When Christmas Doesn't Feel So Merry

Merry Christmas Eve.

Today while packing up for Christmas with family, I was struck with the overwhelming feeling of gratitude mixed with extreme sadness. I am a reflective person and milestones like holidays always make me think back on my life and the road to where I am today.

Why the sadness? I can remember Christmases past where the pain and longing in my heart for a family of my own was palpable. I felt like my heart might break in half and like I was carrying this massive load of pain and hurt and disappointment. I wanted to be busy sneaking around with presents from Santa. I wanted Christmas dresses to iron and little reindeer pajamas spinning in the dryer. And all I had were doctor appointments, negative pregnancy tests, and giant holes in my heart with each passing month.

We battled. And Christmas, a time centered around family and friends and goodness all around, made me feel even more alone and desperate.

This picture was from the last Christmas before I became a mom. My heart was broken and I was consumed by what I was missing. A friend snapped this picture without me knowing, but it sums up where we were that Christmas. Trying so hard to be okay with what we had going on, all while screaming inside that this was not what we had planned for our lives.

I feel compelled this Christmas to take pause and remember those around me who have lost significantly this year. I had to stop, in the middle of my preparations for this crazy next 24 hours and take a minute to share with you what I know in my heart to be true. God loves you. He sent His Son as a baby 2015 years ago so that you would have HOPE. He is orchestrating things in your life and even though the pain and emptiness is there, I promise you He is in the middle of it with you.

To my friend who is mourning the lose of her babies this Christmas, God sees you.
To my cousin who can't crawl into bed alone after watching her husband die well before he was old and gray, God sees you.
To my girlfriends wishing they had a ring on their finger and a car full of kids this Christmas, God sees you.
To my friend who knows that the baby she is carrying is struggling, God sees you.
To my sweet friend waiting for that 'you've been matched with a baby' phone call, God sees you.
To my friends who are struggling being away from their family this Christmas, God sees you.

If Christmas brings more pain than merriment this season, please know that you are seen, you are loved, and God is working on your behalf, now and always.

Merry Christmas loved ones. Please be kind and gentle this Christmas. Love your friends and family well.

2217

Goodbye 2217.

To the condo that became my home, you will always have a piece of me.

Josh and I closed on our new gorgeous house recently and although we couldn't be more grateful for the space and the potential of this new home, our hearts will always be connected to that tiny little condo - "2217".

That space was not just a house for us, it was a home. We hosted dinner parties, crammed around our tiny little table, wine and delicious food filling the bellies and hearts of our friends and family. We had sleepovers with anyone who would visit us, staying up late into the night laughing the laughs of deliriously tired grownups who just wanted to soak every minute with our guests.

We came home from our honeymoon there, as Mr. and Mrs. Meyer, equal parts happy and terrified about our new titles. We were newlyweds about to live together for the first time, sharing space and time and setting up a home. We dug through all our gifts with excitement. It all felt so new, from my last name to the dishes in my cabinets.

We fought there for the first time, learning how each other reacted to stress and anxiety. I spent a few long hours in my closet, sorting through my feelings of too much new and too much different as my sweet husband waited patiently on the other side for me to emerge.

Dozens of pregnancy tests in the trash.  We said goodbye to the dream of carrying our babies in that condo. We cried together on the bathroom floor, in the bed, in the kitchen, and on the couch in our family room. We learned how to hold each other and process the end of this dream, together in 2217. It was a haven in our storm, a safe space to land after hard doctor visits and painful surgeries.

We welcomed our children home to that condo. First was our beautiful daughter Hannah. We would sit on the couch in our family room with her for hours on end, singing to her, holding her tight, laughing hard at her little squawks and full-faced smiles.

Then our fierce little Eden was born and came home to 2217. She was the exclamation point in our year after so much sorrow and pain. We couldn't get enough of her silky, dark hair and completely captivating brown eyes. We laid with her between us in our bedroom, thanking God over and over again for this gift that we had prayed about for 18 straight months.

The laundry, the dishes, the vacuum that could reach the whole house from one outlet, and carrying bags and bags of groceries with a baby in my arms up the stairs...I loved that little condo and what it taught me for the five and a half years that I called it home.

We turned our kitchen and dining room into a dance floor on countless occasions, shaking our booties and laughing and holding each other close for a quick slow dance whenever we could.

I learned that I could cook in my little kitchen there. I tore through cookbooks, finding new recipes that I just had to try. We had some delicious meals there, and some that didn't exactly pan out, but I learned that I could read a recipe and translate it into something yummy for those I loved. My passion for baking also started there, my red kitchen aid mixing butter and sugar for the dozens and dozens of cookies and cakes that were made with love there in 2217. I learned to love the precision of baking, the science that turns ingredients into masterpieces.

I will miss our tiny little bathtub and the two little dripping heads as my girls played with their toys and learned how to be sisters. It was such a natural transition from being an only to being a sister. There were tea parties and FaceTime dates in the tub in our bathroom at 2217, and I treasured up all those times leaning over the tub, bubbles dripping down my hands.

Two times, I watched my husband get all dressed up to take our daughter to the Daddy Daughter Dance at our church, leaving me a hot mess crying my eyes out as I watched them leave. As I stood on our deck watching them pull away, I knew I had married the best man and father, and I felt both proud and humbled by that feeling.

We would sneak out, baby monitor in hand, to smoke a cigar together on the deck.  We would sit there talking for hours on end about our hopes and dreams and having the "what's next" conversation as we planned for our future. I learned in those moments to listen to my husband and to just be us. We would share sour patch kids and wine and deep belly laughs as we connected, my soul and his.

That little condo might not have looked like much to others, but to us it was a place to call home. I learned how to train my heart to be joyful there, one of the biggest lessons learned in 2217. I worked hard to push away the clouds and choose joy. Not a fake, slap a happy smile on my face joy, but deep rooted pure joy that can only come from God.

I have so many memories of that perfect little space that I will treasure up no matter where we live.

Thank you 2217 for being so good to us for so long.

Rico the Parakeet

When I was in high school, I had the brilliant idea that my brother and I should get a bird for our mom for Mother's Day. She had an empty cage and we needed a gift. My best friend's grandpa raised parakeets and had a few that weren't claimed the Saturday before Mother's Day. We are last minute people. We grabbed the cage, hopped in the car, and drove to pick up the perfect gift for our favorite person.

We got there and collected our bird. He was beautiful and seemed happy in his cage. We paid for him and drove away.

Along the twenty minute drive, things took a turn for the worse. Our new little family member began shaking. My brother, Josh, said he might be scared, so we turned the music down and watched him. He started shaking violently before collapsing to the bottom of the cage. Dead.

I can still remember sitting at the intersection waiting for the arrow to turn green, with the feeling of sheer panic, staring at our dead Mother's Day present. We were about five minutes from home as we tried to figure out what we we do. Should we ditch the cage and pretend this didn't just happen, leaving us empty handed on Mother's Day? Should we just tell her so she knows we tried? It's the thought that counts, right?

Our mom is lighthearted and comical so we knew she would get a good laugh out of this. We grabbed the cage, dead bird at the bottom, and marched into the house to explain what had just happened.

She laughed so hard at us. I can remember the look on her face when she saw the cage - delight! I can also remember the look on her face when she saw the bottom of the cage. We told her what happened as we called the breeder to see if anything could be done. She bent over laughing as she prepared to bury our newest family member present gone all wrong.

Of course, the breeder replaced our bird for us. Apparently, birds don't like traveling in the open and it was too much for the poor, little parakeet. When we picked up our new bird, we put him in a brown paper bag and brought him home to ensure he didn't die right in front of us like his brother.

Meet Rico, the replacement bird.

That Mother's Day we certainly did not give the best gift to our mom but we did give her a good laugh. I hope one day when my kids hand me a box with a dead animal in it, I can be as lighthearted and understanding as my mom was with us.

As for this Mother's Day, I am sticking with a gift that can't go wrong - nothing with a beating heart and fear of cars. What are you giving your Mom?

Naked And Afraid

I am obsessed with the show Naked and Afraid on Discovery. A man and a woman show up to some deadly area of the world and attempt to survive, you guessed it, naked and afraid. It's full of adventure, excitement, challenges and scares. They fend for themselves for 21 days with only 2 tools that they select before they come. They kill their own food, find their own drinking water, make a shelter, and practice all these survival skills along the way.

I sit in my warm house on my comfortable couch watching these people starving and fighting for their lives. It's a bit like when I watch The Biggest Loser while killing a sleeve of Girl Scout Cookies. But there is a point to this...

The last episode I watched took place in The Everglades of Florida.  Survivalists Ryan and Amber are dropped off in the middle of the alligator and snake infested swamps with nothing but a machete and a fire starter. At the beginning of the episode, we learn that they both served our country and have experience as survivalists. Ryan goes on to explain that he suffered from PTSD and that he hiked the Appalachian trail from Georgia to Maine and that's where he learned how to survive and overcome his PTSD.

The two work well together to set up camp. They find food almost immediately and seem to communicate their needs and work well together as a team.. They end up killing a snake and eating her eggs (like from inside of her - eww!) and Amber gets so sick she has to tap out of the show. This leaves Ryan alone, naked, and afraid.

He rocks it. He finds an alligator and kills it for meat. You are on the edge of your seat watching him slip twine around this huge alligators head and try to wrestle it to the ground. Then he builds a smoker to smoke the meat so he can be strong enough to make it to the point that they will extract him from The Everglades. Before he leaves his camp, he etches a word on a sign to hang over his hut.

He didn't just want to survive this challenge. He wanted to THRIVE. Goosebumps.

Here's the deal, I could never make it. I don't think I could have even stepped foot off of the swamp buggy, let alone even survived one night sleeping 10 feet away from an 8 foot alligator. One mosquito bite on my private parts would have me calling the medic so fast the show would be over. 

But this resonates with me.

This is how I want to live. This has been a word that has been challenging me lately and making me think about my day to day activities and responses to stressful situations. I don't just want to survive my life. I want to thrive. 

I want to thrive as a Christ Follower.

I want to thrive as a Wife.

I want to thrive as a Mother.

I want to thrive as a Friend.
I want to thrive as a homemaker.

I want to do it well and not just merely live to from day to day. I want to take risks and work hard to make the most out of my life. I am still working out what that looks like in a practical sense, but I want to do this.

I might not wrestle an 8 foot alligator, but sometimes it feels like that is what I should write on my to do list. I could get overwhelmed with the things in my life that challenge me, or I can figure out how to thrive in this season of my life. The laundry, the crying baby, the spills on the floor, the friend texting me to ask me to help her with her kids, this phone call, that email, this invitation, that voicemail, all of it can sometimes feel like I am wresting an alligator. But I want to do this well. I want to thrive at it.

At the end of each episode they ask, "Do you have what it takes to survive naked and afraid?" and at the end of my day, I want to know that I do have what it takes and that I am thriving. 

Put Your Feet Down

When I was in college, I worked at a camp one summer. It was a sports camp for inner-city kids from all over the United States. They would come in for a week at a time and get to do all sorts of fun, new things like zip-lining, tubing, and climbing on the high ropes course. I was a life guard for the summer so most of my day was spent at the pool, teaching swimming lessons and letting kids enjoy the beautiful facilities.

Most of the kids at the camp did not know how to swim. Every single week we would do the exact same swim test. Get in the water and swim from one end to the other. If you passed, you could swim all you wanted to. If you did not, you needed a blue band which meant you could not enter the pool area without a life vest. I started every week out asking who could swim...a sea of hands went up. So into the pool they went. In reality about 10% of the kids could actually make it from one end of the pool to the other, so I would start slapping wristbands on. Most campers were content in their life vests. They realized what it meant to actually be a swimmer and they knew that they could safely have fun with the vest. But occasionally we would have a few kids want to be 'retested'.

One afternoon, I had an 17 year old camper come up to me and ask if I could retest him. I knew this was a little pointless because I had watched him 'swim' for the past few days and knew that he would not make it across the pool. But I wasn't going to be the one to tell him he couldn't swim. This was one of our rougher boys. At just 17 years old, he had lived a rough life. Gang wars, shootings - the street life. This was the reality for a lot of our campers and this camp was supposed to be a chance for them to see that there was something beyond that. It was a place where we said "you CAN do this" in a world where they heard a lot more "cant's" and "wont's".

So off came the life vest. He started in the shallow end, kicking and splashing, and thrashing about. Then he was screaming....I literally couldn't believe I was having to jump in to save him. He was still in the shallow end, about 3 feet away from the wall.  I jumped in and grabbed him. He was genuinely terrified and wouldn't let go of my arm. His legs were still kicking as he held on to me and I said, "PUT YOUR FEED DOWN. STAND UP." It took him a minute to calm down enough to realize where he was and to relax enough to let go of me. He put his feet down and stood up. The water was hardly even to his chest.

But to him, he was drowning. He couldn't breath. He couldn't swim. He needed help, immediate help.

I have never forgotten that moment. The desperation in his cries. He really needed help and no matter how much I knew about the situation, how close he was to being able to help himself, he still needed me to rescue him.

Sometimes we are too overtaken by the problem. The waves of stress and anxiety threaten to overtake us.We get lost in the sea of doubt and questions. I have often felt that way. I get overwhelmed when I think of everything that needs to happen in my life and in what order for it to all work out as I have planned it. I see the next 10 years and I want to do it all at once. I want to know how our family will grow, where our next house will be...I want all the pieces of the puzzle to effortlessly fall into place and I want it to happen immediately and as painlessly as possible. I can get lost in an instant and get so disoriented that I completely forget where I am and how I got there.

As I helped him to the edge, we talked. I told him that I was proud of him for trying. I told him that sometimes this is how life works. We try and we fail, and we need someone to step in to help us. And I told him that this is what Jesus does for us. He grabs us and saves us because we can't save ourselves. He pulls us to safety, but we have to realize we are drowning and we have to accept the help.

And that is exactly what I have to do when I let my anxiety and fears of the future overtake me. I have to grab a hold of what I know to be true. I have to cling tight to the One who rescues me every single time. I have to let Him step in and help me and I have to trust that He sees the big picture. He sees that I am drowning and he will step in and help me find my footing again. 

Game Over. The End.

"You can't live like this. We will need to schedule a hysterectomy or you will be in serious trouble..."

It was the word I have been dreading for an entire decade - hysterectomy. Fifteen surgeries, countless doctors appointments, shots, drugs, acupuncture, begging and pleading, praying. None of it worked. Just like that, my dreams were being shattered and the door to carrying my children was closing a lot faster than I imagined.

Is there anything else we can do? Can you save it one more time? I just want one pregnancy.

"No. It's impossible. Look at these scans, I have never in all my years of practice seen this. It is over, Mary. We tried everything we could."

It was like an out of body experience. I felt my husbands hand on my leg. I heard him sigh and start to ask a question, but I wasn't there anymore. I couldn't catch my breath, and I didn't want to. I wanted to rewind my day and go back to being a busy mom chasing after my kids. I knew I was sick, I could tell my body was shutting down. I could hardly walk up stairs without seeing stars, my hair was falling out, and I was tired all the time. I could no longer lay on my side or stomach from the pressure of the giant tumors taking over my abdomen, but there was comfort and solace in not knowing what was wrong with me. I wanted to be whole again, but without any of the hard stuff. No shots, no medicine. I just wanted to be me. 

I snapped back when I heard the doctor ordering the dreaded prescription that would help shrink the tumors in preparation for the surgery. I could almost taste the metal in my mouth, the nasty taste I instantly had when I got the injections. Please no! I have been here before - weight gain, hot flashes, hair loss, and extreme bone pain. Yay! Not to mention the cost of this nasty drug...nothing like paying for complete and total misery. I begged the doctor to think of another way to make this as painless as possible. Three doses. The max a person can have before it begins causing permanent bone damage. 

I couldn't see straight. I couldn't even cry. Not one tear. The doctor asked me if I had any questions. I couldn't have even told him my name at that point. I wanted to get out of there as fast as I could. Hadn't I been through enough already? 

As we walked to the car, we had a weird sense of relief. This giant question mark had hung over us for five years. Would we conceive? How? Would we be one of those couples who adopts a few kids and then oopsy, who knew?! But no. It was done. The question mark was turning into a period. Final. Game over. The End.

Why did I have no emotion? Why no tears? My world was crashing down, the moment I had dreaded was here and I couldn't even cry. Was I out of tears?

It hit me. I had been waiting for this. I was ready to give up, to throw in the towel, to be done. For a few years, I was over it. I was over the pain, the waiting, and the pressure from others to conceive. I was a mom to two beautiful girls - THAT was my dream. Of course, I was brokenhearted that I wasn't the one who got to carry them, to feel them move for the first time. But their stories, my story of becoming their mom, wouldn't fit if I had experienced those things. I wanted Hannah. I wanted Eden. And if I had given birth to them, they wouldn't be MY Hannah and MY Eden. It doesn't work that way. My heart had accepted the defeat that a hysterectomy would bring. I was relieved that my doctor was making this decision for me. I was oddly excited for the chance to be alive again, and I didn't have a choice. It was time to be done, and this time it wasn't my decision. It was out of my control.

Eventually, the tears came. I cried a lot. Like for three solid months. I was in agony. My bones hurt down to my pinky toe. One emergency hospital stay and the decision to move forward with the surgery was yet again confirmed. I needed those suckers out, and fast. They were literally sucking the life right out of me.

In this dark and lonely time, God showed himself. He brought friends who hugged us, fed us, encouraged us. They helped us with our girls, brought care packages, dinners, and flowers, they loved on us when we needed it most, and we knew we weren't alone. He also gave us peace - a feeling I didn't know was possible when diving into something so tragic and horrible. This was our story. We were starting to own it and accept it.

If I had experienced this when I was 21 years old, the first time a doctor had mentioned doing a hysterectomy, I would have died. It was the process that needed to happen. I needed this to play out exactly like it was for this to be okay. And God knew, like He always does, exactly what my heart needed.

I held my babies, held my husband, and held on to the peace that only God could give me for the next three months.

**This is deep and dark and way more intense than I generally like to be. But I need to share this. I need my readers who have walked this road with me to see exactly how this was for us. I have shared so much about our journey here and it only seems fitting that I finish the story out and allow you in on this aspect as well. I want you to know exactly what happened, and I want you to see how God redeemed even this. Thank you for being a part of this journey, for allowing me the space to share this. It is deeply personal and scary to share this, but I feel it is necessary. This blog got me through the beginning stages of my battle with infertility and it feels only fitting that I close that chapter out here too. I am surviving and thriving...and I want to make it clear that my faith and trust in God alone is what has brought me out of this dark time. 

Catch Up Time

Time to get back into a grove of writing! Man, have I ever missed this. This will serve as my catching up post and I will have to revisit a few of these topics as I go. My goal this New Year was to write 2-3 times a month. I have faithfully been writing for a blog called Life as we Learn it, but I am ready to dig back into my own personal blog, and spend some much needed time writing and reflecting on my life and day to day adventures.

My monthly adventures to my 30th birthday took a back seat in August. I had a doctors visit when we learned that my female issues were out of control and that I would have to have a pretty serious operation because of the damage...but not without hormone treatment first. My fibroid tumors were so large that they couldn't safely remove them without shrinking them first. The end result would be a hysterectomy, which I had successfully avoided since I was 21 years old. It really didn't take much convincing from my team of doctors once I saw the scans. My abdomen was the size of a nine month pregnancy and I had fibroids extending up into my sternum. It was a brutal few months of medication, doctors visits, and bed rest, all with two small children. It was a dark and trying time, but more on that later.

I had my surgery, turned 30, celebrated Christmas, and stood up in my cousin's wedding. My baby turned 3, we celebrated 5 years of marriage, and took a the trip of a life time touring Europe.

Now we are home. Hannah is busy dancing, playing with friends, and being absolutely adorable and funny. Eden is officially 9 months old and sweet as pie. She looks at you with those dark brown, Princess Jasmine eyes and it's all over. They love each other so much and we couldn't be more grateful to be their parents.

And Josh? I could not be more in love with him. We get better with age. It has been a hard 5 years, but we have learned to love hard, laugh often, and grow together. We learn more about each other every day and just can't seem to get enough of each other. He has been with his company for 11 years now and graduated from grad school with his MBA last December. He is right on the brink of doing big things. I am lucky to be his sidekick.

I am more content right now than I have ever been. I love being a mom and a wife and I am very thankful to be able to be home with my girls day in and day out. I am teaching Bible study, volunteering at church, and investing in some quality friendships. I feel like I am finally hitting my stride. I thought I would die when I turned 30, but I am embracing it and looking at it as a new chapter of my life. I am working out and learning what I had given up when I was sick for the past few years. Being healthy is something I will never take for granted again. And I am writing because it makes me happy and whole and helps me tap into my feelings.

Thank you for reading and for caring about my life. I will never get over the fact that people read what I write...it has always been a dream of mine to have people read what I have to say and I get to do that here.

Cheesecake Factory 

(where it all began!)

More to come, I promise!