This time in May is hard since I always remember the birthday we should be celebrating, but aren’t.
It has been awhile; like most women who’ve miscarried, I can be far more specific about how long ago, but it probably wouldn’t interest anyone to know how many years, months, weeks, days and even hours. The point is it is still with me. I think about the baby I never got to hold, but I will always hold in my heart.
The past two weeks have been tough. I mean really tough.
It started when our two-year old began coughing on a Tuesday. Jack was doing okay, but by Friday, Ethan was coughing so hard he was crying begging to stay home from school. He is the kind of kid who is so tough that when he sliced open his foot playing barefoot basketball (a not good idea, as he now understands) at the neighbors, he had to be carried home. He left a trail of blood behind and never once cried.
It started this week when I was on the phone with a nurse discussing my foster daughter’s health. As many of my friends know, we’ve spent an incredible amount of time trying to do everything possible to get her healthy… or more realistically, as healthy as possible for the past 6 months. She is absolutely precious and I love her like she is my own so I am honored and humbled to be able to do this for her.
But, with this has come some surprising consequences.
Before I start, I want to confess I am totally guilty of this so I’m including myself in this question:
Why is it easier to read a book, blog, magazine articles, or devotional than to turn to scripture when we are looking for spiritual nourishment?
Year after year, I keep going back to The Problem of Pain C.S. Lewis.
I’m a self-described Lewis junkie so it isn’t really a surprise that I continually am reading his books, but this one I feel particularly drawn too. I’m going through a horrendous flare up of my fibromyalgia so I think I’ve been especially drawn to the concept of pain right now.
I absolutely love Easter! It has been a part of my story since the very beginning. Let me explain:
I was born on Easter. It has always been a joke amongst our family that I was born into the church since my parents were timing contractions as they sat through the Easter morning service listening to Chuck Swindoll. Apparently, his message that morning got me excited about life and I made my official entry a later that evening. Continue reading