Wings of Love

It started last spring. It may have been a subscription to Ranger Rick, and an insert entitled "Choosing the Perfect Pet." It may have been a trip to a friend's house where she first held a parakeet. However it started, once the thought of owning a parakeet entered Hannah's mind she had trouble thinking of anything else.

"I have to share the gerbils and the cat with all my siblings. I need a pet that's just my own," she argued.  "Parakeets are so much fun! You can play with them and teach them tricks. They're very social. I just want one sooo bad!"

By June of last year I was growing tired of Hannah's pleading, and slightly more sympathetic. I had a hard time looking into her little longing eyes because I saw so much of myself in her. I had been the child in my family who wanted an entire zoo in my room. I grew up with three rabbits, a dog, fish, mice, and yes, a parakeet. When I was thirteen I had pled with my own parents to let me get a parakeet, and I had used every reason that Hannah was now throwing at me. I had loved my blue and white bird, Kiana, for six lovely years before she died. Kiana even came to college with me for two years and was something of a dorm mascot. Two of my college friends got parakeets after they met Kiana.

How could I look into my own daughter's eyes and tell her "no?" So at last I sighed and said, "Go talk to your father about it."

"Absolutely not," was Matt's response. "No. No way. We already have two gerbils and a cat, and you apparently don't care about them anymore. No. We're not going to turn into a zoo."

Hannah's little heart shattered into a million pieces in front of us both right there. Rounds of reasoning began as Hannah attempted to counter each one of Matt's objections. She brought it up again and again over the following days until Matt decided to put a stop to it.

"Hannah," he said, "owning a parakeet is a big responsibility and a long-term commitment. I wouldn't even consider it until you were at least ten years old. So I won't talk about this with you again until after your tenth birthday. I may consider it at that point, if you are still interested in it. If you bring it up again, I'm just going to say no."

At the time, Hannah's birthday was nine months away, and Matt was quite confident that Hannah's parakeet-enraptured phase would pass before her birthday came. It seemed like a great solution at the time. The only problem is that as the months passed by, Matt's direction to postpone the discussion became, in Hannah's mind, a promise that she would get a parakeet for her tenth birthday. Matt tried to put a stop to that thinking each time it came up, reminding her that that wasn't what he had said. But that didn't matter to a nine-year-old dreamer.

Nine months later, Hannah was more ready than ever to own a parakeet. She had been checking out books on parakeet ownership and studying in preparation. She was counting down the days and counting the ways her life was about to be more wonderful. When I reminded her once again that Dad had never promised to agree to this, she replied, "Well, he could't say no now. I've been waiting my whole life for this! That would just be cruel."

About a week before Hannah's birthday I asked Matt if he had made a decision. "I don't think I have any choice at this point," he said. And he really didn't.

Hannah didn't want anything for her birthday except cash and Petco gift cards. She wanted to be sure she would have enough to buy everything she needed for her feathery friend. When she was showered with $80.00 at her party and Matt finally gave her the official OK, she almost fainted from excitement.

Yesterday, Hannah could hardly breathe on the five minute drive to Petco. She was more giddy that a girl in a white dress and veil. Matt had a little fun with her and played Christina Perry's A Thousand Years on the radio while we drove.

We came home with a cage, food, treats, toys, and a beautiful little female indigo parakeet, whom Hannah named Avalyn Joy. Hannah cushioned every bump in the car ride, and spoke in a sweet hushed voice to the frightened bird in the cardboard box as we set up the cage in her room. Avalyn, however, was less thrilled with this meeting than Hannah. Once in her cage, she froze stone-still in a corner and sat without moving for over an hour. Hannah lay quietly and patiently on her bed, waiting for Avalyn to warm up to her new home, but the bird refused to move.

Hannah came to ask me if I thought Avalyn was OK. I explained that she had been through a lot that day and that she was probably scared and would need some time to adjust.

This morning, Hannah woke me up bouncing into my room all giggles and chatter, "Mom, guess what?! Avalyn is so active! She's a gymnast! And she's been eating, and drinking, and chewing on her cuttle bone, and swinging on her swing! One time she jumped off her swing onto her perch and the swing swung and hit her in the bottom and scared her! It was so funny! And she's been talking to me, and she just loves me! She really does! She is the best!"

I have been trying to remind Hannah all day to take the bonding process slowly and to give the poor bird some time to adjust, but it seems that I am the fool. Today Avalyn Joy has truly bonded to Hannah. She has willingly ventured out of her cage and spent a good amount of the day out in the girls' room, learning to trust Hannah and enjoy her company. They whistled to each other, cuddled, and played the whole day through. And the two of them couldn't be happier.

Hannah's Turning Ten, and it's Tough

Hannah and I have been butting heads more lately. A lot more.

She is bright, witty, and a master of words. She has the leadership skills of Margaret Thatcher combined with the magical entertainment skills of David Copperfield. She has been rounding up groups of kids and leading them like the pied piper since she was four years old. Hannah shimmers like sunshine drops on dew-misted daisies as long as people will follow her lead, as long as the world is comfortably within her control. But she shrivels like petals over a flame the instant she feels her control slipping.

Hannah's world has been shaken too much lately. She struggled the most with moving houses. She struggled the most with changing churches. She feels my stress and Matt's when we silently worry about her sisters' health. And when she cannot control these big things, she craves control over the little things in life all the more.

In the last week Loveway was cancelled due to ice, the kids' computer crashed and lost some of her favorite documents, and Hannah learned that her birthday party would have to be combined with Toby's since his had been cancelled when he came down with strep throat two weeks ago. The weather has been perpetually gloomy, Matt has been perpetually busy, and Hannah has begun lashing out at others. She has been so bossy, so moody, and so irrational that I have had very little patience for her.

Naomi and Emma are growing up and coming into their own personalities, and they have been pushing back against Hannah's leadership now. Fights are breaking out more now as Hannah struggles to maintain her right to lead, while Naomi and Emma assert their right to have their own ideas.

Hannah and I have had talk after talk about her wonderfully strong leadership skills, but how it is too tempting for her to use them for evil. We've talked about how she tends to devalue other people's opinions, feelings, or perspectives. We've talked about her tendency to order others around, or when that fails, masterfully manipulate them into feeling they've done something wrong. Because Hannah is such a strong presence in our family and has often walked all over her siblings, I've pushed back hard on Hannah lately, determined to help her see when she is being wrong or manipulative so that she can learn to control her leadership skills and use them well.

My ears have been scanning her conversations, and I have been quick to jump on her each time I hear her slipping into manipulation. Two days ago I asked the kids to all go into the living room to sort their own clothes out of the several baskets of clean laundry so that they could fold them and put them away. Immediately, Hannah took charge. "OK, Toby, you put your clothes on the red chair, and Elijah, you put your clothes on the couch," she ordered without a second thought.

"Hey!" Emma protested, "I wanted to put my clothes on the red chair!"

"Well, Emma," Hannah rebutted, "you can put your clothes on the love seat. I have it all worked out so that we each have our own spot."

But Emma has decided lately that she too has a brain, and that she just might like to choose things for herself, so she protested further.

"Fine, Emma!" Hannah muttered under her breath, "you can have the dirty red chair if you want to, and Toby can have the nice clean love seat."

I immediately called Hannah out of the room and presented her with the irrefutable facts of her most recent episode of unjust bossiness topped with manipulation whipped cream. She responded by flat-out denying the evidence.

"I never said that!" she protested.

"Yes you did! I heard you with my own ears," I argued back.

"Well, that isn't what I meant," she rerouted, followed with, "Emma didn't want the red chair," "I never called it dirty," and finally topped with the teenage-worthy, "You just don't understand."

Having been through this very scenario a mind-boggling number of times in the last week, my blood boiled here. It is so easy to lose my temper, especially when I lose sight of Hannah's underlying emotional needs that drive this behavior.

But it seems that in the last few days my reasoning, and my pleading, and my pestering with Hannah over this issue has begun to hit home for her. She has begun to acknowledge that she does, in fact, have some unhealthy tendencies towards dictatorship. She has begun to be able see how this looks and feels for other people around her. Most recently, she has come to two terrifying conclusions: that this behavior is actually unfair and hurtful to those she loves, and that it is so ingrained and comes so naturally that she isn't entirely in control of it. This has led to a bit of an identity crisis for Hannah. If she can't be in control of her circumstances, and she can't control everyone around her, who is she? What will happen to her? Will people still like her? What if she can't change herself, will we still love her?

Little Hannah is growing up. Growing up is so messy.

Tonight Hannah wanted to talk. She wanted to tell me that too much has been changing for her. "Even my own mind is changing," she said, "like how I think about other people and about God, like thinking about how Naomi and Emma feel. I worry about them a lot."

So I told her that she wasn't too big to sit on my lap yet, and then my little girl who will be ten in two more days crawled into my lap and cried, mostly I think because growing up is hard, because change is hard, because facing your own demons, admitting that they haunt you, and asking for God's grace to change them is hard.

I shed a couple tears too, because in that moment I felt a little like the world's worst mother for having been so hard on her lately. I had forgotten that Naomi and Emma aren't my only daughters who face challenges in life and who need their mother's love and strength and fight. I had forgotten that after breaking Hannah's identity, I might need to be there to help her ask for God's forgiveness, for the grace to become the considerate, selfless leader God would want her to be, and for the courage to trust his leadership in her changing life.

I tucked the kids into bed tonight again, as Matt worked very late…again. Hannah needed more than one hug, and more than one song. I sang a favorite of hers, and then I sang a version of Psalm 103 that I hadn't sung since she was a baby,

"As a father has compassion on his beloved children
So the Lord shows compassion to us
To those who fear him
And as far as the east is from the west
So far has he taken our sins from us
And as high as the heavens are over the earth
So great is his steadfast love toward us."

"Mom," Hannah said softly in the dark, "you know how sometimes I just get so emotional that I can hardly describe it? Well…I just love you so, so much right now."

"Hannah, with all of those emotions, I think you're going to make a good poet someday," I said, giving her one last hug.

I don't know where she gets it.

Well, maybe I do.

Early Morning Magic, by Naomi Eby

Early in the morning, it feels so right
To sit and read in the lamplight
It's just so peaceful, nothing stirs
Except perhaps my friend with fur
I'll grab a book and sit with her
And read on and on as she purrs
It's great when I can have time to myself then
Before the boys wake up, and the craziness sets in
It's just so calm sitting there
Nothing in the world matters, except us on our chair
And while this strange spell lasts
There's no one in the world but a girl and her cat

--by Naomi Eby
age 11

Why is Every Little Thing Such a Big Deal When Your Kid Has a Complex Genetic Disorder?

Two of my children live with a rare, complex genetic disorder that affects almost every system in their bodies, called Bardet-Biedl Syndrome. They're actually doing pretty well most of the time. They don't endure frequent hospitalizations and haven't had a ton of surgeries or procedures, at least compared to other chronically ill kids that I know. What we have the most of are frequent check-ups with multiple specialists, frequent blood work, frequent therapies, frequent questions, and frequent worries.

Sometimes, when people ask how the girls are doing, I find myself saying, "They're actually quite stable right now. Thanks for asking." Because even though they live daily with chronic kidney disease, liver disease, retinal disease, neurological disorders, endocrine disorders, autism, and developmental delays, at least we aren't experiencing an emergency right now.

Sometimes people have trouble understanding why living with this disorder is so exhausting when the girls seem to be doing relatively well. Perhaps I can illustrate with the last few weeks.

One morning Emma suddenly has cold purple hands. I first assume she's cold and force her to put two sweaters on, then I worry that she might be seriously cold and take her temperature. The thermometer beeps at 95.3 F. I put her on the couch under a pile of blankets and debate whether to call her pediatrician. I don't want to overreact. Maybe she's just cold. Am I overreacting? I decide to call. The pediatrician says to get to the ER ASAP in case Emma has a blood infection or is in shock. I argue with the pediatrician that maybe that would be overreacting. Pediatrician will have none of that. To the ER we go.

Now I'm scared, so Emma gets a coat and a hat and the heat cranked up all the way in the van. When we arrive at the ER her temp is 98.6 and she's pink as a posie. I feel silly. The ER doctor takes me seriously, thank heavens, and runs every test I could have asked for. Everything looks fine, and home we go. I'm pretty sure I overreacted.

For the next few days I tell Emma to wear a sweater and socks, just in case. I call Emma's endocrinologist the next day to ask if she might have a hypothalamus or thyroid issue, just in case, but I have to wait three days for that doctor's nurse to call me back. Then I notice Emma isn't drinking like she normally does. The juice I poured her that morning is still sitting in her cup at dinner time. She tells me she wasn't thirsty and didn't drink anything all day. All day? This is out of character for her, and unhealthy. She also still has purple hands most of the time, and sometimes has a low core body temp. I don't want to overreact, but I decide to spend four days and a night on Wikipedia, PubMed, and random other more-or-less trustworthy sights learning about posterior hypothalamic cysts and other unusual things that could produce episodes of hypothermia with decreased thirst.

After a week of trying not to overreact, I decide to call Emma's endocrinologist again, just in case it's time for another brain MRI for Emma. Just in case she has a posterior hypothalamic cyst, you know. The endocrinologist tells me she doesn't think that's warranted, but calls back two days later just to check on Emma. Just in case.

I continue to stare at Emma's mottled purplish hands over the next week. They turn white when I press on them. It doesn't look right. I can't figure out what to Google for this. They key words I try don't get me anywhere. Emma has a rough week of braille lessons. She's flopped over, leaning her elbows on the table like it's too much effort to do anything right now. She has an uncharacteristic bad attitude about braille this week. She rolls her eyes a lot and acts like she just wants me to leave her alone. I can't put my finger on it. Something is off.

One night the white splotches on Emma's hands are so pronounced when I touch them that I take a video of it. I decide to post it on Facebook and ask my friends' advice. They advise me it could possibly be a cardiac issue. I e-mail it to Emma's nephrologist (kidney doctor) because I like this doctor, and because she always responds to my e-mails. I wonder if she will have any ideas. I don't get a response that night, and I sleep restlessly. As I sleep I'm going over and over Emma's recent breathing problems: the episode in October where she was suddenly so short of breath and her oxygen so low that she vomited right when we entered the ER and she was hospitalized overnight for low oxygen levels. They had called it an asthma flair even though Emma hadn't had any asthma symptoms at all for over three years before that. It took her a few weeks to recover from that, and ever after that Emma has had trouble with breathlessness while exercising. The albuterol nebulizers don't seem to help. Emma had become worried about it. "Mom, did you remember to pack my nebulizer?" she had asked when we pulled out of the driveway for a weekend trip. I toss and turn and wonder if Emma has exercise induced asthma, or if she has a heart problem.

The next morning I decide to take Emma in to her pediatrician, but her pediatrician is out for the day and we see someone new. I hate seeing someone new. I have to catch them up on so much. After I lay out a brief overview of Emma's medical history, her current presenting symptoms, what they might mean, and I why I have brought her in today, the new pediatrician says, "Wow. You MUST be a nurse. You talked me through that exactly the way I would have asked you and I agree with your conclusions."

"Nope," I say, "just a mom of kids with lots of chronic medical conditions."

The new pediatrician checks Emma's extremities and finds seriously delayed capillary refill throughout her hands and forearms, as well as in both feet. She notes that Emma has decreased air flow volume as she listens with her stethoscope. "She's not moving much air," she comments to me, "has she been coughing much?"

"Off and on, especially with exercise," I say. "We thought it was asthma."

The new pediatrician decides to refer Emma to a cardiologist. She suspects a heart condition. It could take 3 or 4 weeks to get in to see him. She tells me to keep Emma warm and well hydrated while we wait, and to take her to the closest children's hospital ER if she gets worse.

I'm trying to hold back panic on the way home. I don't know how one kid can have so many conditions. Emma's nephrologist e-mails me back saying that we should see a cardiologist, and if Emma's heart checks out to be OK, then maybe a rheumatologist to see if there is a peripheral artery disease of some sort. That gives me a little hope, peripheral artery disease sounds good at this point.

I decide to e-mail the video and a brief synopsis of Emma's symptoms to the world's leading expert on her genetic condition, who happens to be very friendly and often answers e-mails from people who aren't technically his patients. I met him once at a conference. He remembers me and calls me back within an hour. I love this guy. I want to hug him. He has shown the video of Emma's hands to a cardiologist who specializes in caring for heart disease in patients with Emma's syndrome. The cardiologist is not sure that it is a heart problem. He says Emma should see a cardiologist, yes, but that it might be something else. I feel better then. "So what could it be?" I ask. The specialist doesn't know. We talk through Emma's history again, in more detail. The specialist back tracks. Hmmm. Maybe it is a heart issue after all. He also proposes that I contact Emma's liver doctor to make sure it isn't liver failure.  I'm not sure that I feel any better at all when I hang up the phone. But still I love that he called me.

I e-mail Emma's liver doctor and give her a brief update. I tell her that the ER doctor, the endocrinologist, the pediatrician, the nephrologist, the BBS specialist, and the BBS cardiologist had told me to check with a pediatric cardiologist, a rheumatologist, and her, just in case she has any idea what is going on with Emma. I debate whether to e-mail Emma's ophthalmologist just so she doesn't feel left out. I laugh to myself. Because sometimes you have to laugh.

I try to watch a movie, but mostly I'm watching my e-mail inbox, and thinking of other things to Google. I want someone to tell me what is going on with my daughter. I want someone to tell me what is going to happen to her. But no one can do that tonight.

I send Emma to her Grandma's for a sleepover because Emma will probably be fine, and because she just wants to be a normal kid. I remind Grandma to keep her warm, and make her drink water, and just to check on her, even though I know she will be OK.

My daughter has a complex genetic disorder. How is she doing? She's OK for now. I think. I hope she is. Of course there is that worrisome symptom that she's been having. Maybe it's nothing. Maybe I'm overreacting.

Maybe I'm not.

A Bedtime Talk

Today was a medical day. Emma had to see the pediatrician for an asthma check-up. Next we headed to the hospital to have Naomi's blood drawn for her three month kidney lab work. Then I finally drug my restless, hungry crew of five into CVS to pick up three prescriptions, where I was informed that there would be a twenty minute wait. In between the usual chatter with strangers who couldn't believe that five children were "all mine," Toby spotted a Star Wars themed Nerf dart gun, and began to drool over it.

While I spent the rest of the day making meals, cleaning the kitchen, and running to Aldi after Matt got home, Toby apparently spent the rest of the day dreaming about how much better his life would be with that Star Wars themed Nerf gun in it. This isn't anything new for Toby, he has always been more prone to chase the illusive happiness that he believes will come from things than any of my girls have been. Matt and I have talked with Toby time and again about the dangers of thinking that any material thing in this world could bring him true or lasting happiness. I know that he is only six, and we do indulge him a little. Two years ago Matt special ordered Sidley the Spy Plane off of Ebay just because Toby had been dreaming of it for months. This year I was sure to buy Blue the Velociraptor six weeks before Christmas because Toby wanted it more than anything. It's not that we shun worldly pleasures altogether, but I worry about Toby's heart.

Tonight at bedtime when Toby could speak of nothing else than that Nerf gun, I decided it was time for a talk. I smiled into his eyes and smoothed his hair back from his forehead, "Toby," I said, "do you remember Sidley the Spy Plane? Do you remember how you thought that toy would make you happy forever? And now where is he? He's in a box in the basement, with his tail broken off. And what about Blue the Velociraptor? I thought he was all you ever wanted, but it's only been a few weeks, and you're already worrying about what you need next."

Toby smiled sheepishly up at me, because this talk is familiar to him. "I know," he said, "I still like them. It's just…" he voice slipped away and he shrugged his shoulders up at me with a grin.

"It's just a trap," I reminded him. "You could spend your whole life thinking that the next thing you get will make you happy, but buddy, it will never last for long. The things we buy with money at the store can never make us truly happy, but there are things that bring us deeper joy in this life, and a happiness that lasts. Can you think of some?"

"I know one, " he chimed in quickly. I was a little unsure if he knew what I was talking about, but I was curious to hear his idea. "Hugs," he said confidently, and then leaned over to wrap his arms around me. That was the first time I felt like my words might actually be hitting their mark in his little heart.

The girls were eager to join in the conversation at this point. They were practically jumping over each other to say their ideas first. Together we came up with a list of: sunsets, flowers, exercise, imagining, creating, soccer games, family, friends, helping other people, and making people happy. We talked about how spending our lives trying to catch happiness in things was a bit like chasing the wind: you can't ever quite capture it. We talked about how people who focus on trying to get the next thing to make themselves happy can't focus on the places that real happiness comes from. We talked about how seeking to know God better and live in a way that pleases him might not sound exciting to a six year old boy right now, but how he would realize more as he got older that that brings real peace and joy.

This opened up the floodgates of communication and I was really amazed to hear the girls sharing about their personal prayers and thoughts: what they thought about in their beds at night, what they prayed for, the things they wanted to do better at but were feeling defeated about. Hannah, more than all my children, craves this kind of communication. She talked until Naomi and Emma were literally falling asleep on the floor of the boys' bedroom.

We talked about making time for things that really matter in our lives and how we feel stressed and overwhelmed when we're forced to just make it through the basics of each day. I tried to explain that I feel this way when all I do is make breakfast, clean that up, start laundry, start the homeschooling going, make lunch, clean that up, run to appointments, make dinner, clean that up, and put kids to bed. The girls agreed that that sounded like a bleak existence, and Hannah, bless her heart, concluded, "I guess I never thought about why you get so cranky sometimes. I need to help you more so you can relax and feel better."

Hannah has so many mature thoughts in her little nine-year-old mind. She tells me that she prays a lot when she is alone and that she loves to think about just how amazing this world is and how amazing God is to have designed it all so perfectly. She writes songs and poems in her head, but is afraid to put them down on paper because she fears they're not very good. I told her that sounded like a mix of her mom and her dad, and then we all laughed. She lays in her bed at night and feels guilty for the things she didn't do right that day, like not getting her schoolwork finished, and she commits to doing better the next day. At this point in the conversation she said, with the sweetest little tears in her eyes, "But, I just… I just have a big imagination."

Feeling her pain and wanting to lighten the mood I said, "No! Really? You have a big imagination, Hannah?" which led to rounds of giggles coming from Naomi and Emma, who were apparently not as soundly asleep as I had thought.

Hannah chuckled a litte, and then explained further, "Well, there's Math Marion who's a dinosaur that's covered in plus signs and minus signs and equals signs, and there's also Science Susan and History Harry, and… I just have such a hard time focusing."

I had to assure Hannah that I would have a hard time focusing too with all those characters in my mind.

I thanked Hannah for sharing her heart and her struggles, and I told her that that helped me understand her better now, just the way she could understand my struggles more when I had explained how being too busy affects me. I had to cut the conversation off because it was late, but I told her we could talk more later. "When will that be?" she asked. "We'll just be too busy again tomorrow."

I guess the talk wasn't just good for the kids. It looks like I also need to work on rearranging my priorities to make more room for the things that matter. I'm starting by coming back to writing. It focuses my thoughts, clarifies my priorities, makes me a more intentional parent and a more whole person. Tonight's blog is a step. Tomorrow I need to figure out how to help Hannah tame and harness her imagination, and how to carve out more time to listen to her heart. Tomorrow could be a challenge.

A Year's Closing

I don't know if I've gone three months without writing on my blog before. The last five months or so have been a huge time of change and stress for our family. I haven't felt very chipper most days. I have been busy, and melancholy, and thoughtful. But the changes are settling, and I'm coming to terms, and I want to pick up my writing again. I want to bring some closure to this period, and feel fresh enough to write the goofy and the memorable moments again. If you're looking for a goofy blog post, this isn't it, but I think it's a necessary step on the path back to that.

Moving in September was an incredibly massive physical and emotional undertaking for our family. It was so welcome, so needed, but so draining. We weren't truly unpacked and settled until after Thanksgiving. (Still a few boxes shoved in corners, but nobody cares about those.) But the biggest emotional blow of the fall was being somewhat suddenly left with no choice but to leave our church family of over six years. About the middle of October there was a collision of circumstances, personalities, and world views that had been brewing for years, but suddenly bubbled over.

For three months now I have chosen to be entirely silent publicly about this incredibly painful topic because we do not want to unnecessarily divide the church or make things harder for the people there. Even now I will be brief and vague, but I feel like I need to speak up, and at least break the ice on this.

Why leave a church that has been the most loving, most genuinely caring family to us, filled with people we have loved to share our life with? I guess the answer is that we do not, and can not, attend a church simply because we want to love people. We must attend a church that is loving God by actively seeking to understand his word better, by training its people to handle God's word well and to interact with broader world views carefully and thoughtfully. We long to be around people who are not afraid to hear interpretations and viewpoints outside their own tradition, who believe that it is healthy to continually put their own traditions to the test and are constantly willing to admit the weakness of their viewpoint if presented with a stronger one. We long to be with people who are still on the journey for truth, not that they are tossed about by every wind of teaching, but that they are the Berean church who would always search the scriptures to make sure that what they are being taught is really in line with what is written.

Matt and I find it ironic that we were in a church in the protestant tradition, who celebrated each year Martin Luther's challenge of church authority and the cries of "Sola Scriptura" or Scripture Alone as the Christian's authority. Yet this church has a hierarchy today that rivals the Catholic church and its doctrine, now enshrined for several hundred years in confessions and catechisms, is just as untouchable as Rome's was. We realized, finally, that this church really had no place for honest questions, for honest searching, for honest evaluation of itself. It was set in stone, and stone cold to those who would question it. We finally grew tired of being silent, the church felt threatened, and out we went in the name of "protecting the flock" from us, the apparently ferocious wolves. Not that the people in our local church wanted this, or that we wanted it really, but that once a complaint is passed up the chain of command in a Presbyterian church people higher up the chain who do no know us at all and don't bother to take an hour to talk to us, can decide to boot us out because it's swifter and neater for them than the messy work of hashing out our problems, and once that pronouncement has been made the local leadership is left with no choice but to follow through, unless they want to leave that denomination, which they will never do. So out we went.

I find it incredibly sad, and angering, and frustrating, and Christ-dishonoring in all honesty, but that is the state of things in almost every church today. They all have their authority structures which are touted as a protection for the flock, but I find to be more of a hinderance to their growth than anything. The times Matt and I grew the most in our faith were when we were challenged to think of things from another point of view: when we were thrown into a dormitory with Baptists, Lutherans, Methodists, Pentecostals, Presbyterians, and the ever-wild Non-denominationals, and we were forced to hash things out in the lounges and at the lunch tables for hours on end day after day. The classes we grew the most in were the ones where the professors didn't have us memorize a catechism, but threw out for debate some of the hardest scripture passages to deal with and then left us to ruminate on it all weekend. It was hard. It was gut-wrenching, mind-boggling, theological wrestling, but we grew. I grew to become confident in my faith enough to love it and to live it, but never so confident in the particulars that I would refuse to listen to another viewpoint. That would be foolish of me. I grew to learn that I should always listen, always evaluate, and always be ready to reconfigure my worldview if I should encounter good reason to.

That kind of experience made me the Christian I am. This is why it became impossible for us to stay at a church where not one single Sunday School class was actually devoted to studying a book of the Bible, where other viewpoints were constantly misrepresented to make them look weaker than they actually were, where questions about the Bible were answered with a catechism instead of with the Bible itself, where we were actually told on more than one occasion to not bring up our viewpoints because the people of the church were not able to handle them, and where the people of the church were not being equipped to interact with the broader world and the viewpoints of others outside their tight circle. We saw people walk away from the faith because they didn't know how to answer the questions they found once they stepped outside that bubble, and that disturbed us. We saw people celebrate theological viewpoints that we saw enormous holes in, viewpoints that could lead to dangerous errors that might have devastating consequences in practice, but we were not allowed to challenge the status quo or even express our concerns. And so we did what we felt forced to do, we left quietly.

To our church family, if you are reading this: we love you all so much. We miss you. We hated leaving. We wish you nothing but the best. Please call us up, send an e-mail, or drop by sometime. Invite yourselves over for dinner, we'd love to have you. Even better, invite yourselves over for coffee and ask us why we left. We'd love to tell you. But even if you don't want to have that conversation, come by for coffee and tell us how you're doing. We want to know.

And now we are left with the task of sifting through the thousands of churches surrounding us to find a group of people who worship God reverently and with awe, who study his word diligently and with honest searching for his truth rather than guarding man's doctrinal statements, who love God purely, love each other whole-heartedly, and who are happy to join us in a continual seeking of truth, messy as that may be.

We are not a family accustomed to or happy to join in most contemporary church services full of lights, smoke, and heart-pounding bass so loud it would be impossible to hear oneself singing the often man-centered lyrics on the big screen. (And no, I'm not dissing every single contemporary-style church out there, but saying that there would be huge hurdles to overcome, in my opinion, in most of these churches.) Neither are we fans of many traditional-styled hymn-based worship services which sing songs filled with an equal amount of theological error. (For example, I quote, "…and now I am happy all the day." What the heck kind of theology is that?! I, for one, am not "happy all the day" "since Jesus Christ came in and cleansed my heart from sin.") Sadly, many of the old hymns are filled with just as much heinous error as the contemporary worship songs, which is why we had landed at a church that sang Psalms, and we loved that there. Beyond the worship style problems, there are the theological statements of faith that we are supposed to agree completely with in order to be members of most of the churches out there, other than the huge, contemporary-style churches.

Matt and I ask ourselves: what are we looking for? Are we looking for perfection in a church? But we're not. We are looking for a group of people who may not ever agree totally on doctrine, but who are ever willing to walk down the road closer and closer to agreement without being afraid of one another's contributions or tired of that journey. That more than anything, seems incredibly hard to find.


And, my goodness, if your'e still reading this, you win a gold star. That is what I needed to get off my chest tonight, because it has been a heavy rock there for too long, and for me, there is a freedom in writing it out and sending it out to be heard, a freedom to move on.

What else has happened in the last three months?

There has been a lot of work and a lot of chaos in the mobile home park manager business including fun jobs like crawling under a trailer in the dark to spread 200 lbs of crushed lime on a septic leak that no one else wanted to touch with a ten foot pole. Sometimes it is easier to just do something than to spend three days trying to figure out who's job it is to do it. Sometimes I love my job. Sometimes not so much, but I'm hoping the days of loving it will return soon.

We raked lots of leaves this fall.

Emma's asthma had an unexpected and serious flare-up that landed her in the hospital for one day.

In November, my brother and his family came to visit again and helped us finish framing in the rooms in the basement. My parents came to visit for Thanksgiving.

Christmas seemed somewhat un-Christmassy without snow this year, but it was happy and calm. The boys got everything Jurassic-World themed that they had dreamed of for months.

The girls got everything themed of horses, cowgirl, puppies, and kittens, just as they had wanted.

My other brother and his family came to stay for two days after Christmas and their boys had a great time wrestling with my boys while we played cards and caught up. It was a lovely visit. I was happy this Christmas season, in a melancholy, introspective sort of way.

My best friend at our old church has continued to be a best friend to me, and her children to mine, which has been God's saving grace to us, and is exactly how Christ would want it to be. She has prayed for me and cried with me and taken me out to Panera bread, and dumped her five kids at my house while she ran errands, and allowed me to dump my kids at her house as well. I am so thankful for that.

Naomi and Emma have learned almost the whole braille alphabet this fall and winter.

It is a joy, and a relief, and a deep sorrow to witness. Naomi's vision is growing ever worse this year, and I'm both happy and afraid that she is learning braille just in time. I was trying this evening to teach her to clip her own toenails, because I really don't want to be doing that forever, but it was so hard for her. She couldn't see her toenails well enough to get the clippers in the right spot. She kept missing and clipping the air over her toenails. I finally had to tell her to close her eyes and feel for the right spot, like she feels for the lines of braille, and she did much better that way. I joked with her that her eyes were playing tricks on her. We giggled, and I grieved inside.

But not all has been bleak. My husband has been putting in extra effort to care for me the last few weeks: to make me coffee, to give me an unsolicited hug, to surprise me with a Christmas present, to download a super nintendo emulator onto my computer so we could race each other in Super Mario Kart until way too late at night. His efforts help to carry me.

And this house, this house that was so difficult to get settled in, is so wonderful. I love the garage in the cold winter. I love the main floor laundry (Toby threw up all over his bedding? No problem! The washing machine is RIGHT HERE!) I love being close to Matt's parents, who have been greatly helpful in allowing me to drop the kids off now and then when I need to. I love the yard and the neighborhood, and the huge kitchen. I love how much more pleasant the cooking is in this house.

Last weekend we took the kids on a road trip to Minnesota for my cousin's wedding, and despite the stress and chaos that is inevitable in such an undertaking, we had a great trip. It was a breath of fresh (cold!) air for me.

This spring, if all goes as planned, we are hoping to take a week to head to a beach in South Carolina with my oldest brother and his family, and to show my children the ocean while all of them are still able to see it. I so hope this works out. We could all use some sand, sun and ocean waves, and happy memories.

Tonight feels still like bleak mid-winter. I risked life and limb to drive 20 miles in the swirling snow and cold to make the monthly deposit for the mobile home park because it was already three days late due to my schedule and the snow. After the deposit, I found that the Amish bulk food store where I usually stock-up for a month's worth of groceries was closed for inventory. It was defeating to realize I'd have to come all this way again in a few days for the groceries. I sighed, and prayed for safety as I drove again along the narrow highway through white fields lined with white trees barely visible through the swirling white crystals all around. I strained to make sure I wasn't missing the edge of the road, or a buggy in front of me.

Then I saw and Amish woman in her black shawl and black scarf tied over her head, in her black dress and stockings, and black tennis shoes walking along the side of the road, into the near-zero windchill, carrying a brown sack of groceries in one hand, and a gallon of milk in the other. There were no houses any closer than a mile away. I wanted to stop for her and offer her a ride, but with a semi-truck behind me and cars coming the other direction, there was no safe place to stop. All the driveways and side-roads were snowed in. I was forced down the highway for my own safety and for the safety of the other cars around me. I saw her in my rear-view mirror: beautiful, and sad, and strong. She would be fine carrying her heavy load in the cold. And so would I.

See October

Tonight they sway gently in brisk, alive air

On warm horseback over crackling trails

And I silently pray that they see

Every last copper leaf warmed by the blazing sun sinking

Every grand silhouetted oak and red maple

Paired in design with a sapphire sky

Each sweet yellow tree-tear slipping and floating 

Through the day's last rays

Crimson mums and cornstalks bunched by the speckled stone doorway

Far-away flickering flocks of blackbirds playing

The coal black cat slinking under the white rail fences

Lining silent pastures green and golden

Where the halflinger ponies' blond manes rustle

And they lift a curious muzzle to the breeze

Regal and peaceful

I know they will always hear October

They will feel that brisk, alive air

And listen to the geese rising and calling

Maybe they will still feel warm horseback

And cherish crackling leaves

And it will bring them as much joy as ever

But I pray that they can store away 

Some of this fading evening's colors

And maybe one day when color's memory

Is shadowed half-truth, an un-sugared pie

They will catch the scent of leaf under foot

And they will again see October