Category: courage

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If You Knew Me When…

I have a love-hate relationship with seeing and/or interacting with people from the past. The “hate” portion is more of a heavy dislike. It’s often awkward, especially if we haven’t communicated in 10+ years. And, if I’m being honest, it likely stems from insecurity – just how did I present myself in middle school? In my mid-twenties, was I really a decent human to those around me? Past people force me to face and own up to who I was, choices I made, how I treated others… and I have no control of how my actions or words are remembered, or how they made people feel. 

But, I also LOVE getting to take a trip down memory lane with someone from my past. You, friends, validate certain pieces of my memories. Certain pieces of me. 

I tend to parcel my life into different “lives lived”. There are significant markers, seasons, moments – usually divided out by places I’ve lived. Growing up in Columbia, Missouri. College at Truman State University. Summers and years working full-time at Camp Eagle in Texas. A brief stint in Beverly, Massachusetts at seminary. More years at Glorieta, New Mexico. A new discovery of life back in my hometown – now for three years (wild!)! Each can feel like a different life. At times, a different Debbie. 

But now, living back home, it’s inevitable that I run into people from the past. And while I’ve remained largely absent from the social media scene that connects me to many from alllll of those places and significant seasons in my life, there have been moments, interactions, and conversations lately that piece me back together. One Debbie with one life, not 6 Debbies with 6 lives. After all, we are whole beings… not divided, try as I may.

So, when I get the chance, I relish the moments to conjure up memories with others. Those times remind me that those moments were real that they actually happened. That I was who I was (even if those weren’t my favorite or best versions of myself)… and those things all work together to make me who I am, in this one life. Your role is significant – not just in my life, but the many others you have known and journeyed with. 

And so now, a trip down memory lane… because maybe it does for you what it does for me. Maybe it will serve as a reminder that in the worst, hardest, best, happiest moments/relationships/situations – we are being shaped. Molded. Becoming. Not stuck in who we were, but embracing that we are people in motion. When we validate the memories, we remember that we are never alone in this journey. So many folks have been along for the ride, even if we no longer share the same zip code.

So buckle up, friends. 

We are going on a ride.

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To all the Women in the Midst of the Infertility Battle

“We’re pregnant!”

Kel and I looked at each other in amazement. “Were you all trying?”

“Yes, sorta!”

It’s still incredible to us that people can decide to have a child, or another child, and… voilà! This isn’t a luxury that we have. And, in reality, probably no one really has it – it can just seem like it.

We have been so honored and beyond blessed to care for Baby K the last (almost) year, but there’s the constant nagging that reminds me that she is not “ours” – she’s a ward of the state of New Mexico. We are stewards of her little soul. We have no control if she stays or goes. I know that no one really has control of that with their children… we all just like to think (or hope) we do.

When we first got K, lots of people commented that we’d probably get pregnant now that we had a newborn living with us. Because, that’s what always happens. The irony of life – the infertile couple gets a baby placed with them and then, magically, find themselves pregnant. A part of my heart longed for that to be true. Not because K wasn’t enough, but because I loved the idea of her having a little sidekick to grow up with, if we were fortunate enough to keep her.

I haven’t spoken or written much about infertility in a while. Partially because it feels a little cruel to the women who are still dealing with it in very real ways while I bounce a perfect-to-me baby on my lap. I have instantly been ushered into a world of mom-hood – the world where I can easily engage in conversation with the lady holding a baby in line at the DMV because I know we have something in common. I can now relate to the utter exhaustion, day-time nap challenges, and blow-outs.

But every month, I still face the same disappointment that I did before K came along. It doesn’t last as long, and there’s no time for it to be all-consuming, but I’d be lying if I said it had vanished completely. As K approaches her first birthday (in ten days!) and hopes of adoption continue to grow, I can’t help but think a second kid might be nice… I can’t help but want her to have a constant sibling companion during childhood.

Maybe that makes me selfish or ungrateful. Or maybe it just makes me human.

But, for us, a second kid means a bit more than a perfectly-timed sexual encounter. Maybe it means thousands and thousands of dollars. Or the potential heartache and ups and downs of the adoption process. Or the possibility of adoption through foster care – if/when reunification with biological parents doesn’t work out (which is usually the initial goal). Or medications, procedures, and lots and lots and lots of waiting, wondering, and hoping.

I think it’s easy to forget those who struggle with getting pregnant. Easy to think, “Oh- she has a foster baby now, I’m so happy for them – the struggle is finally over!” Or, perhaps, if we stop talking about it, all of that stuff will just go away.

I imagine the pain of infertility might have lifelong affects. A mourning of never carrying a biological child in your own womb. A letting go of something your body was created to do. A relinquishing of expectation and desire.

But, I also believe there can be extraordinary and beautiful experiences along the way. Ones that could have never existed otherwise. Ones that cause me to be grateful for the years of infertility, ones that leave me astonished by God’s sovereign plans – far better than anything I could have dreamed of myself. For us, one of those things has been K – placed in our arms at 6 days old. I would wait for her all over again. Every tear was worth it, for before me each day I have the privilege of watching the most charming of personalities, discovering both the world and herself with awe and wonder. She is strong, smart, and silly.

[K, I have marveled lately about the Lord’s perfect timing of your appearance in our life… if I hadn’t been home from California for a short visit, if my boss hadn’t been moving, if your cousin’s leukemia treatment hadn’t been deescalated, if your dad and I hadn’t been living in New Mexico at that exact moment in time, if we hadn’t somewhat randomly decided to jump into the foster care journey. You have been the most surprising and wonderful gift – more than anything we could have asked for or imagined. You, I am certain, were meant for us and we were meant for you. You are undoubtedly our daughter, whether or not genetics declare it so. We are made better by you in our lives. You were worth the wait. You have been deeply wanted from the moment we knew about you, and fiercely loved from the moment we saw you.]

It’s incredible to me that the Lord can give us a child, or another child… and voilà! God always shows up. He proves Himself faithful in the craziest, most surprising ways. And He will remain faithful, even if Baby K doesn’t get to stay.

To all the women in the midst of the infertility battle – I haven’t forgotten you. The pain is real. Don’t be ashamed to feel it, spill it, or just be in it. But don’t lose hope in the midst of the pain. Brighter days will come – even if they look different than what you thought you wanted. Even in the midst of the negative pregnancy tests, the unwanted monthly visitor, the inconclusive tests, the miscarriages, the ups and downs… His plan for your family (however small or large) will be perfect. There can be hope and joy, even in the mourning.

Press on. Into the unexpected and, maybe, even the undesirable. Who knows what awaits us there. May we continue to be surprised by a God who is good and knows what we need and want far better than we do.

“One does not discover new lands without consenting to lose sight of the shore for a very long time.”

André Gide

“By clinging to what you know, you may miss out on what you have yet to discover.”

Duffy & Maggie Robbins
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Brené & Me.

I just watched Brené Brown’s talks, The Power of Vulnerability and Listening to Shame. You should, too.

She said quite a few things that struck a chord with me, but perhaps the most humbling was that it takes ‘courage to be imperfect’.

Crap.

In my efforts to attain perfection, I finally see myself for what I really am: a coward.
And it’s true.

In Listening to Shame, Brown asks the audience to raise their hand if they think of vulnerability as a weakness. The majority raise their hands. She then asks (in reference to The Power of Vulnerability where she puts herself out there in front of several hundred people) if they saw courage in her vulnerability… and again, the majority raise their hands.

So where’s the disconnect?
When we see others show their true colors, we applaud and commend them. We are thankful and appreciative of their ability and willingness to be raw and authentic. But when it’s our turn…? When it’s our turn we want to clam up and hide out… we want to unveil as little as possible about our imperfections. We are filled with shame.

‘Shame, for women, is this web of unattainable, conflicting, competing expectations about who we’re supposed to be… and its a strait-jacket’ -Brené Brown

Absolutely, it is.
Confined to a life of desperate living, hoping someday that somehow we will attain the impossible: perfection. Or, rather, whatever we’ve personally deemed to be perfect.  I imagine the standard is different for all of us, but no matter who we are or what we’re striving for, I doubt there will be a time when we think we’ve actually achieved it.

There’s always room to be skinnier, or prettier, or smarter, or more athletic, or more popular, or more spiritual, or closer to God, or a better friend, or richer, or funnier, or…. you get the idea.

Brown’s point is that there’s a certain wholeheartedness that comes when we allow ourselves to be real and honest about our weaknesses, about our imperfections.  Her point is (after years of research, I might add) that vulnerability results in connectedness, and that connectedness is what we are made for.

She challenges her viewers to look at a baby, innocent and new, and to not lavish untrue things upon it (i.e. ‘You’re perfect…’) but, instead to say, ‘You’re imperfect, and you’re wired for struggle, but you are worthy of love and belonging.‘

I don’t want to be a coward any longer.
I want to embrace imperfection within myself… and I believe that the more I’m able to do that, the more I’m then able to have compassion on and embrace it in others.

I can be imperfect.
That can be okay.

Vulnerability can be transforming.
So, when it’s our turn to rise to the occasion… will you join me?

May we find a greater wholeness in the vulnerability of our imperfections than we will ever find in attempts for perfection.

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