Lay Down

I have a friend going through an extremely difficult trial. I absolutely hate knowing that someone I love hurts, and I can't make it better. But those are the times my prayers are most raw. Those are the times when I pray not out of obligation but out of the heaviness of my heart. My heart literally aches for her. I want to take away the pain and sadness, and I can't. There's no better place to know God than when you're helpless. It dawned on me today that she is not the only one hurting while loved ones stand nearby. And like my friend, you, too, may be holding that love at arm's length. It hurts to be wounded, but it's a pain like nothing else to let that wound be reopened. So we keep people at a distance who make us feel vulnerable. And that's what love does. It exposes a wound - not to cause more hurt but because you have to let Love see it, so Love can heal it.

One of my favorite stories in the Bible is in Mark chapter 2. I talk about it a lot not just because it's a great story; it's my story. It's about a man who was sick. He didn't have the flu; he was paralyzed. You can't really put make up on that and pretend everything is ok. It's visible. It's obvious. Everyone could see his problem, exposed for the world, and that he was helpless to fix himself. And sometimes we have to get to that place, too. That's why if you cover up the headaches, eventually they will become so debilitating that they can't be ignored. If you keep the abuse a secret, it will isolate you from the world. If you hide the turmoil in the marriage, it will grow until it feels like it will consume you. If you cover up the wound, the infection will continue to grow under the surface. Often, the infection has to become evident to others before we address it. This man's problem was clear. And a solution was no where in sight...to him.

When you're paralyzed, your viewpoint is limited to what you can see from your incapacitated position. From his mat, the man saw nowhere to turn. But his friends could see Jesus. From where they stood, they could see the answer that alluded their friend. But it's one thing to see the answer. It's another thing to get there. These men could tell the man about Jesus all day long. They could preach of other miracles he performed and people he healed. They could describe how great the man's life would be if he would go and let Jesus heal him. But all that talk would be meaningless to a man who can't move. He couldn't get himself to Jesus no matter how hard he tried or how bad he wanted to go. It was literally impossible for him to get to Jesus..on his own.

So the man did what we fight against so fiercely. He laid down, and let his friends carry him. He didn't tell them where to go or what to do. He didn't know the best route to take, and he had to admit that. He had to err to their wisdom and better view of the situation. He had to trust them. Getting to Jesus wasn't easy. The friends had to go to great lengths to help. Because they couldn't get through the crowd, the friends made a hole in the roof of the building and lowered the man to Jesus. That man couldn't walk; forget about climbing a building, making a hole and lowering himself through it. He couldn't see where to go until he let them lead him. He would have never gotten to Jesus if he forced his friends away. He would have never experienced healing without admitting he couldn't make it better on his own.

And he did experience healing. He was made completely whole! If you look closely at verse 5, you'll see one of the  most beautiful promises. It says "When Jesus saw their faith, he said to the paralytic, 'Son, your sins are forgiven'." Did you catch it? He saw THEIR faith. It didn't take just the faith to believe Jesus could heal. It took a man being willing to let his friends carry him. It took all of their faith. It took steps the man couldn't see or take on his own. It took walking, climbing, digging and lowering. Together.

Sister, those people aren't standing by to watch you squirm. They are waiting and pleading for you to let them help. When you love someone, you want what's best for them. That friend or family or doctor or therapist doesn't want you to hurt anymore than you do. But they can't do anything if you hide that wound from them. They can't comfort, encourage or enlighten what you won't share. They can't carry you to Jesus if you won't lay down and let them.

Someone wants to help. Her heart is aching because she can see where you need to go and that you can't get there alone. She loves you enough to carry your cot. Will you let her?

What Depression Taught Me I'm NOT: Part 5

If you've never had the experience of watching yourself go crazy, well...you have the first item on your list of Things To Be Grateful For Today. If you have had this displeasure, I'm sorry. But know you are not alone. I just got back from Looneytown. The weather sucks this time of year.

I have written during just about every stage of this crazy thing called depression - when I first had to admit "it," when I thought it was gone and when I finally had to call it what it is. I have admitted that somedays I hate that little white pill. I have been honest when faking it seemed easier. But in the end, I have come to grips with the fact that like some people take a pill for allergies or high blood pressure, I take a pill for depression. Well...I HAD come to grips.

A couple of months ago, I started feeling it around "that time of the month." I could feel the storm brewing but I was completely unable to stop it. It was like I was an outside observer - I was watching a movie and trying to yell at the character on screen to watch out for what was coming. But I couldn't hear me. It felt like all I could offer was a warning before I went crazy and an apology later. Then, it began to not just be once a month. I didn't have the energy to get out of bed on a Tuesday. I didn't want to go to the grocery store or do laundry because the thought of having to do it all again next week overwhelmed me. It wasn't every day (but it was a lot of days). I convinced myself it was a hormone issue and only then (when I thought maybe it had another name), I made a doctor's appointment.

I laid out the facts in perfect detail and then told the doctor (because I have a medical degree) that she needed to check my hormone levels and maybe change my birth control prescription. After asking some questions, she concluded that my hormone levels are perfectly normal and there's no reason to think the birth control needs to change. What she did recommend was increasing "the little while pill."

And this is where (in my head) the music stops and everyone stares.

It was like a reel of the past few months began to play through my mind in fast forward flashes. Not being able to get out of bed. Blaming David. (Seriously, poor David.) Losing patience with Brynna too easily. Being overwhelmed by EVERYTHING. The sadness, the lack of motivation, the uncontrollable outbursts. It was the same song different verse.

So I agreed. I filled the prescription and took the medicine. And you'll be amazed to learn that doctor and her medical degree knew what she was talking about! Each day I started feeling a little more normal and a little less crazy. I felt a little more present and a little less like a bystander watching everyone else do life. And today, as I drove home from taking Brynna to gymnastics, I smiled and thought that I finally feel like myself again. Same old me but different.

Depression taught me that I’m not who I once was. And that’s ok. I’m wiser.

My dad asked how I was doing recently and when I explained my initial aversion to the dosage increase, he said in his matter-of-fact way, "I take 7 pills everyday just so my heart works right. Your medicine isn't any different. If it makes you better, take it and get on with living." And he's right. I’m not who I once was. I’m better. I’m wiser.

Tell Your Stories

You know that adage "Don't say ABOUT someone what you wouldn't say TO them?" Every now and then, I write something that I know one day I'll have to explain to Brynna. Sometimes it's a crazy antic of hers. I'm sure she will love to one day learn that her mom writes to the world about her running naked through the house. Sometimes it's a story of mine. Those are the scary ones. Just as she reads accounts about herself, Brynna will read about mistakes I've made, abuse I experienced and pain I felt. And questions, I'm sure will follow. (She is, after all, mine. And for us, asking questions is an Olympic sport.)

It's this thought that has paused my writing at times. Do I really want Brynna (and the world) to know that her dad and I have come close to quitting more than once? Do I really want to explain that while I shout from the rooftops about God's peace, I have had seasons of feeling unpure, unwanted, desperate and depressed? The answer is: yes. Those conversations won't be easy, but they will shape who Brynna is just as they shape me. How sad would it be if Brynna grows up, marries and man and then feels alone when something in her marriage is broken? How I would have failed her if she ever comes to a place in life when she's hurting and doesn't know that as consuming as it can feel, the darkness won't consume her.

My time on earth is short. If all these lessons learned and trials overcome are only for me, they are worthless. But if I share even the painful things and it changes the course of Brynna's life, there is value in my experience beyond making me a little wiser. If I tell her my stories and they help, grow and change Brynna; they will also change her kids and their kids. It will do her no good if she thinks I'm perfect. It won't help her to think I never suffered the same poor choices she faces. She needs to hear my stories, so even when it hurts or is embarrassing or means she doesn't look at me exactly the same, I will tell them.

Your children - no matter how old - need to hear your stories. There's no source of pride in letting your kids think you never made mistakes and suffered loss. There's nothing pretty about your child feeling alone so you can stand on a pedestal. There's no honor in letting your kids learn the hard way the same lessons you learned the hard way. Life is hard enough. Give them something to hold on to. Tell them your stories.

What Depression Taught Me I'm NOT: Part 4

The day I went to the doctor to say I wasn't ok was painful. In fact, I hated it. I wasn't sure who you are supposed to see when you feel like you can't get out of bed. I didn't know what medical code they'd use for "she says she feels so overwhelmed she can't go to the grocery store." I knew I had recently had a baby and for the past year had seen my ObGyn every week, so I started with her. For whatever reason, that made me feel better. It wasn't that I'm "depressed." I just had postpartum issues. It just so happened the medication is categorized as an anti-depressant. Coincidences. All of them.

When we moved to DC, I had to do what you do when you move. I got a new license, dry cleaner, hair stylist and doctor. The day I had to tell the new doctor my story was no less painful. In fact, I hated it too. I also hated the day I tried to get off the medication but was faced with the symptoms returning. To make matters worse, my doctor is very thorough. Not only did he make me explain that first time I met him after moving, but he also makes me see him twice a year to check in. And the man takes notes. Rude. He asks questions and when he's satisfied with where I am, he writes me a refill. He also never fails to remind me that while some people are able to discontinue medication, it's very normal that some are on anti-depressants for most of their life. So there’s that. Awesome.

Today was that appointment. The dreaded refill. But...to my surprise, I didn't hate it. I gave Dr. Huang an update and explained that while I would love to one day not take medicine (other than birth control...we aren't discontinuing that!), I think a refill is best right now. I feel good, but I can be honest about myself and at this stage, myself needs the medicine. Depression taught me that I’m not weak. It takes strength to be honest. It takes guts to tell the truth.

If you've never had to take medicine just to feel like yourself, you can't fully understand. You can't relate to not wanting to take the very thing that makes you feel better. But if you do take that medicine, you know exactly what I mean. If you swallow those pills everyday, you can most definitely relate. You want desperately to call it anything but what it is. You'll cling to "postpartum"or "chemical imbalance" or a host of other titles just so you don't have to say the one thing you dread...

Hi, I'm Regina...and I suffer from depression.

Being willing to say that means you’re not weak; you’re strong.

Dates of Desperation

We celebrate a lot of things. Birthdays, anniversaries, first dates, first steps... We commemorate the times in life when we are happiest. On these occasions I am usually the first to order the cake. I sometimes even celebrate a good Tuesday with a cake. (What? Sometimes you just can't wait until the next big event. You just need cake.)

But what about the days that aren't so happy? What about the moment she was diagnosed with cancer? What about the day he left? We don't circle those dates on the calendar and plan to honor them. Most times we try to forget those days even when they sneak up on us.

I heard someone speak recently about the Jewish faith. Like no other group, Jews know the benefit of remembering. They celebrate not just the times when God delivered them, but also the times when they were most in need of His care. It got me to thinking. What if we recognized not just the days that make us smile but the ones that bring us to our knees?

Dates of Desperation are the times you needed God the most. And regardless of the outcome - whether he answered as you hoped or His plan looked different than you wanted - He was there. We miss so much if we only recognize the times we stood up straight. Dates of Desperation are the day you were flat on your face. And by remembering them, it reminds us how to depend on God. It teaches us not to take for granted the happy times or the ones in between. It gives us perspective.

So what are your Dates of Desperation? Whether it's a graveside tribute, a day of fasting or cake...honor those days. Because they remind you that you can't do it on your own.

What Depression Taught Me I'm NOT: Part 3

Every time I talk about this, I inevitably get an email, comment or facebook message. Someone, somewhere is struggling with the same thing and my talking about it lets her know she's not alone. I'm so glad. It would suck if all this wasn't used to bless someone.

So I had to go to the doctor yesterday. No biggie, just the dermatologist. But it was a new doctor, so I had to fill out the customary paperwork. I love filling those things out. It agrees with my sense of order that each blank has an answer. It's not ambiguous - either my name is Regina or it's not. At the bottom of the page, there is a sense of completion. 

This time it wasn't so fun, though. I got to page 2 and it asked what medications you are currently taking. Not an uncommon requirement, but the way this form was designed, you had to write the medication, the dosage and the "reason for taking the medication." I happily filled in line 1 - Orthocyclen, 28 day pack, SO I DON'T GET PREGNANT. (And I said a little prayer, just in case the capital letters didn't prove my point.) Line 2 was harder. I take Wellbutrin, 300 mg, for.......well.....ugh, fine....for depression. Maybe I should have written "because sometimes I don't want to get out of bed." Or maybe "so I don't throw things at the people I love." Either way, I hated it.

That’s how depression works. Somedays you’re up and somedays you’re down. Somedays you get to carry on as normal and other days, due to a minor breakdown or a medical form (or a breakdown caused by a medical form), you have to face reality. You have to be honest about how you feel so you can decide how to keep going.

So today, I hate it. There. I said it.
I hate having to take the medicine.
I hate having to tell people I take the medicine.
I hate that the medicine keeps me from becoming a permanent resident of Crazyville so I have to continue taking the medicine.
I hate that somedays I have to tell Brynna I don't feel good sometimes because it's taking all my fortitude to work a puzzle, so riding bikes is out of the question.
I hate that there's no food in the house because I can't muster the strength to go grocery shopping.
I hate that this isn't something I can fight my way through. ('Cause I'm tough. And I can fight. Just ask me.)
I hate that I can no longer call it Postpartum Depression. (Or can I? She isn't into her teens yet. And even if I could..why is that somehow better? A duck is a duck is a duck. Depression is depression no matter what you call it.)
And no matter what you call it, I hate it.

But if I hate it and I still get up, I won that day.
If I hate it and I keep going, I’m doing better than I once was.
If I hate it and believe one day I won't have to, then I'm one step closer to that day.

Depression taught me that I’m not broken. Being hurt doesn’t mean you’ll never be well again. It means that for this moment, you’re a little bruised and battered.

If you’re bruised with me, know that you aren’t broken. It's ok if you hate it, too. We can hate it together. Just don't stop taking the medicine. I don't want you throwing a toaster at me.

It's OK Not To Be OK

I recently learned of a church near Vegas who is known for a slogan. They have it painted on walls, signs and shirts. Not far from the strip, it's become their symbol of the open door the church should always have - no matter what you look like, feel, think or do.

It's ok not to be ok.

How different would each of us be if we really, truly believed that? How would your day look? How would your voice and the words you use sound? What else would you do with all the time in your day usually reserved for just trying to be (or at least look) ok? What would your kids learn about you and themselves? How would your marriage change? How would it affect your view of the world around you?

It's ok not to be ok.

You are a new mom. Your body is only vaguely recognizable as the one you've known for 20+ years and you are awoken every few hours by the most awful sounding siren. Not only does the sound wake you, but it then expects you to feed it, change it, hold it, sing, walk, rock or stand on one foot until it can sleep again - at which point now you're hungry and can't sleep because you need a snack. It's ok not to be ok.

Being a wife is hard. Period. You have to share both your bathroom and your feelings with another being who apparently prior to knowing you did not respect either. You have to love him with he's unlovable and care for him when you need care yourself. It's ok not to be ok.

You are pregnant. Enough said. It's ok not to be ok.

You want to be pregnant but you're not. It's ok not to be ok.

Toddlers are exhausting. Utterly, completely and totally exhausting. No, you don't want to go outside again. No, you would rather not push the swing for the trillionth time. No, you don't want to get out the paint supplies because you just cleaned the kitchen AGAIN. It's ok not to be ok.

You are grieving the loss or pain of a loved one. It hurts. Your world looks different today than it did yesterday. You don't have to go on like it's business as usual because it's not. It's ok not to be ok.

You now have two kids (or three or more...). Two is different than one. You have to learn to change diapers with a toddler hanging from your back. You have to discipline one person while comforting another. Schedule is now a curse word because everyone is on a different one. It's ok not to be ok.

You are depressed. I know, I know, you don't want to call it that. (I didn't either.) You don't want to take the medicine. (I didn't either.) You don't want to admit the "failure." (Which isn't true at all, but we'll wait 'til you get past the medicine part and then we can address all the wrong stuff your head has tried to convince you.) You don't want anyone to know that you don't want to get out of bed. But you don't. And it's ok not to be ok.

You are in over your head. You feel like you might be close to drowning. You are overwhelmed. It's ok not to be ok.

Do you hear me? It's ok. You are ok.

Will you make me a promise and make this your mantra for the next few days? Will you write it on your mirror, put it in your car and hang it on the fridge? It's ok not to be ok. That does't mean it's ok to stay in the place you're in. If you need someone to help, it means it's ok to ask. If you are tired, it means it's ok to let the laundry pile up and eat take-out food while you take a nap. If you are hurting, it means it's not going to hurt forever. It's ok not to be ok.

And it's ok if people know you're not ok. It would make them a little more ok to help you. That's how God designed us - to need each other and to fill needs in each other. It's ok not to be ok. It doesn't mean you failed. It doesn't mean you are a burden. It doesn't mean you don't measure up. It's ok not to be ok.

What Depression Taught Me I'm NOT: Part 2

Part 2

It’s so crazy that the things you struggle most to admit are way more obvious to people than you thought. The things you think might overpower you in the dark are much less scary in the light. The things you deal with, thinking no one else feels that way or could ever understand are much more common than you ever knew.

After I wrote initially about having post-partum depression, this amazing thing happened.  I honestly thought my mom and Hope were the only ones who read my blog.  (Hope somehow reads every blog ever written.  I don’t know how she does it.  I think she somehow has more hours in a day than the rest of us.)  But after pouring out my heart, girls started pouring theirs out to me.  I got to go to talk to girls who feel just like I did.  Some weren’t related to pregnancy or kids, but all were women struggling with that same dark cloud of lethargy and sadness. I am so grateful for those conversations.

Then, about a month ago, I had that moment.  I woke up one day and thought, “I’m good.  I feel more like myself.” This obviously meant I didn’t need medication anymore and I considered flushing the pills. But then I remembered. A friend who walked this crazy road before me said this day would come when I thought I was fine.  And just as she predicted, the realization came shortly thereafter that while I may be fine, I’m not great.  I never stopped taking the medicine, but a new wave of this crazy condition reared its ugly head. 

I struggle with the overwhelming urge to walk away.  It started out funny – I just want to eat my food while it’s still warm; I just want to put on an outfit and know it won’t be covered in M&M slobber by the end of the day.  But then the funny feelings turned funky.  I don’t want to be selfless and have to feed someone else before I can eat.  I don’t want to be tethered to someone and have a passenger in the car at all times.  I don’t want my daily reading to be Green Eggs and Ham.  So I thought, “what if I quit?”  I don’t want to hurt anyone (myself included).  I just want to press pause and walk away.  I want to do what I want to do, what fulfills me, what gives me energy.  (Me, Me, Me)  I then struggled with the feelings that always come next – I’m a bad mom, I’m so selfish, I’m a bad person, I’m crazy.

But I'm not crazy. I'm not the only one who's ridden this ride and lived to tell about it. Depression taught me that I'm not alone. And neither are you.  This is part of it.  It’s part of God making me who He wants me to be.  It’s part of me going through instead of around.  I still take that white pill every day, even on the days (like today) when I am bursting with energy and think I don’t need it.  I do that because it’s the tangible action God gave me to do.  Only He can change the inside, but we are all still responsible to put in work.

Depression taught me that I’m not alone, but to know that, I have to be honest. Maybe you haven’t been prescribed a pill.  Maybe you need to go see the doctor for the first time.  Maybe you need to go to a counselor and actually tell the truth rather than faking it for one more person.  Maybe you need to get over your pride and share your story with the girl sitting next to you so she can know she’s not crazy. So she can know she's not alone.

If it wasn't for Texas...

There's a country song that lists all the things Texas is famous for - the Alamo, Austin City Limits, the yellow rose and lonesome dove.  The song ends with these words...

It made me the man I am:
Thank God for my old stompin' ground.
I wouldn't be standin' right here, right now,
If it wasn't for Texas.

I moved to Texas in 2003 after getting married in college and living for 3 months in a Notre Dame dorm room.    It wasn't the best time of my life.  Actually, it was one of the worst.  I hated Texas, Dallas and everything with a star on it.  Dallas moved faster than I wanted, spent more money than I had and left me feeling homesick like I'd never been before.  But that was only the beginning.  About 6 months after moving here, my life came to one of those forks in the road.  I found myself at a decision point.  I could go one direction and face pain like I'd never known, chase down hurts I had worked years to hide, let God shine light where it was dark.  Or I could go the other way.  Although I had honed the skill for years, I found myself unable to appear perfectly put together.  Suddenly I was staring back at myself through the eyes of my husband and what I saw wasn't pretty.


The farther from that time I get, the more I wonder if I chose the road less traveled or if God just picked me up and put me there.  I chose; I know God never forces us.  But it was one of those steps of faith that you take not because you are of sound mind to make a good choice but because you can't physically take another step in the other direction.  David and I spent more than a year in therapy.  He held my hand, we cried together and as healing started replacing hurt, it got more enjoyable to shine light in that darkness.  Eventually, the sessions got farther apart and like a rainy day when the sun comes out, things started warming up.  Now and then, one of us still visits Dr. Jim for a tweak, but we have come to the other side.  And what we have on this side wouldn't have been possible if I had never left Oklahoma.  The growth couldn't have happened if I'd stayed forever in my comfort zone.  Had I been unwilling to go through the hurt, God couldn't have used me to touch lives by sharing my story and holding someone's hand at their fork in the road.


There was a time that I resented living in Dallas.  I tried all I could to resist, lest I embrace this place that wasn't my "mine.".  But now,  just as I take pride in the fact that I am a Texan, God is calling me away again.  They put the For Sale sign in the yard today.  David, Brynna, Miles and I are moving to Washington DC.  God has blessed our obedience with amazing abundance.  David has been offered a once-in-a-lifetime business opportunity, and we are heading East to follow as God clears the path.  When the offer was first discussed, David and I had a long conversation about what it would mean to move, uproot Brynna, leave the place we've become a family, etc.  But above all the fears and questions, we both came back to one thought again and again - 

I would rather stand before my Father even if I try and fail, knowing I went obediently where He sent me than hear Him say that He had so much more for me if only I'd been willing to follow.


I didn't have that perspective 8 years ago.  and I didn't know God like I know Him now.  I couldn't trust Him with everything because I wasn't willing to give it all to Him.  Today, as I sit here with butterflies in my stomach, reviewing MLS listings, the nerves don't have control.  God does.  And in large part, that's because...

It made me the (wo)man I am:
Thank God for my old stompin' ground.
I wouldn't be standin' right here, right now,
If it wasn't for Texas.

The God I serve...

There are times that we get so caught up in our lives that we forget to thank God for the air we breathe, the life we live and the blessing it is just to "be."  Then there are other times...  Times when you hurt so badly you are innately aware of God's power because you desperately need it.  Times when your heart is so full that everywhere you look, you see evidence of how small you are and how big God is.  

There is a passage in Luke 19 that has been on my heart recently.  Jesus had been healing the sick, blind and possessed, he had been teaching and instructing.  As he entered Jerusalem, "the whole crowd of disciples began joyfully to praise God in loud voices for all the miracles they had seen.  They said, 'Blessed is the king who comes in the name of the Lord!  Peace in heaven and glory in the highest!'  But some in the crowd said to Jesus, 'Teacher, rebuke your disciples!'  He replied, 'If they keep quiet, the stones will cry out.'"

These disciples weren't singing worship songs because they happened to be at church.  They weren't praising God with their friends while unfortunately excluding those who didn't know Him.  They weren't saying what sounded pretty.  They were simply being honest.  They were proclaiming the amazing things they had witnessed and experienced.  It wasn't a show.  It was Real.  They were so amazed it was impossible for them not to talk about it.  The God they served was too big for them to be quiet.

I understand those people.  I AM those people.  The God I serve is big - so big at times that I get overwhelmed and it's impossible not to talk about it.

The God I serve...

• Healed Zoe's cancer - We laid side-by-side in her hospital bed, and I held her when she was sickest.  I kissed her perfectly bald head and clipped her nails when the chemo made them peel.  I was there for her worst days.  And I was there for the best ones.  Just a few months ago, I played with her in the pool and planted strawberries in my backyard.  I watched her run and roll and kick and skip.  You have to acknowledge the worst days to fully appreciate the best days.  She wasn't a little sick.  She didn't have something that can be explained away or could have worked itself out.  As scary as it still is to say, she would have died.  The God I serve healed her little body, renewed the faith of her mom and in turn, ensured that Zoe (and her brother, dad and other family) will get to hear His Good News.
• Formed Hannah's body - My newest god-daughter was born at 26 weeks, 14 weeks early.  She weighed just over 2 lbs on July 20th.  At the time, there was no real explanation as to why Brandy went into labor so early.  Since then we have learned that she had a rare infection.  I don't know if that infection would have hurt Hannah.  I don't know if Brandy could have carried her longer with medication and bed-rest.  What I do know is that while Hannah was tiny and needed to finish developing her lungs, she was otherwise perfectly healthy.  In all her time in the NICU, she never once had complications or illness.  She went home on Friday weighing almost 6 lbs, eating better than some "normal" newborns.  The God I serve formed her perfect little body right before our eyes and taught us new levels of prayer in the meantime.
• Mended my marriage - After church last week, a friend told me what a blessing it was for her to see David and I holding hands as we sang.  She commented on how much in love we are and how sweet it is.  Like everything that's truly worth something, that love was costly.  We held hands on Sunday because we know from experience those words to be true - He is the Only thing that's everlasting, the Only thing you can set your hope in.  A few years ago, we sat in our living room at opposite ends of the sofa and said we'd both rather not do this anymore.  If it were up to us, we would have gone our ways and begun the process of making new lives that weren't so hard and didn't hurt so bad.  But the God I serve is big enough that when we both looked at him and not ourselves or each other, we learned what Real love, grace, forgiveness, courage, honesty and commitment are about.
• Saved Brynna - I laugh a lot about not wanting to be pregnant again.  That joking, however, will never mean that I take for granted the gift of my baby girl.  While I didn't love the pregnancy experience, I am most grateful God allowed me to experience the blessing.  Having Brynna under emergency circumstances, watching them rush her away not breathing fully on her own, and trusting her doctors to make the best decisions for her made me all the more aware of whose she is.  She is a gift that was entrusted to David and I.  The God I serve healed her so that I could learn a little deeper what it means to trust and be blessed by Him.
• Filled my empty places - Some holes are there whether we asked for them or not.  Some holes we inflict upon ourselves.  Some holes have the potential to swallow the rest of you.  While I grew up saying and doing the right things, I found myself at 23 with a lot of emptiness.  As I stood on the edge of one of those gaping holes about to collapse in on myself, a hand pulled me out.  The process of filling those holes was long and arduous.  It was painful, dark at times, and overwhelming.  But the God I serve heaped grace so lavishly on me that He didn't just fill my empty spaces; there are mountains where holes used to be. 

The God I serve is big.  Huge.  He's so large that, at times, I find it hard to comprehend.  That's where I find myself today.  In complete awe and feeling so inadequate to express it.

Let me never be guilty of being quiet so the stones have to praise in my place...

Dance in the rain

With those who know me best, we say I am brown on the inside. We joke that inside, I'm a black girl, my outsides just got confused so everyone sees a white girl. This becomes glaringly evident the moment it rains. Most girls have those years between awkward and amazing when she learns who she is, how to put on make up, do her hair, speak respectfully, dress appropriately and ultimately become the woman she will be. I lived much of these years in the homes of my 2 best friends (who happen to be black)...under the guidance of their mothers who treated me as their own. So somewhere along the way, I just missed the fact that my hair won't do the same thing when wet that theirs will. While I don't think there are many people who love to get caught in the rain, I avoid it at just about any cost, convinced my hair will kink up and my relaxer will be ruined. The morning I wake up and see it's raining, I start rearranging my day in my head. What isn't necessary? What errand can wait until it stops raining? Things that were of utmost importance when I went to bed are suddenly negotiable; deadlines become guidelines. The past few weeks, it has stormed almost daily here in Dallas, and I recently realized I have been tense since it started raining. And I promise I'm really not dumb...I know my hair is naturally straight.

Rain is just not something I like. I could list all the reasons but you'd be bored, so I'll spare you the details. The bottom line is that while it is necessary, I would often choose to go without and allow my surroundings to be worse off than for the bottom of my jeans to be wet. Since writing the blog about my depression, I have heard from so many girls like me. Some have depression resulting from childbirth or changes in these wonderful female bodies. Some have struggled for years with what feels like unexplainable feelings. Some are sad; some are anxious. Some fear what may happen in front of them; some grieve what has or hasn't happened behind them. The bottom line is, it's raining. And when it rains, you can choose to stay inside and hide or you can choose to grab an umbrella and head out to whatever you had planned that day. You could even choose to smile in the face of something you don't like and dance anyway.

This is not the first time the figurative rain clouds have rolled in, but my response was similar as I have to actual rain clouds. I hid. I told myself if I just didn't go out, maybe it would go away. I was willing to give up seeing the sunshine to try and ignore the shadow of the rain clouds. I wished it away, willed it away. I wan't interested in any growth that could come from all of this. I didn't care that I had the right tools to withstand this storm. I was focused only on not getting wet. But avoiding the rain will get you nothing but dead, dry soil where nothing can grow. I began to see a break in the clouds only after I stepped out in the rain. I had to admit it was there and be willing to find someone with an umbrella who could help. Flowers didn't pop up overnight. The sun didn't immediately drive out the clouds. But I learned that I would not melt. I learned I would survive. Even if it never stopped raining, I would be ok. And eventually, I learned that this rain has made me better. And if you let it, it will make you better, too.

So all this begs the question - Do I still run from the first sight of actual rain? Yes. It's a hard response to unlearn. But it no longer changes the course of my day. It no longer determines if it will be a good day or bad. It is not the deciding factor in what I do. I don't have to love the dark days or call them fun. But I recognize the good that follows when I let rain do it's job. And for that, I'm thankful.

(So here's the bad news, girls. Finding someone with an umbrella doesn't mean telling your girlfriends all your woes. That's like running with your purse over your head. It will help for a moment but it's not the way to weather a storm. You have to go to someone who can truly help make it better. That may be a doctor who can prescribe medication or it may be a therapist. Or, like me, it may be both. That doesn't mean you have to do both forever. But you've got to let them help.)