is with optimism and faith for our future.  It's the one thing that cannot be taken from us, regardless of health, finances, religion, relationships.  It seems sometimes like a fickle thing that threatens for leave us whenever the doctor brings bad news, or the bills keep piling up on the kitchen table.  But real hope can not be lost, only thrown away.  Faith and hope, in Christ, are interlocked.  You cannot separate them, for they feed each other.  An archaic use of the term "hope" is "to place trust in".  Biblically, the term did not mean "a desire for something to come to pass" but instead was almost synonymous with "belief".


So this I say to the victims out there.  You women whose bodies seem to betray you.  Hold fast to hope.  It cannot leave you, though diagnosis or doubt may seem to shoo it away.  You cannot lose it, for it finds its way in in the dark with the light of God's love.  

Only you can let go of it.  


Don't.

A Leaf on the Wind?

Over the past several weeks, I've been struggling with my role as a stay-at-home mom, a wife, a daughter, and a friend.  As an introvert, even though I love my family and friends, I truly value my alone time.  I'm learning that's not really a great thing for a new mom.  Women in this position need the company of other adults - and it doesn't even always have to be other mommies.  

I've been re-evaluating my relationship with God and the church.  Instead of feeling closer to God these past few months, I've felt further away from Him.  I'm back at church but still dealing with a spiritual "blackout" that I want to push through.

I've been wondering why I haven't been writing - even when I have time.  I identify myself as a writer.  I love to write.  I have lots of ideas.  I just don't sit down and do it.

I think a lot about how to be a better mother to my son.  What kind of person do I want to encourage him to be?  Is it possible to walk way from the Mommy Wars and still be involved in the motherhood community?  Can I refuse to take sides without going AWOL?  Can I put aside my own insecurities and raise my baby boy to be a gentleman who respects women and his elders?  Who looks past appearances and treats others with love?

Image from www.etsy.com.

With all these thoughts swirling in my head like the leaves that will soon fly through the autumn air, I'm taking on a bit of a new identity.  A new symbol.  A new inspiration.

The feather.

Feathers are the means by which birds can fly.  Not the only way, of course; bone structure and anatomy play a role.  But a featherless bird cannot fly.  Birds that can fly doesn't think about flying.  It's part of their genetic make-up.  They just do it.

I need to stop thinking about being able to do something - and just do things.  I've spent too much time trying to talk myself out of things that seem too hard for me.

Feathers also represent writing and fighting.  Words and warfare  Feathers, once altered, can be used as quill pens to spill a soul on paper, or the means to guide arrows to the hearts of their targets.  I am a writer and a fighter.  My husband once told me he married me because I'm strong.  I don't always feel strong, but frequently, fighting just to get through a bad day or a period of difficulty is enough to qualify us as strong.  We don't have to be heroes.  We don't have to be faultless.  


Feathers also represent God.  As believers, we frequently turn to Psalm 91 as a prayer of protection and safety. Verse 4 reads: "He will cover you with his feathers.  He will shelter you with his wings.  His faithful promises are your armor and protection."  In my mind, I see the image of a worn and weary refugee, huddled beneath a pair of majestic, shining wings.  It's an image of rest and peace.  Those bright feathers promise hope.

So, instead of a leaf on the wind, I'll be a feather.  Ready to fly, or be honed into a tool for writing or fighting.  Flexible, faithful, true.  

Pink Ribbons and a Brown-Eyed Girl

I wish I were lacing up my hot pink Nikes to run in this weekend's Race for the Cure.  Having been involved only from a spectator's perspective, I know it's a huge and epic event.  Well - let's be honest.  I wasn't actually spectator, my first time around.  I was working as the manager-on-duty in the Oakland Starbucks and we were understaffed and Oh God It Was Terrifying.  Seemingly endless waves and waves of pink-clad men and women splashed into the store, wanting little more than a bottle of water or a quick bagel to snack on as they walked and ran in honor of victims and survivors.  Although I remember being overwhelmed to the point of numbness, I don't recall any customers being rude or impatient.  They were all there because they saw the Bigger Picture.

Which I can see, too, since I now count breast cancer survivors among my closest friends.  And I would have no issue with squeezing my seven-month-pregnant belly into a pair of yoga pants and a support belt, ready to walk among those brave woman and thousands of others, but my pregnancy has caused several asthma flare-ups and some pretty scary (though normal, I'm told) episodes of breathlessness lately.  Not wise to go tempting fate and power-walking with the Pink Brigade, I'm afraid.  Next year.

Not being able to participate is a definite downer, but the hardest part of Mother's Day weekend will surely be the fact that my mother is gone.  Last May, I was still in a cocoon of shock, having lost her a mere two months prior.  I didn't feel much, and it didn't register too clearly that she was gone.  This time around, I've had over a year to process, to rant, to weep, to rage, to mourn, to contemplate, to accept, and to adjust to my mother's passing.  

There have been a lot of moments where I was filled with anger - not towards God, but towards her, since her cause of death was likely preventable, had she sought help for her hernia when she was first diagnosed.  There have been moments of laughter - when friends ask about my pregnancy and I'm able to tell them that I, mercifully, did not have "six straight months of god-awful heartburn", as my mother (repeatedly) told me she suffered with me.  There have been moments of pain - when I have wanted to reach out and ask her intimate questions about family, history, faith, and forgiveness.  There have been moments of beauty - when my husband and I finally got up the nerve and went through all of her paperwork, and found ourselves delightedly reviewing old photographs of my dad in his 80s finery (tight jeans, a feathered cowboy hat, and an elaborately embroidered top), birthday cakes from years past, and all of our long-gone pets.

Don't get me wrong, please.  I dearly love my step-mama, Deana.  She has become to me a treasure and a friend and yes, a wonderful mom.  She has been incredibly supportive during our miscarriages and has shown us the same level of support and excitement during this pregnancy.  She has taken care of my often-stubborn dad and has weathered years of mothering three daughters (two of whom possess their dad's stubbornness).  She is an all-around amazing woman, mother, Christian, teacher, friend, and businesswoman.  And I love her.

But I can't ask her the question, "What was it really like when you were pregnant with me?"  The baby pictures she has of me aren't connected to her own personal memories.  I can't trace my biological family tree through her.  I can't laugh over stories of my first taste of solid food, or riding a bike, or a grade school play.  I won't be able to show my mother these ultrasound pictures, or let her hold her sweet grandson for the first time, wondering if his eyes will darken to a beautiful brown, like hers. 

Two nights ago, I picked Ross up from work and we stopped at Giant Eagle to pick up a few things.  I wasn't in a great mood, and he thought he had done or said something wrong.  As I threw a package of raisin bread in the cart, I finally blurted out, "I miss my mom!"  He looked startled, and asked, "Why?"  He probably thought it had something to do with the bread.  Did it remind me of her?  Poor confused guy.  I fought back tears and reminded him, "It's Mother's Day weekend."  He didn't say anything, just put his arms around me and wheeled the cart to the register.  

On the way home, he gently asked, "Well, what are some of your favorite memories of your mom?"  He'd only met her once but had heard hundreds of tales from myself and my dad - some of them funny, many of them sad - about living with her.  "I don't know," I said honestly.  If I am being completely truthful, which has been my aim in having this blog, then I have to say there were a lot of awful memories.  A lot of hours of the silent treatment.  A lot of regrets because I didn't understand why I needed to respect her.  A lot of fights.  A lot of disappointment.  A lot of misunderstanding and failure to communicate.  A lot of bitterness.  Oh, so much bitterness.  

Much of that faded in the years after I had moved away from home, and, little by little, happier memories began to join the sad ones.  Memories of stopping at Arby's and then browsing at Fashion Bug (now defunct, sadly) for accessories.  Memories of text messages and phone conversations about our pets (while I was collecting my Crazy Cat Lady starter kit, she was adopting and rescuing neighborhood strays left and right).  Memories of the sweet and silly letters she liked to write, and the goofy doodles she sent me.  Memories of conversations in which she admitted to finally forgiving my father for hurting her.  

And then the memory of her passing cuts through me like a cold wind, stopping my heart.  The look in those soft black-brown eyes when they met mine for the last time, full of pain and regret and weakness and sorrow.

And sympathy.  For me, having to see her die.

Those moments stick with us, become an immovable part of who we are.  They become tinted over time with either rose-colored optimism or they fade to a shadowy sepia, but they stay with us.  In that moment, when I look back, I see her asking forgiveness.  Not for the way she raised me, or for anything she might have failed to do as a mother.  But forgiveness for having to have our final memory of her one in which she was lying prone and hemorrhaging in a hospital bed in Kentucky, unable to speak or move or breathe on her own, surrounded by gentle strangers.  For knowing that we drove five straight hours and risked countless speeding tickets, because seeing her alive was the only thing that mattered.  

For her last day alive being so dreadfully ugly.

I can't lie and say I've fully come to terms with the circumstances of her death, or even hear death itself.  I still think of her every time I pass by the greeting card section in the grocery store, fighting the urge to pick a silly holiday card to send to her.  I see her face in my reflection quite often.  I hear her voice when I scold my cats for doing something naughty, and I'm sure I'll hear it when I scold my son.

I recently told a friend of hers that I hope so much that my baby boy has her smile.  I know that I have my grandfather's smile, so remarkably so that people frequently mistake my aunt (his daughter), who also shares it, for my mother.  How beautiful it would be to get to see my mother's slightly crooked, dimpled grin again, every day for the rest of my life.

Grandma Turns 90!

A few weeks ago, my sweet grandmother turned 90 years old.  We are deeply grateful that she is extremely healthy, without a hint of dementia or any kind of disease.  She is a beautiful woman who looks considerably younger than her years, who is committed to serving God and loving her family.  We threw her a surprise party at Tambellini Bridgeville and believe me, we were all hoping the shock wouldn't send her to the hospital!

We're already looking forward
to Gram's 100th!

In fact, she was quite delighted.  Like the gracious lady she is, she made sure every single guest received a kiss, a hug, and a personal thank you.  You would have thought she had just been crowned Miss America, the way she put her little hand to her heart and cried.  It was precious - which also happens to be her nickname.  To distinguish her from the other grandmothers in our blended family, Grandma Thielet eventually became "Gramma Precious", which is certainly fitting!

What touched me the most, I think, was that so many folks showed up.  There were over 40 people who wanted to be sure she knew how much they loved her - family, longtime friends, her children's friends, church friends.  I took photographs for the party, and people I'd never met kept coming up to me and telling me how wonderful my grandmother was.  I was thrilled that so many of her church friends were younger than she, lively and vibrant senior citizens who had come to act as substitutes for the many brothers and sisters Gram has lost over the years.

My gift to her was a poem I wrote and shared.  I don't mean to be cocky, but a personal piece of writing is about the most intimate gift I can share with a person.  Plus, the lady is picky and would likely have returned any photo frame, trinket, or piece of jewelry we would have bought for her!  I promised that I would put the poem online, so it is below.  Please remember that, like everything else on this blog (unless otherwise indicated), is my property and must not be used without consent.
 

I.                 Prologue

I am thankful, you dear child, that your family chose America.

That your parents left all they had known for countless generations

And were reborn in a place they had never seen,

Merely imagined,

And that they planted themselves like trees near three mighty rivers.

When the soil seemed rocky, they persevered.

When the weather seemed perfect, they rejoiced.

Knowing that rain still may come, they watched the future,

Never turning back.

II.               1924-1933

I am thankful, you dear Amelia, that your childhood was lively

And filled with the voices of family and friends.

That your brothers protected you and your sisters taught you wisdom.

That, when those terrible storms came,

And blew you all about like twigs and snapped branches,

Your faith never broke.

You locked away in your heart an understanding of poverty, of loss, of lack,

And used it to strengthen yourself in the coming days.

And you never once forgot it.

III.               1934-1943

I am thankful, you dear Mrs. Thielet, that your marriage was for love

And not convenience.

No love but God’s own is perfect, but you kept your promise to cherish and obey.

You saw your man off to war and waited for his return,

A model American,

A modern wife,

In your heels and skirts,

Cooking American food and reading American news,

And dreaming American dreams.

IV.             1944-1953

I am thankful, you dear Mother, that you faithfully raised your son,

A boy who grew up into a man who loved cars and bikes and building things,

Who was stubborn, a little bit grimy, and whose smile was shy but genuine.

Who wanted to be a hero, a rock-star, a bad-boy with a heart of gold,

Who became one,

Who has never been perfect,

Whose dreams are still great,

If sometimes unspoken. 

V.               1954-1963

I am thankful, you dear Mother, that you faithfully raised your daughter,

A girl who grew up into a woman who loved art and beauty and kindness,

Who talks to animals,

When they will listen.

Whose heart is full of compassion, who is gracious, and silly, and tender.

Who second-guesses herself when she sometimes shouldn’t,

And who has never stopped being a sweet-faced Daddy’s girl.

VI.             1964-1973

I am thankful, you dear Mother-in-law, that you welcomed into your heart

A broken young woman from a broken home,

Who was afraid of so much

But who bravely believed in hope.

Whose marriage finally crumbled but who came back to you, decades later,

With a peace offering and a humbled heart,

Knowing you were often the silent player in the drama,

A witness to a world falling apart,

Lifting always your prayers to God and giving your ear to listen,

Whether the offer was taken never mattered,

For you knew the prayers were heard and heeded.

  

VII.           1974-1983

I am thankful, you dear Grandmother, that your hands helped raise three little girls,

An ever-present smile at birthdays and graduations,

A thoughtfully-chosen card with a check in the mail,

Bringing deviled eggs to picnics,

Listening carefully to silly childish chatter,

Attempting to interpret,

Praying when sickness came,

Proudly claiming the family bond when success was in reach – and when it was not.

You never spoke disappointment over them,

Instead encouraging obedience and patience.

They are still learning from your example,

And they are so very deeply inspired by you. 

VIII.          1984-1993

I am thankful, dear widow, that your strength in God carried you through

Dark and difficult hours,

An empty house,

Endless questions,

Quiet grief.

When happiness and comfort fell away, you yet found joy – such a different bird –

In your Savior,

Who even now holds in His arms

So many who have gone before you onto eternity.

I am thankful that this faith never runs dry,

Nor does the strength God gives you,

To wake and to live each day with vibrant but quiet kindness.

  

IX.             1994-2003

I am thankful, you dear sister, that your love was not poured out only on husband, on son, on daughter,

But instead kept flowing for those who needed you –

Sisters and brothers whose bodies and minds began to grow weary,

Sick, and weak.

Patience and sensible gentleness and encouragement were your offerings.

How precious and rare they can be,

Yet you gave them freely, commitment overwhelming convenience every time.

You buried each one, acting as a pillar to their sons and daughters,

And they realize how deeply you are embedded in their memories

Of their parents, their aunts and uncles,

Their family joys and tragedies,

You were always the same –

Even without words, you were there.

X.               2004-2014

I am thankful, you dear Gram, that your prayers have never stopped flowing,

Your faith is still fresh as springtime,

Your love still eager to be given,

Your holiday cards still thoughtfully-chosen,

Your grief when others grieve still true.

I am thankful that your journey has brought you here, to the center of a circle

Of friends and family,

Who admire you enough to make you blush,

Who consider themselves proud to call you their own,

Who brag about you to neighbors and church friends and co-workers,

Who laugh and say, “Let me tell you about this lady I know…”

And whose stories are as many, as brilliant, and as varied as your years.

Team Pink or Team Blue?

If you're a friend or follower of mine on social media sites, then you already know.  But for those of you who might not be aware...

It's a boy!

Trust me, as thrilled as we are, both Ross and I are shocked off our rockers.  I was convinced I was carrying a girl.  Most of my friends thought it was a girl.  Heck, even my Italian-American, meat-loving, gun-toting Papa was excited to have a granddaughter.  

Maybe in a few more years.  But first up, a bouncing baby boy!

Our anatomical ultrasound could have been nerve-wracking, but our technician, Connie, was relaxed and friendly.  Ross asked her to check the heart for abnormalities, which she is supposed to do anyway, because, in the back of our minds, we wondered if this little baby might suffer from the same heart defect Ross was born with.  We immediately received the news that the heart was fine...as were the brain, bowels, spine, and everything else - even the baby's tiny little toes!

I suppose things didn't look too different than the 8 bazillion sonogram images my friends have posted online, but when it's yours, it's just a little more - magical?  Miraculous?  I don't know.  It's pretty neat to get to post pictures of my little guy on my bedroom mirror and think that, in a few short months, I'll be seeing him face to face.

Even though we "cheated" and learned the gender before we had originally planned to, we went ahead and had my stepmom's birthday cake act as our gender reveal cake.  We wanted to keep things pretty intimate, so we just invited family and a few of her closest friends to join us for a little party.  She didn't know the cake she was cutting was going to be pink or blue, though, so she definitely started to cry when she put two and two together (which was pretty quickly; she's a smart cookie).  A cheer went up when she sliced the cake to reveal its neon blue interior.  Of course, everyone would have cheered if it was pink, too.  I think our friends and family were just as relieved to know that the baby is healthy and growing normally.  

We are immeasurably grateful for that.  Trust me.  

What I'm less than grateful for is the comments I've gotten.  I shouldn't really complain; I haven't had the onslaught of them that some of my friends have received (my buds Matt and Jaime, happily expecting their FOURTH little girl - because they actually wanted a large family - get nasty looks from total strangers because they have - gasp! - more than two children).  Still, hearing, "You're big for 21 weeks - are they sure it's not twins?" is a bit of a stab in the gut.  "Why, yes, I am certain that all four of my ultrasounds were incorrect and I'm not carrying a single child, but actually a litter of them!"  I mean...people...I'm five feet tall.  I'm all chest and hips.  I have virtually no torso.  There is nowhere for the baby, plus my internal organs and pre-existing fat stores, to go.  My other favorite comment was from a family member who insisted that the name we chose would cause the child to be made fun of his entire life.  Never mind the fact that we carefully chose it for its meaning, significance, lack of uber-trendiness, and sound with our last name (which, as you know, is pretty distinct). 

Fortunately, most folks have simply been as joyful and grateful and excited as we are. 

I'm wondering what these next few months are going to be like.  Although I didn't suffer the morning sickness that bothered a lot of my friends, I've had pregnancy rhinitis for the past four months.  That's pretty much non-stop sniffles and watery eyes.  It's definitely been unpleasant.  And, now that I'm showing, I'm swinging between feeling like an absolute goddess (ooh, I am glowing, aren't I?) and wanting to curl up in a ball and cry because none of my clothes fit and I am already having a hard time putting on my socks (thankfully, they still fit).

They say it's quite a roller coaster, and I'm inclined to agree.

Christmas Redeemed

Since I was a teenager, Christmas has been a difficult time for me.  My parents separated immediately after Christmas when I was 14 or 15.  Suddenly the holidays were split between Mom’s family and Dad’s.  Though my parents never “fought” over us, my sister and I were nevertheless shuttled between Bridgeville and Crafton, sometimes further, depending on who was in town that year. 

 

I lost my job at Starbucks a few days before Christmas is 2008.  My mom moved in the same week, and it was extremely difficult for both of us.

 

For many years, I cried at the sight of Christmas lights because they reminded me of the times before my parents separated – decorating the tree, listening to the Beach Boys’ Christmas album (which my dad later admitted he hated), and watching Mom make Christmas cookies (I wasn’t allowed to help, probably because I was so clumsy).  For years, I cried because I never had a date for Christmas.  I was lonely. Even as a fairly well-adjusted person, and a person with a strong faith, I had a hard time during the holidays.  I can see how someone who was struggling with depression or  a serious life change might have an even harder time.

 

The first Christmas I allowed myself to really enjoy was the one immediately before my wedding. Christmas 2009 saw my bridal shower, some weight loss, and a general sense of excitement and hope. I was going to be married two weeks later!  My first Christmas as a wife was rather disappointing, though, as Ross and I got our signals crossed about gift-giving and there was some miscommunication that I almost let ruin the whole day (fortunately we can laugh about it now).

 

The next two Christmases were marked by loss.  In August of 2011 and in May and September of 2012, we lost our babies – not to mention several friends of the family near the holidays, as well.  Christmas was hard.  Seeing images of that sweet little Baby in His mother’s arms, singing songs to the infant Savior, and passing by Nativity scenes showing the adoration of the Christ – it was all so very emotional.  Times like that, I was grateful for a small family.  I didn’t have dozens of cousins with babies of their own showing up at family parties.  Instead, I grew closer with my dad’s family – it’s just my Grandma, my aunt and uncle.  We live close together, and grieve together.

 

This year, we lost my mother in February and Ross’s grandmother in July – and then, a dear friend suffered a miscarriage just recently.  We admit, we’re getting to that age where people and things are beginning to pass away.  The knowledge that our friends have lost jobs, lost parents and grandparents and unborn babies, lost their faith…it doesn’t make things easier.  We’ve had a tough four years, Ross and I.  We can say, with all modesty, that we’re grateful we’ve stuck it out.  We know people have gotten divorced for far less than what we’ve gone through.  We are grateful to God, our church, and our family and friends who have been understanding and supportive through all of our trials.  They have helped us laugh, let us grieve, encouraged us to hope, and loved us faithfully.

 

This year, Christmas was different.

 

Christmas Eve marked the end of our first trimester.

 

Yes, we’re pregnant.  

 

And this baby is going to make it.

 

We found out on Halloween (what a treat, huh?), although I knew it about a week prior – in spite of a negative test. Since I’d switched OB-GYNs after my second miscarriage and received excellent, sympathetic and professional care with my third loss, I knew that I would be given a lot of attention this time around.  Earlier genetic testing and blood work had revealed that there was nothing “wrong” with either of us.  We prayed, waited, and wondered, and felt that it was best to try again this past fall.  My doc put me on progesterone even before we conceived, in order to help my body support a pregnancy.  It must have worked.  We’ve seen or heard the heartbeat four times now, and the baby is growing at a steady rate.  I’ve been praying over the baby regularly, and the verse that was quickened to me was John 10:10, “The enemy has come to steal, kill, and destroy, but I have come to that you may have life, and life abundant.”  These are the words of Jesus and have brought me great comfort.  Although we believe that our other children are in Heaven, they never got to experience the joy of getting to know Jesus – the journey of walking with Him, of turning from sin and choosing a life of love and hope.  This child will have that opportunity – not just for eternal life, like his or her siblings have already received, but for a fulfilling and joyful life with Christ on this earth.

 

Still, the “perfect pregnancy” I was hoping for, alas, is not a reality yet.  When I started to bleed around 7 weeks, I was rushed in for a ultrasound, but nothing was determined other than the baby was fine.  Two weeks later, I went back for a follow-up and we learned that I have a very common condition – a subchorionic hematoma.  That’s a super-fancy name for a bleed in the uterus.  It’s rarely a problem for the growing baby, but it can cause a lot of bleeding and inconvenient (ie., terrifying, especially for a woman who has lost three babies).  The problem with mine was that, at least at 9 weeks, it was the same size as the placental sac.  Fortunately, problems arise in only about 1% of pregnancies with hematoma.  In fact, a very recent study, done in October of 2013, revealed that the rate of miscarriage among women with hematoma was no higher than women without them, provided that a viable pregnancy had been established (ours has).  That was so encouraging, even though I bled nearly every day for almost six weeks.  Happily, a late December check-up revealed that the hematoma had dramatically shrunk in size and my bleeding had stopped.  Baby was growing! 

 

Please know that, although this is really thrilling and life-changing, it is so scary to share it with you.  Although I believe this is finally “it”, and we’ll get to hold this little one in our arms in this lifetime, there’s still a bit of doubt nibbling at me.  Why wouldn’t there be?  I have a strong faith and friends who encourage me, but what woman, after three losses, wouldn’t be terrified to tempt fate? I am fortunate that my friends – especially the older women at church – have spoken life over me, spoken God’s promises over me, and spoken words of hope and prophecy to me.  It helps so much to know that I’m not the only one who wants to meet this baby!  There are dozens of people praying daily, and for me, that is a great comfort and it gives me strength.  These aren’t people who are whimpering weakly before God, ‘Please let the baby live!’  These are people who understand their authority in Christ, and who boldly come before God and remind him of his promises – as he commanded.  People who have been speaking scriptures over me, who have confidence when I do not. 

 

I’m “going public” now, even though I am afraid, because I know that there are childless women who read my blog.  I know that there are women who still grieve over their losses who read it.  I know there are men who don’t know how to help their wives, sisters, and daughters, who are struggling to have children, who read it.  I want to encourage others.  I want to open up my heart and share my journey.  Those who know me well know that writing is healing for me. 

 

We specifically chose this day to reveal our big news because it would have been my mom’s 59^th birthday.  We wanted to be able to remember today as a joyful day, when we got to share something special with our friends, rather than a day that “should have been”.  It’s the best way I can think of right now to honor her.

 

Thank you for coming on this journey with us.