Sharing the news

Love and pregnancy and riding on a camel can not be hid.
-Arabic Proverb

There was little I was excited about in the first 24 hours after I learned I was pregnant. Actually, I could find two things to muster excitement for. First, since we were not even teenagers my best friend and I had always talked about some day being pregnant at the same time. She was six months along in her pregnancy, so if I was going to have a surprise I was thankful from the first few minutes that it was at the same time as my friend. We had let go of that dream a few years ago for multiple reasons, so we both saw the timing of our pregnancies as a gift from God.

The other thing I could get excited for was telling people. I had thought about different ways to share the news for years... if I ever did get pregnant. Now it was here and I wanted to have fun with it. I woke my best friend up and she quickly decided it was the best wake up call ever. Johnie's brother almost choked, we think. (Those who know us well had pretty much given up any hope that we would ever birth children.)

We told my mom we wanted her to make the announcement to the church family. She said no for about five seconds, then cried about being offered such an honor and enthusiastically agreed. I sort of thought she would just shout out something like, "I'm going to be a Memaw!" Or, "Johnie and Amy are having a baby!" With a jubilance (I may have made that word up) only she can achieve.

But all on her own accord she wanted to be ornery too. She thought about telling everyone that there was a new special someone in her life, leading them to think of a romantic relationship. But she settled on another idea that I think was even better.

Circled up to pray my mom was given the floor for her announcement: "I just wanted to let everyone know I'm getting a new car (Karr)!"

Everyone clapped politely, albeit confused. My mom already had a nearly new car and isn't usually one to get caught up in material things.

"A new little baby car (Karr)." People were still clapping and some didn't really hear her. Those who did thought she was talking about a compact car.

A couple seconds of awkward silence. Finally Johnie said, "Do you want to give any more details?"

"Well, I'll get it probably around...." She looked to me. "In November," I said. I thought everyone might catch on then. But there was still confusion.

Finally she brought her arms up like she was rocking a baby. "A new little baby car (Karr)." And people started to get it.

Unfortunately I have managed to miss all the group pregnancy announcements among our church friends to date. I always end up being out of town, or sick, or with some conflicting appointment on the one burrito night I didn't make that year. They probably react similarly to anyone who shares baby news. Or maybe we were just the least likely couple to ever make such an announcement. (One friend said, "you just know some things aren't a possibility so you don't even consider them," when talking about why it took everyone a bit to solve my mom's riddle.)

I was overwhelmed. There were squeals of joy and hugs and laughter. I looked around and people were high fiving and hugging. Some had their hands over their mouths. Others were crying. I was thankful that my mom and Johnie were there to absorb some of the attention, but I was shaking and feeling all tingly.

Maybe it was too much too soon for me to handle, but my heart was reassured to see all the joy on everyone's faces about the life inside of me. As I told them as they asked how I was handling it and apologized if they were being obnoxiously excited, I just felt so thankful to see others feeling about this baby the way I wish I could feel. And in those fear-filled moments, I always found reassurance in a community who already loved and cared for my little one.

Two little lines

A grand adventure is about to begin.
-Winnie the Pooh

Within hours of learning I was pregnant I felt compelled to write. I decided quickly to journal. The decision to blog came more slowly. I feel like there are more than enough motherhood/pregnancy blogs already, and they all do a much better job than I could ever do. But what would it hurt to share my experiences too? It's already been proven people don't have to read what I write. So here goes...

Upfront you should know I did not want this to happen. My husband and I were scared away from having children almost eight years ago when I thought I might be pregnant and later learned that I wasn't. We never really recovered from the shock of sudden responsibility we felt as we waited for a negative pregnancy test.

Ironically, it was that experience that sealed the deal for me quitting hormonal birth control. I had health complications with the three different types I tried (migraines, moodiness, weight gain, etc), but the fear that it could potentially harm my unborn child (unwarranted or not) was enough for me to stop it for good.

Within a few months we settled on natural family planning. I read several books. I still remember reading a warning that if we weren't going to be serious about NFP, then we shouldn't claim to practice it. The author lamented that NFP had such a low success rate because so many people did it incorrectly or took chances they weren't supposed to take. Also, most NFP "failures" happen in the first year.

I took the responsibility seriously and was diligent that first year. I followed every single rule. Measured and charted every indicator every day. To be fair to NFP we have not strictly followed the rules since then. It's just that some of the fertility indicators are tedious to measure, and if you track everything month after month you begin to learn about your body. (For example, my temperature swings happen later than for most women. I stopped taking my daily temperature years ago because it just wasn't as reliable an indicator for me as other things.)

 And there have been a handful of times when I have been wrong. I thought the indicators were or were not there only to learn after it was too late that I had misread my signals. That's not what happened this time. We had very good reasons to believe my fertile window had opened AND closed. And no other indication to the contrary. Still, in the hours following the positive pregnancy test I felt like a failure. How could I have let this happen?

I have always been paranoid about a surprise pregnancy and have taken dozens of pregnancy tests over the years. It has been a common refrain for me to link some symptom or issue with possible pregnancy. This particular time it was back pain.

My mom had back pain with both her pregnancies very early. When my back began hurting, I thought I might be experiencing the same thing. I lay in bed at 3 am the day of my missed period and whispered to my husband, "I just can't stop worrying about if I'm pregnant."

Eight years is a long time to be patient. Having heard it all before he replied simply, "Amy, you're not pregnant." And he rolled over and went to sleep. I nursed some hurt feelings and planned to talk to him the next evening about being more respectful to my concerns.

The next day I took the test. For the first time in my life the first little pink line began to appear. I blinked my eyes several times. It was still there. Two lines? Two lines! TWO lines?!?!?! "Dear God, no. Please no. I'm not ready. It's not time," I prayed.

I took a picture. Both lines showed up in the picture. I held it up to the light. They were still there. My heart started beating out of my chest and my breathing sped up. My skin flushed. Was I going to faint?

I talked myself through until my heart rate and breathing slowed. "It's okay. It's going to be okay. It's going to be okay. Everything will be alright."

My next thought was having to tell people. It was close to April Fool's Day. Every previous time I thought I might be pregnant around March, I always thought an April 1st announcement would be fun. So that might work out. I began thinking of how I would tell my friends. They would probably ask me how I am feeling. I actually thought I was handling it pretty well. I mean, I hadn't cried or anything. I panicked at first, but that was just for a few seconds really. How was I feeling?

I looked at myself in the mirror and said to myself, "I'm terrified." All composure was lost as I melted into sobs. I could hear my husband in the next room in a conference call meeting. On his first day of work at his new job. I couldn't really tell him until after his work day was finished. And I didn't want him to hear me, rush out and learn about our pregnancy with me a blubbering heap.

I tried to pull myself together and took several deep breaths. How do teenagers do this? How in the world do single moms handle this? I am old and married and middle class and love kids and I feel completely unprepared and unqualified. Downright unable. (Every mom in the world gained even more respect from me that day.)

Johnie had an hour before he was finished with work. How would I tell him? I really didn't want him to learn about his first child through heaving sobs. I thought about friends who had bought onesies or dad-to-be items and given them to their husbands. I didn't really have time for that. "Oh, hey... we're pregnant" seemed lackluster. What could I do?

I settled on telling him I got him a surprise for his first day at his new job. That was about the best I could come up with. I willed myself to hold it together, but his meeting ran long. And in the minutes between when he was supposed to get off work and when he did get off work I lost it again. And pulled it together again.

He didn't act like he suspected anything when he saw my face. "So, I got you a surprise for your first day of work."

"Oh, really? You didn't have to do that. What is it?"

This is harder than I thought it would be. I swallowed and could only whisper, "I'm pregnant."

His eyes got wide. "Really?!?"

I shrugged. "That's what the test said."

A tiny smile tugged his lips upward. But only for a few seconds. Serious, he asked, "how are you feeling?"

"How are you feeling?"

We were hugging. I couldn't see his face. What is he going to say? What is he going to do? How is he going to react? What is this going to mean for us? The seconds ticked slowly by. Was he waiting on me to answer first? I wanted him to answer first.

Finally he spoke. "I'm just really worried about how you are feeling."

"I'm scared."

We began discussing how and when to tell people. My best friend had always made me one of the first people she told (after her husband) about her pregnancies. Johnie agreed we should do the same for her. So she was our first call. We tried to call my mom but she wasn't available. We called Johnie's parents and siblings and grandparents.

We would be seeing our church family the following night. We live in a very tight knit open community. We strive to share life like a real, authentic family. This was rocking my world. I couldn't see my friends and not tell them. If it was even possible, it would have felt dishonest. But the thought of Johnie announcing our pregnancy and then everyone looking at me was overwhelming. I never like a lot of eyes on me and especially in a situation like this. I told him I just couldn't handle it.

He suggested I stay home and he announce it without me. That'd be a great way to have everyone at my house -- sick with worry -- in less than ten minutes. We agreed to call the friends we would see the next evening before we were to be with them. That way things might be settled down a little before I actually had to have anyone looking at me.

That was until we talked to my mom. She was ecstatic. Beyond ecstatic. She kept thanking the Lord over and over again. And she told us this was the best moment of her life so far. My husband tried to clarify -- with both of her children also on the phone -- and she said that her own births were the most amazing moments of her life when they happened. Emphatically, this was the best yet, she said, and that it would only get better when the baby arrived.

I knew my mom would be excited. But I had no idea her reaction would be so over the top. It actually helped me feel a lot better. I mean, everyone we told had sweet reactions. But my mom's response was priceless. I was already feeling a little guilty that my initial reaction was void of happiness and Johnie's lacked much enthusiasm. At least this baby had others who responded in such pure joy.

She also had plans with close friends in the coming days and was unsure how she could not tell them. Johnie received an email that night from a dear friend and we almost had to call him and his wife to tell them the news because Johnie didn't know how he could hide such a huge life event. (That friend later said he knew by Johnie's short reply that something was up.)

So, Johnie and I decided that night that mom should be the one to make the announcement to our church family. We weren't sure how she would do it, but we did know it would be great. And almost certainly better than any way Johnie or I could manage to tell anyone in the next 24 hours.

In true mom fashion, she didn't disappoint. Neither did our friends.

Home buying redux. Or, what not to do when buying a house.

We couldn't have planned it any better.
-Mandie



For most of my marriage with Johnie I dreamed of owning a home in Kentucky. Before we even had actual plans to move I asked my grandfather to wait on carving our Wichita address into a piece of wood he saved for me from a tree we had planted together. Because I wanted my permanent address to be in my home state.

Years later, I finally know what that address is but I never could have imagined just how long and curvy the road home would be.

Even before we officially sold the home we loved in Kansas we were already looking for Kentucky houses. The first couple of years it was mostly casual internet searches and random open house viewings. We weren't even sure what city we wanted to settle in and visited houses from Frankfort to London and many places in between.

I felt burned by our real estate experience in Kansas and made a list of must-haves for the house and the process.

We began working with a (fabulous) realtor in the spring of 2013 (Jonnie Jean Young). By that time we had decided we wanted to settle in London -- someday -- close to our friends and church family. We found a house we were excited about but we were unable to swing the down payment necessary for a loan on a home that wouldn't be our primary residence for a few years.

The home search was suspended until the following winter. We had a diagnosis for my health issues and it was becoming clear to me that I couldn't keep up with my job and my personal life. We made the decision for me to stop working and, with nothing holding us to Frankfort, to move. By this time a couple of our friends were also home shopping in London. As we learned quickly, each of us had talked to our spouses about how we would love to be neighbors. So, we decided to house shop together.

We considered homes listed in the same neighborhoods. We considered house/lot options to build side-by-side. We looked at land to build a duplex. We looked at properties that included a primary residence and rental home on-site. We looked at large single family homes to remodel to fit our needs. Nothing quite worked.

With no solid prospects, Johnie and I, along with some other dear friends, secured a large rental home in London and continued the search. (In case you haven't already deduced this, Johnie and I don't do housing in the same way as most American families.)

In late July our friends called us about a house they were extremely interested in. It was in the same subdivision as several of our other friends. Actually, some of our friends had been interested in buying it several months prior before they learned it didn't qualify for financing at that time. It had been a foreclosure and by this point had been purchased by an investor.

Before: Bedroom

I had walked around the outside of this house a year or so previously. It was old and dirty and small. And kind of creepy. From what I had learned from our friends who had been interested in it before, it didn't have a lot of the things on my list. Johnie had asked me to look at it with him several times. I always said no.

But none of us were really interested in living in the house. It sat on an acre and a half of land and we were thinking we could fix it up as a rental and then build our two-family duplex at the back of the lot.

Our friends went under contract on the house in August. We began our house-building plans and my friend coaxed me through the front door by telling me it wasn't as bad inside as she had thought it would be.

By the time I actually looked at the house the outside had been cleaned up considerably from when I had just walked around the yard. And the inside had been aired out a little and some of the walls had been fixed.

Before: Dining Room

I stepped through the front door and it reminded me of our rental house in Frankfort. Which isn't a good thing. I didn't like that house. But I had to agree with my friend. It wasn't as bad as I thought it would be.

The weeks ticked by. The end date to our lease crept closer. Home building plans got more complicated and expensive-feeling to me.

I have always wanted a master bath. I'd have one in the house we built. We would have a two-car garage. We were going to have everything on our list. And, someday, even an in-ground pool.
But, as we dreamed of all the nice things we would have in the house we were going to build, I began feeling uncomfortable with the price of those things. And I began feeling uncomfortable with my own greed and selfishness.

Before: Living Room

It sure would be a lot cheaper and less complicated just to live in the foreclosure house. We had lived in the Frankfort house for two years and this one was bigger than that -- with major remodeling potential. But still not wanting to actually live in that house, I decided not to talk about my thoughts with anyone.

The closing ended up getting delayed because of a clerical error with the deed. We were all assured that it was a matter of when -- not if -- it would be cleared up. It was right around this same time I posed the question to Johnie: "What if we just lived in the foreclosure house and didn't build?"

We talked with our friends and, later, with the investor, and a new plan was hatched. As we waited for the deed issue to be resolved, we subdivided the land into two portions. We would get the half with the house, our friends would get the other half to build. And because we wanted to move out of our rental house when our other friends would be moving out, the investor agreed to let Johnie and me determine, coordinate and oversee the work on the foreclosure house so it would be ready when we needed it.

Before: Kitchen

We thought that meant he would be paying for things and the cost would (basically) be rolled into our loan amount at closing. What it actually meant was he would let us work on and pay for renovations on the house before we closed.

So, yes, like stupid people, Johnie and I began working on a vacant foreclosed house we didn't own. By this time, I was starting to feel a little nervous. Because this was for sale by owner, we weren't using our beloved realtor. And because we were initially more interested in the land than in the house, we never had an inspection.

Before: Bathroom

We entered this work phase as we had entered the previous ones: Prayerfully. We knew we were taking a gamble and were risking any money we spent on the house, but we decided it was worth the risk. If it worked out in the end, it would be more than worth it.

We started slow with the work. That means we mostly just spent our time. We spent several days cleaning the house. And we spent a while deciding just what projects we would tackle before we moved in, paring them down considerably since the expenses were all coming out of our own pockets.

This might be a good time to mention that new plan we hatched was a verbal one. (Hence the initial misunderstanding about who would pay for what.) The actual contract wasn't revised from the original one. We were waiting for a full loan approval for Johnie and me since it had been so long since our first one when we began the process. And we needed the deed issue to be resolved.

After: Bedroom

Anything we would do to the house at this point would start costing more serious money. I wanted to paint all the rooms which would be several hundred dollars alone. I was at war with myself. If I spent the money and did the work and we didn't get the house, I would kick myself for being so stupid. But if I didn't go ahead and paint now when the house was empty and I had the time to do it, I would kick myself at closing for not doing that work when I had the chance.

I quizzed all my friends on whether or not to paint. One advised that I should sit with each decision... how would I feel about either decision years from now? And that helped me. If I didn't paint and we didn't get the house, it was inconsequential. If I didn't paint and we did get the house, I'd have a lot of added work and stress when we moved (something I try to avoid these days). If I painted and we got the house, then it would be really helpful and I could tell everyone how crazy we were to paint the house before it was even ours. And if I painted and we didn't get the house, I could tell everyone how crazy we were to paint a vacant house we didn't even own. I love a good story. And Johnie and I do crazy things like that. That's just who we are. We aren't really very normal. Decision made.

After: Dining Room

Toward the end of January, the painting was well underway. The contractor we had spoken with several weeks prior finally had time to do our projects. We scheduled to meet him at the house one Tuesday afternoon, the same day our housemates would be moving on to continue their missionary work.

Hiring the contractor meant some really serious money (or what I consider serious money). My nervousness only increased. We were going to be out of our rental house at the end of February and had a verbal agreement that we could move into the foreclosure house before closing, but still no actual revised contract.

I couldn't sleep that Monday night and spent quite a while talking with God about all my house worries. Everything felt so shaky, like it could crumble at any moment. So many times throughout the process I just wanted to throw my hands up, walk away from the foreclosure house and the dream of having friends as neighbors, contact our realtor and find a decent house like regular people. This was one of those times. I remember telling God that night, "we're going to be committed to paying this contractor tomorrow, and we don't even have a contract yet." In tears I fell asleep, resigned to continue on this unstable ground.

After: Living Room

The next morning we said an emotional goodbye to our friends, and as we were watching them pull out of the driveway Johnie's phone rang. It was our loan broker telling us all the loan and contract paperwork were ready to sign. The deed issue had been resolved a few days earlier. A couple hours before we met our contractor, we had the paper contract my heart had been hoping for.

Progress on the house went into high gear. We began going over to do projects on nights and weekends, or sometimes even while the contractor was there. One Saturday a friend came over and turned on the water for us and I held my breath and then thanked the Lord when all the pipes worked, minus a very minor, easily fixable drain leak at the bathtub.

And then, in early February, with the contractor finished and the paint almost complete, the appraiser came. Through the months of working on the house, I had fallen in love with it. It was good and solid. There were no roof leaks. The basement stayed dry. The hardwood floors were absolutely beautiful. I had the best dishwasher I've ever owned installed in the kitchen, as well as a stunning red sink with its own little story. The contractor added a gorgeous built-in to replace a non-functional window in the dining room. After all the work we did on the house, we uncovered no major issues.

After: Kitchen

I cleaned and prayed before the appraiser was set to arrive. I wanted to do everything I could to help the process. All along I had trusted the Lord that if we weren't supposed to get this house, then we would just get another one. But now I actually wanted this house.

The appraiser made me nervous. An appraiser caused a snafu when we bought our first home. We had already spent all our extra money fixing up this house, we didn't have anything to compensate for a low appraisal. By the time the appraiser arrived at the house, I was in tears from nervousness and sneaked out the back as he entered the front. Thankfully, Johnie was there and able to act like a sane person for the both of us. I told the Lord that if we weren't going to get this house, I wished He would have let us know before that day.

Before we even knew the results of the appraisal, Johnie received a job offer. It was work even more in line with what he loves than what he was already doing. And after a week of negotiations, we felt like it was doable for us. But, we learned, the new job would put us $250 above the annual income cap on the loan program we were using. If we didn't close before the job switch, we would need to switch loan programs, wait at least 30 days for a new income history and bring more money to the table.

After: Bathroom

As we were considering the job, the appraisal came in and was what we needed it to be. We still didn't have a firm closing date, but a good possibility that we could close in time for the new job not to affect things.

With fear of losing the house and fear of not being able to meet the (exciting) challenges at the new job pretty much the only things in our reasons to say no column, we decided not to let fear make our decision and Johnie accepted the new position. We continued on with our plans to move.

The rental house we were leaving was more than 3000 square feet. We needed to be out of it by February 28th, a Saturday. I had realized several weeks earlier that I could not move completely out of and then clean such a big house in one day. And we were already busy on Saturday the 21st. I'm sure my friends would have bailed me out and spent their whole Saturday getting everything wrapped up for me, but we decided to move all of our big things on Monday the 23rd. I planned to move all of our smaller things slowly, one car load at a time, the week before. It would cut down on boxes and packing and unpacking.

Except for that's the week we got the historic snowfall, followed by the historic cold.

We stayed snowed in our driveway until our landlord dug us out. And our friends got out and worked on our house for us those days. We had accumulated a list of projects that were to be fixed that week: New sink hoses to allow for running water in the kitchen, a new cord for the stove, the bathtub drain repair. We also learned in those final days before the move that what we thought was the thermostat wasn't. We didn't have one for the air conditioning. Only for the heat. (Thankfully, we didn't need it right away.) And also, the mailbox we thought was ours actually belonged to the neighbors.

48 hours before the move, the easy drain issue turned out to be way more complicated, we still needed to hook up the stove, and I couldn't even park in the driveway of that house because of all the snow. We weren't even sure if we'd be able to move into the house on Monday because of the snow. But we pressed on.

On Sunday, friends came over to clear the driveway and work on the drain.

Set to move the next morning, but still unsure how it would all unfold, I made another trip to Lowe's in tears Sunday evening. Still no working stove, still no way to take a shower.

"This is just how things like this go," my mom told me. She had agreed to stay the week with me to help me move. (Thank God she did.) "It's like when you read a book. We're at the part where everything is messed up. But in the end it all works out and everyone is happy."

"I didn't want to write a book, mom, I just wanted a story."

Thanks to several of our friends, the actual move went great. And, amazingly, the house felt like home almost instantly.

We still didn't have a working bathtub/shower, but we planned to travel back and forth from the rental house to finish packing and cleaning anyway. We would just take our showers there.
Our loan broker told us we could probably close on the house by the end of the week. And I had already started discussing our celebration -- for when we did close -- with our friends. We would all get to be at the closing table together. Us for the house, them for the land. I wanted to do remakes of all the crazy pictures from the first closing in Kansas. And then we were going to plant a tree or set a stone or start digging a footer -- something -- to signify this day. And then we were going to eat a delicious dinner together.

Throughout the week, my mom, my brother, my friends and I worked to get all the final items moved to the new house and get the old house cleaned out. Johnie was working faithfully each night after work to fix the bathtub drain. I was confident he would get it soon. My health was not doing great and I was needing to rest more than I preferred, but I was much healthier than I could have been and I had a lot of people helping. I felt hopeful.

On Thursday the bathtub drain still wasn't fixed. I was afraid I was going to have to take our friends up on their offer to shower at their house. And our broker called to tell us the final underwriter didn't approve our loan because of a fallen downspout noticed in one of the pictures. Any hopes of closing this week were dashed. If everything went smoothly with the repair and reappraisal, we could possibly expedite the closing to Monday, our broker said.

Johnie was pretty disappointed. His official two week notice went into effect on Monday. If the lending company required a third employment verification and if Human Resources disclosed his notice, we would be starting all over with a new loan program.

But Johnie fixed the downspout that afternoon, the appraiser sent in his paperwork, and we continued to work on getting settled into the new house and moved out of the old house. We had done everything we could do.

Friday morning I talked to my friend who was buying the land with us. I told her we may close on Monday, and that I was feeling okay at that moment. Some other friends had volunteered to get things wrapped up at the old house that day and Johnie had fixed the tub drain. I could take a shower at my new house! I got out of bed with a plan for the day and felt like I could actually accomplish it. My mom and I worked on some projects at the new house with plans to clean at the old house with friends after lunch.

But the broker called as we were eating lunch to tell us the paperwork had been approved and we could close that afternoon. If we (four, for the house and land) and the investor could get there. Johnie was ecstatic. I was nauseous. I had not planned to take a break from scrubbing floors to go close on a house. And the old house had to be cleaned because we were giving it back to the landlord the next day.

On top of that, neither of our friends were available at the same time.

I cried. I cried hard. So many things had not gone how I had imagined they would go with this whole process, and now my dream of a fun closing and celebration with our friends was also being shattered. I knew I was being a baby but it took me a few minutes to pull it together. The important thing was that we would all finally own this house and land we had worked and waited for.
We worked it out so we would filter in throughout the afternoon as we were available to each sign our portion of the documents.

I left the old house, not even completely sure if the investor would make it to sign his portion of the documents, and went to the new house to meet Johnie and change out of work clothes before heading to the title company.

I thought we would just sign our stuff and leave, but Johnie said he'd stay and wait for the investor to arrive. Our broker told us as soon as the investor signed, the house would definitely be ours. As we were waiting, I noticed I forgot to change my jeans and had brown stains on my knees from cleaning earlier. (Just another thing to add to the train wreck, I thought.)

The investor was late. And I was not feeling very good about what seemed like rushing through paperwork at the last minute on a Friday evening. This was a big deal for me and Johnie. I wasn't sure everyone else at the table understood just how invested we were in this house.

We tried to portray what we felt like by the time
 we made it to closing. This actually doesn't do it justice.

By the time all of the paperwork was wrapped up it was well into the evening. Though it wasn't said explicitly, we got the impression that the paperwork wouldn't actually be reviewed by the loan company until Monday morning. I left hoping we wouldn't get a bad news call the following week.

My friend met us back at our house when we finished up the closing. We hugged and cried and she saw the house -- with our stuff in it -- for the first time.

"We couldn't have planned it any better," she said. "Obviously, we didn't plan this."

What we did plan was that celebration we had wanted. And I told everyone, "legally, everything is done. But it won't be official until we celebrate."

Monday came and went with no bad news. And as the days passed, I began to finally settle into owning a home once more. I had dreamed for so many years about this, I had to keep reminding myself it was real each morning. It took us a while to switch from renting mentality (should we ask the landlord?) to owning mentality (we can do whatever we want with this wall!). But I am thankful to finally feel like I am putting down roots in a place I love surrounded by people I love.

Quitting and Moving

Now I've learned, the hard way, that some poems don't rhyme, and some stories don't have a clear beginning, middle and end.  Life is about not knowing, having to change, taking the moment and making the best of it, without knowing what's going to happen next.  Delicious ambiguity.
-Gilda Radner

Three years ago I was desperately homesick and an opportunity opened up for Johnie and me to move back to Kentucky.  It would mean leaving his family, leaving our Kansas friends and Johnie leaving a comfortable, fulfilling, rewarding, enjoyable job.

Thinking about the sacrifice involved made me physically ill.  I was afraid it would be a decision we would end up regretting. 

But Johnie assured me he had weighed the options and was confident we should move despite those we would be leaving, despite the career and financial risks involved.

I wasn't certain we made the right decision until I was blessed with the privilege of living close to my grandfather in his final days.  I had two years of memories we couldn't have made from Kansas.  And I had sweet, sweet final moments that were so much easier because we lived nearby. 

I know a lot of people have gone through a lot more than I have, but it has been a hard year.  Struggling with sickness for months and months before getting any meaningful relief.  Then learning that sickness is not something to tackle or beat, but to manage and adjust to.  Then saying goodbye to the man who had always provided shelter through life's storms. 

I'm still adjusting but I'm already changed.

I have trouble accepting the lupus diagnosis.  (To put it mildly.)  I would prefer to pretend that it doesn't actually exist.  But it won't be ignored.

A few years ago, I gave no thought to the repercussions of my lifestyle on my body.  I did work that I loved and spent time with people I loved.  My days were filled with productivity and laughter and diversions -- morning to night.  I would push through illness, push through tiredness, push through whatever.

But lupus isn't something that can be pushed through.  I tried.  It limits my body, my mind and my time in inescapable ways.

Though it has chained me down, it has also freed me.  While waiting in bed to feel better, life's priorities come more clearly into focus.  Time and energy are worth more.  A good day is more meaningful.  After weeks and weeks of feeling sick, waking up one blessed random Wednesday morning and feeling like my "old self" again is a gift. 

I do not believe I can accurately convey the joy I feel on those days when my health is fully restored.  I feel like running and jumping.  (I refrain from doing either.)  I have never done a cartwheel or a backflip in my life, but the way I feel must be the way one feels seconds before leaping and tumbling in the air.  Those who have suffered from prolonged illness without any relief could probably imagine how wonderful it would feel to be completely healthy again.

But if it is a random Wednesday, I am scheduled to go to work.  And I've already used up all my time off for being sick (and taking a couple trips).  And I feel like I have missed my chance to hike, to savor every delicious bite of food, to be fully present, fully myself with family and friends.  Sometimes the good days come on the weekend.  Sometimes they don't.

And when those days are at a premium, it is hard to spend them in a lackluster way.   

I love my job.  I can't explain that either.  It doesn't even make sense to me, so I can't make it make sense to other people.  I just love it.  It is rewarding to me on many different levels.  I am one of the few people in the world who loves speech writing above any other vocation and who also has the blessing to write speeches in exchange for money. 

In a better world, I would have enough energy to be the wife, the daughter, the sister, the aunt, the friend, the person I want to be and the writer I want to be at work.  Maybe in another time or in another way I will be able to someday.  I hope that is the case.  But for now, I feel like I must choose.  I feel like on most days I only have a shot at one.

And I have learned well that people, loved ones, relationships are more important than any job could ever be.  I do not want to choose, but if I must I choose quality time with my husband, my family, my friends.  It is a stupid career move, but I have decided to do it anyway.  I have also learned well that stupid career moves sometimes turn out wonderfully.

I am blessed to have the option of leaving a job with no other one lined up.  And Johnie and I are also blessed to have the flexibility to move even closer to friends and family I hope to spend many good days with. 

And so...

With a bundle of emotions, I am quitting my job at the end of this month and we are moving to London, KY, where I plan to sleep more and play more.  And maybe someday write professionally again.

We'll see what the future holds.

On feeling accepted

So... what was your high school superlative?
-Grad school friend

We were sitting around a table at a restaurant just off campus.  Somehow the conversation turned to high school superlatives.  One friend had been voted Most Likely to Succeed, another Most Popular.  I laughed at jokes and stayed quiet until they asked me and I couldn't think of anything but the truth.  The gig was up.  They would know I'm a loser.


I wasn't voted anything.
Shocked faces.  And one friend said, "Not even class clown?"  I appreciated the sentiment, but no.


I never really had very many friends in school.  I never had to use more than three fingers to count them all, actually.  Everyone else was either mostly indifferent toward me or showed an open disdain.  They made fun of my glasses and made fun of my asthma and made fun of my clothes and made fun of my grades.  To the point that I didn't want to go to school anymore.  To the point that sometimes I didn't even want to live anymore.  To the point that I appreciated the people who just ignored me and I tried to stay ignored by as many people as I could as much as possible.  Things like high school superlatives were just another reminder that I was not in.


I thought the problem was me.  That I was unlikeable.  A loser.  It was a truth I accepted.  Until my sophomore year of college, when I made it to a departmental assembly early, signed in and retreated to a corner.  And a popular and beautiful classmate came over and began chatting.  Genuinely chatting.  My eyes darted around the room and I figured maybe I was better than no one to talk to.  But as the room filled up, and her friends filled out a circle that included me, she -- and the others -- were still acting friendly toward me.  Genuinely engaging me in conversation.  Genuinely including me.  And that was the beginning.  It was in the Department of Communication at Eastern Kentucky University that I felt accepted by my peers for the first time in my life.


I never let them in on the secret that I was an imposter -- that an uncool kid had infiltrated their fraternity and sorority and athletic ranks.


In grad school, I was afraid my loser status would be more obvious.  But for all their smarts, my classmates never picked up on it.  Until that fateful day when I had to confess: My school days had been completely different than theirs.  But they liked me anyway.  It was like a whole new world -- people knowing I'm not cool -- never had been even close -- and being friends with me anyway!


Out of school, I approached each new group of people with that same timidity I had as a child.  Expecting rejection, being surprised by acceptance.  Work friends, church friends.  I even scored an extremely hot husband, against all odds.


I didn't realize until well into my adulthood that I wasn't a loser.  I was just bullied by a few misguided classmates.  The problem wasn't me, it was them.  And while I still carry around some scars from those days, I'm getting more and more comfortable -- less shocked and surprised -- by the blessing of acceptance among friends.


Since moving back to Kentucky God has bonded me with a precious and beautiful group of women who have transcended friendship into sisterhood.  Last summer half of us were pregnant and those without a baby bump got an aunt-to-be shirt as a consolation prize.  Well, everyone but me.  Mine said, "I'm the cool aunt."  And it wasn't even a cruel joke.  If the eight-year-old Amy who sat crying at her birthday party because no one showed up could have only known this would happen.  That she'd have more friends and relationships than she felt like she could maintain.  That those friends would bestow on her such a coveted adjective.  That she really wasn't a loser after all.  I think it would have made those hard years easier.


And so, to all the other girls out there who sit alone and cry alone -- who don't have the right clothes or the right looks or the right social status.  To the girls (and boys) who have been made to believe you are not good enough: I can tell you that they're wrong about you.  You actually are the cool kid yourself.  And someday you'll feel loved and you'll feel accepted and you'll even have the t-shirt to prove it.

Thankfulness Project: Day 16

Why does no one speak of the cultural advantages of the country?
-Gene Logsdon

Today I'm thankful fer my raisin'. 

I grew up in a small town.  An hour from a Wal-Mart and years from modern society.  Where tree-covered mountains provide the backdrop to a simple life. 

Where you could call the doctor at home if you needed to and pay him with a pie the next time you were in town.  Where you could meet the vet on the side of the road to treat your pup.  Where the fan belt you need for your car will be left outside the parts store since you can't make it by before closing.  You'll settle the bill next week.

Where neighbors still share eggs and sugar and burdens and birthday presents.  They take 'love thy neighbor' to its literal extreme.

I've seen that especially in this time with my grandfather.  A steady stream of neighbors, family, friends who drop in with food and hugs and questions about what else we need.

I grew up in a place far from perfect, but it was there I received a firm foundation.  It was there that I learned about community and relationships and treating people well. 

I've moved from there and left behind much of what filled my life as a child.  I've seen big cities and little ones from one coast to the other.  No, it wasn't perfect and wouldn't be in the running for many 'best ever' awards.  But it was good for me.  And I'm thankful -- and proud -- to be from the foothills.

Thankfulness Project: Day 8

But I am sure I have always thought of Christmas time, when it has come round -- apart from the veneration due to its sacred name and origin, if anything belonging to it can be apart from that -- as a good time; a kind, forgiving, charitable, pleasant time; the only time I know of, in the long calendar of the year, when men and women seem by one consent to open their shut-up hearts freely, and to think of people below them as if they really were fellow passengers to the grave, and not another race of creatures bound on their journeys.  And therefore, though it has never put a scrap of gold or silver in my pocket, I believe that it has done me good, and will do me good; and I say, God bless it!
-Charles Dickens, A Christmas Carol

After a fun dinner with dear friends we piled into vans and drove downtown to be greeted by crisp air and caroling.  As I walked the street bundled up and listened to the excitement that comes with child-like wonder, I just felt blessed. 

I breathed in the moment.

I am thankful for the holiday season.  I am thankful to live in a city that kicks it off with a four day festival.  I am thankful to stroll streets filled with history and modern society while listening to songs about Jesus.  I am thankful to have an awesome family and amazing friends and the time to spend with them during this season. 

It is officially the Christmas season here in Frankfort, and I'm thankful.

Thankfulness Project: Day 5

...it's lupus...
-Dr. Lewis

There are moments in life that feel surreal. 

I remember the weekend I met Johnie.  When our eyes locked and I felt electricity in my veins and something inside me knew this was something special. That my life could be changing forever.  More than seven years later I still remember that feeling and still wonder if it actually happened or if I dreamed it.  Or at the very least have over-dramatized it.

Unfortunately not all the unbelievable moments in life are that amazing.

It was October 16th.  I think it was raining.  My grandfather -- who raised me (read: like a father) -- was in the hospital and we weren't sure when or if he'd get out alive.  I had already missed too much work and cancelled two doctor's appointments that week.  Physically, I felt okay.  Given the circumstances.  I had felt at least okay for weeks.  And I wanted to cancel the third appointment.

But I had been waiting for months.  I had already paid out my deductible this year on several other doctors and had a doubly-confirmed set of abnormal lab results.  After a year and a half of illness and frustration and confusion over what was going on I wanted this expert's opinion.  And I didn't want to wait any longer.

So I took more time from work and left my family to drive an hour and a half on winding Kentucky highways to the only rheumatologist in the world who came recommended by a friend and nurse.  (For full disclosure, I didn't realize he was that far away when I took the recommendation.  And as I told him, I was hoping my first appointment would also be my last at his office.)

Like a dog on a bone -- unwilling to stop -- I visited doctors and specialists all year who didn't listen or who dismissed what I was saying.  Who refused to do the lab work I asked them all for.  Who gave me treatments that turned out to be ineffective.  Or suggested medicines to mask certain symptoms at the price of exacerbating others.  As time wore on, my conviction only grew. I must have some sort of hormonal imbalance. Some type of thyroid issue at worst.

Finally, 14 months and five doctors in, one finally agreed to do part of the lab work I had been asking for.  He made sure to tell me that he was fairly certain that all my seemingly random health problems stemmed from depression.  And before drawing my blood, he asked me to make a game plan for when the results came back normal.  "Because they will," he said. "You just need to figure out what to do to make yourself happy."

I thought I was happy and would be especially so if I felt better physically, but he was sure it was the other way around.

I got a letter the next week saying my lab work was normal and no further testing would be needed.

Except by now I was so fed up with modern western medicine that I began seeking out alternatives.  When I got that letter I already had an appointment with an internationally-respected herbalist who I hoped would actually listen to my concerns about a potential imbalance and offer me something other than hormonal birth control.

I requested a copy of the results to take to my appointment and noticed there were some things out of range.  My super smart medical scientist friend assured me those out-of-range results were not normal and should be retested.

At my very last visit in the office of the most disrespectful doctor I have ever met, I got an apology about the letter being sent prematurely and more blood drawn.  The second round of lab work confirmed the abnormal results were still abnormal. 

In the arrogance of his premature diagnosis he at least had the forethought to test for something I hadn't requested. An autoimmune disorder I had never heard of, Sjogren's Syndrome.  That test came back fine but was part of a panel of tested antibodies.  Three others were abnormally high.

For all I love about my herbalist, he is reluctant to label diseases.  He is adamant that he treats people and not diseases.  His holistic treatment has made me feel like a normal person again both in and out of his office.  But I still wanted an answer clearer than the one he offered.

I recounted this whole 18-month-long story to Dr. Lewis through tears.  And was comforted by sarcasm, laughs, sympathy, concern and outrage at all the right junctions.

"Your symptoms and your lab work, they all indicate lupus.  I'm sure you were expecting me to say that word," he said.

All of my searching on the internet and in books and conversation linked my lab results with various autoimmune disorders.  The anti double-stranded DNA antibody -- more than ten times higher than normal for me -- was linked almost exclusively with lupus in everything I read and heard.

I knew about lupus.  I have family members with lupus.  I have friends with lupus.  I've advocated for lupus research.  I've written about lupus.  I did not have lupus.

The surest sign of my disbelief found in my now dried up tear ducts.  Fully composed, my voice was steady.

"Yes.  I know that my lab results are typical for someone who has lupus.  And I know that a lot of my symptoms are experienced by people with lupus, but I don't think I have it.  I don't have the pain people with lupus have.  My joints are okay.  I thought you could tell me what is going on."

He gently explained to me "the thing about lupus" and how I still fit the criteria for diagnosis even absent of joint involvement.

"But I was thinking maybe the lab work was just a fluke."

"We've proven it's not a fluke."

I continued to argue.  He continued to persist.  I realized I wasn't going to convince him I definitely did not have lupus and gave up.  I asked questions and he answered them.  Then he ordered more lab work and scheduled my next appointment. 

"I'm sorry, but this won't be your last time, unfortunately.  There's not a one-shot cure for lupus."

"You should really get on that before my next appointment."

Laughter and then seriously, "People are working on it."

With everything finished I walked outside and sat in my car.  I had been in there for a while.  The work day would be nearly over by the time I made it back and I knew I wouldn't get anything done at the office anyway.  I needed to make that call.  What would I say?

Wait a minute.  Did the doctor say I have lupus?  He didn't say he thought I might have it.  Or that I could develop it.  Or that we needed to run more tests to confirm it. 

Suddenly the months of waiting came to a screeching halt.  And it felt like I had been given my answer too soon.

The tests were to measure kidney functions... to see how the lupus might be affecting my kidneys.  The follow-up appointment was to monitor the activity of the lupus.  Were the doctor's exact words 'it's lupus?'

I reached for the door handle.  I needed to go back and make sure.  But I couldn't think of a graceful way to approach the receptionist and say, "Excuse me.  I was just in here ten minutes ago.  I thought the doctor said I had lupus, but that can't be right.  Can you tell me again what he said?"

I stared at my phone, work number dialed in and couldn't hit send.  I didn't know what words would come out of my mouth and I couldn't tell my co-workers this unacceptable diagnosis first.  So I called Johnie.

We chatted.  He gave me an update on my grandfather and his day.  Then, "How was the appointment?"

What should I say?  "It was good.  I really like the doctor."

"That's good."

I should say it.  "He thinks I have lupus."

I heard a word -- or maybe it was just a sound -- catch in his throat.  Then sobs.  And finally, "That's not what I wanted to hear."

I don't think I've ever felt further away from him nor have I ever wanted to close the gap between us faster. 

The drive home was twice as long as I kept trying to figure out how I had dreamed or misheard the news.  As I tried to figure out how to break the news to this person and to that one.  And in the days that followed, the struggle continued.

For all my training and obsession with communication, I felt entirely incompetent this time.  In what order should I tell people?  And in what medium?  And when?  Just the telling felt overwhelming.

I am sure that there are some of you reading this who know me and are dear to me.  There are friends and family who I haven't told yet and you may be one of them.  I'm sorry.  You don't deserve to hear this news in a blog post.  I am blessed to know and be close to such an amazing group of people who cross geographic and ethnic and economic and social and religious borders.  I don't know how I could find the energy to tell them all (you, if you are reading this) individually.

As I come to terms with this diagnosis and what it may mean for me, I just felt like it was time to go ahead and throw it out there so I can begin the process of moving forward.  I hope you understand.

Just as I did in the months before the diagnosis, in the three weeks since I've still been trying to link this or that symptom to this or that cause.  Sans lupus. 

I'm tired because I'm stressed.  It's normal for people to get headaches sometimes.  That dizzy spell was just a fluke.  Some people just have myriad skin problems that don't respond to medicine.  I don't know why I've been nauseous all day.  Or all week.  I just have bad eyes.  This is nothing. That is nothing.  No big deal.  It'll go away.  I just need to get things balanced out.

I'm starting to realize it's all probably the lupus.  Putting the pieces together has been bittersweet.  That random short swatch of hair I've worked to hide every morning these past few months.  Probably lupus.  Being unable to walk three miles one day, but up to a ten-mile jaunt on another.  Probably lupus.  Mouth sores.  Probably lupus.  Absolutely no weight loss despite weeks of dedicated effort and then sudden, unexplained weight loss.  Lupus.  Lupus.  Lupus.  Stupid lupus.

And still -- don't laugh -- I think maybe not.

I got a call on Friday with those latest lab results.  Thank God, my kidney functions were normal.  The lupus has not affected my kidneys.  The nature of the disease requires me to tack on an obligatory "yet" here.  But there's no denying this is wonderful news any way you look at it. 

The nurse added, "The rest of your labs show minimal lupus activity right now.  Unless you have a flare, we'll see you for your follow-up in January."

You mean he thinks I have lupus? 

Obviously I haven't fully come to terms with this myself.  I don't know when or if I'll ever be comfortable claiming I'm having "a flare." 

And I can't help myself.  I just can't help but wonder if some day, sooner or later, I'll have to rescind this post and tell everyone I don't actually have lupus after all, by way of misdiagnosis or misinformation or misunderstanding or miracle.

If after all these words you're still confused about what lupus is, I can tell you that I'm (obviously) confused, too.  The Lupus Foundation of America has the most reliable information if you'd like to learn more.  (I guess, ironically, I plastered their banner ad to this blog there on the right when I had lupus and just didn't know it yet.)

And because lupus is so different for every person and over the course of the disorder, I can only tell you how it has affected me so far.  It is relatively mild for me right now.  My hope is (if I do, in fact, have it, of course) that it will stay that way.  And I should live as long as I would if I didn't have it, especially with no kidney involvement.

I'm trying to build more rest and sleep into my schedule.  And against every natural tendency I possess, I'm trying to actually listen to my body and rest when the most minor of lupus symptoms arise.  Instead of pushing myself until I crash for a week.  Or a month.  Or longer.  Other than that, I'm making no lifestyle changes at the moment. 

My rheumatologist agreed that since I am responding so well to the treatment that my herbalist is providing, I don't even need any other medicine right now.  And bonus: Since beginning the herbal treatment, not only has my health improved but I have stopped all five of the medications I had been prescribed to take on a regular, ongoing basis. 

Which leaves me needing to answer one final question: How in the world is this a post about thankfulness?

The answer: Because I feel thankful. 

This has been a rough year.  A few months and a few problems ago, I felt overwhelmed just juggling a couple things.  But right now, these last few weeks, I've honestly just felt overwhelmingly blessed and thankful.

I am thankful to be as healthy as I am.  I am thankful that even though the Lord -- apparently -- did not spare me from this disease, He has blessed me in so many sweet and profound ways through it.  He has been with me and next to me and I am thankful for that.  And I am thankful that I can trust Him ultimately with my health and my life.  I don't know how to say that without it sounding like a flimsy cliché.  I just can't seem to do Him justice with words.  Or actions.  Or at all.  So I'll leave it at that.

I am also thankful for the days and the times when I feel good.  And I'm thankful that I don't take that for granted.  I am thankful to have found two wonderful doctors who are compassionate and sympathetic.  Who I feel comfortable with helping me make decisions about my health.  And with no political intentions, I am thankful to have financial access to health care and treatments.

And the reason why I have shared all of this today -- now -- is because as I continually reflect each day on what I am thankful for during this month-long project, I could no longer wait to express my deep, deep thankfulness to the family members and friends who have stood with me, in front of me, behind me, beside me, around me as I have gone through these struggles and ultimately received this diagnosis.

I have felt overwhelmed and humbled and undeserving of their love.

It has truly been a blessing and a joy to feel their love in their reaction and response to this news.  We've prayed together and cried together and laughed together and been angry together.  There have been hugs and jokes and concerned questions and reassurances.  Sometimes I think more for their own benefit than for mine, though I have surely benefited. 

And though I am sick -- and may be for the rest of my life here -- I can rest in the sweet love of an amazing group of people who rally and support and have my back no matter what tomorrow holds.  One of the sweetest blessings of God. 

For that, I am so very thankful.

Worth the wait, Part 2

We need to be more intentional.  We need to be more involved in the lives of people.  We need to be more connected.  We need to be more accessible.
-Jessica Harris, Why I'm not a belt-notcher: The importance of intentional community ***





Here's the backstory: 

The idea for the original Worth the Wait post came from my husband.  We were leaving the grocery store where a man with a cart-load of groceries offered to hand an item up to the cashier who was completing our transaction.  We weren't in the middle of checking out.  Johnie had already swiped our card. 

The cashier cancelled the action, added the item, and the man moved his buggy to let me through.  I heaped apologies, but he said they weren't necessary.

I was struck by just how willing -- happy even -- he was to inconvenience himself for us.

"I just love that people are so nice about things like that here," I said.  This wasn't an uncommon occurence.  We have story after story of friendly retail experiences like this one.

"Maybe you should write a blog post about it," Johnie said.

The post began as a way to brag about how nice people are here in Kentucky.  But I'll be honest: Not every one here is that nice.  (Me included.)  And this state has so many problems I just couldn't bring myself to ask everyone else to be more like us. 

So as I continued to write, revise and edit, I began to ponder the true value of people.  How people should be our priority.  And the underlying reasons for our unwillingness to wait -- our drive to have everything we want and to have it now.  I thought about the cost of our demanding, rushed, self-focused, solitary lifestyles.

Obviously this extends well beyond customer service experiences to encompass a complete cultural framework.

I asked myself:

What if we defined progress not in terms of technological advances or scientific discoveries or societal benchmarks?  What if we measured it by relationships built, people encouraged and strengthened, communities brought together and supported?

What if we defined success not as titles or degrees or wealth accumulated but as lives touched, mouths fed, people hugged and loved?

In our world, best equals strongest, fastest, smartest, prettiest, sexiest, funniest, wealthiest.  The superficial list goes on.  Charity. Grace. Compassion. Humility. Deliberate, intentional thoughtfulness. Those are second rate qualities.  How great, we think, if the strongest or the fastest also has compassion or humility, but that doesn't make him the best.  Being strong and fast makes him best. 

Our individualism and this race to see who can reach the highest the fastest has sent us spiraling inward.  Isolated.  Alone.  Afraid to talk about our struggles lest someone use our weaknesses against us.

So we paint a pretty face.  Manipulate our life so that it looks appealing on cameras and computers for everyone to see.  But when the screen goes dark, we ache.  And we soothe those aches that could be healed by love and community with more gadgets, more superficial accolades, more distractions that keep us further and further away from people who could actually help us.

And as things get worse, as we battle depression and anxiety and feelings of self-loathing and self-worthlessness, our remedies become more destructive. 

It reminds me of an analogy by Dallas Willard of cattle raised where the land is mineral-poor.   The cows crave those essential minerals so badly they will eat anything to quench that longing.  Rusted metal, nails, whatever they can find.  And it kills them.  He was comparing this to people's inherent desire for holiness and for Jesus.  So fitting.  But I also think it extends to our innate longing for community.  Our desire to know and be known.  To be loved just for who we are, just exactly as we are.

In my reflection, I posed the question to myself as I was posing it to my readers: How many problems would be solved if every single one of us was valued and embraced and honored with time by the whole community?

My mind immediately whispered a response: Like abortion.

This was never meant as an attempt to couch a political statement.  The answer came as a shock, and I initially dismissed it.

My original intent with the creation of this blog in the first place was to (among other things) talk about hot-button issues like abortion.  The loudest voices I hear on this issue (and others) don't resonate for me.  I don't really feel comfortable in either of the two major camps and wanted to offer another option, another outlet, for those who may feel like I do.

But as the weeks wore on I kept chickening out. 

I decided a few weeks ago to try to be more vulnerable in this space.  So after my mind whispered abortion this time I eventually decided to go for it.  And spent the time since then working up the courage to click "Publish" on this post.

I feel passionately about babies and about women. It only stands to reason that I also feel passionately about abortion issues.  But that doesn't always translate into clear-cut, predictable thoughts or actions.

When I read this account of a friend walking into a clinic that offers elective abortion procedures, I was at first compelled to put on one of those orange volunteer vests myself and help escort women through the crowd that gathers outside each day.  But then I thought about what all happens inside.

I'm repulsed by the part of the pro-life movement that involves picketing, holding grotesque signs and saying things like baby-killer.  Nor can I bring myself to put any energy into advocating for laws, policies and regulations that make the abortion process increasingly more difficult for women already set on that type of end for their pregnancies. 

But I have to be honest with the pro-choicers too: While I am sickened by what goes on in the crowd outside, I don't think I could stomach what goes on inside either.

I think Dr. David Gushee says it best:

I could tell that they [pro-choice activists] were drawn into this issue because they had caught a vision of the suffering of women whose pregnancies create a crisis for them, and the even more intense crisis that this would be for them if they had no legal recourse to an abortion. Their fixed gaze on the needs and the suffering of women impressed me, and I respected it. Anyone who cares deeply about the suffering of other people is on the right track — because that is one of the ways we demonstrate our love for the sacred persons around us.

I do continue to think that our gaze on this issue must be at least bi-focal — on the suffering pregnant woman, and on the developing human life that she is carrying. I do sense that decades of defending the rights and needs of the pregnant woman have trained many in the pro-choice side to avert their eyes from the child. But I also recognize on the part of many pro-lifers the parallel averting of gaze away from the woman and her situation as she experiences it. Decades of advocacy in a polarized debate have caused both sides to miss the intertwined sacredness of woman and child. And it is certainly clear to me that the only way those whose gaze is fixed on the child will succeed in saving more of them is if they learn not only to look at the woman, but to love her. (Read full post here.)

Ultimately, abortion cannot be controlled in clinics or courtrooms.  It is a decision made in the hearts and minds of mothers.  And whether or not we agree with abortion under any circumstance or in every circumstance, can we not see the anguish of each and every mother opting to terminate a pregnancy?

Should we not, then, make it our common goal to address and alleviate that anguish?  Just as it is not true that women today abort their babies because it is legal for them to do so, it is also not true that abortions are difficult for women only because of the regulatory (and social) barriers in their way.  A friend of mine says, "we all are pro-life."  In the same vein, no mother wants to have an abortion.

This is where we must consider:

If every woman was part of a supportive community where she was valued and honored, would there be fewer abortions?  Would women find the confidence and resources there to leave unhealthy or abusive relationships and to continue a pregnancy?  Would women find the strength and resources there to carry an unexpected child  -- even when it involves great sacrifice (every pregnancy involves sacrifice for the mother)?  Would women find the safety, the love, the solace there to make the best decision for them in the face of violence, incest, rape or complex medical complications?

It is my belief that any woman contemplating how to proceed with a pregnancy needs -- like all of us everyday -- a heaping helping of grace and mercy.  And if she chooses abortion, our love for her shouldn't change.  As a woman, I can definitely understand why women who are scared or alone or shocked or abused or sick or poor or all-of-the-above might choose that option. 

Laws and protests don't help those women.  And they won't change feelings or circumstances. 

But relationships will.  A world where a woman feels secure and accepted and supported is a world she will be more willing to birth a new life into.  This is where I think some of our pregnancy crisis centers get it right.

But we must take this line of thinking even further: If every woman and every girl was part of a supportive community where she was valued and honored, would there be fewer crisis pregnancies?  Would women who feel loved and who are confident in their worth seek out artificial love in bedrooms and backseats?  Would boys who are brought to manhood with integrity, reassurance, support and love know the true value of each woman and treat her with the dignity and devotion she deserves?

I thought about doing some research on this.  Just as one example, I've read studies about the impact fathers have on their daughters -- their education, their relationships, their engagement in drugs or pre-marital sex.  But, honestly, the numbers don't matter. 

I do think that many crisis pregnancies might be prevented if women felt loved and cherished.  I think many times women (and men) turn to sex for the love and fulfillment they were denied by those who were originally responsible for giving it.  And I also think women would be more willing to naturally complete their crisis pregnancies if offered a strong support system. 

But even if I'm wrong it doesn't matter.  The simple truth is that women shouldn't be poured into or nurtured so that they will refrain from risky or pre-marital sex or so that they will deliver their babies.  Women, just like everyone, should be loved and honored because they're intrinsically worth it. 

And no matter the cost of doing so, that -- loving people -- should be the most important thing.


The best use of life is love.  The best expression of love is time.  The best time to love is now.
-Rick Warren

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***The linked blog post by Jessica Harris is written with a focus on christian community, but I think her advice would be beneficial to any type of community.