A trobairitz's tales

As I sit here attempting to gulp down my ascorbic-acid-sweetened electrolyte drink, I feel the need to write this out.

Two weeks ago, I had a breakthrough on my nausea and energy levels. My second trimester came in like a bad latte at 5am; while, not the glorious delicacy I dreamt of, it was, without a doubt, sufficient and well-appreciated. My first trimester was hellish at best. Falling pregnant so quickly after our miscarriage, while I know a lot of people would call it a blessing, for me it was kind of a nightmare. It had been less than four weeks from the loss of AL when I got the positive pregnancy test and I definitely wasn’t ready for it.

In the weeks after the loss, I remember feeling a deep need to be pregnant. I felt unfulfilled and unfinished after the miscarriage and really wanted that void to be filled. However, I feel I need to clarify that I didn’t want to be pregnant again, I wanted to be pregnant still. I felt, and still feel, like something was stolen that should be there.

I was still in profound mourning when I felt that unmistakable fatigue. I pulled out one of those cheap, purple Walmart pregnancy tests and, there it was - a faint little purple line. I felt everything and nothing all at once. It was like my system completely overloaded and just shut down. I was reading my journal entry from that night…

"I really felt like today was turning out to be a good day. Is it a good day still?"

I waited to accept the test’s results as reality until I spoke with a a doctor. Part of me kind of hoped it was just leftover HCG from the previous pregnancy, but I had taken a test since that was negative, so I knew better. Sure enough, the pregnancy was confirmed. Not to mention, the vomiting that started in my 4th week was evidence enough. And it really just got worse. By week 6, I couldn’t even hold down water. I had to start a steady diet of Reglan and Pedialyte just to stay remotely hydrated. For three months, I was vomiting, weak, and emotionally exhausted. If I wasn’t bawling, I was apathetic at best. Any emotional reserve I had was spent feeling guilty about regretting the pregnancy, or the fact that I couldn’t even do a load of laundry without passing out on the floor. I felt like I failed AL, I felt like I was failing my husband and home, and on top of it, I felt like I was failing the kid currently taking up residence in my womb by almost wishing it wasn’t even there.

I didn’t want a new baby, I wanted our first baby. I wanted AL. I wanted what was to not be and I wanted it desperately. To have a new baby growing inside of me felt blasphemous. It shouldn’t be there. AL should be there still. It all felt wrong and sometimes, it still does.

Anyhow, after all that gut-honest confession, I will say this - it has been a process and it *really* is getting better. If you ask me if I’m excited, I’ll respond with a very unconvincing, “Yeah. Ya know… yeah.” And it’s not because I’m not excited, it’s just that my excitement is completely intermingled with everything else and most of the time, I’m just trying to eat the bare minimum of my calorie intake for the day because, although the vomiting has reduced significantly, I still have no appetite.

Most mommies I know had wonderful pregnancies. I get slammed with soft, sweet, reminiscent eyes looking upwards to blessed memories and then, with a sigh comes, “I looooved being pregnant!… I can’t wait to be pregnant again!… Those were the best months of my life!” And all I can do is roll my eyes secretly wish your child pees in your hair today. We haven’t even gotten to take any cute bump pictures because frankly, I don’t have one. I have lost at least 10 pounds since the beginning of this pregnancy and am having a LOT of trouble gaining any weight back. I have completely reverted to a 5-year-old’s diet on top of it. I only ever want mac-n-cheese, broccoli, carrots, fruit, coffee, and chocolate milk. So, that’s weird.

Ryan and I got to go away for the weekend up to the cascades and it really was wonderful. Due to the sickness and fatigue, we have been on maybe one date in the last three months. It was great to just get out into nature and hang out with each other. Spouses take on many roles you never think of when you get married. Of course, they are your friend and your lover, but I never really thought of Ryan being, essentially, my nurse and maid. I never fantasized about him cleaning out my puke bucket at 3am, or forcing me to go on a short walk everyday to keep my strength up (for which I wanted to repay him by puking on his shoes at the time). Pregnancy, if anything, has been extremely sobering as to how reliant I can be, and I think that has been good for me.

Alls to say, I am coming to the place where I am accepting that the next 6 months of my life may just be filled with rest since making a baby has been particularly hard on my body. I always figured I’d be someone who wore pregnancy well, but that is not the case. To you moms who did a half marathon 5 months along - go you. To you pregos who do crossift - kudos. But that does not appear to be my pregnancy journey, as 20 minutes on the eliptical machine pretty much wears me out for the day (or two, let’s be honest). I’m usually a pretty “pull up your boot straps” type of person, but most days, I don’t even know where they are, nor do I have the motivation to look for them.

So, there is my long way of saying how much I really hate being pregnant. I am excited to have a baby, but being pregnant really sucks. My body feels more foreign everyday and it’s a very strange reality - knowing someone the size of an orange has completely taken over all my bodily functions. I have mad acne, my hair is falling out, I have the congestion of a sick pug, and my abdomen feels like a clown car. And in the midst of al this weird awfulness, a life is being nurtured. Ahhh, but that is the weird beauty of it all I suppose.

Thanks for listening. I hope you can’t relate to my pregnancy woes, but if you can, 

It has been a month since the miscarriage began. I think back to those days in pregnancy limbo - those days when I was racked with anxiety and distress at the awaited verdict of my baby's life. Although the baby is gone, I still feel like I'm there, though - in a place of utter uncertainty. 

Ryan has been really worried about me lately. I’m not surprised; I would be too. I think it’s appropriate to say that depression has kicked in full-swing. I really thought by now I would be better, but I’m not. Some days it seems worse than ever. Time brings distance to tragedy and usually, that’s helpful, but the further I get from the miscarriage, the more I seem to mourn. Maybe it’s because I can’t stop counting my ghostly weeks (I would have been nearing the end of my first trimester today), or maybe it’s because freaking everyone seems to be announcing their healthy pregnancies this month, or maybe it’s because I genuinely don’t feel pregnant anymore. Whatever the reason, the emotion has left me wanting to hide. I have not wanted to be around anyone lately because I feel so very exposed.

Everyone has been so wonderful this last month. I feel like I have had a uniquely “pleasant” miscarriage experience in regards to people’s reactions. I’ve heard heartbreaking stories from people who were never validated in their loss, faced with people who were insensitive and ignorant. That, thankfully, has not been my experience. I have been met with so many hugs and tears and cards and gifts and flowers and messages and assurances… it’s really quite wonderful in context. However, the flip side to that is that, everywhere I go – work, church, get-togethers, Facebook – everyone wants to tell me how sorry they are. Everyone wants to offer comfort. Everyone wants to be salve on my wound. And I am conflicted because that’s how it should be and I would likely take offense if that weren’t the case but at the same time, it serves as a reminder of everything I already can’t forget.

Aside from familiar gatherings, I don’t even want to go to the store lately. I feel wobbly when I put on my shoes and sigh as I apply my mascara, wondering how many hours it will last before it mixes with my tears. I wonder and try to prepare for what will trigger me today. Will it be the Costco special on car seats? Or maybe the crisis pregnancy center billboard? Perhaps it will be the friend of mine entering her daughter in the “Cutest Baby” contest on Facebook? Let’s not forget about the mother coming into my work with 3 young children – all hers – and, just as an added bonus, a 7-month fully pregnant belly. Oh, and our adoption was just confirmed. Shoot me.

I feel like cotton candy in Seattle.

Friday, Ryan and I went out on a proper date for the first time in weeks. I had been eyeing my burgundy mary-janes all week and, for the first time in a long time, I was excited to dress up and go out. We arrived at the restaurant and were told there would be a fifteen-minute wait. That’s fine. Ryan grabbed our buzzer and we sat down in the waiting area smiling and flirtatious. I see a young couple across from us, also dressed up and holding hands. That’s nice, I thought. It was just a few minutes before her coat fell open and I could see her supple bulging belly. And in less than a moment, my heart hit the floor and I was trying not to hyperventilate there in the waiting area. When we were seated, I chose the north-side seat so as not to be facing the 1 year-old our table was diagonal from. The whole night just felt like a hammering – not on a nail – more like a mirror. But one that was already shattered and lying on the floor. That kind of hammering.

Sunday, Ryan’s brother and cousin invited us out to shoot some pool and have some beers. Sounded safe enough – likely no pregnant women or children to encounter at a bar. So we went and the first thing that happened after greetings was,

“Oh, hey Camlyn. Someone wanted me to give you this since you weren’t at church this morning.”

A card and banana bread.

How sweet.

 I skipped church to avoid consolation gifts.

Then we went about non-miscarriage related business. At one point I stepped out to take a call and found myself facing this:

  At that point I was done.

 I am just done fighting against the tide.

I am just so done fighting the urge - the need - to mourn. Done pretending like a month is enough time to be well. It's not. I'm not.

If you are reading this and you are pregnant, or have healthy children, or have been one of the blessed people to offer me comfort in this terrible place, please don’t take this post as one of condemnation or ungratefulness because it really isn’t. I’m just confused and conflicted. I don’t understand how to live side-by-side with people who are having joyful motherhoods because motherhood has only brought me deep sorrow. When I count up all my lifetime tragedies, combined, they still feel miniscule in comparison to this. I have truly never felt so utterly broken in all my life.

How are the mothers of dead children supposed to walk side by side with the mothers of the living? How are we supposed to do it? One cannot soothe the other. One is steeped in misfortune and grief while the other expects.

I have never understood the term “expecting” like I have in the last month. It’s the most appropriate; it really is. A pregnant mother expects a child. A fair expectation, really. While we may worry about miscarriage or complications, we don’t expect them. Our bodies and souls prepare for, long for, and expect a baby. The digestive system slows down to feed them. The blood increases to host them. The organs stretch and maneuver for them. All things in expectance.

In a miscarriage, though, the mother expects, while the body expels. The mother expects while the heart grieves. The mother expects while the mind looks for answers to the question that is met only with bitter silence…

Where is my child?

I really hate being around people right now.

Everyone knows

Everyone asks

“How are you feeling?”

I say,

It’s been hard

Some days are better than others

What I don’t say is,

Most days

I feel like throwing myself off a cliff

And I know I’m depressed

Because that seems like way too much effort

Most days

Are full of awful reminders

When I see the “What to Expect” book

When I take my multivitamin

When I put my pants on that were too uncomfortable to wear a month ago

When I choice normal espresso instead of decaf

When I drink a beer

When I order sushi

When I see the old prescription bottle in the trash

When I pass the spare bedroom

That was meant to be baby’s

Most days

Are filled with conflicted, confusing, terrifying thoughts

Like,

What if I get pregnant again?

And

What if I don’t?

Most days

I don’t eat until I’m feeling faint

Most days

I cry

And my heart feels like it will pound right out of my chest

Most days

I see children

And they make me want to scream

Some days

Really are better than most

Some days

I’m surprised at the sound of my own laughter

Some days

I don’t feel bitter

Or angry

Some days

I think joyfully of being pregnant again

Some days

I can be distracted

Some days

I really do trust God’s timing

His purposes

His ways

Though I do not understand

Today is like most days, though

And I don’t trust in much today

Aside from inevitable tragedy

My rain boots

And the fact that the heat will kick on when I’m hot with emotion

Today

Like most days

I feel cheated

And mocked

And offended

And sad

And defeated

And utterly

Completely

Quintessentially

I really miss being on Vicodin. They gave it to me when my miscarriage was confirmed to help with the associated pain. There was something so wonderful about the way it numbed by body and mind out. I really hope to be in a place someday where I can look back at all this and be grateful but right now I just want to forget everything so badly…

It was my first day back at work today and there was a customer who came in with a beautiful 6-month old girl. She had eyes like mine and hair like Ryan’s and I was jolted back to those conversations we had when I was still pregnant.

“I wonder what she’ll look like.” I said, convinced the baby was a girl.

“I hope she looks like you; curly hair and bright blue eyes.”

“I just would hate for her to have my nose.”

“Shut up. Your nose is beautiful.”

I hadn’t thought about it since the loss but after seeing that baby girl today, all I can think about was what our baby would have looked like.

I have pretty much avoided babies like the plague since the miscarriage. I have merely skimmed over the Facebook posts of baby pictures and anecdotes regarding, “you wouldn’t believe what Sam said today” and “Roland just can’t get enough of that stupid thing the dog does in the backyard”. Every once in a while I’ll stop the scroll and just linger, one foot in sorrow and the other in envy, not wondering much but feeling everything… but usually I don’t. Unfortunately, babies can’t be avoided at work.

When I saw them come in, I immediately felt like running, but accepted that I (probably) wouldn’t and greeted them instead. I was surprised at how okay I actually felt. I avoided eye contact with the baby girl at first but who the hell can keep that up? So I looked at those big blue eyes and told her “hello!” And you know that thing that babies do where they smile really big with their eyes first and then the rest of their face follows? That happened. Then I waved at her and she did this dumb little mock wave back with her fist that looked more like a Black Power statement than a greeting and Oh… how precious it was. Really, really was. And again, I was surprised at how ok I felt. Here I was, enjoying this baby’s presence without crumbling into a heap like I’ve been doing for the last two weeks and I was truly, truly happy to just interact with her. No envy or sorrow. Just joy.

But then, they left. And for this split second I had this intense twinge of regret that I hadn’t asked to hold her. Not that asking a stranger to hold their baby would have necessarily been appropriate, considering I was working and they were strangers, or that it would have been a wise thing to do, considering my current state, but, God… I felt it. I felt it so hard.

It suddenly hit me that I never got to hold my baby.

To tell the truth, there wasn’t really much baby to hold. During a first trimester miscarriage, some women pass an obvious embryo and some just pass indiscernible tissue. From what I understand, this is because some babies remain in the gestation sac, whereas others don’t and they’re fragile frames break down in the process. The result of the latter is the passing of tissue masses that don’t resemble much. My case was as such. If there was an embryo, I never saw one. I wanted to, though. I don’t know why it mattered so much to me, but any time I passed a substantial clot I fished it out of the toilet and searched the bloody mass for the incomplete child I would never know. I really didn’t know why it mattered so much to me at the time but today I realized that it was because, even if I knew our baby was dead, I still wanted to hold them.

One of my favorite passages in the Bible comes from the first chapter of Ruth:

19 So the two women went on until they came to Bethlehem. When they arrived in Bethlehem, the whole town was stirred because of them, and the women exclaimed, “Can this be Naomi?”

20 “Don’t call me Naomi,” she told them. “Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter. 21 I went away full, but the Lord has brought me back empty. Why call me Naomi? The Lord has afflicted me; the Almighty has brought misfortune upon me.”

Naomi had lost both her sons and her husband in Moab. We don’t know how they died – if it was a military death, an illness, a genetic problem; we only know that they died, and that’s really all that matters in the story. In response to losing her loved ones, Naomi traveled back to her home town of Bethlehem accompanied, by choice, by one of her daughters-in-law, Ruth. When she arrives in her home town, we get the impression that people recognize her.

“Can this be Naomi?”

In response to their request for confirmation, she responds in a non-committal way.

“Don’t call me Naomi…”

She confirms that she is indeed who they think she is but fiercely points out that, at the same time, she is not who they remember; she has changed.

“Call me Mara, because the Almighty has made my life very bitter.”

I used to think this response was awful and an expression of a lack of faith. Like, “WOW, Naomi. That’s pretty dramatic of you. Way to toss your faith in the trash” but as I’ve read over this story again and again I have grown an amazing appreciation for Naomi and her faith in particular. Naomi is not denying God in any way, not really even denying her faith in his goodness. In fact, she has returned to Judah because she heard of God’s provision there. In a place of deep sorrow and confusion, Naomi caught wind of God’s presence and desperately sought to be there. This is not a lack of faith, but an honest one. She is simply saying, “God is God and I am his creation. He can do what he wants with me and I am bitter because of it. I am empty when I once was full. I had a husband, a new home, two sons who married two women; my family and my home were growing. And then my husband died. And then my sons died. I am emptied out. My life has become bitter.”

The name “Mara” comes from “maror” which means “bitter”. If you’ve ever attended a Passover dinner, you might recall eating the bitter herbs. It is always fun for those who have attended before to watch the newbies because horseradish is what is most often used to express the symbol and no one is ever ready for just HOW bitter it tastes. You’ll see someone scoop on a heaping gob of the stuff, bow their head in blessing, and eat the tainted cracker unknowing that everyone at the table has their cameras ready for the face they’re about to make. And everyone laughs. And it’s all in good fun. Of course, life’s bitterness is not warranting of laughter, but it’s odd how similar the process is. We all know life has its hardships. We all know sorrows and joys fluctuate. We all know the bitter herbs are bitter; no one hides their title and yet, we are always surprised at how they attack our senses.

The main thing about bitterness is that no enters into it willingly. When I think of bitter, I think of poorly made coffee, or my dill sauce that didn’t turn out right, or too much nutmeg in my pumpkin bread. It is always in regards to taste and furthermore, something that doesn’t taste like it should; and unexpected unpleasantness; an error in the process; too much or too little; an imbalance. Naomi didn’t feel like she had a balance in life; too much misfortune, sadness, and loss. So much so that she does not feel like herself. After all, ‘Naomi’ means ‘pleasant’, and she was not. In a beautifully heartbreaking statement, she states boldly, “Don’t call me what you once did, for that is no longer my identity. Call me ‘Bitter’, for life, though once sweet, has turned. My bread is now staled, my milk has soured, and my coffee is Folgers. Because of this, I am no longer who I was. I lost my husband and my sons – all my pieces of me and now, I am empty. Do not call me ‘Pleasant’. Call me ‘Bitter’ instead”.

After having lost my own child, I appreciate Naomi’s life testimony all the more. I have always wanted to be a mom and I always thought pregnancy would bring me joys abundant. Instead, I miscarried. Rather than thumbing through the progressive chapters of my “What to Expect…” pregnancy manual, I only read 2 and then skipped to the last- the one reserved for the 25% that undergo “Pregnancy Complications”. Instead of joining the mom forums to talk about my morning sickness and symptoms, I joined the miscarriage forums.  Instead of buying maternity clothes, I bought more pads. Rather than taking home my first sonogram picture to put on the fridge, I came home with a Vicodin prescription.  And now, I feel so much affinity with Naomi because I feel like I lost so much of myself in the miscarriage. I had accepted this entirely new and exciting role as a mother but have no one to be a mother to. I still have pregnancy symptoms, but instead of reminders that I’m growing a life, they are reminders that I have lost one. I don’t know where I fit in now.

So, don’t call me "Camlyn". Call me "bitter", because my pregnancy did not go how I expected - because I now have taste in my mouth I can’t shake at the moment. Call me "confusion", because my identity has come into question. Call me "less" because I was once more. Call me "desperate" because my longing can’t be sated. Don’t treat me like you always have because tragedy has changed me.

“What about the Pie Bar?” I asked Ryan, inquiring about Valentine’s Day dinner options.

“What’s that?”

“They have all sorts of pies; meat pies, fruit pies and, of course, pie-inspired cocktails.”

“You can’t drink those!”

“I know! You can, though. And I can have a sip.”

It was to be our first Valentine’s Day as a married couple and, as an added joy, we had recently found out I was pregnant. About 6 weeks, we thought. We were both handling it differently; I was trying to get over the hill of the belief that there was a life growing inside of me that I couldn’t see and Ryan was combating my mood swings and red meat cravings with burger runs and soothing words and caresses. We were excited, though. We wanted this.

It had been a whirlwind since we arrived in Seattle. Between transplanting our lives and losing Ryan’s grandfather, we hadn’t had a lot of time to settle and find our footing. We hadn’t even really had much one-on-one time to just be with each other and then, add in some first trimester nausea and fatigue, and it felt like we were swimming upstream to find time to just be in the other’s presence. Alls to say, we wanted this Valentine’s Day to be a special one. After all, it would be the last one we spent on our own; just us.

Our first appointment with the midwife was scheduled for Thursday the 13th, but it was moved to Tuesday when I saw the blood on the toilet paper Monday night.

 ————————————————————————————————-

“You’re gestation sac is measuring 5 weeks and 6 days, so not hearing a heartbeat is perfectly normal for being this early. Don’t think the worst just yet.”

“Cramps?”

“No.”

“No period-like bleeding?”

“No.”

“About 1 in 4 women have random bleeding throughout their pregnancies. You and your baby might be just fine. It’s just too soon to tell.”

I knew the statistics. I’d studied the baby books.  I’d read the forums. Hundreds of women frightened for their unborn’s fate… about half returning to type out the joyful relief they felt when they saw the heartbeat the next week… and about half returning with shorter sentences – “We lost the baby… Thank you for the support… I’m just so sad… It was a miscarriage.” 1 in 4 women do go on to bleed without known cause throughout their pregnancies, but 1 in 4 women also go on to miscarry, and I knew it.

I knew what came next; blood test. Urinalysis. Tell me your symptoms again? Still no cramping? Pelvic exam. Cervix looks healthy. We want to rule out infection. No fever? Lower back pain? Come back on Thursday and we’ll draw your blood again to compare levels. Try not to worry.

Two days of utter hell. Every twinge I felt, anything my body did was a potential sign that Ryan and I would not be parents in September. Every time I went to the bathroom, expecting fully but hoping against more blood on the toilet paper. The nausea became undeniably worse – a good sign they said; it means hormone levels are still high. Everything could be just fine. Tuesday… Wednesday… Thursday, finally. Finally, the day that would give me permission to either rejoice or grieve. My symptoms were not worse, but exactly the same. My nausea was still awful, my heart rate still elevated, the blood was still there- still light in quantity and fluctuating in frequency. Everything could still be fine. My blood could not be drawn again until after noon, so I went to work early. Starting my last day of waiting, hopeful to be distracted by the smell of cookies, the warmth of the bread oven, the kindness of my coworkers, the normalcy and routine that would make Thursday seem like any other Thursday.

And like any other Thursday, one of our patrons came in for his morning hot chocolate. He asked how I was.

“I am well, and you?”

“Well it’s a beautiful day. Paul says in Corinthians that God’s grace is sufficient and in our weakness, He is strong.”

The tears came so fast I couldn’t hide them. Through poorly-disguised sobs, I explained that I might be in the process of miscarrying. He walked behind the counter to embrace me.

“That’s a hard thing to walk through. My wife and I did once. You’ll be in our prayers and remember, God is good, even in this.”

“It is so hard to trust him here.”

“I know.”

 ——————————————————————————————————

I was too scared to use the bathroom at work as I wasn’t eager to find out that I was losing my baby and the mild cramping that started the last hour of my shift suggested the inevitable. So when I came home to use the bathroom before heading to the clinic, the increased amount of blood in the toilet did not shock me the way it had Monday night.

I called my midwife to see if the blood test was still necessary, since I was now sure I was miscarrying. No, it wasn’t, although until I had severe cramping or passed the embryo, she said there was still hope things would be fine. She walked me through what would happen if I was miscarrying and said I would probably know within a day.

And I did.

Ryan brought me roses that night. We both took the next day off of work. I slept with the heating pad on high, held to my increasingly painful abdomen.

“I just wish it was over.”

I awoke on Valentine’s Day to a pain in my body I had never felt before.  Along with the period-like cramps I had been having all night, every few minutes it felt like someone reached into my insides and wrung them like a wet cloth. Contractions. My uterus was “evacuating”; expelling the conception tissue, gestational sac, placenta, and embryo from within its protective walls. And it made sure I knew it. Hours of this until I was doubled over on the bed, vomiting from the pain. I knew this was normal and nothing out of the ordinary for a miscarriage, but Ryan grew more and more worried every time I cried out from my body’s mock labor and, after a phone call to the midwife, he helped me to the car and drove me to the clinic.

“I just wish it was over.”

We arrived at the clinic and, no sooner than when we walked through the door, I was ironically fetal-positioned on the floor in more pain than I have ever known in my life.  Once the contraction passed, I was helped to an examination room. They had already called in a prescription for pain and nausea medications they eventually administered to me. The contractions became more frequent and longer-lasting as I curled up on the examination table trying to remember to breathe while Ryan, teary-eyed, held my hand. The midwife offered to do a pelvic exam to see if there was any lodged tissue she could remove.

“Yes. Please. I just want this to be over. “

Within moments, the contractions stopped and she showed me the placental tissue she removed from my cervix.

“Is it over?”

“No, but that should be the worst of it.”

We arrived home in a conflicting mixture of gratitude and sadness; gratitude for the lessening of the pains, and sadness for the confirmation of our loss. A baby we made but never knew; a life that was never lived, for either of us – a life where Ryan and I were parents and a life where our child was born.

The next few days blurred together and likewise, so did my emotions.

Offense – that God intentionally put me through this

Disappointment – in myself that I felt so entitled to a healthy pregnancy

Relief – that we finally had permission to grieve

Sorrow – enough to make me really understand the meaning of the word

Hopelessness – at our dreams of being parents

Guilt – for feeling so hopeless

Gratitude – because, despite the horrors, I knew it could have been much worse

I felt as though I could actually die from sadness.

And every time I went to the bathroom and saw the blood in the toilet, or passed more tissue, or felt another cramp, or saw my breasts returning to their small size and virgin color as the pregnancy hormones wept from my no longer expectant body… the same question found itself falling from my lips, “When will it be over?”

_____________________________________________

There is no mercy in miscarriage for the mother. When you know you are carrying a life, nothing is ever the same. Every meal, every exercise, every shower; every seemingly normal routine activity has another purpose and new rules. Being a mother, no matter how long you’ve been one, is a completely different role with completely life-changing stipulations. To accept that, to welcome that and then to lose it in a moment is awful. To see the remains of what was your child, to feel your body expel them impartially is no less than traumatic. Of the many, many articles and forums I’ve poured over regarding miscarriage, a piece from ‘The Miscarriage Dilemma’ hit the nail on the head: “Miscarriage is enigmatic. Even though it can feel like a death, there is nothing tangible to mourn.”

No, there is no mercy for the mother, but all the mercy for the child and from my short time spent as a mother, I know that’s the whole point. I know that miscarriage is merciful. I know it means that the pregnancy wasn’t healthy. I know that child will never have to experience the sorrows of this life. And through all the trauma and pain and tears, I know that is the only thing left to accept; that part of being a mother is letting go. I know I gave my baby a home inside my body and my heart, that I did everything in my power to keep it safe and healthy. I know, without a doubt, that if love, alone, could have kept our baby alive, that he or she would have lived forever.

Our move from Phoenix to Seattle bleeds with analogy; desolation to saturation. 

                                     Even the rocks grow foliage.

Ryan and I have been (slowly) settling into our current home here in Washington for the last month now. Arriving the week of Thanksgiving brought a whirlwind of distraction to divert us from our relatively normal routine and, with both of us starting new jobs as well, it has been a stormy sail into the New Year.

When Ryan's family caught wind of our desire to move back to the Northwest, his grandparents offered up their basement to us. It has been an incredibly symbiotic arrangement; they are in their 90's and need help with various things around their home, and we get to live for free, which allows us a *huge* upper hand in getting our debt paid off and stockpiling our savings. God could not have brought us here at a more perfect time, either.

 A few days before we arrived, Ryan's grandpa started having bouts of nausea. At 92 this was not an oddity but, despite tests and a handful of doctor visits, he continued to feel unwell. After a minor episode of tachacardia, he and the doctors decided the nursing home would be the next best move. Within a few days, his heart was back to running at 100% and he said he was feeling much better. We all spent a portion of Christmas day in the nursing home with him and he and his wife celebrated their 69th wedding anniversary on the 27th. The following Monday, he started having an incessant cough that was interfering with is sleep. Grandma spent most of the day with him and, as she was rubbing his hand, he woke up and said, "goodbye" and fell back to sleep. The next day, the nurse gave him a breathing treatment and, perking up, he said, “I feel much better. I think I can rest now.” And just as the past year left us, so did he; in an exhale; a blink; a moment.

A life is much like a caress; a touch, a connection, a momentary pressure, and then, gone. The only evidence being the fallen strand of hair and the lack only you can attest to. We question death the way we question all ends, “are they really gone?” And of course they are, but not really. You still feel as though the guest will crush the ghost that sits on the middle cushion of the couch… their finger prints still mark the Ipad; bearing the virtual buttons linked to the movies, photographs, and Facetime conversations that brought them joy. The workshop still strewn with tools of creation. The look on Grandma’s face just after a laugh brought on from a random anecdote of her lover. How can someone who’s not there make you laugh so? Perhaps we are born phantoms that merely hide behind skin until we’re ready to emerge.

I feel such a strange mix of emotion being here in the midst of such an occasion; grieving with this family that is mine but not mine. I am an honored intruder.

Death has never taken someone close to me. I lost my father’s parents over the course of my pre-adolescent childhood, but the weight of such things was never really felt by my freckled, bony shoulders. In addition, my family gatherings tended to consist of my parent’s preceding and subsequent relational breakdowns. Familial closeness was more comparable to walking through a thorn bush than a hug; move slowly to avoid deep injury and if possible, just sit down and stay still. Ryan’s family is not like that. Ryan’s family is one, giant embrace. Grandpa died on New Year’s Eve and the house has not since been vacant. Smiling faces, bearing arms filled with crockpots and deep dishes, veggie platters and top-shelf beers. Boggle, Scrabble, Nerts, storytelling. Google-earth tours of Grandpa’s hometown. Here’s the box he made. Oh, that? That was his favorite book! Do you remember the time he painted the house? Here’s the card I wrote him when I was 12! I never knew he kept these…

Desolation to saturation. Desert to seaside. Cacti to fungi. Dust storms to air, damp with water droplets; the kind that never soak you but always make sure to leave your shoelaces wet. And for me, what feels akin to an orphan in an adoptive home; the honored intruder; gratefully uncomfortable and never quite wet.

I’ve tried to write about what a blessing Ryan and his family have been to me many times, but never really can put words to it… there really are none to do the thing justice. And you could never really know how wonderful my husband is unless you were as selfish and self-centered as me and married to him. There is nothing to compare, no analogy or symbolic phrase that could express how a heart like mine feels cradled in his hands. But… desolation to saturation might whisper a sentiment to the beauty of the thing. And this might wink at you from the heart of the matter:

“When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish things behind me.”

Exactly one year ago, I was finishing packing up my car with everything I owned and gassing up to leave for Phoenix in the morning. I think back to that day. A really beautiful, sunny, breezy Kansas City day. Standing in the driveway with my mom, readjusting and repacking my back seat and trunk to ensure the most efficient use of space (15% of which was Boulevard beer). Rechecking the bathroom, under the bed, the kitchen, the garage, oil level, tire pressure, Ipod charge, another cup of coffee, kisses from mom...

As Dara and I set out the next day from the city I called home for 15 years, I remember driving and driving and gradually getting further and further away from, not just the city, but from familiarity. There's not one street I could go down in the KC Metro with out recalling some event, mishap, divine encounter, or old flame. Not one store I could go into without running into someone I knew. All over the town, pieces of my life - a tiny garden of forking paths, each diversion leading me away from who I am and closer to who I am now. I could literally map out the major and seemingly unimportant events in my life alongside every backroad and late-night restaurant in a 50-mile radius of Kansas City. 

And we just drove

And drove

Until, at last, I was on a road with no memory. 

A new journal opened up in front of me with nothing but crisp pages and virgin blue lines and I felt so many things... the weight and insecurity of leaving all my comfortable little limits and familiar places. The freedom of wide open spaces. The fear of that freedom. The sadness of leaving people I loved. The relief. The sudden inhale of air one breathes on mountain descent - not realizing just how thin the air was until it wasn't any longer. 

I had never felt so alone.

I realize that sounds sad, but it wasn't. I am not sure when, but at some point in time I fell into the habit of meeting everyone's expectations. It's a particularly bad habit because, I am REALLY bad at it. That loneliness, though, was the first time I think I felt really free from that. I was moving to a new city, starting a new job- not starting over, but just realizing where I ended and everyone else began. Seeing for the first time how horrid my depth perception was in regards to those lines and how I braided them into sturdy little bonds to keep me stuck there. 

When I was little, my mom used to pay me to untangle her jewelry. She would hand me this whopping mess of gold and silver chains intermingled with mateless earrings and threads and rave about how I was so good at separating all the little hooks and knots with my dainty fingers and hawk eyes. I never met a necklace I couldn't untangle, but I never realized that those same little fingers work the opposite way too. Man, did I make a mess of myself; weaving my dreams and desires into everyone else's, leaving me wrapped up in the middle of a ball of hand-me-down wants and tarnished excuses. 

One year and a day ago, I left. 

And, although I miss the people there, I have never desired to go back. Not once have I missed the place. 

I have heard so many people talk about not living in your past. I've had counselors that train brains to not recall painful memories. It doesn't ever work though. We remember whether we want to or not. We have our intentional remembrances- anniversaries, birthdays, a playlist, a dinner order... but then there's all the unintentional memories. One scent, one song, one little phrase or shirt pattern can send our minds and hearts shooting back to a moment we don't ever want to relive again. All the sudden, we are just there with no willingness, no intention, no action. We are made to remember, but we are not made to relive. Leaving gave me the ability to do that, and I am ever so thankful. I had so many people and places dictating to me who I was that my reflection was fogged and I couldn't see myself properly. 

I'm still not sure if I can, but I have certainly left the house of mirrors. Just being, just living. And lo and behold, I fell in love in the open spaces. And someone fell in love with me there. And one year later, I am 36 days away from marrying a man who loves me for exactly who I am, including everything I ever was or will be. 

This place, in flux and flow, this is the place where love is nurtured and freedom found. Open hands, open eyes and and open heart, ready for what may come, come what may, always ready and trusting God not because what he gives is good, but because he is good, and out of that, he gives. 

    One area of immense controversy in the world today is the effect of Non-Governmental Organizations (NGOs). NGOs have no governmental affiliation and provide different forms of aid to areas that would, otherwise, have no such access. Whereas governmental aid is more policy-oriented and obligatory, NGOs are usually non-profit and are designed to function off of volunteer efforts, donations, and partners. As the world has progressed, NGOs have had the opportunity to evolve into much more efficient and holistic efforts. Some organizations, however, have not gotten on the bandwagon. TOMS shoes for instance, has gained immense popularity and boasts on it’s business model  but, although the intent is a good one, TOMS results in aid-dependence, supports unfair labor practices, and withers the community by taking away business from cobblers in the countries they supply to. These are the reasons for the controversy over NGOs coming heavily into play. Are they helping build communities or crippling them? Are they causing more damage to a community by their “charitable” contributions? Are they really just welfare to the needy, resulting in laziness and aid-dependence? These questions have resulted in a lot of unfortunate answers and further evidence to support the old saying that “the road to hell in paved with good intentions”. So, is international aid inevitably doomed or can we reinvent the wheel?

                In our modern age, consumerism has become the key to holding economic and societal worth of any country or business therein. As consumers, especially in America, we have an incredible opportunity to lean into the power we have as consumers and demand that the products we purchase are produced within the same realms of freedom we enjoy every day. Unfortunately, this is hardly the case. The products that gain immense popularity are usually those that cause the most damage. Brands such as Nike, Apple, and Hershey’s, are certainly not lacking in reports of slave labor and child trafficking. So why do we support them? What about the companies that are going about their business practices ethically? What about the organizations that support the consumers as well as the laborers? What about the businesses that give back to the environment that they take from?

                The NGO I’ve chosen to discuss is Oikocredit; a micro-finance organization that supplies loans to 26 million clients world-wide. Oikocredit began in 1975 and has, since, grown into one of the largest micro-finance organizations in the world. There mission statement reads:

“As a worldwide cooperative society Oikocredit promotes global justice by challenging people, churches and others to share their resources through socially responsible investments and by empowering disadvantaged people with credit.”

            Oikocredit receives money from investors and disperses the funds as a large loan to worthy micro-finance institutions and financial cooperatives all over the globe. The funds are then divvied up into small loans and given to those in poor communities that desire an opportunity to pull themselves out of poverty in various ways, such as starting business. Oikocredit also works with their partners to provide services to those borrowers to ensure success in their endeavors. Oikocredit’s success lies in it’s strong foundational values, holding to the beliefs that “all people are created equal… women are the backbone of their societies… meaningful sharing… ecumenical solidarity… grassroots… integrity… transparency… natural balance… and evenly divided resources”.

            With an outstanding capital of € 516 and 2% return to investors, Oikocredit maintains it’s holistic and supportive nature to all those involved. With their focus on ethical labor practices, environmental support, female empowerment, and truly impoverished communities, they have found a way to take beautiful ideals develop them into a very wonderful reality that anyone can choose to be a part of, whether it’s an investment (as little as $20), purchasing products from partners and/or borrowers, or taking out a micro-loan to better yourself and the world.Oikocredit puts the concerns of aid-dependence to rest and supplies opportunity instead of checks, gives a hand-up instead of a hand-out, and empowers instead of pitying. Oikocredit is, most definitely, a friend to the international community.

First off, I want to say thank you again to all those who were so supportive of this trip, spiritually and financially. The impact being made on the Rez is insurmountable and I am truly humbled and honoured to be counted worthy to be a part of it. Thank you to The Potter's House Chinle Christian Center and the Lord's Church in Pinon for hosting such wonderful events. I also want to thank Action Missions for their work on the Navajo Nation and their fearless leader, Jim Yates, who has given so much and has faithfully led us on this mission. My thanks extend to his family as well for all their sacrifices. Thank you to the leaders of OYM for giving me the original opportunity with my first trip down to Chinle. Also to Dr. Dan and Cathy Erickson for their sacrifices and dedication to God's calling on your lives. Thank you to Serafico Servada for being absolutely insane and passing on your joy and spirit to all of Chinle. Thank you to the Chinle Holiday Inn for housing us. Lastly, thank you to the Navajo People, for being so trusting and generous to us. For allowing us into your culture and hearts and homes. For trusting us with the hearts of your precious children. Thank you May God bless all of you beyond measure, in this life and the next :)

This was my second trip down to the Navajo Reservation and I know a lot of you have heard me say I felt as though I left my heart there the first time. My first Navajo venture was a part of the OYM (One Year Mission) program at NLCC so I had gone per my internship. I had never been on a mission trip prior to that but I will tell you this - I felt as though I could have stayed forever. I have always been a dabbler, meaning, I really enjoy experiencing lots of different things and it's always been a challenge to find my "niche" in life. At the end of my OYM term, I remember everyone discussing what they saw in their immediate futures and how excited they were... but I had no clue what to do next. I had committed to mentoring in the next OYM class and I was a Young Adult minister at the time but I had absolutely no idea what God had planned for my life. I had dropped from my Psychology degree with no desire to finish (I wanted to finish college, but not the same program), was working a job I loved but that barely paid the bills, I had no significant other and just.no.freakin.clue. what I was going to do. I prayed and prayed and prayed some more but wasn't getting any answers. The we went to the Reservation and I fell totally head over heels in love. We did a VBS in Pinon during the day and served at the annual tent meeting in the evening. I was smitten. Mostly with the kids in Pinon. A little girl by the name of Lexi attached herself to my pinky finger and then to my heart in the process.

Can you see the ridiculous amount of love?! CAN YOU!?!?

I also led the team of the older boys who attended and they just melted me down and I know I went down there to bless them, but really, they blessed me. These kids, who have been oppressed and abused and raped and taught that they are no better than a piece of trash in the desert, to see their boldness and bravery to ask the hard questions and spend their time and trust on a curly-haired white girl from the midwest... Never have I seen such courage. This reality is even more amazing when this belagana is sharing about Jesus Christ. This is hard to swallow... When your dad is raping you and your brother is in a gang and you are barely educated and your country, which declares freedom, has forgotten you in the dungeon they put you in and hope isn't even a thought in your mind... can you accept that there is a God who sees your every tear, who loves you deeply and uninhibitedly, who loves your abusers just as much? These kids did. And for whatever reason, they chose to spend their time in a teeny tiny church with naught but an outhouse to play in and listen to a bunch of whities sing songs and tell tales of a king who wore rags and redeemed the world in the space between heartbeats, from a cross to a tomb. Never have I seen such bravery. And as for me, could I look these kids in the eye and honestly, genuinely tell them that Christ was the answer? That he is worth everything we can give when we feel as though we have never had a say in what is given of us? That justice still reigns? That they are deeply loved in the intended way, the created way? That they have a purpose in a kingdom of glory?

Could I?

Yes... because it was truly the absolutely only thing I could offer. You can give all the food, clothes, aid, education, clean water you want but brokenness and it's consequences will never be remedied unless it is bound to the source of life and mended. Then, hearts heal and hearts change and hearts drive a people to make the bad things different and be the vessels of transformation. Only by following suit of the firstfruit, our saviour, Immanuel, God-with-us.

Never underestimate the reality that you are a child of God. And never forget that you have the agency of a king within this world. And never let fear and doubt win; they are beastly enemies but if they are on your scent, your aroma must be a sweet one. 

When I returned to KC, I felt like my heart never came back with me. As the months went on, that feeling only deepened and by winter, when I was asked what the one thing was that I would do if there were no obstacles or details to worry about, my answer, without hesitation, was "I'd go back to Pinon and play with the kids." So, I prayed about moving to Arizona. And then God confirmed it, over and over and over and over and over again and eventually (aka 2 months ago) I  packed up my $400 car and hightailed it to Phoenix. Now I am close enough to make multiple trips throughout the year. 

Due to what a heavy impact the first trip made on me, I was thick with joyful anticipation for the second trip. The trip out was super fun. Stephan and I carpooled out from Tempe and arrived in Chinle Sunday evening. I also got to room with Michelle and Stephy-Poo O'Day at the hotel, which was just amazing. It was an absolute God set-up and I am so grateful for their comradery. Also, the Holiday Inn was stocked with rainforest-alliance coffee, so my previous caffeine weening had been for naught (and I was SO very much glad). Monday, the whole June team got together starting at 7am for breakfast and a devotional. Jodie, a willful princess of a 6-year-old and daughter of our mission leaders, Jim and Alison, proclaimed herself a professional snail-hunter. So, she had to school me in the art of snail tracking before we left for the day. Then we headed out to Pinon. We hopped in the bed of the O'Day truck and off-roaded through the desert town, giving VBS flyers to anyone who would take them. Afterwards, we headed back to Chinle to do likewise. I know a lot of us remember VBS as this cheesy-church thing our parents made us go to but I'll tell you, these kids' entire substance alights when they see hear that acronym. They look forward to it every single year.

The church that Action Missions partners with is called The Potter's House, pastored by Arty Aragon. If you walk about 30 yards out from the door, there is this cement slab embedded in the ground. On this place, and all around it, you will find broken glass, trash, needles and lots and lots of punctured hairspray bottles. For those who don't know, alcohol is illegal on the Reservation due to what a problem alcoholism is. So instead of drinking liquor, many people substitute a concoction called "ocean". Ocean is created by taking an alcohol-based hairspray and mixing it with water in a large jug. A lot of people are severely addicted to this substance and it is just heartbreaking to see the remnants of a life  piled in a heap of trash outside the doors of the church. A couple of the girls and I just stood in the middle and prayed for a redeemed and restored land; for redeemed and restored lives.

We had a small amount of downtime before we it was time to primp for the tent meeting, which I spent mostly snail hunting with Jodie, who was pretty disappointed to find only shells in the hot afternoon. She remained positive though and declared we would just have to try again tomorrow. The annual tent meeting is essentially a giant circus tent set up right off of Canyon De'Shelly for the purpose of hosting a revival-type event. An evangelical preacher by the name of Serafico Serveda travels to Chinle and pretty much knocks the spiritual socks off of you because "The devil is a liar, and so is his fag mother". After worship and most of the sermon, we all headed back to the other big tent to serve a free, well-balanced meal to the 5-600 people that show up for the event. The first night, we straight up ran out of food, which is really an excellent thing because that meant we had far more people than expected :). So once everyone was served, I shoveled in some fry bread, said hello to everyone and then we ran clean up until about 11p. Once everything was spotless and bagged (due to dust) I hopped in with the NLCC team and we went out to a lookout point on the canyon.

If you and I have ever had a conversation about the Rez, you have undoubtedly heard me rave about the stars there. The stars there are so visible and so vast and so many I can barely keep contained when I think about them. They are by far, the most amazing thing I've ever seen (yet). My first trip out, I remember looking up and just crying. The lack of industry and crowds allow the sky to be vulnerable; clear and inviting. Because it's the middle of the desert, there are no clouds claiming territories. I remember trying to take it all in and the only thing I could think about was Abraham, with God looking at him and his barren Sara and promising  "I will surely bless you and make your descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky". I never understood the beauty of that promise until I could not even fathom counting even a fraction of the stars I could see. We all sang "How Deep the Father's Love for Us" on the edge of De'Shelly, with voices ringing and hearts understanding how vast beyond all measure that love truly is.

Tuesday began VBS in both Pinon and Chinle. I was on the Chinle team and honestly, it broke my heart that I was not able to visit the Pinon kids this year. I have spent so long a time missing and praying for them and it was one of the most difficult things for me to accept. However, God gives authority to whom he chooses and I know that I am a part of something much bigger than I can even imagine, and I know that Chinle is where he wanted me. I was so scared because I knew I was only going to fall in love with more amazing children... and that's exactly what happened. I'm always worried that I won't have enough love to go around, as though we only get a particular measure of affection and when it's out, it's out. But I am always joyfully surprised when I find my heart and capacity for adoration only growing; gaining muscle with every muse.

Dr. Dan shared a story about his dad that morning. His dad who had a 3rd grade education, feeling called to minister to the reservation many decades ago. "Had I a 2nd grade education, I would have spoken up to them. Had I a 4th grade education, I would have spoken down to them." Because of his "lack", he was able to truly make an impact on people as equals, not as projects. It was a truly inspiring testimony. 

The first day, we had approx. 75 kids, split up into 4 groups: Pre-K to K, 1st-2nd, 3-4th and 5th+. Our VBS was Army-themed and focused on the reality that we are all in the midst of a spiritual battle. Our first memory verse was 1 Corinthians 16v13-14 “Watch, stand fast in the faith, be brave, be strong. Let all that you do be done with love". I assisted Dr. Dan in the Bible lesson for every rotation, which means I essentially got to be the silly one and lead the kids in a bunch of motions to engrain the message :) . Michelle led the memory verse, Cathy led crafts and Joe/Will/Ethan led the game. The older kids are always a challenge the first day because we have to separate the ones who still enjoy sing-alongs and suckers from the ones who are way to cool for such nonsense and would rather help the adults... but we still gave them suckers. After the complete rotation, we gathered for review, prizes and then made all the kids a lunch. After lunch, the children came to the very exciting realization that all the younger volunteers are big, strong and are so smitten with them that they are willing to do nearly anything to make them smile. So began the human jungle-gyms. The time between lunch and when the kids were picked up was merely a blur of piggy-back rides, tackling, tag, hair-styling, dancing and of course, duck-duck-goose. Once all the ducks and geese waddled on home, we cleaned up, breathed and headed back to the hotel for some downtime before tent-meeting.

Wednesday followed suit, with both events growing in attendees everyday. Thursday morning, we all met up at 7am to watch a sheep-slaughtering which was quite an experience... We roll in and there is this sheep, legs bound together, just waiting in the dirt. 

Here am I, scratching the ear of my dinner, with Jodie, who is far more excited than I am about the whole ordeal.

ALL I COULD THINK ABOUT WAS JESUS "as a lamb to he slaughter". So by the time the blood had drained into the hole after Stephan slit it ear to ear, I was in tears. And by the time the tail stopped wagging, my heart was raw. And so, when they snapped the leg bone, I choked on my tears and my heart punched my stomach and I had to retreat to a bush nearby to hurl. That was the moment I concluded that if I had to slaughter my own meat, I would be a vegetarian. Thank you, butchers (but only the humane ones. The rest of you need to check yourselves). Needless to say, all I had for breakfast that day was a piece of bread.

Thursday VBS was pretty heavy. We taught on James 4v7-8 "Therefore submit to God. Resist the devil and he will flee from you. Draw near to God and He will draw near to you". Trying to tackle teachings of submission to a group of kids is hard enough, it's even more difficult to explain when a good portion of the kids are going home to really terrible situations. It is also worth every effort and prayer because these kids are the present and future of the Navajo Nation. If they can accept Christ and cultivate the transformation that accompanies, the hope I have for them and the coming generations is endless. During the review, Alison told me that pastor Arty wanted to see me. To be frank, my heart dropped. I totally thought I was in trouble and my mind just raced with what the coming conversation would hold. So I nearly fell over when I walked into his office and, all smiles, he gestures to about 15 GORGEOUS pieces of handmade Navajo jewelry and asked me to pick whichever I desired. I was so-oh-oh-oh flustered! Immediately my eyes landed on a very unique piece- It was a white stone set; necklace and earrings. The stone beads were polished and bore spidery black marks like those in turquoise. Now I am not proud of this and I am not trying to wallow or self-depricate here but this is my blog and I've vowed to be genuine so I will tell you that all I could think of was purity and blamelessness when I saw it and in a split-second, I concluded I was unworthy of such an adornment and I picked up a beautiful turquoise and coral set instead. I thanked Arty and walked out of his office. As I walked away, my heart fell straight to my toes and weighed me to the floor. "I want you to have it, Camlyn. Go back." Is exactly what I heard The Lord tell me that moment. So, I went back in and said I had changed my mind, picking up the white stone set. It wasn't until I was journaling last weekend that I remembered an old teaching I did on Revalation 2v17 "To him who overcomes, I will give some of the hidden manna. I will also give him a white stone with a new name written on it, known only to him who receives it." God is so very good to me. Thursday at the tent meeting was also Traditional night, which means everyone wears any traditional Navajo dress and/or jewelry they have. I felt SO honoured I could partake! It was truly an amazing day. 

We also hiked down to the Whitehouse ruins in the canyon that afternoon. One of the most enchanting displays of God' majesty I've witnessed. 

Friday. I woke up in a state of pure exhaustion and honestly did not even remember it was my birthday until we were on our way to breakfast. Breakfast was awesome, especially when Jodie introduced me to her new pet, Greenie, a captive snail who was confined to a plastic cup side-by-side with my coffee.  Arty shared the history of his family and how God brought them to Chinle to build up The Potter's House. Truly an awesome testimony. I have unending respect for their family and their sacrifices inspire me greatly. Then we started prepping for VBS and Cathy was adamant about getting me SOMETHING to celebrate the day so I asked for a mexican coke (the ones with real sugar). VBS was great. At the start of the day, I told the mass of kids that it was my birthday and they all sang to me. Then they were over it and we got to learn about the Armor of God. It was one of the coolest things to be at the front of an auditorium with 80ish kids and hearing them recite one of the most amazing scriptural analogies in the Bible. I will also tell you that over half of the kids who attended made a public declaration of Jesus Christ as their saviour. How absolutely humbled I am to be a vessel of God's truth for these children! When they all headed home, Jim toted in bags of the most bestest tamales my tongue has ever tasted. And so, we feasted. Then, Cathy and Kayla brought out a cookie with a candle stuck in the 3 inches of frosting on top and I got to make my wish for the day (Thank you SO MUCH, Erikson's! It meant the world to me that you wanted to make me feel special, and you definitely succeeded).

Michelle then drove all us young'ns to the flea market where I found Fidelia, one of the girls from VBS, selling jewelry with her mom. After picking out some earrings and paying, she ran over to me and told me that she had made the ones I had picked :) We went back to the hotel and I totally passed out at the pool before I had to get ready for tent meeting. There were some crazy haboobs that night and we definitely had some dusty encounters while preparing dinner. Always an adventure! After dinner, some of the kids from VBS spotted me and I simply had no choice but to give some final piggybacks. As they said goodbye and gave me hugs, I just didn't want to let go... Some of the refined (aka older) Navajo women who are members of the church started talking to me and introducing themselves. They commented on how I was with the kids and we got to talking about my move and what God had put on my heart. Their response? "Oh we'll just have to adopt you! I have a son!" another woman chimed in "I have two!" Pointing them out to me. "Oh, we'll just line 'em up and let you pick!" Then, one of the kids ran up an told them it was my birthday and I got one of the coolest presents (no, not a husband): Mary, one of the grandmas, started singing "Nizhonigo nindoohah" which is "Happy Birthday" in Navajo. Oh, I was simply done in. I couldn't even speak properly in response. "Thank you" was all I could say, over and over. We exchanged info and talked about when I could come out again. Then hugs. Then driving away. Then sleep and so many thoughts...

Saturday, we all peeled ourselves out of bed around 5:30am, except for Jodie who was "not quite ready yet" and let her mom's creativity be cultivated by finding new and exciting ways to detatch her from the bed. I packed up all my stuff, save my flats which I totally forgot, and loaded everything up in the truck. I made a cup of coffee, chapsticked it up and headed over to the church for the final goodbye. Arty prayed for us all and our journeys. There were many hugs and goodbyes and then, we pulled out of the Potter's House parking lot and headed for home. 

The first 20 minutes of the trip consisted of Stephan and I incessantly wiping our eyes and noses and not making eye contact or saying a word to each other. The silence shattered into giddy and sleep-deprived laughter when we drove by a "No Passing Zone" sign, which someone had graciously taken the time to stop and scratch the "P" off of.

I'll let you do the math on that one. 

What then, shall we say to these things?

I will leave you with David's words of old and my prayer for the Navajo Nation:

"From you comes the theme of my praise in the great assembly;  before those who fear you, I will fulfill my vows. The poor will eat and be satisfied; those who seek the Lord will praise him—      may your hearts live forever! All the ends of the earth will remember and turn to the Lord, 

and all the families of the nations will bow down before him, 

for dominion belongs to the Lord and he rules over the nations.

All the rich of the earth will feast and worship;      all who go down to the dust will kneel before him—     those who cannot keep themselves alive. 

Posterity will serve him;

future generations will be told about the Lord. They will proclaim his righteousness, declaring to a people yet unborn: 

He has done this!"