Midlife Crisis (.) (!) (?)

The text came across my phone: 

Only 39 more days of being 39~

I laughed and asked what the plans were. It seemed a day worth celebrating, especially if you love numbers the way I do. 

My favorite text came from this same friend, literally minutes after the New Year had been rung in. 

Um, is this the year we turn 40?

I really did laugh aloud for a bit. It seems that in trying to forget how old we are, we truly forgot how old we are. 

Forty

It just doesn't seem possible. 

I blame my mother, partially. She was young when she had me, so my perception of age has always been a little skewed. She was forty when I got married. It really seems as if I should be further along on the path of life at this point. 

I've been preparing myself for some time, saying at every opportunity, "Well, I'm almost 40..." to which my friends have replied, "You are not." (I've done this for a couple of years.)

It has helped. I can say the word "forty" without hyperventilating.

Sort of.

A magazine yelled at me from the checkout line that "50 is the new 30" which of course means that 40 is the new 20. Except I don't want to be 20 again. I was a disaster in my 20's. 

And because I am who I am and I do what I do, I've been full of introspect about this impending birthday. 

Because truly, no matter how you gloss it over, dress it up, or package it, my life is half over.

My life is half over. 

The life expectancy is 80 for women in this country.

See? Half over.

That's a lot to take in.

It's taken a bit of effort to understand exactly why this has me in a pinch.

It could be simple vanity. Things aren't exactly how or where they were when I was 20. There are wrinkles and (lots and lots) of gray hair. I've been forced to recognize that perhaps I put more stock in my appearance than I'd like to admit. I never thought I'd be one of those women who refused to age gracefully, but I'm sitting here slightly aggravated that my body seems much more acceptant of this impending birthday than my mind does.

How silly.

More than this, though, is the constant ticker that runs in my mind, keeping an invisible yet incredibly tangible list of ways that I have failed God in my life.

I keep wondering, "What if my life ended now?"

I don't feel like I have half of a life's worth of gifts to offer Him.

It's not that I don't want to look in His face. I do. I just sort of feel like I'd be showing up at someone's house for dinner with an inadequate hostess gift.

Not to reduce heaven to going to a friend's house for dinner.

But that's what it feels like.

What do I have to offer Him? And why do I feel like I'm begging Him for more time to do more stuff to offer Him? And why now? Why does this birthday bring this to light in me?

Because it's HALF WAY OVER and I've only lived one solid good decade for Him?

This is when I hear a well meaning friend say, "Honestly, Amy, why do you wear yourself out with all this overthinking? Don't you get tired of it?"

Or I see my sweet friend in the midst of her cleaning the kitchen paused, with dish cloth in hand, looking at me and saying, "Amy, you are intense."

I blinked hard after that one.

I wasn't even doing anything other than quietly sweeping the floor. I guess she meant in general.

Intense? I don't feel intense. I thought I kept that bottled up pretty well.

Obviously not.

I hear the accusations, "You need to lighten up."

Think less. Chill out. Go with the flow.

Especially now. With this huge impending birthday coming up.

Maybe it's wrong to pause and take inventory, but it feels necessary. How did I mess up the first forty years? What would I like to do differently in the next forty? What would I change?

It feels like a fresh start in some ways. A change to get it all right and keep it right.

I don't want to mess up again. I don't want to live through another day of debauchery, much less another decade.

I feel resolve welling up in me. I just want to do this half right.

I read through Jonathan Edwards' Resolutions and find myself yelling, "YES!!!"

Resolved, that I will live so as I shall wish I had done when I come to die.


Maybe I should care less what people think. Maybe I should take intense as a compliment.

Maybe being forty is the decade in which you get to stop doing what you've done your whole life so that people will like you. Maybe this is the decade in which I do what makes me like myself.

Maybe being forty makes you care less because half your life is over and you realize you don't have that much more time to do what really matters - what really lasts, and you're done fooling around with the stuff that won't last.

Maybe I'll stop apologizing for thinking so much. Maybe I'll stop apologizing for being an introvert. Maybe I'll stop apologizing for wanting to study my Bible more than playing on the internet. Maybe I'll stop apologizing for being intense. Maybe I'll stop feeling guilty for saying "no" and for limiting abuse and not caring what people think. Maybe I'll start saying, "You know, that's not okay with me. You can't say that. Or do that. You need to stop." instead letting people do what they want and then feeling the effects of their actions.

That would be nice.

I'm not there yet.

But I'm still 39, so there's hope. 

Ode to Jude

I love all three of my children the exact same amount. 

I really do. 

I love the girl kid for so many reasons. I love her creativity, her love of books, the way she loves to write and draw, her girly love of fashion and fingernail polish, her kind way with people, her sweet smile and her deep thinking that also drives me nuts.

I love the baby kid too. In spite of the fact that he almost killed me in the early years of his life, he is now the most sensitive and kind of all three kids. He's funny and smart. He's the most loving and affectionate of the kids and he amazes me at the things he thinks about. 

And then there's the middle kid. 

He's eight today, by the way.

And since this is the anniversary of his birth, I have been introspective and reflective about this child of mine.

We joke that he was the easy baby and it's true. We got him quite easily, and my pregnancy with him was not marred by the anxiety of a first time mom. We had most of what we needed already and got bags full of blue hand-me-downs from sweet friends. 

An infection sent me into an early labor with him, and I ended up in the hospital in labor late one night, dehydrated and exhausted. After a bag and a half of fluids, it became apparent that he was actually coming three days before his due date. I was tired, but ready.

It was a relatively easy labor. I remember several parts of it vividly: The lady next door to me was having twins, and she screamed. A lot. And loudly. We cranked the praise music in my room until it was blaring down the hall. There was a violent thunder storm and the thunder seemed to rattle everything. I remember my friend Hayes' hands on my back, massaging me through the worst contractions. I remember the dim lights, the soft voices and the eyes on me. 

Finally, I was past exhaustion and the contractions were coming more quickly than I could stand. I couldn't get my breath and I couldn't get on top of them and I was done. I felt scared and out of control. I wanted it over. 

I panicked.

When you have an unmedicated birth, you ask for drugs a lot. One suggestion that we took before hand was to set up a code word for when you really meant that you needed drugs. 

I looked at the sweet nurse that had been so patient and kind. I was slightly crazed from the pain and exhaustion. 

"I want drugs."

She looked at Allen, who started to repeat the rehearsed responses to my requests. 

"No. I mean it. I want drugs."

He patiently started to encourage me when I grabbed his shirt and yelled the word we had decided on months earlier, 

"GRASSHOPPER!!!!!!"

His eyes got huge and he looked at the nurse and Hayes. 

"She wants drugs."

Hayes said to the nurse, "Why don't we start with a quarter dose of Stadol."

She added that to my iv and we waited. 

"MORE!" I yelled.

"Another quarter dose."

And we waited.

"AH! MORE!" I yelled again.

Hayes looked at me in the eyes, put her hand on my arm and said, "One more quarter dose."

I said okay.

A few minutes later, I was so.... happy. And drunk. But I didn't care. I could relax. I actually dozed off between contractions. 

Then I knew it was about time.. I looked around and my mom and one of my sisters and the doctor were gone. 

"Where'd they go?" I asked Hayes. 

"They're in the hall. They don't like to see you in pain." 

The doctor doesn't like to see me in pain? Good grief. 

I looked at the nurse who was at the end of the bed. I sat up and said to her, "I'm done."

She raised her eyebrows and said, "Okay...?" 

I pushed that kid out with one push. 

"Stop!!!" she yelled and said, "Go get the doctor." 

Jude's head was out. The doctor walked in and said, "That was fast."

"Where were you?" I asked accusingly. He laughed. "Let's get the rest of him out, okay?"

He sat Jude on my chest and kissed me on the forehead. "Good job, Mama." 

Allen hadn't moved from my side, and then this picture. The first one:

There was no anxiety this time. I held that baby boy whose name means praise and I did just that. I walked him in the dark quiet of the hospital, and with tears streaming down my face dripping on his tiny swaddled self, I thanked God for him over and over and over again. I couldn't stop. 

My son. 

He was so easy. He was a newborn and with that came all the hard work and exhaustion, but he was so gentle and easy. He would sleep for hours in his baby swing until I would go poke him to make sure he was still breathing. 

He needed me constantly and we were never far apart, but it was a sweet and gentle relationship. I didn't know then exactly how easy it was. 

He was only 15 months old when I got pregnant with our 3rd baby. The loss of that baby and the subsequent complications of that and then my pregnancy with the 4th baby took a lot out of me. I worried that it affected him too much. I tried to be what he needed. I will probably always worry that I wasn't the best mom during that period. I will always hope it didn't affect him negatively forever. 

He grew into a quiet, introspective kid. Gentle still and always easy. 

I still didn't realize how easy until the third baby was born. The stark contrast of them made me realize even more how quiet and easy this one was.

But then I started to see how this can be hard. Even harder than a kid who demands and receives. Jude would fade into the background and never demand anything. He wouldn't push his way to the front and his needs got overlooked. His voice wasn't heard and he was always the one who sacrificed his wants and needs to the "squeaky wheels" of the family.

I'm not sure I compensated for this very well. I would say constantly, "You okay, Buddy?" I asked too many questions to pull him out. I finally felt the Spirit's urging me to be quiet yet attentive. 

Parenting this kid is in fact harder than the other two. Being available in a busy, often time chaotic life for him to come to me, is challenging. To have enough quite for him to speak out. To have the restraint to not ask him questions to draw him out but to create an environment where he feels safe and comfortable to share his heart.

It's hard.

And to trust that he doesn't have to talk a lot. He is okay to be quiet and introspective.

He's a people pleaser. The baby kid will do and be what he wants with little regard of others. (I'm trying to bend that into a constant obedience to Christ.)  Not so with this middle kid. He goes with the flow. He blends and cooperates and complies. I want him to be stubborn in his love for Christ and determination to do what's right. I'm praying in that way. 

I also began to see a lot of myself in him. I tried to teach him that sometimes we have to step outside of ourselves and share and talk and communicate. 

It's ironic. God is teaching me through teaching my son. 

He's the quintessential middle kid. Just like my Dad and so much like my sweet middle sister. I see so many of the same precious qualities in them. 

This kid.

 He's uproariously funny. Possesses a quick wit. Smart and observant. Still gentle. Lover of animals. All animals. So much so that we call him the "animal whisperer." Reserved and quiet until things are just so and then he'll talk your ear off. 

He came to Christ all on his own. Told me shyly one morning that he was now a Christ follower. Didn't want to talk about it at length, but I believed him. He's the kid with a love of the Word. I'll find his Bible in his bed with him in the morning where he read it before falling asleep. He'll show me what he's been reading. He has a sweet love for our pastor and will even do spur of the moment impersonations of him that absolutely wreck us. He told me shyly once that he too wanted to be a pastor, and though that is firmly between him and the Lord, my breath caught in my throat when he uttered those words. I admit to having prayed that way since hearing those words, hoping God would be gracious and use him that way. 

I love this kid who looks just like his daddy and acts just like me. He even has an obnoxious laugh that still catches me off guard when I hear it. I love the time when he and I are alone. I feel  more at ease with him than most anyone. There are times that he and I lock eyes over the roar of our house, and it's as if he's saying, "Whew. These people are insane..."We have a common, unspoken language, he and I. When I offend or ask of him something he doesn't approve of, he will give me what he call the "stink eye." It kills me. 

I pray a lot for his wife. I pray God will give him someone who is tender and can be trusted with the gentleness of this person. Someone willing to care for him carefully and appreciate his tender ways. Someone who will allow him to be strong in his sweet, quiet leadership. I pray God teaches him how to be a strong, unyielding, unwavering, Godly man.   

His love for his big sister at times I think surpasses his love for anyone else, even me. They honestly never ever fight or argue. It's one of the most beautiful relationships I have ever seen. His baby brother makes up for the ease of that relationship. They are almost constantly at odds, but seem to love each other still. The older the baby kid gets, the easier it is. I beg Jude to hang in there. I pray he's learning coping skills that will last a life time. 

I could talk about this enigma of a kid all day. I could write of all the qualities he possesses that I so desperately want for myself. I want to be like him when I grow up. 

I still desperately thank God for giving him to me. I pray I'm worthy to be his mother. I pray that I can parent him well in the complexity of all that he is. I pray that God will use him in the most amazing way. 

I'm thankful that I get to celebrate him today. 

Acorns

Think of the self that God has given us as an acorn. It is a marvelous little thing, a perfect shape, perfectly designed for its purpose, perfectly functional. Think of the grand glory of a oak tree. God's intention when He made the acorn was the oak tree. He intention for us is "...the measure of the stature of the fulness of Christ." Many deaths must go into our reaching that measure, many letting-goes. When you look at the oak tree, you don't feel that the "loss" of the acorn is a very great loss. The more you perceive God's purpose in your life, the less terrible the losses seem. 

[I] am being asked to trust, to leave the planning to God. God's ultimate plan [is] as far beyond [my] imagination as the oak tree is from the acorn's imaginings. The acorn does what it was made to do, without pestering its Maker with questions about when and how and why. We who have been given an intelligence and a will and a whole range of wants that can be set against the divine Pattern for Good are asked to believe Him. We are given the chance to trust Him when He says to us, "...If any man will let himself be lost for my sake, he will find his true self."

When will we find it? we ask. The answer is, Trust me. 

How will we find it? The answer again is, Trust me. 

Why must I let myself be lost? we persist. The answer is, Look at the acorn and trust Me. 

elisabeth elliot

I read these words early one morning and have thought about them since. I soon found myself in a park, standing beneath a tree on ground littered with acorns. I crouched and gathered them until my hand overflowed. I needed to look at them and remember their willingness to be planted. Planted so they could become what God intended for them to become. Become what He created them to be. To be what He intended all along. 


Their willingness. 

And then these words to a song that I sing and think of the small acorn that I have come to love so much:

Oh I've been pushed down into the ground

Oh how I've been trampled down

So many feet on top of me

I can't help but sink, sink, sink

Oh I've been pushed down into the ground

Oh how I have been trampled down

Lord I put my trust in thee

You won't turn your back on me

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

I've been pushed down into the ground

But i will rise up a tree

Oh I can see it won't be long

Till I break free from what I was

Your river of grace flows endlessly

You won't turn your back on me

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

I've been pushed down into the ground

But i will rise up a tree

I've been burned up in so many fires

From these ashes I will rise

Lord your power has rescued me

For you I'll always sing

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

I've been pushed down into the ground

But I will rise up a tree

Oh I am a seed

Oh I am a seed

Won't stay long here in this earth

When you rain your love on me

Lord, rain your love on me

david crowder band "i am a seed"

Elisabeth Elliot

My friend Elizabeth walked in the door with a bag full of books one night early in October. My eyes grew big as she sat the bag down, and I wondered what collection of books was in that bag. To a book lover, there is no better thought than the chance to read a new book. She sat on the couch and grinned at me.

"Those are all of my Elisabeth Elliot books."

"Oh really?" I was intrigued. I was familiar with Jim Elliot, after hearing him referenced in church and then studying him with the kids in school. Elizabeth had mentioned Elisabeth Elliot to me several times throughout our friendship. Elisabeth has been a hero of hers, so to speak, and she had been reading and loving her books for years.

And now she had brought them to me.

"I can't get to them right now," I said sadly. "I have too much other stuff going on."

I did take 45 seconds to dream about a weekend getaway with just me, a pile of books and a good stock of hot tea. But I had to be honest -I had no idea when I'd get to read just one of those books, much less the whole bag.

"It's okay," she grinned. "No rush."

It felt like she knew a secret.

Our conversation turned to other things, but I kept my eye on that bag of books.

It would be the middle of November before I could even think of that bag of books again. A rough couple of weeks stretched out before me, and for some strange reason, I went to that pile of books. I had a vague idea of what kind of books were in there, based on what Elizabeth had told me, but how I ended up digging a book out of that bag was providential.

I won't soon forget exactly where I was, sitting in the kitchen, stool pushed against the cabinets to create a makeshift desk for me.

I took a moment to savor the weight of the book in my hand. It was a hardback book, my favorite. I smoothed the book open to the first page, and soon the words were blurred by my tears as a coolness filled my body and I found it hard to breathe.

It was the difficulty and the sweetness of seeing my own feelings written by someone else's hand. Then I laughed through the tears in thankfulness to a God to brought this stack of books to my house and let them sit, unattended, until just the moment that He intended for this book to be in my hands. For this time.

I wiped away the tears and read more. Then a thought sent me off my stool in search of my journal, where familiar words had been written months and months before.

Early in the year, I had read a book that changed things for me. In it I had read this quote:

I had repeated this quote to myself a hundred times in the days after reading it.

It was an easy quote to read, but exactly how did one trust God with the "next thing"? The unknown next thing was a large part of my anxiety.

Slowly God and I worked it out. For me, in this stage, the next thing was the tangible thing right in front of me. (Ignoring, of course, the looming and unknown larger next thing) So how did I trust God and do the next thing?

It usually began when my eyes opened in the morning and I thought, "I really don't want to do this day."

I would remember this mantra. God would whisper, "All you have to do is trust Me and get out of bed."

I could do that. Nothing more. But I could physically push back the covers and stand up.

Then He would say, "Trust me and walk down the stairs."

I could do that.

Then I would repeat to myself, "Trust God and make the coffee."

"Trust God and make breakfast"

"Trust God and spend time in His Word"

"Trust God and pour out your heart in trust and faith while you pound the pavement under the sky"
     (that was the hardest and yet my favorite)

"Trust God and make lunch..."

"...and pay bills, do laundry, clean the kitchen, go to the bank, do school, return emails, cook..."

"Trust God and breathe..."

and go to bed and trust that He will help you do it all again tomorrow.

That's how I learned to trust Him and do the next thing.

{the big stuff would come when and how He intended. it always does. He's in charge of that. not me, thankfully}

As these memories fell back over me, I turned my attention back to the book face down still opened to that first chapter and knew that Elisabeth Elliot and I were going to spend some precious time together in the near future.

And we really did.

I poured over this book with tears and hope. I scribbled reflection after reflection in my journal. I serendipitously found another copy of that book at the thrift store, just by chance of course, and poured over it with a friend, then another friend and then another.

And then the day came when I read the background to the quote that taught me how to trust God more:

From an old English parsonage down by the sea
There came in the twilight a message to me;
Its quaint Saxon legend, deeply engraven,
Hath, it seems to me, teaching from Heaven.
And on through the doors the quiet words ring
Like a low inspiration: “DOE THE NEXTE THYNGE.”

Many a questioning, many a fear,
Many a doubt, hath its quieting here.
Moment by moment, let down from Heaven,
Time, opportunity, and guidance are given.
Fear not tomorrows, child of the King,
Thrust them with Jesus, doe the nexte thynge.

Do it immediately, do it with prayer;
Do it reliantly, casting all care;
Do it with reverence, tracing His hand
Who placed it before thee with earnest command.
Stayed on Omnipotence, safe ‘neath His wing,
Leave all results, doe the nexte thynge

Looking for Jesus, ever serener,
Working or suffering, be thy demeanor;
In His dear presence, the rest of His calm,
The light of His countenance be thy psalm,
Strong in His faithfulness, praise and sing.
Then, as He beckons thee, doe the nexte thynge.

--Anonymous


The more I read of Elisabeth's book, and the Word that it pointed me to, the more I felt that calm and peace and reassurance that I knew could only come from Him. That hard period of time I had dreaded faded into the rear view mirror, colored again by all the shades of His faithfulness made tangible by the gift of this book and the ones to follow.

And of course, as things seem to go in my world, things seem to appear in "random" places. Things that made me smile. Things the proved that this amazing woman's walk and subsequent ministry would touch more people than perhaps she ever dared hope:


There was this post  and this this one and this one. I read them and smiled, thankful for her love for Christ and dedication to serving Him.

And then I began to read more about her first husband, Jim. My thoughts about him will probably have to wait until another day. Suffice it to say that his passion and dedication to Christ and His mission occupy my thoughts frequently.

I think about them throughout my day, my new friends Jim and "Bet." And now that my world has once again gotten busier, I don't have the chance to read these books daily. I find myself missing this couple. I look longingly again at this stack of books which once again sit, abandoned by other more urgent studies. I'm happy to know that they are there, waiting for me. {and i sneak peeks here and there. I miss them too much to leave them alone for long} I'm thankful for what they have taught me. I'm thankful for how they have strengthened my own faith, my walk, my love for Christ and for His Word. I am thankful that they provide comfort in a world that sometimes, oftentimes, feels completely foreign to me, even though it's my own.

Christmas from their hearts

There have been a couple of blogs that have posted recently about Christmas that really struck a chord in me. I don't know what to do, if anything, yet. I do know that my heart longs to do things differently. And I have absolutely no idea how to do them. 

Christmas Conundrum

and 

Whose Birthday is it Really?

He Came

The calendar was unapologetic. 

December 1

Here we are again. 

December. 

I  knew it was coming. My culture's love for this month begins to spill forth long before the month actually arrives. There are declarations of excitement about shopping to go along with a plenitude of sales, pictures of Christmas trees on social media as they are erected, Christmas music in every conceivable type of store, cars and vans dressed as reindeer, inflatable decorations in yards,  yards sparkling with lights, and on and on...

If one wanted to avoid this holiday, it would definitely be impossible. 

And I knew that wasn't possible. 

It's not that I actually wanted to avoid the month of December, though honestly if given the opportunity, it would slide from my calendar without a single regret. That wasn't possible, so there was only one thing for me to do.

Fix myself.

I do hate that I'm broken here. I hate that it takes me a monumentos effort to put on any sort of holiday spirit. I hate that I don't eagerly anticipate the holidays with the giddiness of a light soul.

As I exercised this morning, I noticed that my favorite tree had shed it's gorgeous wardrobe. It stood bare. I pretended for a moment that it too was mournful that the change of the calendar had brought it to this stark, ugly state. 

Silly, of course. 

In the frosty cold of the morning, I begged God to hear my heart concerning this season that boasts to be all about Him and his Gift. 

It's not fun to be here, the outsider looking in on a warm celebration which one feels no part of. 

And I'm not alone. Perhaps if I had to list the reasons that have led me to this place of discontent, near the top of the list would be the hardships that this holiday brings for so many that I love. Not that I'm trying to shoulder their burdens for them, taking them on as my own, but as I think of them, my heart aches for the brokenness they too feel.

The list reaches on for a bit - reasons that I dread this season. They range from the trite to the deeply buried and pushed aside issues of long ago.

I felt deeply in me, though, the beginnings of a tiny fire of the longing to worship during this season the God who not only understands the reasons I fear but also gave His Son to remedy the brokenness in me. 

"Heal me, Lord..." I pleaded as I looked up at the cloudless sky. "I don't want to stay here."

He is able. 

This phrase had found me in the last few weeks in a new way. I had repeated it constantly almost as a mantra. 

Today it took on a new ending.

He is able. Now let Him. 

It is so easy for me to stay in the hard sometimes. Staying where it's hard because it's easier than receiving His comfort or healing. 

I just want to stay here, because the hard is easier. 

Being healed means that I have to be honest about how I got here in the first place. I have to say honestly that when I get to this place, I got here because I am most concerned about me.

This is hard for me. 

The rational part of my brain said, Get over it.

It's not really that simple, but the Lord so graciously reminded me again that He is able. And though I wanted Him to repair me in one fell swoop, He instead reminded me that I only need to trust Him one step at a time. 

I don't know how exactly to have a carefree December, but I do know how to do the things that send me deep into His love.

I found my favorite Christmas sermon and played it loudly, diving into the text:

"And you know that He appeared to take away sins..."

And my hurt and my failures and my shortcomings and my longings and my disappointment and my fears and my sins.

He came.

Everything in me wants to celebrate that.  

My love for Him can push past everything in me that would rather be hurt and sad and angry and tired and fearful - that would rather stay here. 

My love for Him can allow Him to heal me, through His love for me.

It takes a willing spirit to be healed and comforted. And it didn't happen in me by the time lunch was prepared. 

But I feel His peace. And I feel His love and careful provision along with His compassion and His mercy. They flow from Him, inviting me to celebrate His greatest gift. 

I can do that. 

I can celebrate Him. 

Sweetly, quietly, humbly and secure in His loving arms, trusting Him with all that is hard about this season. 

"Glory, glory in the highest...

Just a child born in a manager, with the hope of the whole world on His shoulders..."

10 Years Ago...

I sit here, emotional from looking through ten years of photographs. 

I sit, faced with the self-imposed challenge of marking my daughter's tenth birthday with an eloquent tribute to her first decade. 

As I sit, I fully appreciate the fact that this is an impossibility. 

It is a trite and overused statement, but when I look at this picture, it truly does feels like yesterday.

And then the years started to spin, passing more quickly than I was prepared for. 

It was over ten years ago when I set the pregnancy test stick down on the coffee table and looked at it, wide eyed. Married for six years with little desire to have children. Least likely time and place in my life to become pregnant, but I look back now and see God beginning the great rescue that morning. 

He set out to rescue me from myself. 

His timing is always perfect.

His plans are also. Usually so very contrary to my own. 

I decided I wanted a boy. 

He gave me a girl. 

This girl.

I'll never forget a single detail of her difficult birth. 

Thanksgiving Day.

Fourteen family members in a waiting room down the hall for hours and hours. 

Complications. People. Nurses. Doctors. For hours on end.

And then, in the quiet hours of the late, late night. It was just me. And her. 

I looked at that face and very literally though, "What have I done?"

No more ready to be a mother than I had ever been. Yet here she was. 

The journey that she and I embarked on that night as mother and daughter would teach me more than I could have ever imagined. 

I had heard the statement about becoming a parent and it was true: 

Making the decision to have a child is momentous.  It is to decide forever to have your heart go walking around outside your body.  ~Elizabeth Stone

As I look back over the last decade, I am flooded with memories. The good, the bad, the hard and the precious. It doesn't seem possible that it has been ten years since she came into my life.

I look forward to the next ten years with complete trepidation. This decade will be so different.

No diapers. No learning to talk and walk. No potty training. No learning to read and write. No rocking all night and no Princess parties. 

How is all of that gone already?

This decade sends me to my knees. It's a less physical role for me and more spiritual and emotional guidance. 

I feel less ready for this than I did in the dark that first night in the hospital. 

So I find myself again hopelessly dependent on the One who can, and will, provide all that I need for this next decade. 

He is able. 

I've heard this statement several times even today. I'm thankful that He is, because sitting here, I am less sure of my ability as a mother than I have ever been. This keeps me fully dependent on Him and His Word. And that is a good thing. 

My prayer for her now is that she will fully and passionately give her heart to the Lord. That to declare His glory will be her one mission in life. I pray that all that she learns will take root in her heart, and as Psalm 1 that she learned so long ago says, I pray that she will be like a tree, planted by streams of water, which yields its fruit in season and whose leaf does not wither. I pray that her passion for Him will take root deeply in her heart and never fade. 

She is a gift to me, and I will be forever thankful to God for that spring day when I realized that my life was about to change forever. I'm thankful for the daughter that I get to spend each day with. I'm thankful for the way we love and laugh. I'm thankful that at the end of the worst days, she'll still come and curl up in my lap, as best as she can, apologizing and forgiving. I still ask her if she'll always be my best friend. She's kind enough to say yes even though I know now we are moving in new directions. 

In some ways I don't want to stop writing this post. I know that when it's done, we will be even nearer to the next decade. I'll be glad, though. Each day I fall more in love with this child. She's a true gift.