Lord, change my life-- but make it familiar and easy ...

The way of a fool seems right to him, but a wise man listens to advice.
Prov. 12:15

I want to try new things … but I want them to come with all the knowledge and experience of someone who’s been doing it all their lives, so I don’t look like an idiot. Isn’t that what we all want? A change that feels completely comfortable and familiar? That would be fantastic, but sadly, it’s not the world we live in.

I have been upheld by some as a gluten-free magician who touches rice flour and it turns to ambrosia. First of all, there are a lot of failures that continue to take place in my kitchen. (One of the perks of having dogs and chickens is disposing of the evidence without guilt!) While I can rattle all my allergens off my tongue with the greatest of ease (and cook accordingly) now, there was a time when the grocery store was the most frightening place on earth …

Even in the health food stores, I was terrified to shop alone. I simply could not avoid all of the allergens on my list without an extra pair of eyes. Besides, I needed emotional support for the frequent letdowns I experienced. I’d find a cereal that looked safe, when suddenly; I would see one of THOSE words in teensy letters on the ingredient list: cornstarch, nonfat milk powder, soy, coconut flour, quinoa… There I was, in the “gluten-free” aisle, and I still couldn’t find a thing to eat. I have literally cried in every local grocery store within a fifteen mile radius—in fact, I actually threw a full-blown tantrum in Fred Meyer!

No, I don’t mean I read the manager the riot act, stormed off in a huff or shouted that I’d never shop there again, I mean I stomped my feet, put my head in my hands and let out a primal scream in the natural foods section! I had been going up and down every aisle of the store for an hour, and I had almonds, lettuce and raspberries in my cart. That was it. I was so hungry, so exhausted and so afraid to embark on changing every recipe that I knew and loved, that I desperately wanted to find something in a box, bag or frozen container to eat. I couldn’t bake from scratch; I didn’t know how to bake! That required measuring, and I always lost count of how many cups of flour I’d dumped into a bowl. Now, I had been told that I had to use all these combined flours, which were expensive, confusing and hard to pronounce! No gluten. No peanuts. No dairy. No soy. No corn. No cranberries! It just wasn’t fair! And I decided in that moment, that Fred. G. Meyer (May he rest in peace) was to blame.

I called my husband and told him that I just couldn’t shop that day. He understood, and told me to come home. I fell apart into his arms the moment I walked in the door, and all over groceries! This was insanity!

That night, I decided that I was done attempting to live out of a box, bag or frozen container for the rest of my life. There had to be food that would be good for me, not too complicated, and maybe—just maybe, the whole family could eat, so I wouldn’t have to make multiple meals every night. The more I googled, the more I found hope for a delicious future! I called all my gluten-free friends and asked them what they ate, where they got it and how much it cost. Because my friends are amazing, my friend Karyl invited me to her house, virtually emptied an entire shelf of her pantry and urged me to take it all home. Knowledgeable staff at Nature’s Market looked at my loooooong list of allergies (unphased) and showed me where “safe” brands were on their shelves. I bonded with strangers in the frozen food aisle, as we marveled at gluten-free bagels and Hemp ice cream.
Through this adventure, my family really stood by me. My children cheered when I found cereal that was “mommy friendly.” When my husband and I saw a commercial for food that I could eat, we instantly high-fived one another. I continued to grumble about corn starch and hydrogenated soybean oil (we may or may not use them as faux-curse words in our home) under my breath, but the toddleresque display of shopping visits past no longer haunted me.

Over a year and a half later, I LOVE to grocery shop! I thoroughly enjoy baking (by weight—something I never would have learned, had it not been for my new life!) and I now look for people in PCC with that “deer in the headlights” look and a piece of paper with allergen levels on it. I tell them it’s going to be okay—not because I’ve always been a GF rock star, but because I have gone through the struggles of family gatherings, parties and restaurants with no gluten-free menu, and learned from them. If I had skated through this ordeal, what would I have to offer them? How would I know which cookies to feed my son—whom we discovered also has food allergies?

It’s truly amazing what we learn when we realize how little we know …

Father, thank you for the moments of uncertainty, frailty and yes, even insanity! Though I’d love to bury my past at times, allow me to remember it, that I might help others and not forget from whence I came and who brought me here!

Releasing The White-Knuckled Mama Grip (and other challenges of parenting)

"My prayer is not that you take them out of the world but that you protect them from the evil one."
John 17:25

Ask any mother in any culture worldwide; the desire to protect your children from pain is universal. It doesn't matter how you childproof your home, how many parenting books you read or how exclusive your child's educational environment is, pain will happen to your child.

Forget about how scary the outside world is, your front yard becomes a "danger zone" when the training wheels come off your little one's bike. You can protect their head with a helmet, put on elbow and knee pads and dress them in long sleeved, durable clothing, but the moment you let go of the seat, a crash will take place; causing scratches and bruises in obscure little spots you hadn't even thought about. Your little one will probably cry, and you may feel inclined to do the same! You begin to question whether or not your baby was ready for two-wheeled cruising. Suddenly, the bush you've always loved is seen as a scratch-inducing menace, which should be dug up (and possibly burned) as penance for the two-inch abrasion on your child's neck. This continues for a while, until you realize the three choices in front of you:

1.) Humiliate your child by forcing him to continue using training wheels until college

2.) Surround every square inch of your child's body with bubble wrap, fuse a catcher's mask to their bike helmet and insist that winter snow gloves be worn (even in July)

or

3.) Pick your little one up, brush off the dust and leave particles from their clothing, kiss their owies and encourage them to try again, under your watchful eye.

Bike boo-boos, though monumental at the time, are small potatoes compared to the adventures that come during the school years. Some little delinquent on the bus will make fun of how your child talks, or call him a "baby" for crying. Reckless bands of hooligans will steal your pride and joy's favorite eraser, and have the nerve to lie about it (your child will do such things to other children as well, but that will be irrelevant at the time). Punks in pigtails will taunt your offspring, saying their pictures are dumb (you know better, an art gallery should be so lucky as to posses such a treasure!). Clubs will exclude, best friends will become worst enemies, then best friends again-- and with such flippant frequency, you won't even be able to keep track! That pleasant looking elementary school may look like a place of learning, play and childhood memories, but you know better; it's more like the set of a kiddie soap opera!

All the mothers whose children attend private school or homeschool will inform you that even their children are not immune to this reality. There are meanies at McDonald's, little cretins at co-op, and heaven knows that siblings can be less-than-lovable sometimes!

When the many little bumps of childhood come, we have a Father to whom we can trust with all our worries, cares and concerns. While you hold your little gymnast's trembling hand, God is already at work, healing her broken leg. While you dry your child's tears, God is at work, mending his broken heart. We were given these children to parent, but we as humans were never meant to parent them alone.

We know in our minds that we cannot protect our children 24/7. Even if we keep their immunities strong and monitor their friends closely, trials will come. You can't love away a learning disability, parent away childhood depression or raise a child so confident that abusive stings from a bully don't hurt. What we can do, however, is go to the same God who heals the "small stuff." We can't protect them from pain, but we can pray, as Jesus did for his disciples, that our children would be guarded from the evil one. Equipping them with God's Word can chip away at the lies the world will hurl at them; reminding them of how The Father sees them. Though there are certainly times as parents to intervene, do not have to sit helplessly, wishing that we could shield our children from the world. As they grow, we can continually equip and train them; that they might make a difference here!

Father, as I typed that last sentence, you know how queasy my stomach just got. Give me wisdom, LORD, that I might know when to protect my children and when to equip them.

Moving On-- What a Difference a Decade Makes.

While getting dressed for church this morning, I turned on the news to check the weather forecast. As usual, I somehow missed the weather portion of Northwest Cable News, and now I got to hear about what to do with your excess berries. It was casually mentioned that as it was September 11th, it would be a good day to have red and blue berries amidst creamy-white batter, to commemorate the day. "Really?" I thought, "We're honoring 9/11/11 with berries and ice cream?" I really wasn't sure how I felt about that. For those of us who remember 9/11/01, I'm sure our emotions will always be a little complicated! Naturally, I chose to blog about it ...

Oh, how vividly I remember September 11th, 2001. My husband arose from our bed uncharacteristically early to watch the news. He said he heard something on the radio about a plane hitting a building. As soon as the unforgettable images materialized on the screen, he urged me to come quickly. We watched in horror, unable to move. Ever my protector, Alan had one arm around my shoulders and the other cradling my pregnant belly. The instant the first twin tower fell, all color drained from his face. "You realize, don't you, that all those fire fighters below just died ..."

While that was upsetting to me as well, I knew the volunteer fire fighter who stood solemnly in my living room had just experienced a loss I couldn't comprehend. It was all so much to take in, and we had precious little time to do so. How on earth were we supposed to go to work on a day like today?

But go we did; Alan attempted to tend to warehouse details, while I struggled to teach a classroom full of confused, frightened preschoolers. I don't remember what I taught, he doesn't remember what he stocked. We plodded through the work day and got home as soon as possible.

For days, we couldn't tear our eyes away from the news. We ate in front of the T.V., kept the radio on all night ... it consumed our every thought. We spent the following weekend at the ocean with my family. We needed to be together, and we needed a break from our new reality. Unfortunately, when we left the calm, rhythmic waves in our rear view mirror, the stark reminders of that disastrous day were there once more. On every channel, twenty-four hours a day, it rang in our ears, brought tears to our eyes and troubled our hearts. When we went outside for a breath of fresh air, the quiet was eerie. Not only were there fewer cars, there were no planes in the sky. We struggled with living a normal life again. Could we laugh? Was it appropriate? Did it mean we didn't care? And yet, if our existence had no joy, didn't that mean the terrorists who tried to destroy our great nation had succeeded? Where was the line between righteous anger and blind, blanketed hatred? It was all so confusing.

As his mommy worried, my little boy fluttered and kicked in my belly. Though our pregnancy was usually a blessed distraction, there were also times when his daddy and I wondered just what kind of a world we were going to bring our first child into. And yet, either we trusted God, or we didn't. Either He was who He said He was, or the entire foundation of our lives was a lie. We weren't sure how everything was going to work out, but we pressed on.
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The first anniversary of 9/11 was such a mixture of emotions. While many of our national pain was still quite raw, people were flying in airplanes (though airport security was now a very different experience), getting married and beginning to live again. We were all somewhat nervous of an anniversary attack, but we refused to go into hiding or stay glued to our televisions anymore. As "God bless America" was somberly played during memorials on television, our post- 9/11 baby was crawling all over the house, blissfully unaware of why mommy held him just a little longer that night. We were now a country at war. We were all still grieving as a nation. And yet, as I held my son in my arms that night, I knew that I was unbelievably blessed.

The early morning hours of September 12, 2001 were wrought with horrifying sounds and sights that simply would not leave my head. Just a year later, I was awakened by the hungry cries of my baby. Even in my foggy 3:00 a.m. state, I was aware of how much my world had changed, and I was thankful. We were moving on.

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Ten years later, so much has changed. Some of the changes were needed, some of them break my heart. I was not afraid today. I laughed today. My children played outside as planes flew overhead. For ten years, we have avoided any further terrorist attacks on American soil. For that, I am indeed thankful.

That being said, I am struck by how the same country who shamelessly sang "God Bless America" on 9/11/01 doesn't have a national day of prayer anymore, because "prayer is a private matter." Funny, it wasn't private when we all had red, swollen eyes from sobbing in front of our televisions. Apparently, God is only needed in America when we are grief ridden and scared.

I will fight for freedom of religion in this great nation, and would certainly never insist that everyone believe, practice or pray as I do. I will, however, also fight for the right to respectfully, and un-apologetically embrace the faith-filled heritage of our forefathers.

I am also glad that today has become one of national pride, as well as remembrance. We need to honor our fallen heroes (as well as our brave men and women in uniform) by choosing to see the victory that came from that dark day. Though many lives were lost, we did not crumble as a nation. We rose up from the ashes and are rebuilding! By all means, fly your flags proudly, decorate in red, white & blue and yes, eat red, white and blue-themed desserts. But as we celebrate, let us also take the time to stop, think back, and remember. Let us hold our children close and tell them of the brave man who said, "Let's roll!" My children don't remember September 11th (since Alan was in utero, and Wyatt wasn't even a thought yet), but we talk about it as a family. We don't want to scare our children, but we want to plant seeds of understanding where the price of freedom is concerned.

With each passing year, the sting of September 11th seems to lessen a little. The image of crumbing towers, though still disturbing, does not warrant the collective gasp it did when we watched it live. It's good to heal; no one wants to emotionally "bleed" forever. As this dark day drifts farther into our history books, may we remember to whom our nation turned on 9/11/01. May we not assume invincibility, lest we risk greater injury.

God Bless America!

When Dreams Can’t Hatch

For I know the plans I have for you," declares the LORD, "plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.
Jeremiah 29:11

Friday evening had been rather uneventful—a welcome change from the wild and wooly week we’d had. When it was brought to my attention that the chickens were still up, I groaned. There were many excuses for staying inside; I was tired, it was dark, the welcoming glow of my facebook page called to me … In spite of my burning desire to avoid the chore altogether, I recruited li’l Alan (since he was still up, anyway) to tuck our little feathered friends in with me.

While Alan put up the feed and pushed in the chicken door, I went in to check for eggs and count beaks. One measly little egg lay in the nesting box, making a total of two for the entire day. I was disappointed, but not surprised; egg production had been down for nearly two weeks. I blamed it on summer finally coming and mindlessly began to count the girls. Expecting the typical number of five, I was surprised when I stopped at four—twice. Where was Crabby Patty?

I alerted Alan and we went on a hunt for our fugitive hen. This wasn’t her first time flying the coop at bedtime; I’d found our free spirited-fowl in many a bush when she was younger. I’d even rescued that crazy chicken when she was stuck in a tree (you know that whole, “chickens can’t fly” theory? TOTAL MYTH)! We had noticed her out and about a few mornings this week (while her sisters were still cooped up), so I figured she was just too hot to stay in the barn. When we didn’t find her in the usual places, we called in for reinforcements (and a bigger flashlight).

After a bit more searching, hubby found her. She was quite far from the barn, surrounded by bushes and thorns of all sorts. I expected her to follow me, as she usually does. No dice—this girl was not moving. Li’l Alan reached down to pet her, and she began to peck furiously. I chalked it up to night time and being scared, but it was still very odd. Crabby Patty had never pecked anyone—including when I got her out of the tree! As she puffed up her feathers, I discovered why she wasn’t in the barn—and where all our eggs had gone! This wasn’t just a fleeting rendez vous; she’d been stock piling her eggs in a nest for quite some time now. Crabby Patty thought she was a mother!

For those of you who aren’t aware, we don’t have a rooster. Having a flock with only hens has given us the luxuries of delicious fresh eggs and no crowing in the morning, as well as the downside of NO BABY CHICKS. Poor Patty, however, has not taken a single health class. She didn’t know she was incubating stink bombs—she thought there were babies in there. She had made a beautiful nest for them, carefully lined with her own feathers. It broke my heart; I knew she didn’t understand why we wanted her off those eggs and into the barn.

As we tried to get her to leave the nest, she defended her eggs with all she had. I’m no meany; had it been an issue of stinky eggs alone, we would have left the poor dear to live in her mother hen fantasy. Leaving a young hen out alone at night to sit on thirteen eggs, however, would put her on the snack list for the raccoons, neighborhood dogs, coyotes, bobcats and bears who occasionally visit us here in the country. Though she fought it all the way, we eventually guided her back to the barn, gently nudging her with the scoop of the barn shovel. It was no easy task; if we stopped for a minute, she made a beeline for her nest again. Add to that the fact that it was dark, and we were all winded when we locked the barn door.

The fretful hen paced back and forth in the coop, telling us all what she thought of tonight’s ordeal. She allowed me to pet her once she rejoined her sisters, but she never stopped clucking incessantly at me. It was as though she wanted to be comforted, but she also wanted to tell me off!

Two days later, Crabby patty has calmed down quite a bit, but she’s still clucking my ear off when she sees me. I’m sure she’ll forget soon (that’s the benefit of having a brain the size of your eye), but I certainly won’t. Once again, God has used my feathered friends to remind me of a few lessons I need to review …

I’ve never sat on rotting eggs before, but I must admit, I’ve done my own brooding! Oh, how I remember taking multiple pregnancy tests when I’d already received a negative one – just because I had thought I was pregnant, and wanted so desperately to believe I was. I’ve clung to friendships that have run their course, stubbornly insisted keeping a business that wasn’t a good fit for our family, tried to love people “enough” to change them, plugged my fingers firmly in my ears when obvious signs of autism in Wyatt were trumpeting all around me … and so much more.

Emotions are tricky little numbers aren’t they? There are times when you feel a burning desire in your heart for something that appears to be so perfect. Like poor Crabby Patty, we assume we have all we need to bring our dreams into a reality. Our Father, however, looks down and sees how we, in our limited thinking, cannot understand why it’s not a good fit. If we’ve done our part and we’re faithful in every way, doesn’t that mean we should achieve our dreams? If we had a God who did not want to protect us from greater harm, I would say yes; but there are times when The Father has to scoop us up and carry us far from our dreams. Confused, we cry out that He is unkind, out of touch or simply apathetic. Even when we come to Him for comfort, we demand to have our say. We don’t see the lurking predators, nor can we smell the stench of a dream that is simply not meant to be. All we know is that our hearts are broken, our plans have been ripped away and we don’t know what comes next.

Even as Patty pecked the living daylights out of my boots, I was not angry at my vexed little hen. I knew she was confused, frightened, and yes, probably even a little sad. Our Father undoubtedly has more insight regarding our broken hearts than we can possibly fathom. I know there are some who fear letting God know how they feel about what’s going on in our world. I used to assume that God only wanted to hear about my happy feelings-- even though He already knew what I was thinking. When my sister suffered three miscarriages, I showed him my sorrow and confusion. When I lost my niece Heidi in a DUI-related accident, I sent sorrow, pain, frustration, anger and questioning His way. While attempting to parent a child with autism (as well as a highly-sensitive, emotionally demanding neurotypical child and my own health and allergy stuff), he gets generous a generous buffet of raw emotions, questions and the odd sobbing session in my bathroom. I go so far beyond pecking at His feet that it isn’t even funny … yet He never stops protecting, comforting and loving me.

I don’t know about you, but I find great comfort in knowing that A.) I am no surprise to God and B.) I don’t have to understand or even like all of His plans. When my dreams take flight, I know He will rejoice with me. When my plans fall to pieces, I know He will be there to comfort and love me. What a God we serve!

When The Bough Breaks ...

I’m sure there is some deep meaning to the lullaby “Rock-a-Bye, Baby,” but it always disturbed me, especially when I was little. While I didn’t claim to be the most responsible parent of my plastic pseudo-children (one cannot make that claim after ruining a doll by leaving it out in the rain), I knew that putting a live baby in a TREE was a terrible idea! And if those dopey parents insisted on keeping the little darling up there, shouldn’t there have been a net to prevent the inevitable fall of “baby—cradle, and all?” I shook my little four-year-old noggin disapprovingly whenever I heard that awful song. Little did I know, my life as Wyatt’s mommy would relate more to that song than any other …

Having a child with autism is definitely a balancing act-- not unlike trying to parent in a tree! My little guy has a plan, and as long as his plan is in motion, he really prefers to keep me at arms’ length. Oh sure, he comes for snuggles in the morning and occasionally at night, but he doesn’t “need” me like his brother Alan does. He prefers to spend much of his time in his own little world. Things seem to make more sense to him there, I suppose. He loves his family, I have no doubt; but he finds his security in routine and regiments. He’s happiest in his tree, being gently rocked by the winds of predictability.

Change, however, throws his rhythm completely out of whack. Be it daylight savings time, haircut day, early release from school or a new pair of shoes, the routine he so desperately craves has ceased. The “wind” is no longer swaying Wyatt’s tree, and he cannot make sense of it. His world becomes too loud, too hard and too bright for his senses to take in. As his mother, I have to try to “sway the branches” myself. I attempt to guess the proper tension of the limbs and speed of my movement; hoping I will soothe my son. Sometimes, it works. In other instances, my efforts are not enough or too much. I become frustrated, and as much as I’d hate to admit it, I lose my patience from time to time. I go into lengthy explanations when I know he’s stimming and can’t process it, because I want to feel better. I cave and give him too much of what he wants, simply because I’m exhausted. I take it personally that I can’t fix my son and I raise my voice or speak too harshly.

That is when the bough breaks.

Cradle and all, in this sense, includes me. When I fail as a parent, I hit the ground first, but we all feel the impact. Wyatt seems to heal from it all so much faster than I do; for an autistic child, he is very forgiving. For that, I am very grateful! While I tend to my bumps and bruises, my Heavenly Father comforts me. He gives me grace I don’t deserve time and time again—Even though I often forget to bother asking Him how to comfort Wyatt. In the midst of my struggle, I forget that I have twenty-four hour access to The One who made my son and loves him even more than I do. I don’t have to know it all, I cannot fix it all and I cannot possibly carry this burden alone. In the back of my mind, I know all this. I am never left in a pile of twigs and leaves wondering how I got there. Regardless of all that, my Father loves, heals, strengthens and renews our entire family. He gives me the courage I need to return to the base of Wyatt’s tree, tirelessly watching over us.

I’m not going to lie; parenting a child who lives “outside of the box” is not easy. Conventional parenting and teaching techniques simply do not work. I have had to do and say some things as Wyatt’s mommy that make that crazy lullaby seem completely logical! That being said, there are many parts of my life with him that are so incredible, I wouldn’t trade it for anything. Many parents will probably have a “safer” time parenting on the ground, but they’ll miss out on the beautiful view from Wyatt’s tree.

Hands and Feet

Just as a body, though one, has many parts, but all its many parts form one body, so it is with Christ.
1 Corinthians 12:12

At forty-one weeks (and three days) pregnant, my demeanor was nothing remotely resembling the mothers-to-be on the covers of my pregnancy books. There was no chapter explaining how to politely respond to the phrase, “You’re STILL pregnant?” I found no helpful online guides for enduring the shame of being sent home from the hospital (twice). The Food Network did not call me when my first labor induction was cancelled—which was a shame, because the amount of ice cream I ingested with my beloved “soul sister,” Frances that day was worthy of media attention!

Though I found several reasons to be an irritable, uncomfortable and highly emotional preggo, one of my greatest pity parties revolved around the fact that my thoughtful hubby had bought me several adorable maternity outfits for my birthday; most of which were a pipe dream at this stage of the pregnancy. I could only squeeze my watermelon-esque belly into two outfits. One consisted of a pair of super-stretchy pants (of which the elastic was crying out, “I beg of you, NO MORE!”) and a button down shirt (which, in spite of its “hunter green” hue, did not camouflage the fact that the last four button holes resembled two toddlers fighting over a cookie). When that chic ensemble was in the wash, I lumbered about our little home in a blue gingham plaid dress-- which we affectionately called, “The tent.” (I’m fairly certain this particular garment needs no explanation!) Both of these charming get-ups were accented with a pair of fashion forward slippers (to accommodate my cankles and sausage toes). Feeling certain that I would most likely remain a human incubator for the rest of my days; I flopped on the couch to have [yet another] good cry.

Startled by my abrupt change in position, little Alan kicked and flailed about in his ever-shrinking internal accommodations. As I gently patted my belly, I told my little boy all about my frustrations, and how desperately I wanted to be done with this “magical journey” known as the tenth month. While kvetching incessantly to my unborn child, I saw the outline of a teensy little foot beneath my shirt. Now it was my turn to be startled! I moved my shirt up to see the little footprint better. While I stroked his little foot with one hand, I felt something pushing on my other. When I moved a few fingers out of the way, a precious little handprint came into view! As our hands “almost touched,” I forgot how uncomfortable I was, how huge I was, how tired I was … all I could do is stare in wonder as my little boy and I shared that moment.

When “big” Alan came back into the house, he was alarmed by the site of his expectant wife sobbing. Once I could find the words, I told him how our little boy had been reaching out to connect with me; to remind me of the purpose behind the pain. What a gift!

I loved the little kicks and flutters from my sons from the inside, but it couldn’t compare with seeing those precious little faces, hearing them say “Mama” for the first time or feeling their arms wrapped around me in a voluntary hug. This was, and is, worth waiting for!

The world in which we live can be unsettlingly dark and lonely at times, especially when one has no hope. When our Savior ascended into heaven, we were given the incredible and daunting privilege of being the “Hands and Feet of Jesus.” We can’t answer every question, ease every pain or dry every tear, but when we reach out to others—yes, even in our limited, imperfect capacities, we share a glimpse of someone’s purpose. When we take the time to listen, because God does, we show them that we love them, because God does. Never underestimate your ability to be used by God; the tiniest of hands and feet can change a life. :)

Wyatt's Song

In honor of my little guy's seventh birthday, I planned to share his birth story. However, God seemed to have other plans, because this is what came out of my little noggin instead. How fitting, since Wyatt always seems to change the course of my plans! :)


I had a plan for when you’d come
To complete our family
I’d returned to work
We’d just bought a new house
It didn’t seem like the right time to me!

While your brother called me from his crib
I held a test with two dark lines
They sure showed up quick
I didn’t even feel sick
When we learned of our little “surprise”

Sure, the timing was crazy
And our house seemed too small
But maybe I’d learn how to manage it all
I knew you were a blessing
I just had to tweak my plans
And I carried on, as if I held my life in my hands
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I was certain I was having a girl
Ultrasounds proved I’d spoken too soon
I expected a 6 lb. baby mid-May
You arrived (nearly 9 lbs.) in June

We found leaks from the water tank
On our way out the door
We forgot Alan’s shoes
It was chaos galore!
But the chaos was hushed
By the cries of my little man
And I fell in love with the baby they placed in my hands
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You ate all day, and you slept all night
And you wouldn’t look at me
But your mother saw you as brilliant and “quirky”
As you lined up your toys constantly

There was fear in your eyes
That kept you from walking
And though you had words
You struggled with talking
I was grieved and confused
So unsure of how to plan
I released my grip and I placed your life in God’s hands.
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You may have “quirks,” but they’re part of you
And you’re charming, sweet and smart
Much of your thoughts and actions confuse me
But my son, I know what’s in your heart

Through your struggles and trials
I’ve loved watching you grow
I see how far you’ve come
And though you’ve so far to go
I know you’ll find your way
I’m not sure what God has planned
But I rest assured that your life is safe in His hands.