Home again

Home. 💙 And just out of rheumatology follow up where hugs were given as were heavy sighs of relief. My labs remain unsettling, but my white count has improved for which we are thankful. There is question of my blood hemolyzing (blood cells independently bursting- another sign of significant disease) along with the need to determine if my symptoms/ lab abnormalities are related to lupus or underlying viral disease.

I recently told Matt it had been so long since we’d seen health crisis, I almost felt irrelevant to the chronic illness community. *almost* The past two and a half years had been bliss with regard to my health. And just like that, we were thrown back in.

And it all comes back so fast.

And you wonder how you could ever forget this misery in the first place.

The struggle to do the normal things.

The things you don’t think twice about. Until you have to. And you never want to. And these things aren’t even a part of your disease, they’ve just accumulated over the years to come along for the ride. The nasty extras. That sometimes take more from you than your actual disease.

The getting out of bed dizzy and the overall sense of being unwell. The drop in your stomach when you realize you really are unwell and can’t wish it away no matter how hard you try. The deep breath you take in, wondering how long it will stay this time. The walking down the hospital corridor, sensing a precipitous drop in blood pressure and squeezing Matt’s hand, while silently begging God not to let you go down here on the hospital floor. The anxiety that comes from loss of bodily control and doing your best to internally beat it back while attempting to steady your shaky hands. The sudden onset nausea that comes out of nowhere, bringing with it if given the opportunity, me left lying passed out on the floor in a cold clammy mess. The need for IV therapy nurses to put in your IVs because the floor nurses can’t get a vein, no matter how many sticks they try. The need to not stand in one position for more than five minutes or again, I will go down. Honestly, I didn’t even know that was possible. Until I did. And I’d like to unknow all of this in some ways. And in other ways, I can’t help but be anything but grateful for through these things, we have seen the good and merciful hand of God, who hasn’t been about making our lives easy. But instead about making them real, so we can see him more. And maybe, that’s the most beautiful and most merciful thing he could do.

Neutropenic fever

My bone marrow has been sluggish, yielding only a 0.7 bump in white blood cells from yesterday’s levels. (We had been cautiously hoping for a 3-4 point increase.)The hematologist has informed us that because I have been on immune suppressing medications for so long, my bone marrow may take longer to stimulate. Additionally, my platelets have begun to drop.

Infectious disease wants to keep watching me until all blood cultures return (which may take days) and my numbers normalize. In the mean time, I continue on IV antibiotics and neutropenic precautions (ie. elimination of all germs, mask wearing, obsessive hand washing, no raw fruits or vegetables), as even a small bug could be catastrophic at this juncture.

And so we wait. In conditions that are less than ideal. Away from my babies. On a broken bed that sounds like a vacuum, inflating and deflating all night long.

But even in my current state of misery, the hand of God has been evident in the details. Matt and I left vacation a day early. Had we stayed, I wouldn’t have gotten labs drawn to discover the gravity of my numbers which could have easily cost me my life. Literally.

We also see him in my rheumatologist, who called me from her vacation in Maine to tell me to emergently come in. She has continued to not only follow up with the doctors here, but also text me personally. Who does that?

I came across this verse a few days ago while reading the book of Luke, and it hit me, though I know I’ve read it before. It was spoken by Elizabeth to Mary upon learning Mary was pregnant with Jesus.

“Blessed is she who has believed that the Lord would fulfill his promises to her.” (Luke 1:45)

She believed him.

I think maybe one of the reasons it stuck out to me was that I was doing the exact opposite. I was struggling to believe God’s promises for me. Struggling to trust him fully. Struggling to turn to him first- before Matt or my parents or if we’re being honest- a show, or a workout or even a pathetic bowl of ice cream. Sometimes I struggle to turn to him at all.

And even STILL, I can see a river of grace behind me.

He is faithful when we are faithless.

Lord that you would increase my faith. To not assume the worst is coming. To not be ruled by anxiety or fear of what others are thinking. To not need to control everything for there to be PEACE.

To TRUST first and not last.

To HOPE first and not sometimes.

To KNOW you hold all things, know all things and can be fully and completely trusted, no matter how ugly things get.

If you’re anything like me, maybe you could use this simple prayer too:

Help me believe him too.💗

Are You Sure About That God?

 

Have you ever felt like God doesn’t hear your prayers? I’m not sure why I would given his track record in my own life, or (hello?) the Bible. The things he has done for our family alone have been nothing short of miraculous. Truly. Astoundingly miraculous.

Even still, within the wanderings of my own mind, I have found myself feeling a bit down over the past few weeks. And perhaps a bit defeated, ever trying to swat away the nagging whisper in my ear, “But why?”.

This past fall my husband and I attended an open house for Connecticut’s Foster to Adopt program, something that has been on our hearts for some time. While there, we were told stories of children who were literally sitting in the hospital waiting for someone to give them a home. It was all I could do not to tear up at this causal, albeit heavy, informational meeting. As we sat under the fluorescent lights with candy spread over a long round table, we were given stacks of papers and a subtle sense of sadness, knowing even the newest of ones were to experience deep (likely life-long) trauma.

 As we exited the room that evening, we were told to give them forty days to perform background checks and then we could expect to hear from them.

Forty days came and went.

And we heard nothing.

Sixty days came and went.

Still nothing.

“Maybe it was because of the holidays. That was probably why,” I told my husband assuredly.

A few more weeks passed.

It was January now, and we still hadn’t heard anything.

I knew we could call and inquire regarding the status of our application. But I also knew I needed God to be IN this. We had prayed that if it was his will for us to do this that someone would call.

But no one did.

From time to time, I casually asked my husband if he thought we should just call. My subtle attempts to force God’s hand weren’t exactly fooling him.

And so, we waited some more.

As time passed I began to wonder, was this not something God wanted for us? Was my illness going to essentially render me ‘unqualified’ for this role? Was I nuts, already having twins and a five-year-old to care for? Was God not behind this, knowing there was more sickness down the road?

My thoughts spun round as I knelt down on the ground, picking up the dropped food from the boys’ lunch (and breakfast if we’re being honest…and last night’s dinner too if we’re really being honest). Glancing down at my hand now scattered with taco meat, cheerios and bits of strawberries, I exhaled deep. As I emptied it into a large plastic garbage bag I stood to my feet, peering out my kitchen window. I began to earnestly pray, “God if you are in this, PLEASE, PLEASE let this happen.”

 

An hour passed, and I picked up my phone to check my email. An email sat in my inbox from a social worker from DCF inviting us to schedule a home visit and begin the process.

It was sent that very afternoon.

My heart skipped a beat, and I immediately called my husband. Tears streaked down my face, my doubts instantly assuaged.

 

 

I later checked my phone to read the admittedly cheesy ‘verse of the day’ app which read, “If you remain in me, and my words remain in you, you will ask whatever you desire, and it will be done for you.”

 I knew those words were for me.  

And I knew my God had heard me and he had answered.

 A sense of love enveloped me in that moment.



 And with it followed an unexpected pause.

How quick I had been to forget (dismiss?) the things he had done. Was my faith so wavering that a prolonged response would lead me to question him? And would I have been equally assured of his love for me if his answer had been ‘no’?

I had certainly heard it before. But would it be okay -really okay- if he said it again?

These questions didn’t sit well.

As a forever planner, it had always been my preference to know exactly where we were going, who was going to be there and what we were going to do. None of which particularly jived with the life of a Christ- follower, called to abandon oneself, not the least of which was going to include one’s carefully thought out plans.

I needed to remind myself that he was completely and totally trustable. In all things.

I needed to recall that he was faithful at every turn, no matter how dark the picture.

I needed to remember his goodness. To all generations.

His mercies new every morning.

And so, I set about to make what has been a long time coming- stones inscribed with specific things God has done for us. A simple gesture, which now remains next to our fireplace, as a way for us to remember. 

“I will give thanks to the Lord with my whole heart; I will recount all of your wonderful deeds.” Ps 9:1

Rick Warren says, “The fact is, the reason we have so many ineffective Christians today is that they do not know how to fight the battle of the mind.”

In Romans 7:19 Paul says, “For I do not do the good I want to do, but the evil I do not want to do-this I keep doing.”

Me too Paul. Me too.

But I find, I do it less when I remember. Remember what he has done for me. And look to his character. That’s where faith builds.

“And they remembered that God was their rock, and the Most High God their Redeemer.” Ps 78:35

“To you, Lord, I call; you are my Rock, do not turn a deaf ear to me. For if you remain silent, I will be like those who go down to the pit.” Ps 28:1

“Praise be to the Lord my Rock, who trains my hands for war, my fingers for battle.” Ps 144:1

The physicality of the stones in our home, while seemingly insignificant, to us, declare:

We will remember.

We will not forget.

We will teach our children to remember the good things he has done so that in the hour of trouble, we will remember, and WE WILL STAND.

So if, like me, you question your prayers, or maybe you just wonder if he even hears you at ALL, be encouraged to look back. Remember a time when he came through for you. Let that be a testament to his character, his goodness and love for you.

1 Peter 5:8 says, “Your enemy the devil prowls around like a roaring lion looking for someone to devour.” Don’t let that be you. Arm yourself with the truth found in his word. Read it out loud and preach it to your own heart. The Psalms is a great place to start. 

And if this whole prayer thing is new, I challenge you to reach out in faith.

You might just be blown away by his answer. 

 

I sure have been.



When Becoming Small Means Losing Your Sock Drawer

The past few months have pressed on me in a way I never saw coming. In a way I never knew I always wanted. It seems during this season of much and much more, I’ve experienced an overwhelming urge for less. This has come as a surprise to a girl who once put great effort into both her looks and her wardrobe. While designers were never particularly on my radar, new boots and daily lattes were things I didn’t think twice about.

Maybe it’s been a long time coming. This whole motherhood thing has a way of sifting and shaking the raw and the real toward the surface while extrapolating its polarizing counterpart- selfishness.

And while I’ve never admittedly bought into the minimalist mindset, I have noted a pull in my spirit to become small.

To become small so that others may be enlarged.

This certainly didn’t feel or sound like me.

And I think that’s what excited me the most.

At a very basic level, I began to question, “How can I today, better take up my cross? Better sacrifice myself for the good of those around me?”

Like most things, I believe it starts at home. On a very basic level.

Live with less so we may be better able to give more.

But what does that even look like?

For us, it has looked like moving out of the biggest bedroom in our home and into the smallest of our three bedrooms. This room, bless its heart, fits solely our bed and a small bedside table which now doubles as a shelf. We have pullout bins under our bed with our clothes that once knew the luxury of a spacious dresser. The entirety of the room is an ocean of bed resting near a modest closet which we now share.

Yes. Share.

It all sounded noble and good. Until panic hit on that first night.

Feeling somewhat as if the walls were going to close in on us and perhaps swallow us whole in the middle of the dark night, I stared at my husband and asked, “What are we doing? Are we nuts?!” Now acutely aware of my need to sashay sideways to make it past the bed to even reach the bedroom door (sighs and inconvenienced grunts included), it was clear we were in deep. And as much as I fully regretted my somewhat idealistic decision, I knew in my heart that God was calling us to become small.

And maybe think outside of the box.

Philippians 2:3,4 says, “Do nothing out of selfish ambition or vain conceit. Rather, in humility value others above yourselves, not looking to your own interests but each of you to the interests of others.”

Our aim was to practically show our children the importance of preferring one another, thinking of one another above ourselves. And if we were going to have any effect, I knew it was going to have to start with us.

I’m not sure how I’ve grown up in the church, taken missions trips to Africa and South America and am only now realizing the depth of spiritual poverty I possess with regard to living a life of giving. Uncomfortable, sacrificial giving. In fact, throughout our marriage, I so wisely discerned it was my husband who I believed struggled to give. I had been the one to encourage him to give to this cause or that.

Surely I was generous! Surely my heart was open!

Was I only kidding myself?

Romans 12:10 says, “Be devoted to one another in love. Honor one another above yourselves.”

Who was the one who got up with the babies most mornings so that I could sleep in? Who was the one who played with our daughter every single night after work, pouring into her encouragement and friendship instead of taking time to relax himself? Who was the one who silently tackled the dishes that piled in the sink, rivaling some of the tallest known towers?

It turns out my view of giving had been conveniently one-dimensional for as long as I could remember. And as I stepped back to reconsider, I found this man of mine, was not only generous, he was a profound example of living small.

And he never even pointed it out.

Which quite possibly both humbled and annoyed me, only affirming his heart of giving all the more.

Sure, I had known him to carry us while I was sick. He was my rock when I lost my ability to walk, and he has been by my side through every chemo treatment. And I adored him for all of that.

But this stuff. The day-to-day no-one-gets-any-credit-for stuff, he did this all too. And he didn’t utter a complaint.

He knew well the meaning of honor.

I had much to learn.

Even still, this smallness I now craved, needed to transcend our home and somehow seep out to those around us in any and as many ways as I could think of.

And before I knew it, opportunities began to arise. I half wondered if they had always been there, I had just been too busy, tired or self-focused to see them.

This becoming small business was more painful of a process than I had anticipated. This chipping away. This pressure. I felt it. In many small and inconvenient ways. And these opportunities, well they were going to require some action.

Insert deep fearful breath.

People-centered action had always been hard for this introverted girl. Drop some clothes off at the Salvation Army? Sure. Pay for the person behind me at the drive-thru coffee spot? No problem. But relational giving that required boldness, and in my case some accompanying general awkwardness? That was going to require some bravery.

Who knew that becoming small also meant becoming brave? I had always envisioned bravery reserved for the esteemed. Not the humble.

Couldn’t I become small from the comfort of my couch with a warm cup of coffee in hand?

Read my Bible? Check. Tithe? Check. Give to the needy? Check. Pray? Check.

Still, it felt as if something was missing.

What I didn’t know was that it was probably the most important part.

For years I had wondered what it was that God wanted me to do. What big thing did he have for us to complete? Of course, it had to be a big thing. Because bigger was better, right?

Except in his kingdom. Where the small are the big.

Still, for years, I was sure his plan for me involved some grandiose sweeping action where I would rescue some poor souls in need of saving. My long-sought plans to become a missionary doctor hadn’t panned out as a result of my illness. I never did gain the glory of that title.

Thankfully, rescued from my own pride.

Was my lupus actually another avenue God had ordained so that I might become small? So that he may better gain glory?

In our weakness, he is strong.

Things were changing. I was changing, suddenly realizing that maybe all God had wanted me to do all along was to start paying attention. Really paying attention.

I began asking questions, “Who do I know that is hurting right now? Who can I be a friend to? Who should I check in on? Does anyone need a meal?”

And because it is the Christmas season, we set out as best we could to care for our neighbors by baking a ridiculous amount of cookies. Because why bake two or three kinds of cookies when I could nearly bring myself to the brink by making seven?

Over-the-top lavish cooking and baking had always been my favorite way to show love.

And so, we put on our walking shoes and our bravery and went knocking. We brought cookies and notes of Christmas to our neighbors, some who we knew, others who we are still working to forge relationship with. This year, however, I felt more clarity and purpose than prior years. We were going in purposeful love. Despite the small, seemingly meaningless act that it was, I could barely contain my excitement.

There were several questionable houses in our neighborhood, one who we best avoided for the past few years following an awkward encounter with a home alarm system and three deadbolts to unlatch the front door carefully guarded by a solemn man who held both the door and his family securely behind him. It felt anything but jovial. And so, we determined it best to ‘skip’ this house in the coming years. After all, there had been rumors of domestic violence following several police visits. We didn’t need to stir the pot any.

This was the exact reason we needed to go in the first place.

Maybe this was the house that needed our small gesture the most.

Out on a walk earlier in the week, I took note of the large number of widowed or single older women in our neighborhood. I wondered what they were each doing for Christmas? Did they have family to celebrate with? And so, on our determined path later that week we invited a woman with no husband or children of her own to join us on Christmas. Obtaining her cell phone number, I felt like leaping in the air.

Another relationship forged.

At the very least a start.

Not all paying attention is difficult. Some brings with it friendship and unexpected generosity. A woman recently moved to our neighborhood and visits regularly, sharing her struggles while bringing coffee for me, which always feels awkward and entirely generous.

In my efforts to become small, I find my non-smallness resurfacing its ugly head, realizing it was her that was indeed blessing me more.

More than ever, I’ve been astonished by the way Jesus chose to come. The way he chose to live. For us, even these small gestures have been hard, further revealing how far we have to go in our journey to become like him. In all his glory to come at all. And to come small. Beautiful, revealing and entirely profound.

A favorite author, Shannan Martin says, “Just come. Bring what you have. Spread it around.”

I think that’s all God wants from us. Not to wait for the perfect time or place or financial blessing before we move. Move now. With what you have. And spread it around.

He has been known a time or two to take our little and turn it into greatness.

Is That Really Necessary God?

Yesterday I caught a few sweet moments of peace, as the boys napped simultaneously in their cribs for a full thirty minutes. It wasn’t much, but the bliss of silence calmed my heart almost instantly. I crawled into my bed, pulling the white down comforter up close, as the fall sun shone through the room, softly illuminating the shadows while the brightness of the changing leaves danced before my window. Those few quiet moments left alone with my thoughts felt glorious, even restorative.

As I closed my eyes, I began to think about the word joy. What if joy were like an arrow? The thought caught me off guard, as I’ve always seen joy as an “extra” in my Christian walk. What I REALLY needed was for God to get me through. To help me endure the really hard things. If he sent joy too, great! But I guess I’d always seen joy as one of those flashy (potentially annoying to others) accessories you sometimes put on once you’ve already picked out your outfit. It wasn’t necessary or even all that helpful aside from an emotional boost here or there or the occasional warm and fuzzy feeling. Joy was something adorned by those more expressive and free with their emotions. But was it helpful?

Perhaps the haze of twin parenting had caught up with me. The boys will be nine months this week and still aren’t sleeping through the night. The fatigue I had so hoped to circumvent has caught up to me. And then some. And with it has followed cruel and unrelenting lupus. Burning rashes have made their way back to my hands that have begun to ache, and sores have found their way back into my mouth. My hair hasn’t stopped thinning since I delivered the boys, and I’m now clearly beyond the time frame for postpartum hair loss. My prednisone dose continues to rise and with that so also the scale. Moreover, the chemo I received two months ago has done nothing to abate my stirring disease.

Things seemed to be heading in the wrong direction again. Why would I care about something so seemingly trivial as joy?

In the book of Nehemiah, the governor at the time (Nehemiah), tells the people not to grieve but to be encouraged, “for the joy of the Lord will be your strength” (Neh 8:10). Anyone who has spent any time in Christian circles has likely heard this verse. On repeat. Seen (and potentially even bought) the bumper sticker. But if we’re being honest, I’ve always secretly cringed at this verse. (Yes, I have a long way to go.) It has always felt so superfluous and intangible. How would being giddy help me? How would flitting about make my lupus any better? How would it make me a better mom or wife?

But maybe, joy had a different definition. One not so dependent on mood swings or personality types. I feared joy to be fleeting, easily turning sour at the next bump in the road.

And I had known too many bumps.

Sure, I had heard the adage that “joy is not about our emotions”, but what does that even mean? By taking away the emotional aspect, I found the term to be even more vague and elusive.

The Hebrew dictionary defines joy as “blithesomeness, glee or exceeding gladness”.

Exceeding gladness. I could use some of that in my life.

See, joy, I believe God has been showing me, is a posture of the heart.

“The joy of the Lord will be my strength” (emphasis mine).

And where there is strength, there is power.

Romans 15:13 says, “May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope. “

With his power comes hope.

Hope was something I could hang onto.

What if his joy really was like an arrow? What if joy, rather than being swayed by emotion, was actually a powerful force used by God to target and destroy things like hopelessness? What if it was a heavenly weapon used to shoot holes in the depression in our lives? What if it was a gift used to pierce the lie that “things will never get better”? What if it was a fiery missile used to annihilate the lie that we “are all alone”?

In 1 Thessalonians, Paul writes to the church saying, “you received the word in much affliction, with the joy of the Holy Spirit”.

Even with affliction there can be joy.

Even with chronic illness there can be joy.

Even with loss there can be joy.

In God’s turned upside-down kingdom where the small will be great and the weak are the strong, his joy is found in abundance. And so, I will sing with joy every day that I am alive. Because he is faithful when I am faithless. Because he is fighting for me beyond what I can see. And because he is speaking to my heart in a million little ways if I would just quiet my mind and my heart long enough to listen.

*Breathe in: Merciful Father,

Breathe out: Send strength.

Breathe in: My Provider,

Breathe out: Send peace.

Breathe in: Gracious Holy Spirit,

Breathe out: Send JOY.

~“In his presence there is fullness of joy.” Psalm 16:11~

*Prayer style adopted from “Loving My Actual Life”.

Honest Talk

 

The boys will be eight months next week. And if we’re being honest I have tried and failed *many* times in working toward a healthy eating and exercise plan since their birth. It has taken all the energy I have and then some to get to this point. And while I couldn’t be more thankful for my precious boys, I recognize my own need to live more graciously not only toward others- but even more so, toward myself.

I find myself struggling through a minor flare, requiring more prednisone and watching the scale move in the opposite direction. My inner voice reels with shame as I watch the numbers rise. And while my rational mind knows there are some things I just *cannot* control, I find myself too often affected by it all. Is it possible that God is showing me through my own struggle that I am *still* not in control? That perhaps I still haven’t quite grasped the lesson? Cough...previously, refused the lesson...#honesttalk

I *often* wonder if this apparent roadblock was put here for good. I cringe as I write these words knowing just how many times I have stubbornly crashed into said roadblock headfirst. Willpower! Determination! That was I all I needed to succeed, I felt. The thing is I had all the determination in the world. But my body. It had other plans. I have learned that this body of mine is intolerant to most diets and all forms of extreme exercise. I realize this may not be a big deal to most, but for a former college athlete who has found therapy and release and even *joy* in exercise most of her life, it comes as a frustrating loss.

Despite my best efforts the majority of diets I have tried have landed me in a flare- leading to more prednisone- leading to more weight gain. It’s been an exhausting cycle of disappointment and despair. But this morning I was reminded of a God who takes that which was meant for evil and uses it for *our* good. Could that be the case here? Could he be working an eternal weight of glory in me, if I CHOOSE to let him? Oh how many times I have chosen myself instead.

Maybe sharpening me on the inside is what actually counts. Maybe this wall I keep hitting, preventing me from any “progress” is a blessing. A blessing with regard to eternity. Because maybe this sharpening, this friction is something that will bring me closer to him and a little less focused on myself. Maybe the fit moms in heaven will be the ones who look a little worn and soft here on earth. Maybe they’ll be the ones a little less concerned with selfies and six packs and perhaps a little more concerned with *allowing* themselves to be inwardly sharpened, no matter how painful it may be.

I’m praying today that as I move toward a healthier beginning my internal self would shine a little brighter regardless of what happens on the outside.

Be reminded today that he really does redeem ALL things for good.

If we let him.

#momthoughts #lupus #honesttalk

 

Collapsed Hips and a Double Blessing: A Year in Review

 

It’s hard to believe that one year ago today I entered Griffin Hospital by wheelchair for what would unknowingly be the darkest time in our lives. I didn’t know as I entered the double doors and was wheeled through the lackluster hospital corridors that we had simultaneously entered into a time of sorrow and perpetual loss that would far extend beyond that particular day.

 



Oblivious to what was ahead and assuming the worst had already transpired in requiring a hip replacement at such a young age, we certainly couldn’t have predicted a botched replacement and the need for me to endure the same grueling surgery not one week later.



 

We couldn’t have predicted that pain relief measures would be altogether ineffective and that the pain I had been experiencing in my hips would soon be considered negligible compared to the pain I would all too soon come to know.


 

 

We hadn’t considered the possibility that my “good” hip would go on to collapse (despite assurances that it would last for years to come) a short four weeks after my other leg had been repaired.

 

Nor did we foresee a brutal fourth surgery for an infection of my newly repaired hip.

 

 



Was this real life?

Sure, we had grown accustomed to loss over the past years in battling my lupus and all that came with it. We were no strangers to too many medications, waiting rooms and IV infusions; but this hit on a whole different level.

Feeling utterly stripped of any and all possibly remnants of hope, it seemed all-consuming loss had come to stay. And destroy everything in its path.

And even as the physical pain ever so slowly began to subside, there lie an inner ache that lingered far longer than I would have liked. It was a mourning, not only for the physical loss that we had endured, but also for the loss of what we believed our lives ‘would be’.

For years I watched as others went on to grow their families. I envied those whose dinner tables were filled with the hustle and bustle of raising larger families. We had our girl, and yes, she was our whole world. Her sweet and cheerful personality more than filled our home. Even still, a small part of my heart ached.

I knew perhaps I shouldn’t feel this way. Guilt poured over me in recognizing the countless women who so struggled to have even one child. Who was I to be discontent with what God had given?

Psalm 23:1 says, “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.”

I shall NOT want. I wrestled with those words, feeling my own heart did want. I wanted to be healed. I wanted to be free from medical problems. I wanted my pain to end. I wanted another baby!

But God was reminding me he was in fact my shepherd. My good shepherd. All I needed to do was to trust him. To trust that he actually was good. Even in unimaginable pain. He was good. Even in what felt like the dark. He was good. And he was trustable.

Charles Spurgeon says, “To trust God in the light is nothing, but trust him in the dark- that is faith.”

Numerous times we prayed for another child, knowing full well the odds were not in our favor. Three times in particular I laid in bed next to my husband, watching him while he slept, listening to the peaceful rhythm of his breathing.

I had always found the quiet of the night a good time to pray. Really pray. As the noise of the day was at last silenced, my distracted heart could finally think clearly. I began to ask God for twins. I knew it was ridiculous as soon as I prayed it. And I didn’t dare tell my husband for fear that if we were by some chance to become pregnant that he would have some sense of sadness that it was one baby and not two.

I knew there were days where I could barely handle being a mom to one! Why would God give us two? I needed to stop being selfish, I told myself. And so, as quickly as my prayers came, I let them go.

Some time passed, and to our surprise my rheumatologist informed us that even with my new artificial hips it would be okay to try for another baby. He went on to say that my lupus had stabilized to a satisfactory extent and that it would be best to try sooner rather than later in consideration for the timing of my next infusion.

Was this really happening?

Were we really going to try for another baby?

In hearing his words, it was as if a huge sorrow had been lifted from our shoulders. A sorrow we no longer had to carry, as that which we had grieved and considered lost was suddenly being given back to us. And then some.

We began to try for a short month, but it was not without much reservation and deliberation. As excited as we were to have the clearance from my rheumatologist to try for another, we couldn’t ignore our experience with my first pregnancy which had been grueling from beginning to end with many unwanted and scary complications. Were we willing to go through that again? Were we emotionally strong enough to endure another high-risk pregnancy in light of what we had just endured these past months?

We couldn’t be sure.

And the more we talked, the more we realized that perhaps the risk just wasn’t worth it. More, Matt expressed grave concerns for my health, for fear that our desire to have another baby could potentially leave our children without a mother.

I knew his fears were not something I could brush off, rationalize or ignore. I knew life with lupus meant great unpredictability, complications and sometimes poor outcomes. I knew many young girls with lupus had been taken ‘before their time’ so to speak.

And with that, we decided to pursue another avenue: Foster to Adopt. I delved into the Connecticut Child and Family Services website, learning all that I could. I spoke to social workers. I learned about classes. I learned about becoming licensed with the state. It all seemed exciting and new. I went on to sign us up for an open house where we could get the process started. And two days before we were to attend the open house, we received some news.

I was pregnant.

My hands shook as I held the white stick closer to my face, staring intently at the dark pink line. There was no mistaking it. My heart pounded in my chest as I attempted to grasp what that fully meant for my husband and I beyond that terrifying and thrilling moment.

I called him immediately, as he was away on business. There was no way I could wait another second. We both rejoiced and freaked out. And rejoiced and freaked out again.

But what would the picture look like now?

Proverbs 10:22 says, “The blessing of the Lord makes a person rich, and he adds no sorrow to it.”

NO sorrow. Those were words I could hang on to. As fearful as we were for another difficult pregnancy, and as fragile as we were having come through so much, we knew ultimately another pregnancy was a gift from the Lord. And with that, an unexplainable peace rested over my heart.

I knew this verse was for me.

As the days passed, I found myself utterly amazed by this body of mine that I felt had once so betrayed me, this what felt to be ’90-year-old’ encasing was now carrying NEW life. Miraculous new life. It felt as if God had set the reset button on the script to our lives, and the youthful years we had considered lost were being restored.

Deuteronomy 30:3,4 says, “God, your God, will restore everything you lost; he’ll have compassion on you; he’ll come back and pick up the pieces from all the places where you were scattered. No matter how far away you end up, God, your God, will get you out of there…”

One week later we nervously entered the obstetrician’s office for what would be our first ultrasound. We took our seats in the carpeted waiting room filled with floral pictures hung from the walls. Beside me sat a pregnant woman in a green dress who appeared ready for delivery at any moment. As we sat I found my racing heart was quickly distracted by the hustle and bustle of secretaries answering phones and women of all ages entering and leaving the office.

Five minutes later my name was called by a woman in navy scrubs carrying a thin chart. We quickly followed her down a pink hallway and into the ultrasound room. We knew today was an important ultrasound. We knew today the technician would assess for fetal heartbeat and viability.

I scooted myself onto the exam table, noting the loud crunch of white paper beneath me, anxious to begin the exam. As I laid back, I glanced over to my husband, noting his excited toothy grin which instantly put me at ease. I knew another pregnancy was an answer to prayer for him as well. And it was good to see him happy again.

A few minutes passed, and I began conversing with the blonde ultrasound technician who wore a kind smile. As we spoke I went on to ask her, “If there’s twins in there, would you be able to tell?”, to which she replied, “Oh yes!”

I exhaled deeply and watched her as she began to place the probe, studying her face carefully for any cues as to what she was seeing. We listened with nervous anticipation as she silently typed on her computer, and then suddenly her expression changed, and her eyes widened. In that instant she turned the screen 180 degrees in our direction announcing, “You’re HAVING twins!”

What?

This couldn’t be happening!

Matt and I looked at each other in shocked exuberance, both now taking deep breaths in and out while repeating to each other, “Oh my gosh!!”

I watched my husband begin to leap up and down with joy, dumb-founded by our glorious news.

Tears began to flow down my face, and a warm feeling came over me in realizing God had HEARD my prayer. AND he had answered it.



So many times over the past year I had cried out to God and pleaded with him for relief and escape. And it seemed things only worsened. There were times I wondered if God was listening to me at all. But this time. This time God had honored my prayer. This time he was showing me he had heard me all along.

He had heard every single one of my prayers.

And so, here we are today, in our twenty-third week, knowing in a few short weeks we will be entering into our third and final trimester.



There have been no complications for the babies or myself. Despite being told by physicians that “one pregnancy often mimics another with regard to autoimmune disease”, we have found this pregnancy to be entirely different.

Entirely blessed.

Entirely miraculous.

“For these children I prayed, and the Lord has given me my petition which I asked of him. Therefore, also I have lent them to the Lord; as long as they live, they shall be lent to the Lord.” 1 Samuel 1:27-28