K and I were talking about miracles a few days ago. At one point he asked me outright if I believed in them, in miracles.
I thought about it a moment, and said, "Not as much as I should".
Now, I have no trouble believing in the miracles in the Bible. I believe Jesus turned water into wine. I believe by just touching Jesus' cloak, a woman could stop bleeding after twelve years. I believe a little girl, thought to be dead, could awaken when Jesus called out to her.
But what is it about miracles to me, for me that I find hard to believe?
Maybe it's because in all my years of school, I've been taught to prize logic and rationality. Maybe it's because in the only job I've had, I had to produce logical, rationally thought out analytical papers as a matter of course.
Is that a poor excuse?
The call finally came from my doctor's clinic yesterday morning.
The baby is normal. No Downs, no Edwards.
I called Keith and our parents straightaway. But then I didn't tell anyone else.
A part of me, the doubting part of me, was unsure. After all, we had been handed an almost certain dire prognosis a little more than a month ago. Could it really be? Could God really have worked a miracle for me, for my child?
I confess I called the clinic up again in the afternoon. Yes, I felt a little silly, but I wanted to hear the words again. The nurse must have thought I was wasting her time. But she told me what I needed to hear again anyway. I hung up the phone, just thankful that she hadn't made a mistake.
I am relieved, grateful, thankful, filled with awe. For the family and friends who have prayed for us and over us. For the people who waited as anxiously as we did for the test results.
Most of all, I am thankful and grateful to our God, who worked a miracle for us.
Ask me again if I believe in miracles.
Oh, and it's a she.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Thursday, April 23, 2009
still in a holding pattern
No word yet about our results, so we are still waiting.
I want to know the results, then I don't want to know. It's all very confusing.
I want to know the results, then I don't want to know. It's all very confusing.
I have come to this ocean
And the waves of fear are starting to grow
The doubts and questions are rising with the tide
So I'm clinging to the one sure thing I know
I will hold on to the hand of my Savior
I will hold on with all my might
I will hold loosely to things that are fleeting
And hold on to Jesus, I will hold on to Jesus for life
- Steven Curtis Chapman
And the waves of fear are starting to grow
The doubts and questions are rising with the tide
So I'm clinging to the one sure thing I know
I will hold on to the hand of my Savior
I will hold on with all my might
I will hold loosely to things that are fleeting
And hold on to Jesus, I will hold on to Jesus for life
- Steven Curtis Chapman
Sunday, April 19, 2009
not a baby anymore
Noah turned one today.
We've always celebrated this milestone for each of our kids. It's become a bit of a ritual for our family. With all the stresses of having a new baby in the home, I had never managed a first month celebration, so we always waited until their first birthday to have a party with our family and friends. Josh and Emma were both dedicated in church on their first birthdays too. Noah was dedicated today.
We had a little more to consider in planning for this party. I had to think about whether I would able to manage everything just a few days after having the amniocentesis. I didn't know if the results would be out earlier than expected. If they did, would I be a complete wreak?
In the end, we decided to go ahead. Mostly because I felt that we had to be fair to Noah, to honour him, even with what was going on with his younger sibling.
Because life marches on.
We've always celebrated this milestone for each of our kids. It's become a bit of a ritual for our family. With all the stresses of having a new baby in the home, I had never managed a first month celebration, so we always waited until their first birthday to have a party with our family and friends. Josh and Emma were both dedicated in church on their first birthdays too. Noah was dedicated today.
We had a little more to consider in planning for this party. I had to think about whether I would able to manage everything just a few days after having the amniocentesis. I didn't know if the results would be out earlier than expected. If they did, would I be a complete wreak?
In the end, we decided to go ahead. Mostly because I felt that we had to be fair to Noah, to honour him, even with what was going on with his younger sibling.
Because life marches on.
Thursday, April 16, 2009
the quickening
I first felt the baby move a couple of weeks ago, around week 15, the earliest of all my pregnancies. Still too small to make a big obvious push, but I've felt some movement off and on since then - a little nudge, a small whoosh, a bit of a patter. So small that sometimes I wondered if it really was the baby, or whether it was just my own digestion going.
I am pretty sure about today's movement though. It's the strongest one I've felt so far. Emma used to move in the same way. The best way I can describe it is, it's as if the baby put an arm or a leg up against the wall of my womb and pushed and slid that limb in one direction.
It's always been my favourite part of being pregnant, feeling the baby move inside. Josh used to have regular hiccups - it always amused me to see my tummy do a little jerk, and with a regular rhythm! Later in my pregnancy with her, Emma used to push a little foot so far out that she'd create a lump big enough for me to tickle.
I am just thankful for now that I feel any movement at all.
***
In the past month, I have felt disappointed with God, even angry with Him, in a way that I have never felt before. Even as I write this now, I feel a little scared to acknowledge these feelings. Am I being irreverent, not giving God the awe that I know He is due? A few days into us first hearing the news about this child, a close friend reminded me that it was okay to feel anger and disappointment. God is big enough to handle it, she said. God knows how we feel anyway.
Then those fierce initial emotions subsided a little, and I started to feel a peace that I still cannot explain. Looking back on the past few weeks now, I can also say that I was extremely humbled to be shown love by our friends and family, here and across the world, who cared enough to write to us, be still with us, and pray for us. It is how we felt the arms of Jesus around us, bearing us up.
The quickening that I feel in me, that movement, has come to symbolise in a way my relationship with God in the past month. I started out wondering where God was in all of this, not understanding why things were happening the way they were. A month on, I am here. Certain of this.
I love Him.
No longer on cruise control. I feel a real, deep love for Him, even with all that has happened. Maybe because of all that has happened.
Because faced with the alternative, I have come to realise that I cannot do this, cannot walk through these days, without God. I cannot walk without hope.
I love Him. It was His love for us that kept Him on that cross.
Of course I still want this child to be healthy. I want God to bring a miracle to light, to defy the odds that have been handed to us. We still ask for this every day.
But more important for now, I love Him. Even before we know the outcome of the amniocentesis.
I am pretty sure about today's movement though. It's the strongest one I've felt so far. Emma used to move in the same way. The best way I can describe it is, it's as if the baby put an arm or a leg up against the wall of my womb and pushed and slid that limb in one direction.
It's always been my favourite part of being pregnant, feeling the baby move inside. Josh used to have regular hiccups - it always amused me to see my tummy do a little jerk, and with a regular rhythm! Later in my pregnancy with her, Emma used to push a little foot so far out that she'd create a lump big enough for me to tickle.
I am just thankful for now that I feel any movement at all.
***
In the past month, I have felt disappointed with God, even angry with Him, in a way that I have never felt before. Even as I write this now, I feel a little scared to acknowledge these feelings. Am I being irreverent, not giving God the awe that I know He is due? A few days into us first hearing the news about this child, a close friend reminded me that it was okay to feel anger and disappointment. God is big enough to handle it, she said. God knows how we feel anyway.
Then those fierce initial emotions subsided a little, and I started to feel a peace that I still cannot explain. Looking back on the past few weeks now, I can also say that I was extremely humbled to be shown love by our friends and family, here and across the world, who cared enough to write to us, be still with us, and pray for us. It is how we felt the arms of Jesus around us, bearing us up.
The quickening that I feel in me, that movement, has come to symbolise in a way my relationship with God in the past month. I started out wondering where God was in all of this, not understanding why things were happening the way they were. A month on, I am here. Certain of this.
I love Him.
No longer on cruise control. I feel a real, deep love for Him, even with all that has happened. Maybe because of all that has happened.
Because faced with the alternative, I have come to realise that I cannot do this, cannot walk through these days, without God. I cannot walk without hope.
I love Him. It was His love for us that kept Him on that cross.
Of course I still want this child to be healthy. I want God to bring a miracle to light, to defy the odds that have been handed to us. We still ask for this every day.
But more important for now, I love Him. Even before we know the outcome of the amniocentesis.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
new eyes
The amniocentesis was today. I had a last minute moment of panic but then the nurse called my name, and it was too late to change my mind. The doctor who did the procedure was wonderful - he had a great bedside manner, was very calm and reassuring, and was kind enough to tell me when he was going to start so that I could squeeze my eyes shut.
Now we wait. Could be any time from a week to three weeks.
It's been an emotional day for me. I started out mostly nervous about the actual procedure, but once that was done, my mind moved on to other things to fret about.
Mainly about the possibility of having a child with Downs.
There are many things about it that trouble me, but right now what I am struggling with the most is this. If this child has Downs, his or her differences are always on display.
It's hard for me to think about how this child may be dismissed or laughed at, the moment someone lays eyes on him.
The other kids certainly aren't perfect. And Noah has his own story, a different one from most people. But he gets to choose whether or not to tell people. When he grows up and makes his own friends, it will be his choice, whether he decides to tell them that he is adopted.
If this child has Downs, he or she won't have that choice. The physical markers that set this child apart will be obvious.
That's hard for me. Just the prospect of other people making fun of my child or dismissing my child is hard.
It's a little glimpse into the Father's heart for us.
How hard it is for Him to see us being unkind to the people around us, being dismissive, impatient even, with those who are different from us. Because they are His children too, and He loves them just as fiercely as He loves us.
And on the flip side, God who sees our every flaw, our every shortcoming, still chooses to love us, to woo us, to save us.
Now we wait. Could be any time from a week to three weeks.
It's been an emotional day for me. I started out mostly nervous about the actual procedure, but once that was done, my mind moved on to other things to fret about.
Mainly about the possibility of having a child with Downs.
There are many things about it that trouble me, but right now what I am struggling with the most is this. If this child has Downs, his or her differences are always on display.
It's hard for me to think about how this child may be dismissed or laughed at, the moment someone lays eyes on him.
The other kids certainly aren't perfect. And Noah has his own story, a different one from most people. But he gets to choose whether or not to tell people. When he grows up and makes his own friends, it will be his choice, whether he decides to tell them that he is adopted.
If this child has Downs, he or she won't have that choice. The physical markers that set this child apart will be obvious.
That's hard for me. Just the prospect of other people making fun of my child or dismissing my child is hard.
It's a little glimpse into the Father's heart for us.
How hard it is for Him to see us being unkind to the people around us, being dismissive, impatient even, with those who are different from us. Because they are His children too, and He loves them just as fiercely as He loves us.
And on the flip side, God who sees our every flaw, our every shortcoming, still chooses to love us, to woo us, to save us.
Wednesday, April 8, 2009
redemption
Almost a month ago, I received the phone call that turned life upside down for me. After telling me the screening results, the nurse told me that she was scheduling me for an amniocentesis in April. I would have to wait about a month for it to be safe enough to proceed on this test. I really was in no position to do any questioning at the time; I wasn't even sure that I would be taking the amniocentesis. So I let it be. I let her schedule it. Because it was the path of least resistance.
After that conversation, we did some research and talked to some friends. It turned out that there's another test that can be done earlier, called CVS - it basically involves taking a sample from the placenta instead of the amniotic fluid. K wondered if we should ask about this test instead, get the waiting and wondering over and done with.
I didn't want to take it. Maybe I was afraid to get the results. I wanted to wait.
***
Last week, I suddenly realised that it would be Easter this weekend. I had known it was coming, but it only just sank in exactly when.
We've told the kids the Easter story in past years. It always gets a bit hard around the part where Jesus dies. Josh gets distressed, and we have to work hard to stress that the story doesn't end there. Three days later, Jesus rises again. Sometimes the distress over the hard part of the story drowns out the good parts.
The amniocentesis is scheduled for two days after Easter.
Two days after we celebrate God's redemption and His restoration.
That means the world to me now.
Because it reminds me that whatever the test results are, that God will redeem it. God will restore.
Whatever the result.
After that conversation, we did some research and talked to some friends. It turned out that there's another test that can be done earlier, called CVS - it basically involves taking a sample from the placenta instead of the amniotic fluid. K wondered if we should ask about this test instead, get the waiting and wondering over and done with.
I didn't want to take it. Maybe I was afraid to get the results. I wanted to wait.
***
Last week, I suddenly realised that it would be Easter this weekend. I had known it was coming, but it only just sank in exactly when.
We've told the kids the Easter story in past years. It always gets a bit hard around the part where Jesus dies. Josh gets distressed, and we have to work hard to stress that the story doesn't end there. Three days later, Jesus rises again. Sometimes the distress over the hard part of the story drowns out the good parts.
The amniocentesis is scheduled for two days after Easter.
Two days after we celebrate God's redemption and His restoration.
That means the world to me now.
Because it reminds me that whatever the test results are, that God will redeem it. God will restore.
Whatever the result.
Monday, April 6, 2009
The Magician
The Magician
My daughter wanted to dress up, this evening,
as a princess. She dragged out her magical box
of make believe, her silks, her tiara, her jewelled
sceptre, and asked me to make her a princess
getting ready for her wedding. And so I did.
First, the silks, tied loosely around her neck,
gaudily coloured capes that rested lightly on her
shoulders. Then, the plastic tiara, which no one
else could touch but me. And then, her shoes,
and since she still didn’t know her left from her
right, she had to ask me to help.
And so she was transformed, and as she danced,
and whirled, and disappeared into a different
world, I wished that I too could disappear,
could change the world as simply as I had
for her, to rearrange the solid markers
of these unbearable realities to make them
feel less sharp, less stony and cold. I wanted
to hold her hand and become a prince again,
to listen, and hear no sadness, no loss.
But my powers only extend to my daughter
and not to me. I am someone else’s magician,
capable of entrancing a little girl, opening a
door for her to enter, out of thin air. And that,
perhaps, is the best I can hope for.
I cannot evade my grief and enchant it away,
like the silk I tied and the tiara I placed on
my daughter. It does not hang loosely,
but instead it beats inside the quiet places
of my heart, woven, like my skin, to me.
April 6, 2009
My daughter wanted to dress up, this evening,
as a princess. She dragged out her magical box
of make believe, her silks, her tiara, her jewelled
sceptre, and asked me to make her a princess
getting ready for her wedding. And so I did.
First, the silks, tied loosely around her neck,
gaudily coloured capes that rested lightly on her
shoulders. Then, the plastic tiara, which no one
else could touch but me. And then, her shoes,
and since she still didn’t know her left from her
right, she had to ask me to help.
And so she was transformed, and as she danced,
and whirled, and disappeared into a different
world, I wished that I too could disappear,
could change the world as simply as I had
for her, to rearrange the solid markers
of these unbearable realities to make them
feel less sharp, less stony and cold. I wanted
to hold her hand and become a prince again,
to listen, and hear no sadness, no loss.
But my powers only extend to my daughter
and not to me. I am someone else’s magician,
capable of entrancing a little girl, opening a
door for her to enter, out of thin air. And that,
perhaps, is the best I can hope for.
I cannot evade my grief and enchant it away,
like the silk I tied and the tiara I placed on
my daughter. It does not hang loosely,
but instead it beats inside the quiet places
of my heart, woven, like my skin, to me.
April 6, 2009
Friday, April 3, 2009
listening to the Voice of Truth
We must have heard this song a hundred times over the past year. It played on the radio a lot when we were in Claremont. Nice song, catchy tune, catchy chorus.
I heard it again in the car yesterday. I was driving the kids to meet K for dinner. Maybe it was because I had just put up yesterday's post - but the words in the song sounded different this time. They sounded like words that I would have said.
There's a line in the song that reads "I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus singing over me."
I cannot always hear it, that singing. There are moments in my day when I don't hear it, and if I allow myself the chance, I can almost forget that it's there. If I allow it, it gets drowned out by all the other voices that are so easy to give in to.
But it is there. I know that. I believe that.
And I choose that too.
I heard it again in the car yesterday. I was driving the kids to meet K for dinner. Maybe it was because I had just put up yesterday's post - but the words in the song sounded different this time. They sounded like words that I would have said.
There's a line in the song that reads "I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus singing over me."
I cannot always hear it, that singing. There are moments in my day when I don't hear it, and if I allow myself the chance, I can almost forget that it's there. If I allow it, it gets drowned out by all the other voices that are so easy to give in to.
But it is there. I know that. I believe that.
And I choose that too.
Voice of Truth - Casting Crowns
Oh, what I would do to have
the kind of faith it takes
To climb out of this boat I'm in
Onto the crashing waves
To step out of my comfort zone
Into the realm of the unknown
Where Jesus is,
And he's holding out his hand
But the waves are calling out my name
and they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The waves they keep on telling me
time and time again
"Boy, you'll never win,
you'll never win."
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
the voice of truth says "do not be afraid!"
and the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
Oh, what I would do
to have the kind of strength it takes
To stand before a giant
with just a sling and a stone
Surrounded by the sound
of a thousand warriors
shaking in their armor
Wishing they'd have had the strength to stand
But the giant's calling out
my name and he laughs at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The giant keeps on telling me
time and time again
"Boy you'll never win,
you'll never win."
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
the voice of truth says "do not be afraid!"
and the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
But the stone was just the right size
to put the giant on the ground
and the waves they don't seem so high
from on top of them looking down
I will soar with the wings of eagles
when I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus
singing over me
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
The voice of truth says "do not be afraid"
And the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me (calling out to me)
I will choose to listen and believe (I will choose to listen and believe)
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
the kind of faith it takes
To climb out of this boat I'm in
Onto the crashing waves
To step out of my comfort zone
Into the realm of the unknown
Where Jesus is,
And he's holding out his hand
But the waves are calling out my name
and they laugh at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The waves they keep on telling me
time and time again
"Boy, you'll never win,
you'll never win."
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
the voice of truth says "do not be afraid!"
and the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
Oh, what I would do
to have the kind of strength it takes
To stand before a giant
with just a sling and a stone
Surrounded by the sound
of a thousand warriors
shaking in their armor
Wishing they'd have had the strength to stand
But the giant's calling out
my name and he laughs at me
Reminding me of all the times
I've tried before and failed
The giant keeps on telling me
time and time again
"Boy you'll never win,
you'll never win."
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
the voice of truth says "do not be afraid!"
and the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
But the stone was just the right size
to put the giant on the ground
and the waves they don't seem so high
from on top of them looking down
I will soar with the wings of eagles
when I stop and listen to the sound of Jesus
singing over me
But the voice of truth tells me a different story
The voice of truth says "do not be afraid"
And the voice of truth says "this is for my glory"
Out of all the voices calling out to me (calling out to me)
I will choose to listen and believe (I will choose to listen and believe)
I will choose to listen and believe the voice of truth
Thursday, April 2, 2009
sweet surrender
I have not been able to get this conversation out of my head.
For a short while after service on Sunday, one of the ladies in church sat down with me. I admire and respect her greatly; she's always seemed to model to me what a godly Christian woman should be like. She mainly wanted to ask how I was doing with all that has been going on with the baby. She herself has lost two children, so she spoke to me from a place of having walked through the darkest valleys.
The thing that I keep running over in my head was when she reminded me of how much God must love us, that He turned away from His son to let him die on the cross for us. In our humanness, it is so difficult and painful to be separated from our children. I have not even seen this baby, not even carried him or her in my arms, and already, everything within me wants to rebel against giving him up. Everything within me wants to cling on to him.
God didn't flinch from it. This perfect child that He had, who had done no wrong, who had not frustrated him, who had not tired him out, was suffering and in pain. And God didn't flinch from it. Because He loved us. Because He loved me.
Yet another thing that has been extremely humbling for me.
It has been a slow process of surrender. It is less than two weeks to the amniocentesis. I am starting to get nervous about the needle, among other things.
But I am also slowly surrendering it all to God. To the One who loves me. To the One who loves this child more than I ever could. My human nature is weak, and so the process of surrender has not been easy. But I choose it.
I choose it.
Because "in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose" (Rom 8:28).
Because whether this baby is born healthy against all the odds, whether this baby is born with special needs, or whether this baby is going home to Jesus sooner than I would wish, God works for good.
And I choose that.
For a short while after service on Sunday, one of the ladies in church sat down with me. I admire and respect her greatly; she's always seemed to model to me what a godly Christian woman should be like. She mainly wanted to ask how I was doing with all that has been going on with the baby. She herself has lost two children, so she spoke to me from a place of having walked through the darkest valleys.
The thing that I keep running over in my head was when she reminded me of how much God must love us, that He turned away from His son to let him die on the cross for us. In our humanness, it is so difficult and painful to be separated from our children. I have not even seen this baby, not even carried him or her in my arms, and already, everything within me wants to rebel against giving him up. Everything within me wants to cling on to him.
God didn't flinch from it. This perfect child that He had, who had done no wrong, who had not frustrated him, who had not tired him out, was suffering and in pain. And God didn't flinch from it. Because He loved us. Because He loved me.
Yet another thing that has been extremely humbling for me.
It has been a slow process of surrender. It is less than two weeks to the amniocentesis. I am starting to get nervous about the needle, among other things.
But I am also slowly surrendering it all to God. To the One who loves me. To the One who loves this child more than I ever could. My human nature is weak, and so the process of surrender has not been easy. But I choose it.
I choose it.
Because "in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose" (Rom 8:28).
Because whether this baby is born healthy against all the odds, whether this baby is born with special needs, or whether this baby is going home to Jesus sooner than I would wish, God works for good.
And I choose that.
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