Post #51: "Me here, Wennie. Me here"

Something interesting happened this mat leave. I rediscovered things that bring me joy. Things that help me express myself. Things that help me process. For example, I love to bake. I have baked more in the eight months since Gwen was born, than I had in the three or four years before her birth. It helps that Anson thinks baking is the greatest thing in the world.

The other thing I have started doing again is writing. I have written the odd blog post in the last few years, but that is it. I used to keep a regular blog, but I also wrote for fun. My computer always had a few novels that I was planning or working on (but of course never finishing... because where is the fun in that!). But in the last couple months I have found myself writing again. I have started blogging. I also started working on a story that I promised myself I would write over ten years ago.

Writing is one of those things that helps me feel whole. God often uses it to help me process emotions and experiences. It is also a way of being vulnerable. I'm the person who can count on one hand (and probably one finger), the times I would let someone read my essays in university. As much as I knew that feedback and constructive criticism were good for me and my development, my insecurity held me back. I often encourage my students to take feedback and use my life as a cautionary tale.

What is interesting is that I wasn't always insecure about my writing. When I was in high school I can remember using up all of my school paper to write stories. A friend would always come to find my at lunch or after school to see if I had written more. In elementary school I can remember writing a story about my classmates and reading it out to the class before the first bell rang.

Somewhere along the line I stopped sharing my writing. I became convinced it wasn't good enough. I stopped blogging regularly (partly because of a lack of time, and partly because every time I write a post I ask myself what the point is in sharing it. Why would anyone care what I have to say?)

When I first started writing this post, I had no intention of sharing what is written above. That wasn't my purpose. And then I felt like I should. And then the whole time I was writing I was asking God what the point is, because I couldn't see how it connected to what is written next. Bear with me, because I think God is using this to help give me some clarity (which is typically how He does things).

My favourite part when Gwen wakes up from her nap is the way Anson wants to be involved. Gwen will start crying for me, and the moment Anson hears her, he will look at me and say, "Wennie cries, Mama. Me help Wennie." So then we will head up to her room together, he will open her door, run to her crib, and say, "Me here, Wennie. Me here." In fact, any time Gwen is upset (including the times he causes her tears), he is quick to reassure her that he is there for her. His words are often accompanied by a back rub, a hug, or a kiss. I wish I could fully show you how much Anson loves his sister, and how much she loves him. Gwen's face lights up when Anson enters the room. The two of them love to giggle with each other. Anson loves to talk in a high pitched voice and pretend it is Gwen's voice. He loves to give her hugs and kisses good night. He is desperate for her to be able to play with him. Gwen watches him and you can tell she just wants to be able to do all the things that he does.

But it isn't just with Gwen that I see this side of Anson. This morning I was crying while getting ready for the day as I thought about the content of this post. I went to help Anson pull his pants up after he had gone to the washroom, and he looked at me and said, "What wrong, Mama? You cry?" So I told him I was sad but that it was okay. And then I watched as his face fell with sadness because I was sad. If I'm sad or hurt, Anson wants to kiss it better. He stops what he is doing because he wants to make sure I'm okay.

He is such a sweetheart, and my heart daily feels like it is going to burst with love for him and Gwen.

But Anson is obviously not perfect. He is a two year old who lacks impulse control (as most two year olds do). He is also a physical little boy. When Anson feels his big emotions, he deals with them physically. So when he is excited, angry, frustrated, happy, etc, he will hit/push/slap. He has been doing great with this at home or in small groups with people he is familiar with, but when he gets overwhelmed or overstimulated it is really hard to remind him of the strategies we are working on at home.

Again, this is pretty normal stuff. He is two.

But it is also really hard stuff to deal with. And sometimes it is really hard trying to figure out whether I put him into social situations that could lead to more hitting. On the one hand, I want him to get used to people, because the more comfortable he is, the less he hits. On the other hand, I don't want to set him up to fail.

Every time I get invited to something, I start to panic a bit. Because I love my sweet, sweet boy, and I see the way he brings toys to kids at daycare, or to his sister, when they are sad. I see how he stops everything to sing to Gwen when she cries, because he knows that being sung to makes him feel better. I see all this good in him. But I am so scared of sharing him with others and of them rejecting him or thinking he is "bad." And I know I shouldn't feel this way because I know none of my friends think that. I know my friends, especially those with kids, know how hard this parenting thing is, and they know that Anson is not "bad." But I'm still scared they will find fault with him. I'm scared he will have an off day (because he has had those before) and that all people will get to see is the lack of impulse control.

My writing and my kids are both gifts that God has given to me. And they are both pieces of my heart (to varying degrees). And I'm scared of sharing both with the world, because I'm horrified the world will think them "bad." Because if these reflections of my heart are bad, what does that say about me?

I don't have an answer.

The last time I kept a blog regularly was when I wrote "Annals of a Christian Single." It was my way of processing what it is like to be a Christian single. It led to me being incredibly vulnerable about where I was at in life, but it also was a time when God showed me who I am in Him. By sharing that journey with others, God connected me to other people around the world who had that shared experience, and we were able to encourage each other. To challenge each other. Maybe He is telling me it is time to be vulnerable about where I am at now.

But vulnerability is hard. I live in fear of me and my loved ones being rejected.

But I guess that is where I have to remember Who made me. Who is always present with me. And in those times of fear, rest in the knowledge that Jesus is saying (to quote Anson), "Me here, Jesse. Me here."

Post #50: Being Known

From the time I was eight my family fostered. My baby sister (who isn't really a baby since she is 25) was the first baby we brought into our home. Some children were in our home briefly, others have remained part of our lives. When I close my eyes I can still picture these kids who felt like my siblings. Who were part of our family, no matter how briefly they were in our lives. One baby stands out right now. She was a sweetheart, and my family wanted to adopt her, but she was placed in her home community instead. This happened my first year out of high school. My family was preparing to move from Prince George to Dawson Creek. I had one semester of university under my belt, but was taking a break to do a semester of Bible College during the transition time of my family's move. I had started at the Bible college and can remember standing in church one Sunday. We started to sing the song "Blessed Be Your Name" and I just started to cry. I had never really experience grief before, but that Sunday was the beginning of my grieving process as I learned to deal with the loss of this baby from our lives.

The reason I share this is because this last Sunday at church we sung "Blessed Be Your Name" again. It got me thinking about my most recent post and about my old wounds of rejection and insecurity. It was honestly like God looked at me and said, "I see you, Jessica." I have spent a chunk of my life feeling like I went unseen. I know this is untrue, but this was all part of that lie of rejection and of not being good enough. And as I was praying and bringing these old wounds to God, He let me know He saw me. He used the same song He used to comfort me in my grief fifteen years ago to remind me in the present that He sees me. To remind me that no matter my circumstances or thoughts or emotions, He is still God. He is still good. And He still sees me and knows me.

It is an amazing thing to be truly known. When someone understands what makes you tick. What excites you. What frustrates you. What makes you you.

I have found this period of my life a bit trying when it comes to regular devotions. Part of that is because it is hard to find a solid chunk of time where I can sit down, read my Bible coherently and without interruption, and then focus on it. But what has amazed me is that God hasn't given up on me. He knows me and has found other ways to speak to me. When I was on mat leave I started reading Little Women (great book... strongly recommend it). It wasn't long before I was underlining my fiction novel because vast chunks of it were speaking to me. Were challenging me. Were making me reevaluate my life and how I was living. Were drawing me closer to God. Other times it is through experiences with my kids. When Anson has a complete meltdown and I find my heart overwhelmed with compassion and love for him, it gives me the slightest indication of how God must feel during my own meltdowns. Other times it will be through an instance like this Sunday where the song selection was such that I was again reminded that God is present in the good, the bad, and the ugly.

And so I have spent this week resting (truly resting) in the knowledge that I am seen and I am known. That the God who created me knows my hopes and my struggles, and that He remains steady and constant and good through them all.

Post #49: Old Wounds and Fierce Friends

I'm not sure if I'm even going to publish this post. At this point I am writing as a way to process, and because God often provides me clarity and peace by having me write through experiences and emotions. And as much as I tried to throw myself into knitting, writing kept coming back to me. So here I am. Writing this post while Anson is at daycare, Gwen naps, and bacon fries for a Caesar salad I am taking to small group tonight.

A situation arose about a month ago that caught Jordan and I completely by surprise. It shocked us, hurt us, and left us a bit confused. While resolution was achieved, it wasn't a "happy" resolution, and it stirred up some feelings of rejection that I wasn't prepared for.

Rejection has always been a wound for me. When I look back on growing up, my teen years, and the years since, instances always arise that would remind me that I "wasn't enough" for people. I wasn't cool or popular enough. I wasn't pretty enough. I wasn't smart enough. I wasn't single enough. I wasn't in a relationship enough.

I just wasn't good enough.

Over the last few years, I haven't felt the effects of those wounds. Or at least haven't felt them often. So part of me forgot that this was an old wound for me.

As I drove Anson to daycare this morning, and was praying along the way, I found myself saying, "God, why can't I just be good enough?"

Later this morning I called one of my best friends. My fierce friend. This is the friend who showed up on my doorstep in a torrential downpour last June, ready to take over the rest of packing and moving for me so that I didn't go into labour moving weekend and so that I could focus on finishing off my school year. The friend who flew across the country to do this. The friend who saw me. She saw my pain, my fear, my worry, and my stress, and so she flew to Ontario to take up part of my fight for me. The same friend who, at Christmas, did the 12 Days of Christmas for me, giving me a little gift to open every day that reminded me that I was seen. That I was known. And that someone who saw and knew me also loved me.

*Friends like that don't come around every day. If you have one, never let them go.*

What is amazing about this friend, is that she didn't try to talk me out of my feelings, she didn't try to make me feel better, and she also didn't coddle me. She comforted me, but she also strengthened me. As someone who has known me for over 20 years, she knows me well. She knows my history with rejection. And so she took time out of her morning to walk with me through this. To go to the root of these feelings. To identify that the statement "I'm not enough" is actually a lie, and that when God formed me, He wasn't saying, "This is Jess. She isn't enough" (this friend also didn't accept my account that I am the platypus of humanity, and that God just threw a bunch of random parts together to see how they wound turn out and got a Jess).

As a parent, one of my biggest fears is that of watching my kids wrestle with the same wounds I do. I'm petrified that Anson and Gwendolyn will feel that they "aren't enough" for other people. That my creative, beautiful, hilarious children will feel like they aren't cool enough, pretty enough, popular enough... that they just aren't good enough. In the last week my prayers for them have developed to include a prayer for friends for them. That they will have friendships that will challenge, encourage, and strengthen them. That they will be able to do that for those friend. My hope is that God will give them fierce friends who will call them on their crap, but who will also fight for them. That they will have friends who will see them, know them, and love them. Who will strengthen them when they don't have the strength, and who will step in and fight for them when they are unable to carry on any longer. It is also my prayer that my kids will be fierce friends themselves. 

I keep pausing and trying to think of some kind of neat way to wrap this entry up. And I keep coming up empty. But maybe that's just God's way of reminding me that this is going to be a process for me. That acknowledging that this is a wound and where it's root is at is great, but that old wounds still flare up (trust me... I have an old elbow injury that I thought was better until I had kids and especially when that latter child turned into a co-sleeper... now even knitting can hurt!). Through this time, God has also really shown me that there are friends and people who love me for who I am. Who think I am enough. Who love my family and think they are enough too.

So here's to old wounds, fierce friends, and the road to healing.

Post #48: Pregnancy, Moving, and the Art of Being Humbled

My plan was to sit down at the end of the school year and write this post. I thought that would be that sweet spot in between no work responsibilities, but would also happen before Baby #2 made his/her appearance. Which obviously means that nothing happened according to plan!

Since it has been a while since I last wrote, allow me to update you. In September 2018 I went back to work after my mat leave, but only returned to work part time (I held a 2/3 position, so I taught two classes a semester instead of three). By the end of October we found out we were pregnant with Baby #2, which meant I entered into that world of working, raising a toddler (and one incredibly independent, energetic one at that), and experiencing pregnancy. By January 2019 we began to get the sense that our two bedroom unit wasn't going to work anymore for two kids plus housing any of my family that came to visit when the baby arrived. By the beginning of April our house had sold and thus began the stress of having just over two months to find a house. By the end of April we had found a house and I began the process of packing, knowing that the end of the school year would be incredibly busy as well as that moving at 37 weeks and 5 days would make packing close to impossible. Just over a week after the purchase of our house was finalized, we ended up in the hospital for a pre-term labour assessment as I started having some mild contractions (I was 31.5 weeks pregnant). Everything was fine, though the overall assessment came back that I was stressed. Somehow we made it through the next month and a half. In the two weeks leading up to our move, Jordan implemented a new system at work that took longer than anyone anticipated, and so he had to put in 12-16 hour days for those two weeks, as well as going in on Saturdays to work. I was in the throes of marking, final summatives, and report cards.

I honestly don't know when I have been as stressed as what I was. It got to the point where I found myself wishing for high blood pressure at each midwife appointment so they could tell me I had to go off work. I figured that would remove one stressor from my life, even though I really wanted to finish the year (I loved my classes. My grade nines challenged me in a way I had never been challenged, and my grade twelves were a class of introverts who loved to write... did it get any better?). At each appointment my blood pressure betrayed me and my midwives declared me perfectly healthy.

The Thursday before the move we met with the lawyer, met with the bank, I had a midwife appointment, and then I was late picking up Anson from daycare. I got home, fed Anson, bathed him, and dealt with "strictly-bath-related" meltdown #9 in that two week period. I had finally gotten Anson dressed when my father-in-law called. It was pouring rain and he told me Jordan had asked him to drop a package off and did I mind leaving the front door unlocked so he could just pop it in and not have to wait in the rain. Like I good daughter-in-law I said "Sure." Then I hung up, looked towards Heaven, and cried out to God, "I don't need another f***** box, Lord." And I cried.

A few moments later I heard the door open and shut. As I went downstairs, one of my best and oldest friends appeared. And I lost it. I wept.

*Thank-you, Ashley, for not posting the video you were recording of when I first saw you. I don't think the world is ready for that level of ugly crying.*

Which leads me to the point I really wanted to reflect on in this post. I have never been more humbled that I was throughout this move. I often struggle with feeling like I don't belong. Like I'm just on the outskirts of friend groups. Of wondering why anyone would want to help me or be my friend. And during this time, I had more people offer their help than I thought was possible. And not just in a "Let me know what I can do" kind of a way, but in a "I'm free this Thursday. Can I come clean and pack boxes for you while you sit and mark." I had meals made for us so we were eating something more nutritious than chicken fingers and french fries. I had people offer to watch Anson for me so I could get work done. On the weekend of the move, we had more people come to help load, unload, and clean on the Saturday, Sunday, and Monday, than I thought was possible. Once we were moved in, I had people come to watch Anson so I could get some unpacking done. Ashley and Jordan took over the logistics of moving weekend, and I was sent away on the Saturday to get marking done. Which meant that by the time our first weekend in our new house arrived, my marking and report cards were done.

I don't like asking for help. And I hate feeling like an inconvenience to people. But this experience brought me to a whole new level of realizing that I can't do things on my own. I was physically, emotionally, and mentally unable to do everything that needed to be done. But what humbled me far more than having to ask for help, was the vast amount of help that was offered. To those who helped watch Anson, cooked meals, helped me pack and clean, and helped us move, thank you. Thank you so much. You will never know how much your friendship and help means to me (I have cried so many thankful tears over this, it isn't funny!). To those who helped with Anson and food our first week in the house, thank you. To Ashley and Jordan, thank you for getting Ashley out here. It is amazing how after 20+ years of friendship, you are able to completely hand over the reigns of your own move to your friend and know that she will make sure everything gets done the way you need it done. To Donut Monster and Vintage Coffee, who kept us alive over that weekend, thank you.

What blows me away, is that God didn't stop humbling me with help at this point. We moved on June 17, and on June 22 I finished my report card comments and sent them to my proof reading partner. On June 23, while running errands in the morning, my water broke. That night I submitted report cards (finishing the last of my work responsibilities), and on the morning of June 24, we headed to the hospital to be induced. That night, at 10:57, Gwendolyn Margaret Anne Visser was born (she was 8lbs 13oz and 20.5in long).

*pictures included because I think my kid is adorable and couldn't resist*

As I had to ask for help with Anson, God continued to humble me with the help that came. When Gwen and I were released and I was told that I was supposed to do as little lifting and moving as possible for the first week, I was again overwhelmed with the people who showed up to help. Friends would come and spend a morning with me so they could keep Anson occupied so I could just feed my baby girl and rest. Friends who provided meals. Family who helped me clean and continue with the whole moving process (given that we had only had a week in our house before Gwen came, and there is only so much unpacking a very pregnant woman with a toddler can do).

And even now, with Gwen already being 6.5 weeks old, people continue to bring meals and offer help. God continues to provide. As I slowly start figuring out the steps that are involved in this dance of being a mom to two kids instead of one, God continues to provide.

As I look at the life I have here, as I realize that I'm not on the outskirts of a community but am instead immersed and a part of a community, I see God's provision. When I have to be vulnerable and ask for help, I see it as God's grace on me. He is stretching me and growing me, even though I am in a season where I don't feel like I have the capacity to offer Him as much as I know He deserves.

The moral of the story? If you want to feel humbled, time a move at the intersection of several major points in your life. And then be required to ask for help, lol!

Post #47: The Sunrise Festival

One of the things I love about my childhood is where I grew up.  While I was born in Ontario, at the age of 4 my family moved to Rankin Inlet, Nunavut. When I was 5 we moved to Yellowknife, NWT, and at age 7 we moved to Inuvik, NWT, where we stayed until I was 11 and we moved to British Columbia.  When asked where I would place my hometown, I say Inuvik.

Inuvik is a pretty neat community and I have so many fond memories of growing up there. I remember spending many weekends, or afternoons once school let out, sledding. I remember that instead of playing "house" I used to play "whaling camp." When I close my eyes I can still see myself biking with my friends during the long summer days.

And they were long summer days.

Inuvik was the "Land of the Midnight Sun." It was above the Arctic Circle and for a period of time every summer, the sun never actually dipped beneath the horizon. You had 24 hours of light. People would drop by to visit at midnight. My brothers could play basketball with their friends at two in the morning and it was the same as if it were two in the afternoon. I hated bedtime as a kid because it was still so light out and I felt like I should be allowed to stay up.

It was a pretty incredible experience.

But there was also a flip side to this.

That flip side was that for a month in the winter, you also didn't see the sun. I can remember walking home at lunch time and the sky would lighten, but the sun never rose above the horizon.  I still loved this time, though, because it meant that there were numerous mornings when I would walk to school and see the Northern Lights.

I would pick up one of my friends on our way to school, and the two of us would do our best to whistle at the Northern Lights (because legend has it that whistling to them will make them come closer).

I wish I could adequately describe for you the awe that filled me every time I saw the Northern Lights. Trails of green literally danced across the sky (I always said their dance looked like hundreds of knives chopping as fast as they could).

A friend on Facebook is currently living in Inuvik, and she posted pictures from the Sunrise Festival. You see, to celebrate the sun's "return," the people of the community throw a festival that culminates in a night of fireworks.

So what's the point of all this reminiscing?

On Tuesday morning I went to Coffee Break, a women's bible study at my church. In the opening session before we broke off into our groups, our leader talked about hope. About how none of us, when the sun sets at night, worry about whether it will rise again. He have faith and hope that we will see the sun again and it will be soon.

Which is true.

But I think for some of us the darkness lasts longer than just the night. And that is when we lose hope. Sometimes the sun disappears for longer than several hours. Sometimes it seems to be gone for days... weeks... months... years...

R.C. Sproul refers to what is known as the "Dark Night of the Soul."  He describes this as "no ordinary fit of depression, but a depression that is linked to a crisis of faith, a crisis that comes when one senses the absence of God or gives rise to a feeling of abandonment by Him."

In my daily devotional the other day I read Psalm 6.  Here it is:

1 Lord, do not rebuke me in your anger
    or discipline me in your wrath.
2 Have mercy on me, Lord, for I am faint;
    heal me, Lord, for my bones are in agony.
3 My soul is in deep anguish.
    How long, Lord, how long?

4 Turn, Lord, and deliver me;
    save me because of your unfailing love.
5 Among the dead no one proclaims your name.
    Who praises you from the grave?

6 I am worn out from my groaning.

All night long I flood my bed with weeping
    and drench my couch with tears.
7 My eyes grow weak with sorrow;
    they fail because of all my foes.

8 Away from me, all you who do evil,
    for the Lord has heard my weeping.
9 The Lord has heard my cry for mercy;
    the Lord accepts my prayer.
10 All my enemies will be overwhelmed with shame and anguish;
    they will turn back and suddenly be put to shame.

In Keller's commentary on this Psalm, he talks about how verses 8 and 9 show that God has heard David's cry, that David gets "an assurance that God is listening even though he hasn't done anything about the circumstances--yet" (8).

I know a lot of people who are in the midst of waiting.  Who are experiencing dark nights of the soul. Who struggle to find hope and hold onto faith because it seems like God is doing nothing. They "flood their beds with weeping and drench their couches with tears." They are worn out from groaning. It seems like the sun just isn't going to rise. And with each passing, dark day, their home dwindles more.

I have been in that place on more than one occasion.

On the darkest of days in Inuvik, the Northern Lights appeared.  I see that as the picture of verses 6-9 in Psalm 6. Everything is dark and there is no light. No hope. But God still hears and is present. He doesn't always make the sun shine right away when we want it to. But He is with us in the darkness. In the sorrow and the pain. In the waiting.  That's what the Northern Lights remind me of.  God's presence even when all hope seems lost.

And eventually, the sun will shine again. That may not mean a change in circumstances, but in the same way that David's cries in Psalm 6 turn into praise in Psalm 150, our prayers and pleas will do the same.

Post #46: Tale from the End

I realize that my titling this post as I did, it sounds rather foreboding and ominous. That wasn't my intention. The title has more to do with it being December 31 and the reflection that comes with the end of a year than it does with any other end.

As I write this, my husband is enjoying his last remnants of sleep and my son is sleeping in a chair beside me.  I was prepared for a lot when it came to having a child.  From the time I was eight my family fostered, so we always had babies in the house. I got to become pretty adept at walking children who wouldn't be calmed, being spit up on (among other things), and just discovering, by watching my parents, what it means to love children and maintain a home.  So when we found out we were pregnant, I buckled down and made all sorts of vows about the mother I would be and the choices I would make. I was ready for fussiness and sleepless nights.

I wasn't ready for having a sick baby and dealing with the constant worry and breaking of the heart that happens every time your little one lets out a cry to let you know they are hurting or uncomfortable.  I wasn't prepared to watch him be unable to sleep well because of his discomfort.  Throw into that the Christmas holiday and a change in his routine and this poor little guy has had a rough week.

But he appears to be on the mend and sleeping peacefully right now.

But that is the story of my life. I always go into things trying to prepare myself so that I won't be hurt or surprised. It's a way to keep myself guarded. And at this time every year I get myself ready and prepared for what the following year will hold. I make promises to myself about ways I will change, and I set certain expectations.

As I have mentioned before, if there is one thing God likes to remind me of, it is that He knows best. He rarely (if ever) does things in my timing and my way, but instead reminds me that he is sovereign.

So what's the point of all this?

This year I want to try something different.

For Christmas this year I asked for The Songs of Jesus by Tim and Kathy Keller (again, for anyone who knows me, big shock there... I love me some Keller).  It's a year of daily devotions that work through the book of Psalms.  I have found that lately I don't always have the same amount of time or focus to put into reading larger chunks of the Bible and then contemplating them. My brain just isn't in the place of drawing the same conclusions and connections in a shorter period of time like it used to be (I have been mulling over this post for almost a week... so it isn't a spur of a moment thing).

Now I probably should have waited to start this devotional on January 1, but I started it right away.  Which lends an interesting perspective.

On December 25, Keller makes the point that the final five psalms are all ones of praise. If you read the book of Psalms, there are times of praise and times of lament. But the book ends off with a call to praise. So today, we read Psalm 150.

Psalm 150

1 Praise the Lord.

Praise God in his sanctuary;
    praise him in his mighty heavens.
2 Praise him for his acts of power;
    praise him for his surpassing greatness.
3 Praise him with the sounding of the trumpet,
    praise him with the harp and lyre,
4 praise him with timbrel and dancing,
    praise him with the strings and pipe,
5 praise him with the clash of cymbals,
    praise him with resounding cymbals.

6 Let everything that has breath praise the Lord.

Praise the Lord.

In the reflection that is written on this psalm, the Kellers note that "The psalms are, in the end, a miniature of life. Every possible detail, if prayed to the God who is really there, is destined to end in praise" (365).

Every possible detail, if prayed to the God who is really there, is destined to end in praise.

In the time leading up to finding out we were pregnant, I worried that it wouldn't ever happen. I had a dream about how many children I wanted to have, and with each passing month I watched that dream fade away. Then, when we were pregnant, I lived in fear that something would happen to my baby. Even though I knew it was healthy for me to run and be active while pregnant, every time I ran I was scared that I was hurting my child. I counted movements and listened to the heartbeat with a doppler to make sure that baby was still strong. In the last three months I have discovered that worry doesn't stop. Now I worry when Anson is sick, when he doesn't sleep well, if he isn't eating well (though if you check out this kid's thighs I think he is getting enough food).

At around 3:30 this morning, as I sat holding my coughing child who was trying to hard to sleep but kept waking himself up, I found the fear and anxiety overwhelming. What if he wasn't getting enough fluids? We took him to the doctor yesterday and were told it really is nothing more than a cold, but the fear was still there.

As Anson coughed in my arms, I found myself praying the word "peace" over and over again, asking God to give him peace to sleep. That He would give me peace to rest.

The Kellers go on to also say that "Confession leads to the joy of forgiveness. Laments lead to a deeper resting in him for our happiness. If we could praise God perfectly, we would love him completely and then our joy would be full" (365). We are told to praise God "everywhere (verse 1) for everything (verse 2) in every way (verses 3-5)" (365).

Last year at this time my prayer was for peace and for hope. This year my prayer is that I will truly pray every detail to God, and that every prayer will end in praise. Whether I receive what I want or not, my hope is that by truly taking everything to God, I will remember that He is Emmanuel. God with us.

May God's peace rest on you, and in whatever you are going through, whether it is a time of rejoicing, a time of lament, or something in between, may God give you the ability to bring it to Him. And may He remind you that He is in control. And may that lead you to praise Him.

Happy New Year!

Post #45: Tale from the Waiting

I love Advent.  It's one of those times that just grows in meaning to me with every year. And the last post I did was over a year ago in the advent of Advent. I talked about waiting and how that seemed to be a message God was always working with me on. I was always being told to wait and to trust.

The last post I wrote was over a year ago. This wasn't because I had nothing to write about. It's because the pain and hurt and longing I was experiencing left me in a place where I just wasn't willing to share it publicly. I wasn't able to be that vulnerable

You see, a year ago we were in the midst of trying to get pregnant (about 7-8 months into it), as well as dealing with the fact that my Mom's yearly cancer check-up came back with high cancer markers. I was waiting for answers about Mom's health and we were waiting for a child.

Two years ago one of my closest friends gave me a book for Christmas.  It was by Ann Voskamp and was called The Greatest Gift.  So last year I started reading through it during Advent.

Advent is a time of waiting. Waiting for our Saviour. Waiting for hope. For peace. For perfect love.
At no time have I felt that waiting as deeply as I did last year. As I read through the book it resonated with my personal wait. As I waited for hope. For peace.

Very few people know the depth of what I felt at that time. That very few days went by where I didn't cry. That there were times when I could barely hold it together until my students left class. That my heart felt so fragile and my pain so real.

I wish I could adequately portray for you the depth of emotion I felt. As Christmas approached we were so sure this was going to be the month. That I could go out west for Christmas and that even in the midst of uncertainty with Mom's health, God would give us this beacon of hope and light.  Instead we found out just before Christmas that that wasn't the case. Instead I remember sitting at the back of my darkened class as my students watched Home Alone and I cried.

I didn't doubt that God was still good. He had spent years teaching me that just because I don't get what I want, or what my heart desires at the point, doesn't mean He isn't good. That sometimes His goodness is shown BECAUSE I don't get those things. Because the process of waiting makes me more like Him.

I knew all of this. I knew that God was still faithful. That He loved me.

But that didn't change the fact that last year, during Advent, was the worst pain I had felt. Everyday it seemed like my heart broke a little bit more as we waited for answers. Waited for our hope.

God was still faithful. He spoke to me and to my Mom in the midst of our uncertainty. He reminded us both that just because we hurt and just because we were scared, it didn't mean He wasn't with us. It didn't mean he was going abandon us.

January came and with it brought a clean bill of health for my Mom, but still no baby. But it also brought peace. My heart hurt and I still longed and wondered, but God gave me His peace. And in February we found out we were pregnant.

On September 23rd, 2017, at 8:36pm, we welcomed our son, Anson Daniel Gerry Visser, into the world, almost four weeks early. The first of his week was a bit scary for us, as our baby boy had to stay in the NICU (Neonatal Intensive Care Unit) because of breathing issues, sugar levels, and jaundice.  All were pretty normal things for a baby born early to deal with, but it was still scary. Every time I walked into the NICU to feed and hold my boy, I felt my heart break just a little bit more. I shed more tears that week in the hospital than I think I did during the previous season of Advent.

But our boy came home, and Anson is one healthy, happy little guy who is discovering what it means to smile.

Today we sat down for the first day of Advent. One of the gifts we were given after Anson was born was The Wonder of the Greatest Gift by Ann Voskamp. Each day comes with a devotional for the day and an ornament to hang on a tree. Today, as a family, we read day one. The Scripture came from Isaiah 11:1: "Out of the stump of David's family will grow a shoot--yes, a new Branch bearing fruit from the old root."

We read about the family of David that was big like a tree, but because of different troubles, the tree had crashed to the ground and was more like a stump. We read how a miracle came, not as something big, but as a small leaf growing from the stump. A miracle came as a tiny baby.

We read that sometimes miracles don't start big. Sometimes they start small. But that miracle is God bringing something good out of something that seems dead.  Last year my miracle came in the form of God's peace.

This year, as we celebrated the first day of Advent, as we read about this miracle, this hope, I looked at Anson. He's my Advent baby. The child we had to wait for. I remember the pain and sorrow of waiting.  I remember God taking me on a journey of resting in His peace and trusting Him. Of having to put into practice my belief that God's good for me isn't always me getting what I want when I want it.

I think with each year Advent makes a bit more sense to me. This year I understand a bit better what it means to wait for your hope. I think of Israel waiting and wondering about the coming of their Saviour. About how when Jesus came, as a baby, it wasn't at all what they were expecting. It wasn't what they wanted.

But it was the miracle they needed.