Fallopian Free

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Years ago I remember the big fright was getting kidnapped and waking up without a kidney. The kidnappers had put you to sleep and taken your organ to sell on the black market. Thankfully, I am here to tell you this never happened to me.

What did happen to me is someone took my fallopian tubes. Both of them. This means I can no longer get pregnant. Allow me to do a happy dance.

Okay, I’m done. And I probably shouldn’t dance because weird things happen and you never know, 10 years from now I could be writing a blog about how I have a 14 and 12 year old, no fallopian tubes, and yet I’m pregnant with my third child. Everyone would rave about how it’s a medical miracle. Except I wouldn’t. Why? Because I don’t want to be pregnant ever, ever again. Which is why I willingly let someone take my fallopian tubes.

I often see blogs and articles and hear comments about how we need to be careful of what we say regarding pregnancies and motherhood and babies because there are lots of women out there who would give their left arm to have a baby. I hurt for them. I can not imagine wanting a little human being so bad and being willing to do anything to have one and yet not being able to conceive, or losing the baby before birth.

But I want to bring light to another subject-those of us who so desperately desire to never have another baby again. Just about every time I told someone why I was going to have my tubes “tied” (or removed in my case), I got a funny look. It wasn’t because I didn’t want more kids. It wasn’t because feeling sick 24/7 sucks or that the actual pain of child birth was too great to bear. It wasn’t because another child would bring financial strain.

It’s because I lived in a black fog during my pregnancy. Depression descended on me during my first trimester and weighed me down like a 500 pound curtain every second of every day for 18 weeks. Thankfully it lasted only my first trimester, but it was bad enough that I never want to go through it again. Considering that I went through it for both of my pregnancies, I think it’s safe to say that it would happen again with another pregnancy. As much as I love my kids and I’m sure I’d love any more that I had, I have no desire to go through that depression again for another child.

And that brings me to my second reason for doing a happy dance over my fallopian tube removal-I have no desire to raise another baby. This gets really funny looks from other people. Apparently I don’t fit the mold when it comes to women and babies. I would rather adopt 3 more toddlers than care for and nurture another infant. Not my cup of tea, which is apparently weird in the world of females. But alas, that is me. I will gladly hold and coo at your infant because 1) I know how much you, as the mom of a baby, want a break and 2) I get to give your baby back.

I don’t write all this to make light of those women who are not able to have a baby. I don’t write this because I don’t love my kids with so much of my heart that it sometimes hurts.  I write this because every since my second child was born over 2 years ago, I have freaked out every month, scared to death that I’m pregnant, and then I get that sign that I’m not, but a few days later it starts all over again. I know I’m not the only woman who has ever felt this desperate to NEVER have another baby, thanks to a couple of other blogs I’ve read out there. Perhaps my words will help validate the same feelings some other woman is having but is too embarrassed or even ashamed to voice because she’s a woman, she’s supposed to love babies, right? Her uterus is supposed to leap when she hears a baby cry, right? After all, it’s God’s design, right?

I’ve had my babies. I’ve put in my time and I’m done. I am fallopian free and loving it (actually I’m still healing from my incisions so am supposed to be taking it easy, but I’m saving up my energy for a nice, long happy dance)!




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A couple months ago our church held a beach baptism at a local beach. This is where new Christians profess their faith in Christ in public by being dunked under water, symbolizing being washed clean by Jesus. Church goers gather at the park, have a time of worship then we all go down to the beach to celebrate with those getting baptized, play and hang out. Sometimes the waves are really big and end up dunking the people before the Pastor has time to lower them under. It makes me laugh, but that’s besides the point.

My family decided to go to the baptism, which quite honestly, I was not looking forward to. I didn’t want to bother with the kids in the sand and water, being in the sun, etc. etc. Never mind that there were over 20 people, many of them kids, who had recently turned their life over to God, which is the reason of all reasons to celebrate. I was going to be uncomfortable and that was more important to me. Not one of my proudest moments.

But we went. As soon as we got there, we found friends to stand and sing with. I slipped in next to a fellow mom who was holding the young daughter of another mama friend, who was at home sick. After a few minutes the young son of my friend next to me walked over and wanted to be held too. She bent to pick him up and after helping hoist him up, I offered to take the friends’ girl she was holding. She lay her head on my shoulder and I softly sang in her ear. Some of the older kids were playing with a coconut behind us and I turned around as one of the dads stepped in to quiet them down. A few minutes later my two kids came up and wanted my attention, so I sat the friend’s girl down with her older brothers and sisters, their friends and another mom.

That’s when it hit me. Today is about family; new members of the family of Christ being welcomed; sharing in a time of worship and play with my family; living life with our friends, many who have become like family. We take care of each others kids, passing them between us, caring for them, correcting them, loving them. We weren’t doing each other a favor, we were simply living life together. I was humbled.

The icing on the cake came when I looked down at my daughter who was telling me the song we were singing was from church. It wasn’t a favorite song of mine at the time, not even one I really cared for, but as I watched my little girl raise her hand to Jesus and sing the words she picked up on, it became my new favorite song. How awesome is was to be able to stand there, in a public place, with my family and my friends, worshiping the Creator of the ocean itself.

I often struggle with not feeling at home, regardless of the fact that I have lived here for over 5 years, married my husband here and have raised my kids, thus far, in this town. That day changed me. It filled me with a peace knowing that no matter where I live, God is there. I may miss seeing him in the mountains, but He is in the ocean too. I may miss my family I grew up with, but I still have family surrounding me.

Praising Jesus to the same song, just at home. She calls it her song now.


Here is the link to my new favorite song:

What breaks the heart of God

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I recently wrote about how God has taken my heart and made it a bleeding mess for the “have nots’ of this world and how as a society, we aren’t doing much to alleviate those needs. There IS enough food in this world to feed everyone. EVERYONE. There is enough money to bring fresh water to every last village around the world. Every. Last. One.

No, it is not a problem of the rich being too rich or not using their money as they should. No, this is about how each one of us, from the wealthiest person right down to the one who has all of their needs met but not much more, have stopped caring.

This week I got my feathers ruffled over a guy who took out a loan to buy a boat. He took out a loan because he couldn’t wait to sell his motorcycle to free up some money. The motorcycle was bought with his giant tax return and his life savings. He also has a huge loan on a very nice truck. I was so angry thinking about how many people could have been fed with even a tenth of his new boat loan; how many children could be taken off the streets and put in a safe house where they don’t have to sell their bodies; how many people could be given the gift of livestock and fresh water that would provide a means of self care for generations to come. But here was this guy who has spent thousands upon thousands of dollars on himself, for pleasure.

I was indignant! Does he not see the hurts of this world? Does he not read his Bible and see Jesus command us to “love our neighbor as ourselves” and “do unto the least of these as we would unto him”?

But I was wrong. So, so, so very wrong. Yes, there are needs to be met all around us. But the problem isn’t that we don’t meet them, the problem is that we don’t even care. We may say we do, we may write blogs about how we do (hand raised right here), but if we do care then we will do something about it.

Just today I plotted how to rearrange my back yard to be more child friendly and look attractive, thought about how to better organize my shelves of kid crafts and toys, fantasized about having my bathroom and bedroom painted and done instead of doing it myself over the course of a few weeks, and about a dozen other things that don’t really need to be done in the grand scheme of things. Not once did I say a pray for those people who will die today from starvation. Not once did I think about how I could free up just $10 in the next month to donate to Safe Refuge International (https://www.saferefugeinternational.com/) to help women caught in sex trafficking. I meant to drop off some size 5 diapers to CareNet Pregnancy Center (http://www.carenetirc.org/), but I got distracted by all of my ‘busy-ness’.

Today, there was no difference between myself and that guy who bought a boat. None. His heart was on things of this world, and so was mine.

Lord, forgive me. Forgive me for judging the boat guy. Forgive me being distracted from the things that really matter on this earth. Forgive me for setting my heart on the things of this world instead of on you. Forgive me for not caring. Give me a heart that is one with you, that breaks for the things that make you weep, a heart that is focused on eternity. Amen.


Dream kitchens and hungry babes

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Though I don’t watch much TV to begin with, HGTV is a semi-regular channel on our TV. I like to dream of my perfect house, get ideas for DIY projects around my current home and laugh at the little things home buyers get so worked up about, as if the knobs on the kitchen cabinets are really worth not buying a house because of.

However, recently, a gnawing in my gut has started as I watch these shows about people buying a vacation house, remodeling their home to be more sophisticated and modern, and searching for a house with a master bedroom the size of my entire house, 3 car garages or kitchens that a restaurant gourmet cook could only dream of having.

Instead of dreaming about what I want, these shows now make me think of the third world countries where people live in one room shacks that may or may not have something covering their windows, much less a large bay window over-looking a lake. What gives me the right to sit here in my air conditioned house, which apparently is small at less than 1400 sq ft for our family of 4 according to HGTV, with a fridge, freezer and cabinets stocked full of food while a mom on the other side of the world sits outside of her shack because she can at least have some air flow in the stifling heat, rocking her babe who hasn’t eaten in days? Why am I able to go to my small but fully functional kitchen to get a glass of filtered water while that other mom has to choose between her child dying of thirst or giving him muddy water that may or may not have fecal matter or other contaminants in it? While my kids nap I get the luxury of a quiet house to either get some chores done or sit and watch TV. Meanwhile, the other mom doesn’t have to worry about folding clothes because the only items they own are the ones they are wearing, but she does have to worry about if today will be the day her child dies from malnutrition.

And yet, while people die every. single. day, we sit here and continue to think about our dream kitchens, lose ourselves in HGTV and shows like The Bachelor and spend our money on ourselves because we’ve worked hard and we’ve earned it.

Y’all, we are a blessed nation and God says that He blesses us in order that we may bless others. I weep as I write this because I am so guilty of being so caught up in my own life, my own house, my own kids, that I forget that I can do something for that mom on the other side of the world. I don’t know how to help, but maybe it starts with shutting off the good ol’ boob tube and actually looking for a way to help. (Side note-while I talk about the mom on the other side of the world, there are plenty of people here in our own country, state, city that need our help). Instead of using social media to look at what other people are doing today, perhaps I use it to find an organization that is intimately involved with providing help for those who are in need, and I link up with them. It may be giving money, which if we’re honest, can be freed up in our budget if we are willing to sacrifice one or two wants of our own, or donating needed items, spreading the word and information, or perhaps it’s volunteering even one hour of our time each month.

Far be it from me to think that I am too busy or strapped too tight financially to tell the mom of a dying child that my life is more important than hers, that my kids matter more than her babes.



Gentle and Quiet Spirit

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If I were to describe myself, the word ‘gentle’ would not be my first choice, nor would the phrase ‘quiet spirit’  come to mind (though I can be quiet as far as not talking much, a quiet spirit is entirely different). However, during a bible study I did last year, I came across 1 Peter 3:4.

“Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as braided hair and the wearing of gold jewelry and fine clothes. Instead, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight.” 1 Peter 3:3-4

This verse stuck to me, ingrained itself in my brain, burrowed under my skin, and has latched onto my heart. I haven’t been able to shake it. I wasn’t exactly drawn to the verse because I liked it. I’ll be honest with you, while this bible verse may be telling me how I’m supposed to be, it sure as heck ain’t me and to be even more honest with you, I haven’t wanted it to be me. This kind of woman sounds so blah, boring, weak.

I pretty much ace the whole ‘don’t put all your efforts into looking good because that isn’t where true beauty comes from’. I’m lucky to get a shower without the kids seriously maiming each other, let alone spend even another few minutes doing something worthwhile with my hair and face, so it’s rare to find any extra adornment there.

But what about this “gentle and quiet spirit” the bible talks of. What exactly does that mean? As I looked up the original, greek word used for ‘gentle’ and found it is the same word used in 1 Kings 19:11-12.

“The Lord said, “Go out and stand on the mountain in the presence of the Lord, for the Lord is about to pass by.” Then a great and powerful wind tore the mountains apart and shattered the rocks before the Lord, but the Lord was not in the wind. After the wind there was an earthquake, but the Lord was not in the earthquake. After the earthquake came a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire. And after the fire came a gentle whisper.” (italics mine)

And that is where God was found. Not in the power of the wind, nor the earthquake or even the fire. He was in the gentle whisper. While His very presence is one of power and commands our awe, He need not showcase himself with dramatic revelation. He is ‘I Am’ simply because He is God, not because of how he appears.

“God said to Moses, “I am who I am. This is what you are to say to the Israelites: ‘I am has sent me to you.’” Exodus 3:14

Now on to the next word that I haven’t been a huge fan of: ‘quiet’. The original, greek word used here can also be derived from the greek word which means ‘firm, immovable, steadfast’ (according to the Blue Letter Bible at blbclassic.org).

Now, I get it. Instead of hearing this verse tell me I’m supposed to be blah, boring and weak, this verse in 1 Peter is telling me something entirely different. To have the “unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit” is calling me out to be a woman of quiet strength and dignity, unshakable peace, firm in my beliefs, passionate and steadfast in God’s truth. This verse does not tell me to lay down and be a doormat, but rather to rise up and change the world for Jesus. Not by showcasing my beliefs in anger or by disrespecting and putting others down, but by being a peaceful anchor for my family to hold on to when life’s storms blow us around, by offering forgiveness to those who hurt me instead of avenging my pride, by not letting the words of others break me because my strength and identity come from God, by standing up for what Jesus taught and how he lived even when it is the unpopular stance to take. No, this verse is not about a woman who just smiles and nods, but rather about a woman standing with her God, messy and dirty from the trials of her life, but who’s unfading beauty shines forth as she stands tall in the presence of her Saviour.


Motherhood and Presidency

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As moms, we often try to find shortcuts to motherhood. Some are good  or indifferent (I don’t bother wasting time putting shoes on my toddler before leaving the house because she just takes them off in the car anyway. Time saved? One minute. Sanity saved? A whole boat load). Some are not so good (I have bribed my toddler to eat her lunch by getting bites of cookie in between each bite of her meal).

One of my shortcuts is nursing my youngest to sleep before his afternoon nap. He’s pretty much guaranteed to go to sleep this way and I get a bit of time to look up stupid stuff on the internet and facebook. It’s a win-win situation for us all. Although I would like to point out that if he does not in fact fall asleep while nursing, I can usually get him to sleep with out it. And if I can’t, well then I bring him back out into the den and let him play with some toys while I lay on the floor and cry because all I want is a BREAK!

Anyway, so on one of my recent bouts of doing nothing worthwhile while nursing my son to sleep, I came across pictures of President Obama pre- and post-term. Wow. Talk about aging (no offense Mr. President-do we still call past presidents Mr.?-but pictures don’t lie). I then looked up pictures of other presidents when they first entered the Oval Office and when they departed. Good Lord, what a change.

And then it dawned on me, these are men who have led our nation for anywhere from 4-8 years. I have led my kids for less than 3 1/2 years and pictures of me pre-kids and post-kids don’t tell lies either. This mama has aged! But oh, how funny it is to realize the similarity between mothers and presidents. We’re kind of the same, huh? Rock on mamas, you have earned every grey hair, droopy body part and wrinkle/laugh/stress line! At least we have something cute to show for it. Maybe this will make you feel better.







Saying goodbye to home

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I was blessed to grow up just 15 minutes away from my grandparents (on my mom’s side), who lived on a small farm in the country. Granted by the time my brother and I were born and old enough to remember any animals, the only critters there were rabbits and that didn’t last long. If you ask my mom, she doesn’t remember there being any animals, though she did have rabbits when she was growing up (along with a cow or two, possibly some other animals), but I’m going to stick by my memories of rabbits. There were also 2 huge gardens on either side of the 2 acre property and a small strawberry patch. The rest of the property was dotted with an old, small, pieced together barn (that held the aforementioned cow(s)), an old dog house, a small shed connected to a larger pole barn, an outhouse looking shed that held old coal, a large lean to where tractors were parked, a brick 2 car garage, another metal shed that held mostly fire wood, and of course, the two story farmhouse.

A small, murky swampy pond sat just on the other side of the back property line and it held many adventures for my brother and I, our cousins, along with friends and the neighbor boy down the road. On a side note, this is the boy who once said I could never shoot him and not miss. Luckily for him, it was just a BB gun, because I did shoot him….and I didn’t miss. My grandpa kept everything. Some may have called him a hoarder, but he was simply a man who survived the depression and was ready for another one. If the apocalypse came, I knew where I was going to go. That being said, out of his “junk” we made rafts out of inner tubes, wooden pallets and hockey sticks with the ends sawed off. Oh the fun we had pushing ourselves through that murky wonder.

The plethora of buildings provided us with places to climb, hide, explore, and play in. Hours on end were spent climbing tractors; walking through the barn with the very old hay, imagining a cow kept there; sorting through the old hardware, farm and garden tools, and odds and ends and climbing over the furniture and riding mower in the garage. In later years, my mom and I would dream of how we would refinish all the old stuff and open our own business.

Then of course there was the house. I recall playing Lincoln logs on the stair landing; having sleep overs in my grandmas room upstairs (and her portable potty chair that she kept upstairs since the only real bathroom was downstairs); trying to get the color to come in on my great grandmas old boob tube (it was a black and white tv….it took us awhile to learn what that meant); practicing my piano skills in the den (one of my aunts painted it an avocado green when she was younger); traipsing down to the basement and being awed by all the canned goods in the root cellar room, the unlighted corner that held who knows what and was covered in cob webs, helping with laundry in their ancient washer and then hanging the clothes out to dry, shuffling food around in the two deep freezers, and sneaking pop.

The gardens held a variety of vegetables and in later years, flowers too. My brother and I loved running through the corn field, though looking back, it was really just a few rows of corn. But when you’re small, the full grown corn stalks were taller than us and seemed to provide yards of mazes for us. Green beans needed picking, but that also meant munching away on fresh beans as we picked off the ends, dirt and all. There’s nothing better than a homegrown carrot and I loved eating the tomatoes like an apple with a little sugar sprinkled on. I would catch moths and other small bugs to feed the ants. I’d watch them tear apart their meals and carry them down into their holes, then I’d dig around and try to find the moth part. I never did. To this day it’s still a mystery as to how the ants ate, broke down or hid/stored each insect that quickly. There was an electric wire that ran around the perimeter of the main garden (the other garden grew pumpkins and other squash in the fall, and gave us our own pumpkin patch) and my brother and I would laugh hysterically as we dared each other to touch the fence and jolt ourselves. I would catch moths and other small bugs to feed the ants. I’d watch them tear apart their meals and carry them down into their holes, then I’d dig around and try to find the moth part. I never did. To this day it’s still a mystery as to how the ants ate, broke down or hid/stored each insect that quickly. Two of my old dogs are buried there.

You could watch birds and squirrels at the bird feeders from the kitchen window. We would tunnel into and build forts in the piles of snow after my grandpa plowed in the winter. There was a small hill in the front yard that gave us sledding fun and we’d often head across the street to a larger hill that, if you weren’t careful, would dump you into the creek after careening down. The row of pine trees along the driveway were full grown when I was old enough to notice them, but I marveled at how my mom and her sisters could jump over them when they were kids growing up. Ground hogs and chipmunks were always making holes or digging into the garden and considered nuisances. We enjoyed walking behind my grandparents through the open field that led to a forest with a fox hole that always had animal bones scattered around. I remember walking back there just me and a friend one time and seeing a wolf. We freaked and ran all the way back to the house. Granted it was probably just the fox, but the imagination of a young girl can run wild at times. Deer were plentiful and my Grandpa blessed us with a nice buck every year. Venison, mmm-mmm good!

Oh the memories. I could go on and on. That was home to me. It was home even though we lived in town. It was home when I moved away to college, and then grad school, and then got a job. Whenever I traveled home, that is the house I thought of. After my Grandpa passed away and then my Grandma, my mom moved into that farmhouse and has lived there the past few years.

Until now. The house has been sold; it no longer belongs to our family. I feel like a part of me died when it was sold. That was home. Our family home. My home. Our memories. It drew me back and called to me when I had been gone too long. It was a breath of fresh air, peace and tranquility regardless of what my life held. The memories flood back often and I smile at them, only now there are tears behind the smiles. It’s like an ending of an era that I miss so much.



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