My future is so bright
I've gotta wear shades!
Showing posts with label Encouragement. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Encouragement. Show all posts
Saturday, July 7, 2012
Friday, May 25, 2012
In Due Time
It has been two years today since we sat in the ultrasound room waiting for the first glimpse of our newest babe. Followed minutes later by the news of things beyond our understanding. There was pain in the offering, yet there was beauty and hope.
While the date and the emotions are tucked in my mind for always it isn't a day to mark on the calendar in celebration or in grief. It just is. This date is part of Gabe's story. Now, thankfully, we know the seemingly devastating news of that day, is not so devastating. We know the joy of September 21!
Of course, God also knows the feelings today holds. He guards my heart as I replay the reels. In my daily devotion book this morning he reminded me,
"When things don't go as you would like, accept the situation immediately. If you indulge in feelings of regret, they can easily spill over the line into resentment. Remember that I am sovereign over your circumstances,and humble yourself under My mighty hand. Rejoice in what I am doing in your life; even thought it is beyond your understanding."
~from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young
~from Jesus Calling by Sarah Young
Although unread until this 2012 morning, these are words we have been trying to live out since May 25, 2010.
"...that he may lift you up in due time." ~I Peter 5:6
Wednesday, May 25, 2011
The Difference a Year Makes
Today.
Today I pray the sky will be a bit clearer.
Today I will drive a different route for our familiar afternoon chase. My small attempt to shake the overwhemling feelings of the last May 25th. There are reminders in the smell of the air, the buds on the trees, and the songs on the radio.
Everywhere.
While it would be easy to dwell on those fears, that confusion, and oh, the helplessness...
The reality is our forecast is more promising. There are some new and amazing sites along this path we forge. There are everyday miracles. There are odds to defy. There is HOPE, no matter what.
There is this beautiful baby boy.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Sunday, April 24, 2011
Sunday, February 13, 2011
Because of Love
Because it's February.
Because I just decorated my house in pink and red hearts.
Because Valentines are not just for couples...but friends, mommies, daddies, siblings, classmates and neighbors.
Because everybody needs love. And not the romantic comedy, butterflies in your stomach, plucking petals off daisies kind of love.
They need the "I'm yours forever" kind of love.
The "we can do this together" kind of love.
The "can't stop starring at you" kind of love.
The "I'm always there for you" kind of love.
The "I can't keep myself from smiling around you" kind of love.
The "I promise to make time to laugh with you" kind of love.
The "everything you say is so important to me" kind of love.
The " I couldn't be prouder of you in this moment" kind of love.
The love that lifts you up....
Squeezes you tight...
Makes even hard times feel alright..
The love that teaches you all that you need to know...
And gives you support you need to grow...
The undeniable you were made for me...
And together we make a family...
What's mine is yours...
I treasure each kiss...
And everyone deserves to feel like this...
Kind of Love.
Because real love is something that cannot be bought - only shared. We need it from the time we are born - and those of us who having loving families know that NOTHING could have replaced that. The love of family - the love I was given as a child - made me who I am today. It teaches us how to love the rest of our lives. It can never be truly expressed in the form of greeting cards, chocolates, flowers, or jewelry. Those sweet tokens and gestures give momentary happiness - it's the feeling love behind them that really means anything at all. So with that in mind, and in the spirit of this holiday of love - I would like to propose the perfect gift for your loved ones.
Give the gift of Love itself.
Give Love.
reposted with permission from Joanna
Monday, December 20, 2010
Making Our Spirits Bright
7 months ago we were told that our little babe would likely not have any movement or feeling in his feet and legs.
Untitled from Katie on Vimeo.
We believe that THE babe born 2000 years ago is still performing Christmas miracles!
Note: I apologize for the over-exposure here of our little guy's body. I hesitated to post it because he kicked off his washcloth, but his happy kicks seemed too good not to share!
Untitled from Katie on Vimeo.
We believe that THE babe born 2000 years ago is still performing Christmas miracles!
Note: I apologize for the over-exposure here of our little guy's body. I hesitated to post it because he kicked off his washcloth, but his happy kicks seemed too good not to share!
Tuesday, October 19, 2010
Amsterdam International
The following is re-posted, with permission, from Uncommon Sense. Written by Dana Nieder. She can be contacted at uncommonfeedback@gmail.com
To fully get this post, please read (or re-read) Welcome to Holland before starting.
In the special needs world, there is a poem (essay? whatever.) called "Welcome to Holland." It is supposed to explain what it's like to have a child with special needs. It's short and sweet.
It skips everything.
While "Welcome to Holland" has a place, I used to hate it. It skipped over all of the agony of having a child with special needs and went right to the happy ending.
The raw, painful, confusing entry into Holland was just glossed over. And considering the fact that this little poem is so often passed along to new-moms-of-kids-with-special-needs, it seems unfair to just hand them a little story about getting new guidebooks and windmills and tulips.
If I had written "Welcome to Holland", I would have included the terrible entry time. And it would sound like this:
Amsterdam International
Parents of “normal” kids who are friends with parents of kids with special needs often say things like “Wow! How do you do it? I wouldn’t be able to handle everything---you guys are amazing!” (Well, thank you very much.) But there’s no special manual, no magical positive attitude serum, no guide to embodying strength and serenity . . . people just do what they have to do. You rise to the occasion, and embrace your sense of humor (or grow a new one). You come to love your life, and it’s hard to imagine it a different way (although when you try, it may sting a little). But things weren’t always like this . . . at first, you ricocheted around the stages of grief, and it was hard to see the sun through the clouds. And forget the damn tulips or windmills. In the beginning you’re stuck in Amsterdam International Airport. And no one ever talks about how much it sucks.
You briskly walk off of the plane into the airport thinking “There-must-be-a-way-to-fix-this-please-please-don’t-make-me-have-to-stay-here-THIS-ISN’T-WHAT-I-WANTED-please-just-take-it-back”. The airport is covered with signs in Dutch that don’t help, and several well-meaning airport professionals try to calm you into realizing that you are here (oh, and since they’re shutting down the airport today, you can never leave. Never never. This is your new reality.). Their tone and smiles are reassuring, and for a moment you feel a little bit more calm . . . but the pit in your stomach doesn’t leave and a new wave of panic isn’t far off.
Although you don’t know it yet, this will become a pattern. You will often come to a place of almost acceptance, only to quickly re-become devastated or infuriated about this {gosh darn} unfair deviation to Holland. At first this will happen several times a day, but it will taper to several times a week, and then only occasionally.
A flash of realization---your family and friends are waiting. Some in Italy, some back home . . . all wanting to hear about your arrival in Rome. Now what is there to say? And how do you say it? You settle on leaving an outgoing voicemail that says “We’ve arrived, the flight was fine, more news to come” because really, what else can you say? You’re not even sure what to tell yourself about Holland, let alone your loved ones.
Although you don’t know it yet, this will become a pattern. How can you talk to people about Holland? If they sweetly offer reassurances, it’s hard to find comfort in them . . . they’ve never been to Holland, after all.
And their attempts at sympathy? While genuine, you don’t need their pity . . . their pity says “Wow, things must really suck for you” . . . and when you’re just trying to hold yourself together, that doesn’t help. When you hear someone else say that things are bad, it’s hard to maintain your denial, to keep up your everything-is-just-fine-thank-you-very-much outer shell. Pity hits too close to home, and you can’t admit to yourself how terrible it feels to be stuck in Holland, because then you will undoubtedly collapse into a pile of raw, wailing agony. So you have to deflect and hold yourself together . . . deflect and hold yourself together.
You sneak sideways glances at your travel companion, who also was ready for Italy. You have no idea how (s)he’s handling this massive change in plans, and can’t bring yourself to ask. You think “Please, please don’t leave me here. Stay with me. We can find the right things to say to each other, I think. Maybe we can have a good life here.” But the terror of a mutual breakdown, of admitting that you’re deep in a pit of raw misery, of saying it out loud and thereby making it reality, is too strong. So you say nothing.
Although you don’t know it yet, this may become a pattern. It will get easier with practice, but it will always be difficult to talk with your partner about your residency in Holland. Your emotions won’t often line up---you’ll be accepting things and trying to build a home just as he starts clamoring for appointments with more diplomats who may be able to “fix” it all. And then you’ll switch, you moving into anger and him into acceptance. You will be afraid of sharing your depression, because it might be contagious---how can you share all of the things you hate about Holland without worrying that you’re just showing your partner all of the reasons that he should sink into depression, too?
And what you keep thinking but can’t bring yourself to say aloud is that you would give anything to go back in time a few months. You wish you never bought the tickets. It seems that no traveler is ever supposed to say “I wish I never even got on the plane. I just want to be back at home.” But it’s true, and it makes you feel terrible about yourself, which is just fantastic . . . a giant dose of guilt is just what a terrified lonely lost tourist needs.
Although you don’t know it yet, this is the part that will fade. After you’re ready, and get out of the airport, you will get to know Holland and you won’t regret the fact that you have traveled. Oh, you will long for Italy from time to time, and want to rage against the unfairness from time to time, but you will get past the little voice that once said “Take this back from me. I don’t want this trip at all.”
Each traveler has to find their own way out of the airport. Some people navigate through the corridors in a pretty direct path (the corridors can lead right in a row: Denial to Anger to Bargaining to Depression to Acceptance). More commonly, you shuffle and wind around . . . leaving the Depression hallway to find yourself somehow back in Anger again. You may be here for months.
But you will leave the airport. You will.
And as you learn more about Holland, and see how much it has to offer, you will grow to love it.
And it will change who you are, for the better.
To fully get this post, please read (or re-read) Welcome to Holland before starting.
In the special needs world, there is a poem (essay? whatever.) called "Welcome to Holland." It is supposed to explain what it's like to have a child with special needs. It's short and sweet.
It skips everything.
While "Welcome to Holland" has a place, I used to hate it. It skipped over all of the agony of having a child with special needs and went right to the happy ending.
The raw, painful, confusing entry into Holland was just glossed over. And considering the fact that this little poem is so often passed along to new-moms-of-kids-with-special-needs, it seems unfair to just hand them a little story about getting new guidebooks and windmills and tulips.
If I had written "Welcome to Holland", I would have included the terrible entry time. And it would sound like this:
Amsterdam International
Parents of “normal” kids who are friends with parents of kids with special needs often say things like “Wow! How do you do it? I wouldn’t be able to handle everything---you guys are amazing!” (Well, thank you very much.) But there’s no special manual, no magical positive attitude serum, no guide to embodying strength and serenity . . . people just do what they have to do. You rise to the occasion, and embrace your sense of humor (or grow a new one). You come to love your life, and it’s hard to imagine it a different way (although when you try, it may sting a little). But things weren’t always like this . . . at first, you ricocheted around the stages of grief, and it was hard to see the sun through the clouds. And forget the damn tulips or windmills. In the beginning you’re stuck in Amsterdam International Airport. And no one ever talks about how much it sucks.
You briskly walk off of the plane into the airport thinking “There-must-be-a-way-to-fix-this-please-please-don’t-make-me-have-to-stay-here-THIS-ISN’T-WHAT-I-WANTED-please-just-take-it-back”. The airport is covered with signs in Dutch that don’t help, and several well-meaning airport professionals try to calm you into realizing that you are here (oh, and since they’re shutting down the airport today, you can never leave. Never never. This is your new reality.). Their tone and smiles are reassuring, and for a moment you feel a little bit more calm . . . but the pit in your stomach doesn’t leave and a new wave of panic isn’t far off.
Although you don’t know it yet, this will become a pattern. You will often come to a place of almost acceptance, only to quickly re-become devastated or infuriated about this {gosh darn} unfair deviation to Holland. At first this will happen several times a day, but it will taper to several times a week, and then only occasionally.
A flash of realization---your family and friends are waiting. Some in Italy, some back home . . . all wanting to hear about your arrival in Rome. Now what is there to say? And how do you say it? You settle on leaving an outgoing voicemail that says “We’ve arrived, the flight was fine, more news to come” because really, what else can you say? You’re not even sure what to tell yourself about Holland, let alone your loved ones.
Although you don’t know it yet, this will become a pattern. How can you talk to people about Holland? If they sweetly offer reassurances, it’s hard to find comfort in them . . . they’ve never been to Holland, after all.
And their attempts at sympathy? While genuine, you don’t need their pity . . . their pity says “Wow, things must really suck for you” . . . and when you’re just trying to hold yourself together, that doesn’t help. When you hear someone else say that things are bad, it’s hard to maintain your denial, to keep up your everything-is-just-fine-thank-you-very-much outer shell. Pity hits too close to home, and you can’t admit to yourself how terrible it feels to be stuck in Holland, because then you will undoubtedly collapse into a pile of raw, wailing agony. So you have to deflect and hold yourself together . . . deflect and hold yourself together.
You sneak sideways glances at your travel companion, who also was ready for Italy. You have no idea how (s)he’s handling this massive change in plans, and can’t bring yourself to ask. You think “Please, please don’t leave me here. Stay with me. We can find the right things to say to each other, I think. Maybe we can have a good life here.” But the terror of a mutual breakdown, of admitting that you’re deep in a pit of raw misery, of saying it out loud and thereby making it reality, is too strong. So you say nothing.
Although you don’t know it yet, this may become a pattern. It will get easier with practice, but it will always be difficult to talk with your partner about your residency in Holland. Your emotions won’t often line up---you’ll be accepting things and trying to build a home just as he starts clamoring for appointments with more diplomats who may be able to “fix” it all. And then you’ll switch, you moving into anger and him into acceptance. You will be afraid of sharing your depression, because it might be contagious---how can you share all of the things you hate about Holland without worrying that you’re just showing your partner all of the reasons that he should sink into depression, too?
And what you keep thinking but can’t bring yourself to say aloud is that you would give anything to go back in time a few months. You wish you never bought the tickets. It seems that no traveler is ever supposed to say “I wish I never even got on the plane. I just want to be back at home.” But it’s true, and it makes you feel terrible about yourself, which is just fantastic . . . a giant dose of guilt is just what a terrified lonely lost tourist needs.
Although you don’t know it yet, this is the part that will fade. After you’re ready, and get out of the airport, you will get to know Holland and you won’t regret the fact that you have traveled. Oh, you will long for Italy from time to time, and want to rage against the unfairness from time to time, but you will get past the little voice that once said “Take this back from me. I don’t want this trip at all.”
Each traveler has to find their own way out of the airport. Some people navigate through the corridors in a pretty direct path (the corridors can lead right in a row: Denial to Anger to Bargaining to Depression to Acceptance). More commonly, you shuffle and wind around . . . leaving the Depression hallway to find yourself somehow back in Anger again. You may be here for months.
But you will leave the airport. You will.
And as you learn more about Holland, and see how much it has to offer, you will grow to love it.
And it will change who you are, for the better.
Saturday, October 9, 2010
Joy Will Come
Before Gabe was born I was told by other moms that the diagnosis and pregnancy part of spina bifida would be the hardest. "It is all so much easier once your baby is born." They explained that after I saw him, held him, it would not seem as difficult to deal with his likely long term health struggles.
Their advice holds pieces of truth. In that moment when I saw Gabe for the first time I could not help but be joyful for the miracle of birth, his special life, and all that is to come.
When we are finally home little Gabe's spina bifida may pale in comparison to having our dear miracle with us, but for now none of this is easier - it is much more difficult than we anticipated.
"Preplanning doesn't make the bumps in the road any less jarring." From the book Chronic Kids, Constant Hope by Hoekstra and Bradford.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
New Associations
In the past I've met with friends where I was defined as teacher, Hope College alumni, mom of a preschooler, Christian woman, city newcomer, and more. These pieces are, and will continue to be, part of me.
Last night I met with an amazing new group of women, giving me a new association - spina bifida moms.
I will admit that joining these ladies took a lot of courage. I had, and continue to have, so many questions about what life is going to look life for us and for Gabe. Hearing much of what these moms are dealing with, as well as their perspective on day to day life, was inspirational. Yet, it was frightening.
Today my head is bursting with new information, new questions, new to dos, and new hope for our new journey.
Last night I met with an amazing new group of women, giving me a new association - spina bifida moms.
I will admit that joining these ladies took a lot of courage. I had, and continue to have, so many questions about what life is going to look life for us and for Gabe. Hearing much of what these moms are dealing with, as well as their perspective on day to day life, was inspirational. Yet, it was frightening.
Today my head is bursting with new information, new questions, new to dos, and new hope for our new journey.
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