keeping awake

dare to hope

2011-01-06T07:41:00.004-06:00

""We call Abraham 'father' not because he got God's attention living like a saint, but because God made something out of Abraham when he was a nobody. ...Abraham was first named father - and then became a father, because he dared to trust God to do what only God could do: raise the dead to life, with a word make something out of nothing." (Romans 17-18, The Message)

It's a new year. And with that comes a lot of resolutions, a lot of promises, a lot of determined grimaces to do something different, to be something different, and to make more out of ourselves. Funny, when you read that verse and realize: we are powerless. The only One who can make any changes in us is the Father, and He had those changes in mind long before we even came to be. He knows what's best - and He is the only one who will equip us to become something we're not. Something we resolved to be ten, fifteen, twenty years ago... and still haven't gotten right.

Over the holidays i took my six year-old daughter to see "Tangled". I was skeptical at first because lately, it seems most movies made for kids are, well, not. They're irreverent and chock-full of sexual innuendoes that I'll be crossing my fingers she doesn't repeat in, say, the checkout line at Target. So we pretty much avoid them. But we weren't able to get in to see "Secretariat" one day, and "Tangled" happened to be showing across the hall... so.... there we sat. I prepared myself for an overly "girl-powered" princess and a metrosexual prince who cared more about his perfectly preened coif than doing anything with integrity. What I got was something entirely different. Though we all know the story well, the depiction had a depth and a dimension to it that I'd never seen before. Rapunzel is a girl whose entire heritage has been kept from her, and whose "mother" - ultimately the deciever - has a deep, codependent need for Rapunzel to be kept in the dark. As long as Rapunzel believes she's the child of this awful woman, she sticks around and allows that woman to use her long, long hair as a tool for procuring eternal youth. And even though that woman is cruel, manipulative, degrading, and controlling, the fact that Rapunzel believes she's her mother keeps Rapunzel trapped. Then, entering onto the scene is Flynn Rider. Dashing, brave, noble... no. A thief who's running from the law - but who can see as plain as day that Rapunzel is a little off her rocker. After the two work out a 'deal' in which she will leave her captive tower for a day with him as her guide (and he will in turn get back the royal jewels he's just stolen), we get to watch Rapunzel experience freedom for the first time in her life. She runs through the meadows, she splashes in creek beds, she chases birds and lets the summer breeze send her hair flying. She's overjoyed. And then, she's not. She's wrecked with guilt. It feels so good to be free - but then again, it's awful.... if being free means rebellion and disobedience. And in her mind, she's called to be loyal to this 'mother' who's raised her all these years.

As I sat next to my daughter and watched, it struck me that I was catching a glimpse of myself. I've often - mostly - allowed a great deceiver to convince me that my inheritance is exactly what I'm looking at. My circumstances. What I can see, what I can get out of my life today. And strangely, I forget - forgive me for the extraordinary cliche about to hit here - that I'm actually royalty. That my inheritance was bought and paid at an extremely high price, and now, I'm a daughter of the King. My captor isn't a human being, but rather a way of living: following the rules, doing the right thing... "living like a saint". Maybe, just maybe, if I stick to that plan, I'll finally experience what i so long for: freedom.

What Rapunzel didn't understand, and what I so often seem to miss, is that the heart of deception is captivity. Her deceiver never meant to free her... and neither will mine. But Someone has. Someone did a long, long time ago. And it's up to me to walk in that freedom. There is no tower in my life. There are no chains. They're figments of my human sense of guilt - or shame, or confusion, or religious insecurity. Galatians 5:1 says this: "Christ has set us free to live a free life. So take your stand! Never again let anyone put a harness of slavery on you!" (The Message). Rapunzel believed she belonged to the woman in the tower, and therefore what she believed kept her a slave. So often, what we believe about our circumstances or ourselves or God is the very notion that keeps us from living freely.

What I love about that passage regarding Abraham is that the opposite of living like a saint isn't living like a criminal; instead, it's letting God make a saint out of you. Paul, in that letter to the Galatians, goes on to say that freedom doesn't mean taking your life by the reins and turning it into something worth noticing... no, he says this: "Live freely, animated and motivated by God's Spirit. Then you won't feed the compulsions of selfishness. For there is a root of sinful self-interest in us that is at odds with a free spirit" (1:16-17). interesting. What's at odds with freedom? Selfishness. Thinking we can do it on our own because dadgummit, we're strong... we're independent... we're dedicated, determined, disciplined. The moment we convince ourselves our agenda will work is the moment the chains start creeping back around our ankles.
Only God can make us anything... anything. Not something better. But something in the first place.

God had told Abraham he'd be a father to many. Abraham was one hundred years old. His wife was as infertile as the day is long. Children were a laughable matter in their household (and laugh, she did, when she heard God's promise). But Abraham didn't; he "dared to trust". He "plunged into the promise and came up strong, ready for God, sure that God would make good on what He had said" (Romans 4:20-23, The Message). Not only did God promise Abraham that He would do something remarkable with his entirely unremarkable life (and trust me: without Him, we're all unremarkable) - God promised Abraham He would do something Abraham wanted Him to do, something he "dared" to hope for. How incredible is that? Not only is God interested in making something out of you - He's interested in making something out of your hopes. Your dreams. Your resolutions.

And just by believing God, by trusting Him, by daring to hope - Abraham was called righteous. Done. Sealed. Quit working, quit straining, quit striving, quit punching the air - you're good. Jesus offers us the same promise: if you will believe me, you will be saved. You'll be free. Not for a moment, not for a lifetime, but for eternity. Your first job is this: believe. God's first work for you involves one simple task: believe in Jesus (John 6:29). Start there.

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flibbertigibbet

2010-11-03T10:44:00.003-05:00

It has been a little over one year, to the day, since I last wrote on this blog. At the time, I thought I would venture out and begin something new... which I tried. And which became like a bad taste in my mouth and basically waned into nothingness. Writing for me is integral, but something I often have to work very hard at - and I know those two facts are contradictions. They swat at each other all day long. I hate to write... I love to write. I must write... I will never write again. I am temperamental, a flux of emotion and frustration and passion and, therefore, sometimes good for nothing whatsoever. But, the compulsion to write came upon me today, and while I have this other new blog set up, it annoys me and feels stupid and silly. When I came back here, just to browse, I found that it no longer bore the weight for me as it once had; it didn't feel like the black mourning band around my arm that a year ago it seemed to be. "I read the words/ Well - those sound right/ I see a face/ It's me!/ Why did I leave this lovely place?/ Where else but should I be?"

And so I am back.

Now, it is an impetus for me to write - not as much for you to read. So, if you are reading this, and find it very dull, don't feel the obligation to stick around and read anymore. I cannot promise it won't get duller. Sometimes, my fear of being dull has kept me from this place. And I fear that my monotony in life - or, if I'm honest, my peace - will make me a drudgery. Happiness has its numbing effects. As Emily Dickinson wrote, "I can wade grief/ Whole pools of it - /I'm used to that./ But the least push of joy/ Breaks up my feet,/ And I tip - drunken." It's in trial that so often we become sharply aware of everything - awakened to the richness and poverty around us, able to articulate with greater clarity what we feel and need and hope and grieve and pine for. But with happiness - in simple stillness - there sometimes grows stagnation. Perhaps I have grown stagnant. I hope not. But if I have, well - I suppose few will linger on to see much of it.

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and thus, until we meet again...

2009-08-14T14:57:00.002-05:00

If you are reading this, you ought to be handed some sort of medal. Upon it would be inscribed: 'faithful reader of a not-so-faithful writer' or something to that effect. While for months my thoughts and hopes and fears were traceable here, on this blog, I find that now, in a new season, with so much more on my mind than what once was, it seems fitting to depart from this place and to embark on a new journey. As a member of a group of people who have committed hours of their lives to walking through the last couple of years with me, I hope that somehow the fondness that swells my heart for you will permeate that glowing computer screen and you will know what your prayers, words of encouragement and consistent companionship - even if alongside me via my incessant online ramblings - have meant to me. Were it not for you, I am confident I would not be where I am today.

As I consider what might have brought you here for the first time, I'm aware that many have their own seeds of sorrow to sow. Many have yet to sow them. And it would be naive on my part to believe my own grief is entirely gone; indeed, though the wound has healed, a scar remains, and sometimes, in the most unexpected moments, it will seem to spring back to life with a pain so acute I cannot do anything but pray it away. But I want to encourage those of you who are walking a road similar to my own: fear not. You will smile again. You will feel again, in the way you once did, without the struggle to breathe mixed in. You will laugh and sing and know victory, if you will ask for those things. Ask for them, and receive them, for surely if you will only ask, you will find your cup filled over. Don't compare your story with anyone else's, for in the comparing there is the promise of bitterness or guilt. Stand perfectly still if you must, looking neither backward or forward, and simply believe that you can make it through the day - or the next five minutes.

I pray if you do look at me, or where I am, or rather, where God has brought me, you can be filled with hope because I have been given "bouquets of roses instead of ashes, [a message] of joy instead of news of doom, a praising heart instead of a languid spirit" (Isaiah 61:3, The Message). God has exchanged my sorrow for elation, my weeping for dancing, my agony for peace. Though I hold in my arms a new baby, and what would seem a redemption for the life I lost with Copeland, in truth this peace came before she did, and I recognize that God often first gives us what we do not know we need before He gives us the things we long for. For we "do not know the thoughts of the Lord; we do not understand His plan" (Micah 4:12).

From now on, let this blog remain a tribute to God's faithfulness to me in the darkest days of my life. Let all who read it be blessed and encouraged, and let those who doubt the might of the Holy God be astounded at His goodness to me, a woman redeemed by the blood of the One who sees more in me than I see in myself.

I will continue blogging elsewhere, and would love for those of you who are interested to please come alongside me again. The Lord has given me a distinct passion for His Word and uncovering truth for the generations to come, particularly for my precious children who will fight a battle perhaps even fiercer than my own. It's on these topics that I hope to put down my thoughts on the next blog. I am having a sweet friend do some "maintenance" for me, and will shortly give you the web address.

Be blessed today, and everyday, as you open your hands to receive what the Father will lavish upon you. And may He grant us a thousand lifetimes in eternity with which to know one another and to rejoice in His goodness to us.

With deep love and affection,

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emerette - spring 2009

2009-04-09T21:48:00.003-05:00

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a perpetual hallelujah

2009-03-28T21:57:00.001-05:00

I have tried to find words to articulate what these images make me feel. Conor and I first saw them when the Discovery Channel premiered the BBC documentary series, "Planet Earth", in 2007. It took up many hours of our life when we were anticipating Copeland's arrival, and even when we knew of her condition, there was something calming about seeing the natural world in motion. It's difficult, in the face of grief, to watch humanity continue to twirl - people going to lunch, taking taxis, visiting the park, renting movies - but somehow, nature, in its finest display of continuity, routine and discipline reflected something more of a God who is not only creative in His storytelling, but also intentional.

Sellers has taken to great bouts of weeping whenever she sees this trailer; we weren't totally sure why at first, but as time has passed, and we've watched it over and over, we suspect it's because she, as a child, has a greater access to that part of her spirit that needs to connect with nature, a part that, without the dregs of time, is still sensitive to the beauty she sees and the impulse to be near it. I read, recently, a fantastic post on a friend's blog that discussed a possible correlation between our decreased interest in God and our decreased interest in the natural world. We say we aren't ones for camping, or hiking, that we don't like getting wet or dirty or that bugs or snakes or spiders or whatever else bother us - and perhaps this is true. But we are now a generation of people who see getting wet or dirty or dealing with natural elements as negotiable, a generation who could, effectively, almost avoid such events entirely by mildly calculated efforts.

I don't know what God wants for the rest of my life. Sometimes I find myself feeling suppressed, or depressed, or just anxious, as though my spirit knows there's more but my mind can't fathom what the 'more' is. I don't mean Heaven. I'm trained, as a believer, to understand that Heaven is great, Heaven is where we should want to be. But when I have absolutely zero framework for what Heaven might possibly be like, I find it difficult to imagine, much less look forward to. Isn't it odd that most of our musings on eternity focus on something more like a grandiose church service, white robes and Southern Gospel included? If the God who created the place I'm going to spend eternity also happened to create the place I'm currently residing in, wouldn't it benefit me to get a better glimpse of it than through my tinted windows as I drive 45 miles an hour to get groceries? Would it change your relationship with Jesus if you knew the place He was preparing for you was just like where you happen to live now - only redeemed, whole, new, fresh, more alive and vibrant? That when we look on these images of animals and plants and water and earth brimming with possibility, we can honestly know that, without voices like our own, each is singing a song of praise and anticipation and hope - a song that cries out for rebirth? What if you started a walk with God that began simply based on the acknowledgement of His creativity, the majesty and wonder of His works, instead of choosing to walk away from God because of a human effort to convert you? What if His message is stronger than anyone else's? What if this is all for you?

If you are a believer, it is your responsibility to honor this masterpiece. Satan has used the political dialogues we've taken to engaging in when it comes to caring for this planet to turn our eyes and ears away from what is true, and right. God has said that He has created this wonderland, this place of majesty and might, so that "everyone will see [it, and so that] no one can miss it— unavoidable, indisputable evidence that I, God, personally did this. It's created and signed by The Holy of Israel" (Isaiah 41:20). Who are we to question our duty to treasure and cherish this gift? We would never refute a Christian's calling to preach the Gospel by word or deed. Why, then, are we quick to shove the very creation upon which we stand aside, declaring it ours for the taking, assuming no passion or fear or respect for what God designed as His most faithful evangelist? It was the Pharisees, those who considered themselves the most devoted in their religion, who were stunned to hear that, even if Jesus' disciples kept quiet, the stones themselves would cry out (Luke 19:40). Oh, that we were more aware of the hallelujahs going up around us every moment!

winds of change

2009-03-17T19:53:00.003-05:00

I don't remember a time in my own personal history - nor the history of the world as I've known it - that everything felt so perilously out of order. Everywhere we turn, homes are being lost, businesses are shutting down, people are living in a much less free-and-easy sort of way. Perhaps this is good, perhaps this will be a blessing in disguise; in fact, I'm inclined to think that's exactly what it will be. But blessings in disguise rarely feel like blessings as they are being experienced. Mostly they feel like fear and uncertainty and pain.

As I drove to the park today (marveling at how our weather patterns can be, well, so patterned, back and forth like the zigging and zagging of the stitching in a dress), I noticed some daffodils growing beside a mailbox on a back road. And though a carefully examined patch of yard might not testify to its imminent arrival, spring is coming, and splashes of green pushing up in pastures and fields declare it over and over again. Spring is God's anthem of redemption. Every gentle breeze, each proud new blade of grass, the dizzying scent of a hyacinth bloom - all of it singing a song of promise. And today, as I drove, I realized: if my God does not forget to orchestrate all these things, in fact purposefully sets them into motion again and again, year after year, then who am I to worry? Who am I to question?

I must borrow from my pastor now. Two days ago, I listened to him speak about sanctification. His definition of it seemed rather clumsy to me at first; almost too much to digest. To paraphrase: "Gradually becoming what we already are and what we're meant to be." What? It felt word-heavy, as though it would topple under its own verbosity. But in essence, what he was saying about sanctification was that it's both a one-time thing and an ongoing process. We have a maple tree in our yard that wears each season boldly on its branches. In the summer, it's vibrant and lush. In the fall, its leaves begin to crumple and crisp, turning bright shades of reds and golds. Winter strips it of any and all signs of life. But spring. Spring comes and never has that tree looked so glorious. Green, yes, and on its way to vibrance and fullness. But still new, still young. still just dappled with color. Spring is that first, early morning yawn of summer. Spring is pristine restraint to summer's tawdry decadence. My tree seems to stretch its weary limbs up against the bluing sky and reach out for life again. Always the same tree - never the same tree. It, like me, is in a continual state of transition.

If you believe in Jesus, you are like that tree. You, too, are changing. Perhaps not in drastic leaps and bounds, not all at once, but the change is inevitable. It is not by choice but by His spirit. Sanctification is a difficult word. Maybe it's easier to digest when you think of it as this: being the you He intended you to be. Not in a you kind of way. But in a Jesus kind of way. After all, you were made in His image. Sin has stripped us of that, has made us prisoners to something other than what we were called to. But salvation sets in motion a metamorphosis, a hearkening back to what was the original design.

First we are set free from the penalty of sin - hallelujah! I, like the church at Corinth, have been "called to be holy" (I Cor. 1:2). My sanctification is immediate. But it's also ongoing. With each day that I remain on earth, a battle will be waged to keep me free from sin's power. I must keep awake so that I can resist the temptation to drift off into apathy. I will feel the transformation, slowly but surely, as I become more like Him, "from one degree of glory to another" (II Cor. 3:18). Always the same girl - never the same girl. If I am a believer, if I am walking with Jesus, walking in true relationship with Him, my growth will never stop. Just as my maple tree is constantly changing, even if not to the naked eye, I, too, cannot help but be constantly changed, as well. It is not choice. It is inevitable. When we finally reach eternity, however that door may be opened before us, we that are believers will be done. The transition will be complete. Emerging from the fog that was our understanding now, we will be perfectly holy. Just as He intended. "We will be like Him" (I John 3:2), free from the presence of sin. There will be no more death, or tears, or pain.

He is making all things new. It is immediate, and ongoing. He was, and is, and is to come! There is an end to this story. There is a purpose. And there is a calm behind the chaos. He is making all things new. It is happening in you who believe, and He is urging you on in the metamorphosis of the world around you. Breathe in and know: change is coming.

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2009-01-20T15:26:00.005-06:00

Hey Everyone- This is Conor. Thought I would upload a couple of my favorite new photos...I cannot tell you enough how much we are blessed by your prayers and words. Thanks!

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a word of life

2009-01-13T22:27:00.004-06:00

"God is higher than anything and anyone,
outshining everything you can see in the skies.
Who can compare with God, our God,
so majestically enthroned,
Surveying his magnificent
heavens and earth?
He picks up the poor from out of the dirt,
rescues the wretched who've been thrown out with the trash,
Seats them among the honored guests,
a place of honor among the brightest and best.
He gives childless couples a family,
gives them joy as the parents of children.
Hallelujah!"
(Psalm 113:4-9, The Message)

How great is the God who does not dismiss our pain, who validates and acknowledges our suffering and gives voice to our sorrows in such a way that even poverty or friendlessness are not too mournful to be excluded from the list of agonies that includes infertility.

I feel compelled to speak a word of life to you tonight. I don't know who among you is struggling with the longing for children but I know that you must be there... I felt the Father urging me last night to share these words that I wrote a little over a year ago as a prayer of anguish lifted up to Him. I never intended to do so, but I will follow His lead. I pray you will feel encouraged in knowing that He does hear you and that so much can change in just a few months' time. I learned I was pregnant with Emerette only a month and a half after writing the following:

"The heaviness of my present sorrow is so much that i often cannot face it. In ten days, my daughter will be four - and still, she has no living sibling. Sellers has an amazing imagination, lots of 'friends' she chats with, and I often find myself experiencing a mixture of delight at her incredible ability to create and guilt over my inability to provide for her the reality of a sibling with whom she can actually play.

Father God, if prayers on paper - prayers spoken by footsteps and heartbeats and each and every breath - are enough, why? How much longer? I beg You, I beseech You, I cast myself and my anguish before You - Lord, please, grant me this request. Fill my womb with life as You once did. As David said, 'Bless me for as long as You have afflicted me'. Where are You, Lord? Why is what i pray so earnestly for so seemingly off Your radar? Hear me. Please, God. Please. Show Yourself as real and loving and gracious and just. Quench my thirst and satisfy my soul. Lift my weary hear and annoint me with Your favor."

I pray you will read these words and, no matter what your heart is uneasy over, no matter what the desires stirring underneath, You will know that I lift these up for you tonight. He is faithful. He is good. And He delights to reveal the greatness of His might and the tenderness of His compassion. Be blessed.

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i feel a springtime in my soul

2009-01-04T14:14:00.007-06:00

i have stumbled over how to open this particular post a thousand times. Not because there's something major that needs saying but, rather, because there's so little to say. Life has taken on that sweetness you feel in a quiet breeze; calm, still, thoroughly refreshing. I once heard that happiness makes for dull artistry, which, if you look at the greatest works of art throughout history, seems quite true. Literature and art and music and dance and poetry and everything seem to be the result of seasons of depression, sorrow, loneliness, heartache. I find I struggle to feel my own voice emerge amidst the joy I'm experiencing. Not that it's gone. But that, for now, it's buried beneath something with a weight I actually enjoy carrying. Like the weight of a child against your chest. It's a pleasant sensation, one that says being quiet isn't such a bad thing.

And yet there's that feeling that I'm not supposed to remain quiet forever. I actually have known for a few weeks now that I'm supposed to be writing, I'm supposed to be sharing what's going on. In my mind I pressure myself, wondering what compelling thoughts I can possibly have to share now, now that all is well - now that so much has been redeemed and transformed. Aside from a few pictures, does anyone really want to know what I'm thinking about? Even if they do, can I possibly deliver whatever it is they want to read? If it is, in fact, true that happiness makes for dull artistry, then you're about to get one heavy dose of humdrum, because I'm deliriously happy.

Emerette is everything I could've hoped she'd be and even more. It sounds so silly, but even her toes are a marvel to me. I find there's nothing I really dread in mothering now, not the diapers or the sleepless nights. Everything with her took on a feel of splendid opportunity when she was born. Each strand of hair waiting to be swept back, each little finger waiting to be held, everything was a symbol of hope and possibility. As I wrote the night before she was born, to go from years spent agonizing, wondering when the Lord would fulfill the desires of our hearts, wondering if He was even listening, to seeing, in flesh, the manifestation of so many prayers and supplications, was perhaps beyond my ability to express. I can only try to liken it to the sensation you get when plunging into a tub of warm water after standing outside on a very cold day. Every limb, every digit, seems to reel - and suddenly you realize you can feel your toes and your fingers and your cheeks are gaining their color again. It's like being reborn. It's like being alive in a new way. As Proverbs 13:12 says, "unrelenting disappointment makes the heart sick"; indeed, it seems to deaden a part of the spirit. "But a desire fulfilled is like a tree of life" - life. The kind of life you might have convinced yourself you'd never know again.

It's particularly cold tonight. We took Sellers to a park the other day to ride the scooter Santa brought her for Christmas. The park looked massive, and i realized it was because I could see farther than usual, with all the trees barren and the foliage that normally lines the ground dead and swept away by winter winds. I saw myself in those trees. I understand that lifelessness. Or, rather, the look of it. Do they know what is coming? Do they realize what gifts have been stored up within their very limbs, waiting to spring forth in just a few months' time? No matter how dead on the outside, there is potential and possibility and hope buried within every naked branch. Such is the God we serve, weaving redemption throughout all of creation, even knowing we might never notice. Despite the cold, I feel a springtime in my soul. And it is worth all the years of winter's chill.

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psalm 126:3

2008-11-25T22:21:00.005-06:00

To our precious blog family,
First, let me apologize for being so delinquent in making any posts. It has been a whirlwind of a weekend and now we are at home! I am trying to figure out how to put pictures up here because there are so few words that I can come up with to express my joy and my gratitude.

We went in on Friday, filled with apprehension and some shock - after living for so long under a cloud, having to accept things as they were and embracing the bleakness of our reality as a part of a plan that we didn't choose but could live through with the Lord - it seemed strange, almost wrong, to be anticipating something so enormously wonderful. The surgery went smoothly, however, and within moments of delivery, we heard the first sweet cries belonging to a child we'd waited on not just nine months, but years. Conor and I wept. She had a head full of hair and, upon really getting a good look at her, we realized she was almost a carbon copy of her big sister! Five years difference in age doesn't seem to affect how genetics work. We even see resemblances to Copeland in our newest girl.

Many of you have asked about her name, even when we learned we were having a girl. For a long time, we deliberated and the only real consensus Conor and I could reach was that we needed it to be unique - after all, we had Sellers and Copeland as our first two! - and we wanted it to have significance. Emerette was Conor's great-grandmother's name. We never knew her, but this was the first time we'd chosen a name from his side of the family. I agreed that it was time to do so, but I wanted her middle name to somehow connect back to Copeland, which was my great-grandmother's maiden name. Looking back at family records, we found that the first Copeland to this country - a man by the name of George - had married a certain Sarah McClure in something like 1755. I immediately loved the way the names sounded together, and it seemed like a special way to honor our precious daughter who won't ever get to know her new baby sister.

We are, as I recently said to some friends, "delusionally happy"! It seems as though we have entered a season of tremendous joy and we are walking in it with great appreciation and deep praise for the Father. May He be given all the glory and all the honor!

More to come...

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Emerette McClure Farley

2008-11-22T09:24:00.003-06:00

She is here! I am so sorry for the delayed posting. Boothe is a bit worn out, and I am not good at updating things. Thank you for your prayers. Emerette is doing amazing! She was born yesterday at 12:35(lunch time) at 6lbs 15 ounces. She looks just like her sisters, and I am so proud of her. Here are a couple pictures until Boothe updates.

Conor

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the big day

2008-11-20T22:50:00.002-06:00

Most of you probably know: we are going in tomorrow at noon to deliver our third daughter. I can hardly believe it. Actually, I almost sort can't believe it at all. As i recently told a friend, it's a strange sensation to walk into something that has been so fraught with anxiety and sorrow and just feel, well, normal about it. It's almost beyond my own faculties to take it all in. After living in "survival mode" for so long - operating under the mantra of, "well, this isn't good, but we'll survive it" - it's an odd thing to actually try to prepare yourself for blessing. To embrace it and believe it. And hope for it. I have struggled, for several days now, with fear, apprehension and unrest. I realize this is the work of the enemy. But the mind is often a bleak battlefield and were it not for your prayers, I know I'd be in an all too often losing fight.

We are asking specifically for prayer that the delivery (a c-section) will go like clockwork, no complications to speak of. I've never had a baby forego the NICU, so this would be the first. My prayers are that she will come out kicking and screaming - literally! The sonogram I had on Monday estimated her weight at a little over 7.5 pounds; while we know this is really just an educated guess, it warmed my heart to think she might actually be 'chubby'. So we shall see! It's a strange thing to have her so near even as I type and yet so totally unknown.

We will post pictures as soon as we are able. I can't wait to to show her off to all of you, the ones who've walked so diligently with our family through so much. It is with great excitement and joy that I look forward to witnessing the Father reveal Himself tomorrow.

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three weeks, 2 days

2008-10-28T20:56:00.003-05:00

Tonight I realized it'd been six weeks almost since i last wrote on the blog and I felt compelled to put something down. I'm sorry. I suppose a part of me has wanted to sort of withdraw and just relax mentally. it's hard to believe that in a little over three weeks - three weeks from this Friday - we will be meeting our third daughter.

Even as I sat beside Sellers tonight while she "read" a Berenstain Bears book to me before bed, the whole time feeling the baby kick around at her sister's voice, it just doesn't seem real. I can hardly believe a few inches separate me from her now, let alone a few weeks' time. Every evidence is there to prove she's on her way... soon... but it still doesn't seem real.

Just for you to know the details, we are going in on Friday, November 21 for a c-section at noon (Nashville time). We will of course be posting pictures and sending updates as often as possible! I know for many of you this feels like it's as much a part of your own story - in its way - as it is for Conor and I. We, too, are anxious to see what marvels the Lord has up His sleeve. My only requests at this point are for a smooth, easy delivery. I've not yet had a baby who wasn't in the NICU (Sellers was delivered three weeks early due to an infection and consequently spent a few days there), so I am praying this will be my first!

If you get the chance, please go visit Youtube.com and watch Matt and Ginny Mooney's video documentary about their son, Eliot. I'm sure most of you have; it's fresh on my heart today because the Mooneys got to spend a few moments on "Oprah" this afternoon discussing their story. It wasn't nearly as long as they should've had to talk about that precious boy, but I can only imagine how many people have since watched the video and heard the Gospel proclaimed through the simplest terms: God loves to show Himself through weakness. I look forward to getting to meet Eliot when I've got Copeland back in my arms again.

More to come...

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one year

2008-09-17T21:58:00.003-05:00

Tomorrow is Copeland's birthday. I can hardly believe so much time has passed. Conor and I pulled up the video we were so graciously given for her memorial service and I was absolutely undone as we watched what should be by now familiar images flash across the screen. For him, perhaps they were; for me - well, I confess I can so rarely watch the video that each time I do, it's like a sort of reunion... remembering her face, her noises, just the way she was. And realizing, all over again, that she's gone. I would ask you simply to pray for us. Amazingly, in almost six months, God has given me really smooth days. Not to say that the sadness doesn't creep in on occasion, but life has been startlingly normal and... good. For some reason, after putting Sellers to bed tonight, the weight of all that was about to happen a year ago tomorrow - the beginning of the best and the worst week of my life - hit and I felt the very air being sucked out of me. The joy. That strange, panicked sensation that rocked my very being when the funeral home took Copeland's body away... it all returned afresh, as though twelve months hadn't really gone by. In some ways, as I've told friends, I just want tomorrow to be normal. It hurts too much to allow it to be anything more. It's too hard. And yet, in others, I know it will bless me to stop and do whatever it is I need to do - cry, laugh, simply remember - and give myself the freedom to indulge what I beginning to realize I've long suppressed. Whether that suppression is healthy, I don't know. I suppose I've done what I've needed to do to get by. But i found myself tonight uttering the same prayers I did a year ago: "God, just get me through this. Get me through whatever time is left between now and the moment i get to hold her again." Pray that our grief would be authentic... whatever that means. And pray, too, that as we embark on a new season, one filled with unspeakable joy, that I will have wisdom and maturity to open my heart and my arms to embrace the new life we are about to welcome into our family.

Thank you all for being one of the many who reached out to Conor and I over the last twelve months to carry our burden. Your letters and cards and e-mails and even - of course! - comments on this blog, have meant more to me than I can express. I am forever altered by the way you have loved me. It will always shape the way I love others from now on and it will give me strength as I continue to walk this path the Lord has called me to.

With deepest gratitude and sincerest affection,
Boothe

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sweet Joseph

2008-08-24T20:40:00.002-05:00

Just when we begin to decide we've acquired enough spiritual maturity to wrestle with the "big questions" in life, the Lord will be faithful to remind us we don't have it all figured out and He's going to be a mystery until we see Him face to face.

Precious Joseph Peabody, whom I blogged about months ago after his diagnosis with a brain tumor at the tender age of three, passed away this past Thursday. He had celebrated his fourth birthday Wednesday. Conor and I have just returned from the visitation. To say I felt like an idiot trying to articulate anything of worth to sweet GIllian and Allen is a vast understatement. They will probably remember little of this night and be anxious to forget what they do recall. Allen's sister, Jennifer, reiterated to me what I knew for the first time - and, I pray, the last - almost a year ago when we handed our sweet Copeland over to the funeral home: death is horrid. Ugly. Evil. It's truly wielded in the fires of hell, meant to bind us forever in hopeless captivity. Jesus, Jesus, how we trust Thee! How we've proved Thee o'er and o'er! Praise be to God that this is not all there is... and what is to come can be incomparably greater than what we know now, if only we will throw ourselves at His scarred feet and breathe the words, "I need You. Save me. I cannot do this anymore on my own."

Pray for the Peabody family. Pray they will be comforted, somehow. Pray they will see Joseph in their dreams. Pray they will be able to find steadiness in their moments of panic, in the moments they feel the sudden, terrifying reality of separation from their sweet boy set in. I can attest to the fact that there is nothing like it. Pray Jesus gives them an amazing sense of peace and knits them close to Himself. Please visit their blog, www.prayforjoseph.blogspot.com, if you desire to leave a word of encouragement or peace. The next few months will be hardest, in some ways, as their world has been ripped at the seams while ours continues on in plodding regularity.

Come, Lord Jesus, come. Please come.

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what did she mean by that?

2008-08-22T16:40:00.002-05:00

I've never responded to comments posted on my blog before, but my spirit is restless and I feel compelled to do so. I pray my heart is made clear here.

First of all, I let the post entitled "simplify" sit for a while after it was written because I was unsure of how it would be received. I want those of you who are reading my blog to understand that I believe in the inerrancy of Scripture. That it is totally God-breathed and that even the parts of it that seem difficult to understand or process are still His Word. We can't dissect portions of it so that our feelings are better justified or defended. Having said that, I would tell anyone - gay or straight - that my personal beliefs on homosexuality must be shaped by the words of the Bible. Everything else in my life is! The Bible is very clear on homosexuality. Paul even writes in 1 Corinthians 6:9-10 about homosexuality and says that it is a sin. I struggle to use that word because our interpretation of sin as modern-day Bible readers is sometimes so skewed; we often believe it gives us permission to begin alienating and persecuting the very "one anothers" Jesus calls us to love. What sin is, in its simplest form, is something that separates us from God. Homosexuality is a sin just like lying or cheating or even compulsive worry are sins. They are things that separate us from the Father because they are not a part of the way He created us to live in complete compatibility with Him. This is what I wanted to make clear by using the passage regarding living "well" - not just getting by. Where there is sin, there is a better way. A way to experience freedom in Christ that, in turn, points to living righteously. We will never be able to reverse the equation. Freedom in Christ - accepting His free gift of grace - must come before any decisions we make to live sometimes incredibly difficult but godly lives.

While I am utterly convinced that Scripture is not only clear but inerrant in this teaching on homosexuality as sin, I am also utterly convinced that Jesus is appalled at the way Christians treat homosexuals. Not because we are wrong to read the Bible as inerrant, but because we take the word 'sin' and allow it to justify an incredible abuse of our fellow man. We are called to love each other while at the same time hate the sins that entangle us. Hate the sin - the traps we fall into, the lies we believe about ourselves and about life. Satan is at the helm of our determination to mock, persecute and degrade homosexuals out of their homosexuality. I desire, as a sinner saved by Jesus' unbelievable grace, to say to my precious friends who are homosexuals - whether wrestling against it or embracing it fully - to simply exonerate the truths of Jesus: you are loved, you are dear to the Father, and if you so desire, He will equip you to live in a better way. It will not be easy. And I cannot say I understand it or can comprehend what that path will look like for you. But far be it from me to question His capability.

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simplify

2008-08-20T22:25:00.009-05:00

I have heard the Gospel - and it was foreign to me.
I have heard the Gospel and it was the gospel - good news.

The Lord has been giving me a word lately, over and over: simplify. I have believed these words were directly related to my materialism. I do love a good shopping spree. Not something the good Christian should admit to, I suppose. What I have realized is that He wasn't talking about those things at all. He was talking about my definition of my own salvation.

He sent a man to my family - my parents, my brother, Conor and I - this last week. A South African man who, along with his wife, has resided in the United States long enough to lose his lovely accent but, I suspect because the Lord appreciates a thing of beauty, still pronounces every syllable with the merry, lilting sound of someone entrenched in a world seas away. This is who brought me the Gospel. And it is on those terms that I hand it back to you. They aren't his terms, but rather the Father's, and so I am suprised after twenty-nine years alive to not have heard it before.

There are two stories here - both true. One involves me and a friend in a Starbuck's about a year ago. She is looking at me, knowing that I know she is seeing another woman, and tells me, plainly, as though stating a fact, "I know I could marry her. I know it would be all right. But something in me knows that if I were to marry a man, it'd be better." That is the beginning of one story. It is not over. But the second happened thousands of years ago and has long since been given its share of dust. Just like all other stories in Scripture, it holds truths that, were we to glimpse it clearly, would blow our minds.

This second story involves, ironically, two friends, as well. Two young men - one, the son of the king, Jonathan. The other, an aid to the king, and Jonathan's best friend: David. The king, a man named Saul, a man tormented by his own avarice and ambition, knows what many others are beginning to know: God has anointed this young man, this David, and is preparing him to rise in power. Power that leads directly to the throne. Saul determines to kill David. And so, in a field outside the palace walls, David and Jonathan weep together, knowing one will remain with a vengeful father while another must flee for his life. Jonathan reminds David of something that would bind their households together forever: a covenant made between them in friendship that said that the Lord was a witness between them in their commitment to each other, between not only David and Jonathan, but also their descendants - forever.

Later, when Jonathan, along with his father, is killed in battle, David is in anguish. He cries out for his friend, calling him a "dear brother" for whom he is "crushed" (2 Samuel 1:25). There is a great love between them that cannot be fully understood in words. A love that was entrenched in sacrifice and honor. And David is true to his word, true to the covenant he made with Jonathan. Because of his love for his friend, David asks, after years have passed, after he is the crowned king, whom in the house of Saul - whom in Jonathan's line - is still living that he may honor the covenant he made with kindness? There is someone. He's not a hero. His name is Mephibosheth. He is living in a land far from David, a land marked with barrenness and of no consequence. What's more, he's a man who has lost use of both of his feet. We can imagine how he approached the king when summoned, with great pain and tremendous humiliation: "Shuffling and stammering, not looking at David in the eye, Mephibosheth said, 'Who am I that you pay attention to a stray dog like me?'" (2 Samuel 9:8, The Message). David lifts his chin and tells him not to fear. From now on, he is one of the king's household. Royalty. He and his family will eat at the king's table and will never worry about provision again. Because David loved Jonathan, Mephibosheth's father.

But Mephibosheth is a man, not unlike his grandfather Saul, who is tormented. Perhaps it was his crippled feet. Perhaps it was the fact that his family once set plans to kill this good king. Perhaps it was shame over secrets in his past, or anger with the father David so dearly loved, or lack of faith in a God David so ardently worshiped. Whatever the reason, Mephibosheth is not a man who can understand David's offer. Imagine David incessantly bestowing favor upon this man and his family. Imagine how often he must have seen the bent body, hobbling from place to place, all but shouting out, "I don't feel worthy!" Imagine what it must have been like for David when, after years, Mephibosheth, as much a son to David as any of his children, looks into the aging king's eyes and says, "What right do I have to appeal to you?" Imagine the sorrow. The frustration. "Oh, Mephibosheth! Will you never understand? It's not about you! It's about Jonathan!"

You and I are Mephibosheth. A people - not Christians, but humans - who are marked by defect, caught up in our own web of shame and humiliation, bent over and broken down, unworthy and unable to bring anything to God to earn even a crumb from His table. And yet He invites us to be a part. To be His children. But just like Mephibosheth, we make that invitation about us. We decide it must hinge on our actions or our words or our ritual - be it baptism, or communion, or charitable services, or tithing, or praying, or reading the Bible, or going to church, or never cussing or smoking or drinking or lying or sleeping around or being gay. Because it doesn't make sense otherwise. The offer doesn't make sense. If we aren't good enough as we are, then surely we have to earn it? But it's not about us. It's about Jesus.

We are accepted because God made a covenant with His Son. And we can live in the freedom of that acceptance if we'll simply take Him at His Word. It's not about us. It's about Jesus.

So back to Starbuck's. What was it that this girl got that I didn't? How could someone who'd been living what everyone else around me would call a "fallen" life have an answer to a question I'd never thought to ask? How could God reveal the truth of Christ to me through her? The truth of Christ is this: we are free. My friend was right - she could marry her girlfriend. God would still love her if that's the choice she made. Why? Because it's not about her. It's about Jesus. And yet - does that mean just because it would be permissible it's automatically beneficial? No! Jesus came to set us free from right and wrong. We are not slaves to the law. We are not slaves to rules. We have been set free. But not so that we can bow to our human nature. Rather, so that we can listen to the quiet stirrings within us that point to something better. Something higher. Something holier. As Paul wrote in his letter to the church at Corinth: "Looking at it one way, you could say, 'Anything goes... But the point is not to just get by. We want to live well" (1 Cor. 10:23, The Message). My friend knew it. She knew there was something better. There was a way to live well! Not right! Well! Fuller, deeper, richer, more meaningful lives handed to us from the very Throne of Grace!

God has called me to simplify. This isn't about me. This isn't about my not being gay. This isn't about your not getting drunk - or whatever else we use to define our sense of self-righteousness. It's isn't about us at all. It's about Jesus.

psalm 126:3

2008-07-16T15:57:00.000-05:00

"The Lord has done great things for us,
and we are filled with joy!"

Our girl is perfect!

These were the words written on one of those Christian-bookstore-type calendars hanging in the sonographer's office this morning. When we went in, I was so nervous and so unable to pray anything else, I simply began repeating over and over again in my mind, "Lord, please do great things for us today!" He was faithful. We were meant to spend an hour in the sonogram room and instead, spent only around 20 minutes - the baby was so active and so perfectly positioned that within less than half the time usually projected, we saw every single thing the doctors want "checked off" - organs, limbs, brain, heart, etc. She was incredibly "photogenic," as the sonographer put it, and Sellers - whom we took with us on a whim, since she's been adverse to going up until now - watched it all while happily gnawing on a lollypop. We are still somewhat reeling from the gift of this incredible news... the Lord truly has done great things for us, and we are indeed filled with inexpressible joy.

To say that words fail me in relaying my heartfelt GRATITUDE for your prayers today and throughout these days is an understatement. I prayed this morning that the Lord would use the joy of this victory to bring honor and glory to Himself in the same way He used our suffering. It is without a doubt that Conor and I are alive and functioning today because of HIM. He has been our sustenance and our joy and our strength. His Word has given us a firm footing to stand on when we have been shaken. We rejoice over this wonderful news not only for ourselves and the amazing blessing we know He is already pouring out on our family, but also as a message of HOPE for those who might feel all hope is lost. Do not fear! Our God is a God who loves us more than we love ourselves. He promises to give us the desires of our hearts if we will delight ourselves in Him.

Praying the blessing you have heaped upon us will return to you in hundredfolds...

Boothe

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help me with my unbelief...

2008-07-10T22:48:00.002-05:00

First of all, I cannot begin this e-mail without saying thank you, thank you, thank you for the prayers I know you are continuing to lift up on our behalf. I have so many times been prompted to pray for someone and found myself distracted and even irritated because I have something else I need to do; I am humbled knowing that so many of you have probably faced those same distractions and still have chosen to stop and pray for Conor, Sellers and I. Thank you.

I will officially be 20 weeks pregnant tomorrow. As many of you know, this marks a significant milestone in any pregnancy. For our family, it's HUGE. On Wednesday, July 16, I will go in for my 20-week ultrasound, the most detailed and extensive one I will have. This is the sonogram where most babies with defects, disease or deformities are diagnosed. This is when we first saw "markers" for Copeland's Trisomy-18. That being said, you can imagine that the appointment next week is a little scary for me.

What you may not be able to imagine - what even I find hard to believe! - is that I feel, strangely, quite peaceful. I don't mean to undermine the Lord's incredible ability to truly give us a peace beyond explanation; I've lived that before, in moments where I should've been out of control with grief or despair. But I can also remember distinctly, months before I ever learned I was pregnant, laying in my bed at night wrestling with feelings of intense anxiety because I could not fathom how I would ever survive a 20-week sonogram again. How would I consciously go into that room - that same room - and remain calm, knowing that so much can go wrong? I felt the Lord tell me then, "Boothe, you aren't going today, so you cannot imagine how you will cope with it today. I will give you what you need when you do go." I have clung to that, and find that He is giving me what I need, even now, six days out. I do feel remarkably restful. And I'm so thankful for that. But I cannot say that I believe that peace means I should forgo asking you all to pray, speciflcally. So here are the requests we would ask you to place before the Father on our behalf for this significant day next week:

1. That the baby would be in a position where the sonographer can see everything she needs to, easily (Copeland was not, which caused a lot of stress).
2. That everything the sonographer is looking for will be present and in perfect health, from the organs and the brain to the heart and the limbs.
3. That the peace Conor and I feel will continue as a constant for us and that we will be carried these next few days as Jesus binds Satan, who seeks to attack us and convince us we are undeserving or unworthy of such a gift.

I wish words were fuller, or weightier, as I present my prayer requests to you. To say that they feel urgent is a vast understatement. My prayers, outside of praying the same things, will also focus on asking the Lord to prompt you to pray, as I know my faith will be stretched greatly in the next few days. I need your faith to sustain mine.

Thank you, again, for loving us and walking with us down this bumpy road. Believe...

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no eye has seen

2008-06-23T21:51:00.007-05:00

"Because even if He killed me... I'd keep on hoping..."
Job 13:15

First there was the couple who hoped their twin boys would just get along. Then there was the guy who hoped the giant boat he was building really would end up needing use in the end. There was an old man who hoped God would make good on His promise to bless him with descendants that outnumbered the stars. There was a mother who hoped her infant son would be spared when she placed him amid the swaying waters of the Nile. And there was an entire nation of people who hoped that someday, someday, they'd be looking at the soil they were meant to inherit - not foreign ground they were forced to work.

Hope is woven through every story and life in the books of the Old Testament. But not so much in word as in - something else. No one has to say they're hoping for a child or a spouse or their father's blessing or deliverance or purpose or rescue. It's just there, in the lines that sculpt their faces in our minds as we read, that make them as real today as they were all those years ago. We know they hoped because we do, too, and we know that we would had we been in their shoes.

But the Bible doesn't think of hope as we do. The Bible-kind of hoping is different. If you look for the word 'hope' in the back of my Bible, for instance, the verb hope, the first mention of it isn't anywhere near any of these stories. Not that hope didn't exist. It just seems hope, in its purest, most God-given form, was meant to make an entrance on a stage a little more bizarre. A stage where it would seem totally inappropriate, in fact. God chooses to first place this verb - 'hope' - before us in the book of Job. A book I have hardly ever read and do not particularly enjoy reading. A book I read a few days in a row about a year ago and now am happy to pass over. But a book that, strangely, the Father seemed to feel was absolutely perfect for the introduction of the idea of Biblical hope. And He ties it to these words that come out of Job's mouth: "Because even if He killed me" - lovely - "I'd keep on hoping."

God loves us. And He cares deeply about every detail of our lives. But He also wants us to grow up. There are things in us that we don't have to mature into; they're just a basic part of our DNA. It's not that these things are always wrong, but they aren't the best. The best was what we were created for, but we're now a part of a human race that will always be flawed until God sets us right again. And part of our journey, if we decide to follow Christ, is to figure out what the "best" things are - what we were created for. Interestingly we aren't alone in the figuring out - God longs to show us. But it does require some action on our part. Some reaching for the best. Here's an example: we are all born as dreamers. But it would seem that sometimes, God doesn't care about our dreams. We don't often get the job we've always dreamed of, or the spouse or the kids or the paycheck or even the things we'd label, on our own, as more worthy than others. Some of us dream of going into ministry only to find our efforts thwarted at every turn in the road. It's far easier to swallow God's blatant rejection of your dream to own a BMW than to see Him dispel your dreams of adopting internationally. It doesn't make sense. If what we dream of is good, dignified, holy even, then why does He say no? Because we can dream without Him. There is something harder to do than dream, something deeper and grittier and much more costly. Hope. It is the better of the two, and it is one of the bests we as believers are called to.

But hope is not something we are born with. It is not a part of our basic DNA. We are actually disinclined to hope, and this is because we are, in our human nature, creatures of fear. Hope is the opposition of fear - but not in an antonymical kind of way. In an opposing, force vs. force kind of way. God doesn't give us a spirit of fear - but we inherited it when we were born into sin. God tells us that hope is one of the three things that remain - beside it are faith and love - and what remains is certainly not of this world or of this flesh. What remains is His entirely. And without Him, we cannot taste or see or understand it. We like to use the word 'hope' because we intrinsically know it means something greater than 'want' or 'dream' or 'wish'. But we don't know why. When I learned I was pregnant, I felt the Father extending it to me. I was totally battered and entirely furious with Him and I honestly wanted nothing to do with it, but like the starving child whose pride has finally worn thin, I begrudgingly took HIs hand and held within my own something entirely new to me. I was hesitant at first because fear, as horrid and draining as it is, was a comfort. It made me feel sane, since fear is what so many seemed to think I should feel. And it made me feel powerful, since as long as I feared I was in control. Fear kept me from looking like an idiot. But, like I said, I was starving. So I reached out and took hold of Hope. And it was awkward. It still is. Hoping does not come easily. But I can do it now. Because, in some ways, He killed me. Or, more specifically, He killed my dreams. It was Him, after all, who let me starve. But now I am feasting. And it's like I never tasted in the first place.

Let God give you Hope. It will not feel good. Mostly because He usually has to strip something good away. But it will, for lack of a better word, blow your mind. God will absolutely blow the doors off of what you think He wants to do for you. When Paul writes to the church in Corinth that "no eye has seen, no ear has heard, no mind has conceived what God has prepared for those who love him" (1 Corinthians 2:9), he isn't making it up. And he isn't just talking about Heaven. There's so much to life that we often miss because we hold onto what we are convinced is the best. Let God give you the best. Stop trying to figure out how to get your hands on it. Stop trying to be good enough or to think in the right way or to accept where you are and what life has handed you (frustratingly, reverse psychology doesn't work on Him). Stop trying. Hold out your hand and ask for Hope.

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blessings abound

2008-06-19T11:43:00.002-05:00

I know you have all been anxious.... we lost internet access yesterday - of all days! - but we're back in action and the new is
all WONDERFUL... we are having another little girl! I was shocked... I laughed right out loud while Conor looked down at me with a "see?" expression written across his face. We are of course thrilled. We don't officially have a name yet but we will let you know once we do.

Although this was not my 20-week appointment, our sonographer went ahead and did some "checking in" and measured most of the baby's limbs as well as her head and stomach. She is measuring perfectly. Right on schedule! She also looked briefly at the chambers of the heart, which some of you may remember is often affected by chromosomal abnormalities. Her heart looked great. But the most powerful moment of our time in the ultrasound room came when, as we constantly tried to shift the baby to see whether it was a boy or a girl, a tiny little hand raised up in a high-five motion, every single finger extended. This was such a blessing... one of the tell-tale signs of Copeland's Trisomy-18 was that her fists would not unclench. To see that little hand open up completely was literally one of the most liberating moments I've had in a long, long time. The Lord ordained it, of this I have no doubt; in all my pregnancies, I have never seen an image like that come across the screen before. If I can manage to get it scanned in properly, we will post a picture on the blog. It was a heart-stopping moment.

Thank you, thank you for praying. We felt so lifted up. Our 20-week is of course still July 16 but until then, the great news we received yesterday has comforted our hearts and continues to help us believe in good things to come.

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update - 16 weeks

2008-06-15T22:31:00.002-05:00

Dear family and friends and prayer warriors we don't even know...

Conor and I are writing to ask for your prayers on two specific dates. In lieu of making this long and drawn-out, I will simply tell you that all is going well with the pregnancy and that the Lord has done TREMENDOUS things through your prayers and words of encouragement... I have felt such deep peace, such overwhelming joy in the anticipation of what is to come, and am believing He has big things in store for us. I know this is due to His faithfulness and to your commitment to pray our
family through this season. Thank you. Having said that...

We are going in Wednesday (6/18) for our 16-week appointment and will find out the sex of the baby! We cannot believe so much time has passed. Though most pregnant patients are required to wait until 20 weeks to find out what they're having, our OB has been very compassionate with us and is allowing us a "sneak peek" a few weeks early. We are truly thrilled. No matter what we find out, our hearts are full in thinking we will finally know a little more about this child. (For the record, Conor thinks it's a girl - I'm convinced it's a boy. So we shall see!)

Our prayer request for Wednesday is simple: that we will see, as much as is possible at this juncture, a thriving,
healthy child with absolutely no signs of deformity, defect or disease.

In another month or so - July 16 - we are headed to the OB's again for the "big" sonogram at 20 weeks. This will be a HUGE day for our family, as I'm sure you can imagine. This is the day the sonographer will check to see that every organ is
functioning correctly, that there are no "markers" for possible chromosomal abnormalities, and that the baby is measuring on schedule. While my heart is truly at peace that we are going to deliver a healthy child, in the last year I have had about five friends go to their 20-week appointments only to find that there were "red flags" that may have indicated possible problems. All five have delivered perfectly healthy babies. We live in an era where medicine has become such a finite science, and yet sometimes, it leads us to places of fear and uncertainty for no reason. My prayer request for our 20-week appointment
is that we would have a totally uneventful, "hitchless" ultrasound, free of any markers or signs of problems - a joyful time, smooth and easy. I know that if there were any indicators of problems - even false indicators - we would probably have to go ahead and have an amnio. I also know Conor and I, despite how well we are doing, are still fragile. So please pray for God's great mercy and tender compassion to fall upon us... pray we will have total victory that day and will beable to walk forward in that victory until this baby is here, in our arms.

Thank you for enduring what i promised wouldn't be a long! We love you all and we are so grateful to call you our brothers and sisters in Christ. We will be posting here again promptly on Wednesday to let you know who the newest addition to our family will be.

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12 weeks, 10 inches square

2008-05-20T23:11:00.002-05:00

I have officially reached my twelfth week of pregnancy. What is normally a celebrated milestone is, for me, somewhat like crossing the point of no return. Most babies are not miscarried after 12 weeks. Or so they say. Of course there are always exceptions, but I have found that I tend to think of myself as the exception to the rule. Not something I'm fond of; in fact, this thinking is the voice that fuels whatever cynicism and pessimism I happen to hold onto. The voice that says, "Good things come to those who... aren't you." So, every day thus far has been about deciding not to listen to that voice. Sometimes I am weary and it takes too much out of me. But what I've found is that in listening, the weariness becomes absolute terror and fear. I'd rather be tired and trying to believe than without a glimmer of hope on the horizon.

Hope, our pastor said, is a gamble. I don't like this idea.

When I was in college, there was a man who stood on a box outside the main building on campus and shouted at the students and faculty walking by, screaming that the end was near and that they should repent of their sins. I was always curious: why did he think that approach would work? What made him feel like evangelizing in such an annoying manner would ever have any positive impact? Now, I didn't do any follow-up on that guy, so I don't know for sure if, indeed, he was without a single convert. But it still begged the question: wasn't he uncomfortable up on that box, yelling at the top of his lungs? Even just a little embarrassed?

The truth is, maybe he wasn't uncomfortable. Maybe he stood up on that box and felt quite right in what he was doing. Maybe he believed that because he'd been baptized or said the Sinner's Prayer or went to church or whatever, he had something on the rest of us. Not in a malevolent or self-righteous way. Just in a way that's misguided. It occurred to me one day that if the box this man was standing on was a good six or so inches bigger than his feet, each way, then he might've actually had a pretty comfortable perch. The more room one has to shift and manuever, the more one feels a little less compelled to think about how they're going to remain atop. There's no reason not to start yelling. What more do you have to do?

Perhaps this can be said about our ideologies. The more room to wiggle we give ourselves, the safer we feel - the more we can decide what feels good to believe. What I have learned recently about God is that the box we get to stand on - and we have to stand on a box, we're called to - isn't comfy. It's not twenty inches square. We're lucky if it's 10. Someone - another pastor, Louie Giglio - recently said in a video I watched on YouTube (and to be frank, I don't know who Louie Giglio is, but I have to say, the man can speak) that no matter what I go through - no matter what you go through - God promises to carry me. What? That's the promise? Wait. I want the promise to go like this: "Remember all that crap you just endured? Well, you passed the test. No more. Now, sit back and enjoy the ride." See what I mean about 10 inches? There's not a lot of wiggle room here. If all I'm really promised when it comes to life is that God will see me through any and every situation that arises, then guess what? I have, by way of accepting this God and asking Him to be in my life, a built-in capability to go through just about anything and actually make it. It's like being one of those all-terrain vehicles when you'd really rather be vase on someone's mantle. We're designed to endure. We're made to experience life at a greater velocity, in more rigorous conditions. We're not supposed to get to stand on our box - where we're supposed to live and reflect Jesus in whatever capacity He's called us - and relax. Not that we can't know joy or peace. But they're not really joy or peace, not the true kinds anyway, if we've got some cushy set up. The minute that happens, we become like that man on my college campus: more interested in our box and what we can do to remind other people to get one, too, than constantly asking God just to keep us sturdy.

Now, don't get me wrong: sometimes, life is cushy. Sometimes things do go great. And I'm all for that. Believe me! But what I know now that I didn't know before is that the minute my understanding of God - not my circumstances - gets too comfortable, the minute I believe He's at all predictable, I better get ready. The box is about to become a great deal smaller. I'd better prepare to plant my feet firmly on whatever ground I've got beneath me. And that ground isn't always going to be what I wish it were. God's promises and God's Word aren't always what warm and fuzzy are made of. Just ask any regular man or woman who wants to know and love Jesus but who also happens to have a human nature. Not the easiest combination in the world. Remember when Jesus said we needed to hate our own family in order to follow Him (Luke 14:26)? Most of us know that simply means that following Christ - really following - is equivalent to one life-altering concept: sacrifice. The box just got a whole lot smaller.

But what I also know to be true now is that, just as we're designed for intensity and struggle, we're in the same breath made for adventure. To have our belief not only challenged but vindicated. I sincerely believe God will not only stand beside us in our darkest hours, He will make sure we know He's there. They're two different things. And the latter makes the former somehow not only easier to embrace, it makes it worth having. Adventure isn't something most of us look for in life these days. Perhaps it's stress or exhaustion, perhaps its apathy or ignorance. Perhaps it's a sense that adventure, in the whole, isn't to be had anymore. A notion for times gone by. The reality, I think, is that adventure - the true realization of what one feels in the deepest part of their heart, the actualization of what we're born knowing to be true - waits for those who are willing to stand on that box, no matter the dimensions, and look up. To expect that, at any moment, there might be more fullness to what we now know in part (1 Corinthians 13:12). That tomorrow, we might know more about this bewildering God than we do today.

So this is, for me, an adventure. Half because it is risky. A gamble. That's what hope is, after all (regrettably or not). And half because the box I'm standing on is outrageously uncomfortable for the moment. I'm hoping it'll expand a bit with time. But for now, all I can do is accept what room I've been given and keep looking up. Never stop looking up.

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a fine line

2008-04-20T22:32:00.003-05:00

In the fall of 2005, Conor and I sat in a doctor's office and looked with wild eyes at a new, frightening chapter of life: we had miscarried our second child and were now facing a trial greater than one we'd ever expected. The pregnancy had actually caused something pre-cancerous to grow within me and I began chemotherapy shortly before Halloween.

A year later, after receiving permission to begin thinking about having another child, we were thrilled to learn I was pregnant again. Ten weeks in, at a routine ultrasound, we saw the baby on the screen - without a heartbeat.

A few months after that, we learned we were pregnant again. This was early 2007. That sweet baby was Copeland.

I don't write any of this to say that my story is unique, special. I write it for two reasons. One, because I want to remember. There's a loss in the forgetting. And, two, because instead of being unique, it's universal. And it's not just the idea of suffering. Suffering is a part of life, and we hear its refrain from the time we are young. But it is repeat suffering - loss after loss, sorrow after sorrow - that takes us by the scruff of the neck and demands we decide: will we fall on our knees or rise to our feet? Will we bow before a God who allows us to come to blows - again and again and again - or will we stand and walk away, convinced that it's impossible for such a god to exist?

I learned, tonight, of parents who recently lost their second child to a genetic disease that robbed their first of life only a year before. A disease that didn't show up in their eldest until she was nearing two and wouldn't appear in their youngest until after his older sister had been buried. Another mother lost a set of twin girls last summer at 20-odd weeks of pregnancy; just a few weeks ago, she and her husband learned they were pregnant again. "Redemption! Here's the plan God had all along!" This is the common Christian cry. Why shouldn't it be? But just a few days ago, that same young mother faced yet another heartbreak: miscarriage. Again.

We are such wonderful, beautiful creations. We look for redemption in everything around us. We can't help it. We look for the reason, the purpose, the story. The turning point. Every good writer knows that each story has to have two things to make it "work" - a climactic point where everything suddenly becomes something different, often something better, and a character who changes and becomes something different, often someone better. We like better. In fact, sometimes we don't mind trading in our present mediocrity for future elation, even if suffering is often strewn along the path. But we want the future elation to come soon. Now. Because the mediocrity doesn't look like mediocrity until it's eclipsed by elation. Until then, mediocrity looks like happiness. Let's be honest: it is happiness! We just begin, in the hour of suffering, to convince ourselves that what we believed would make us happy - the thing suffering took away - was really a trick, or a trap, or something we'd begun to make into an idol. That, eventually - soon, now - we'll see how that happy wasn't happy at all. What's really happiness is to come. It's better.

But what if better doesn't come? What if better just keeps taking its time or never even shows up? What if what everyone says is going to be the "blessing around the bend" keeps evading me? Why did I have to let go of my past joy to stand in present sorrow? When's the future going to make it feel worthwhile? What's the sense in all of it? Where's the redemption?

I heard a pastor say once, in a sermon I doubt I listened to at all, that "history is going somewhere". I doubt I listened because most of what he said was beyond my comprehension. But I caught that line. I like karma. I'm sort of built to like karma. We want to know that "what goes around, comes around". Strangely, this is the breath of the Gospel. Jesus came. He died. And good won. But we don't see the manifestation of that win in its entirety yet. Our life story isn't circular. It's not "do-good-get-good, do-bad-get-bad". David laments the prosperity of the wicked time and time again in the Psalms. Our story - God's story - is linear. It's a fine line going directly, pointedly, toward one end. And that end is His glory. In Jesus, "our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us" (Romans 8:18). Do we compare them? Of course. We wouldn't be human - and God's great love - if we didn't. But one day, we'll laugh. We'll realize in full that He was right. They weren't worth comparing.

As Conor and I sat in the ultrasound room last week, watching the little heartbeat of this, our fifth child, flutter on the screen, all I could think was, "How senseless. Why in the world am I lying here, seven months after I delivered a beautiful little girl, looking at the same screen that revealed her tiny heartbeat a little more than a year ago? Why isn't she here?" Suffering, in our most basic - and most understandable - estimation is senseless. Even though I know thousands of lives were impacted by Copeland's life, I still grieve her loss. Nothing, nothing will redeem that loss for me. Not even another baby. Nothing. And yet, I look for it everywhere - the redemption. I crave it, I need it, I reach out for it. And thus I reveal within me the great, gaping void that can only be filled with the truth of Christ. He makes sense of the senseless. The fine line - my story, and yours - began and will end with Him. Every moment is Him. He is Redemption. He's the only Redemption.

I don't know what is around the bend. I know God has something good. But something good is not promised to be something perfect. Or something happy. Copeland was the best thing that ever happened to me. And the worst. How can such contradictory statements be true? Only in Christ. We know that road to Heaven is narrow. Perhaps this doesn't just mean man will find the world enticing, its ways distracting. Perhaps it means that the road is certain, and set and unwavering. That it doesn't meander about. The road is a line, a delicate but unaltered course taking us Somewhere - to see Someone - certain and set and unwavering. On our knees or on our feet, may He lead us Home.

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all is well

2008-04-16T14:31:00.003-05:00

Good news... we went in and were able to see our precious new little life flickering away on the screen, heartbeat and all. Everything is measuring right on "schedule" and we left feeling a load lifted. I prayed specifically on the way there that the Lord would anoint our time, drape it in His peace, and surround us with angels. I prayed we would radiate something 'different', something that would reveal a glimpse of Him to all who spoke with us. Thank you for praying with us today. What might have been an extremely traumatic appointment was actually quite wonderful; the only tears I cried this morning were tears of hope.
More to come...

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pray

2008-04-15T22:11:00.002-05:00

Just wanted to let everyone know that we have our first sonogram and OB appointment tomorrow morning at 11:00 CST. We'd love your prayers. Obviously there's a great deal of hope and anxiety and joy and trepidation filling our hearts at this point. We are praying for peace as we enter the office and the ultrasound room - especially since both played a role in Copeland's life - and of course good news to bring home and share with all of you.

Thank you for continuing to lift us up. We will have word as soon as we can get to the computer tomorrow!

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zechariah 9:12

2008-03-31T22:43:00.002-05:00

It has been weeks since I've sat in front of this computer to write. I can't say exactly why. Somehow, the words just stopped coming. Life got busy, things felt lighter - somehow I didn't need to say anything. I found the response to the last post interesting, certainly broader than I'd expected. Oh, I get dramatic sometimes. Caught in a whirlwind of emotion and fervor and I find I can't really slow my own thoughts down to consider what I'm actually saying. What I'm putting out there, for whomever to read. But, looking back, I suppose that's how it should be. Unaltered and totally raw. Truthfully, nothing has changed. I think and feel just as I did that night, over a month ago. But I am quieter this evening. Something has stilled me and I'd really rather not fight it.

This video was put together by the incredibly creative and visionary team at our church here in Nashville. All I will say is that, after six months of walking here, in this place, away from my precious girl, it felt surreal to tell our story again. It felt cathartic, and healing, and also a little sad. The sadness doesn't go anywhere. It seeps into cracks away from the places we most obviously feel during our busied, frantic days, but it's there - it remains. I had thought that once we learned we'd be expecting another baby, I'd feel less of it. That the sharpness of it would wear off. And now, as I sit in my sixth week of pregnancy - something really splendid, something I celebrate almost incessantly - I find that my heart is often heavier in missing her, in wishing it were she, again, inside, waiting to breathe life. And wishing that life would be long. I am filled with joy and anticipation, dread and suspense, apprehension and anxiety, hope and expectation as I sit only a few weeks into this wild, wondrous adventure. It is weird to share the news with so many at so early a stage, but I suppose it's fitting. Nothing in this journey for us has been off-limits - no depths, no heights. So somehow, despite the typical 'don't-tell-until-it's-safe' rhetoric most of us buy into these days, I have to tell. Is there really a 'safe'? Other than in the grips of Jesus, I think not.

What would it look like for each of us to live not just knowing about Heaven but wanting it? Longing for it? I don't think any of us can until it's more than either eternal choir-singing or a state of mind. Neither appeal very much to me, nor should they. No, I want a Heaven that looks like home. Only brighter, and richer, and fuller, and sweeter. I want a Heaven that, when I get there, makes me realize I've only been breathing what seemed like air. I've only tasted what seemed like food. And laughed what seemed like a real laugh. I want a Heaven where everything I love now is better. I think that's what I will find. Because everything good here is just a glimpse of what is to come.

I beseech your prayers. I don't think I can ask God to bless me because of what I've been through. I don't know if that's because I believe it's unbiblical; no, rather, I don't think that at all. I'm asking for blessing, though - and I suppose if I had to give a reason, I'd simply say it's because I believe He loves me. Nothing I've done or gone through deserves any extra heap of goodness. And of course He doesn't love me any more than He did before. I just understand His love a little more.

So I ask. I ask for health, and for life that is brimming over with fullness and hope and promise. I've even asked for more than one life! We shall see. It's a bit like asking for the proverbial Christmas BB gun. Perhaps a bit daring. But I happen to believe God likes to do things that make us smile. Here's to seeing what's up His sleeve.

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creed

2008-02-17T23:40:00.005-06:00

I am tired. I really had no intention of writing anything tonight, but circumstances beg me to shift my agenda. Sleep can wait.

I recently received an e-mail regarding a new program that Oprah and her friends are advocating via her XM radio show. The program is called "A Course in Miracles." Apparently, the material for this course was delivered via an "inner voice" to a female professor several decades ago. It was published in the seventies, but only now is gaining a worldwide popularity. Some have claimed it to be the "new age Bible," though I'm not quite sure what that means.

I will first say that I like Oprah. I like her because I believe she is a woman who feels a compulsion to do good, to change others' lives, and to make wise choices. I am not, as I wrote in an e-mail earlier, one to "throw out the sinner with the sin" - or, at least I hope not to be. Therefore, what I write in the next few paragraphs is not an indictment against Oprah or any of her colleagues. I will say, however, that I believe her to be sorely - and, for the moment, treacherously - misguided.

In the Old Testament, God chooses a woman named Esther to be a part of the king's harem. She's Hebrew; the king, in turn, is not. Esther is beautiful - a characteristic that, obviously, was God-given. Her beauty is such that she is highly favored - and given the crown. Shortly after becoming queen, it is brought to Esther's attention that someone close to the king has planned a mass extermination of the Jews. Leaning on the godly wisdom of her uncle, Mordecai, Esther chooses to do something that could very well have elicited her death: she reports the possible annihilation to her husband and ends up saving her people. Of course, as Mordecai explains to her, this is no act of her own but rather, an act of Almighty God, who appoints leaders and those in positions of power to accomplish great things, to make differences, and to bring Him glory. "Esther," Mordecai essentially tells her, "you have perhaps been named queen for such a time as this."

Oprah is a woman, like most of the readers on this blog, who is trying to understand a God who loves her. But she is not walking toward truth. To be sure, she's seeking something. I am not that different from her. But my filter is guarded by the truths of Scripture. What "A Course in Miracles" teaches is derived, not from Scriptural truth, but from what I would wager is the exact opposite. As Paul wrote, we do not "struggle... against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms" (Ephesians 6:!2). Let there be no doubt that the teachings in this "Course in Miracles" are Satanic. I do not mean to dramatize. It is not in my nature to overreact to things of a spiritual matter. But I stand firm in my belief that anything that does not point us to a Christ who is resurrected, and upon whom alone we can depend for salvation, is a work of the enemy.

I am so flustered, my fingers so hurried as I type, my heart pounding in my chest, that I find it hard to ignore the compulsion I feel. perhaps out of the love I have for my Lord, my Savior, my Rock, my Love, my Truest Friend, to consider writing on the Nicene Creed. It seems to me that, if God has allowed Oprah a position of authority, a voice of influence, it is because we - women - are under attack. Open your eyes! This is not a time for dillydallying. Oprah's realm of influence is primarily female. Perhaps we live in an era where women are a threat like they never were before. Or. perhaps we live in an era where they are easier targets, unsure of their security in Christ. Who could doubt it? But, whether either is true, we know that, if we are under attack, we must plant our feet firmly in the truth. We must choose a veritable call to arms. This isn't about persecution or boycott. Not self-help, not religion, not church, not Bible-beating. It's about Jesus. Let us all cry out, "Give me Jesus!" and be done. It was finished, two thousand years ago. Let us not add or subtract from that one, great, critical Work.

I encourage you to visit Oprah's website. Search for the XM radio schedule and, consequently, the "Course in Miracles." It is being taught by an attractive young woman named Marianne Williamson. She looks delightful. Oh, how my heart is hurting for the women who are already under the sway of something so deceptive! And how my blood boils thinking of those whom Satan is plotting, even now, to lure into its grip.

I am led to share with you the words of the Nicene Creed - http://www.spurgeon.org/~phil/creeds/nicene.htm - because it strikes me that many, many women who claim to be Christians will somehow feel a comfort or a sense of homecoming when hearing Wiliamson's interpretation of these teachings. I pray that, as women in all different places of life, with burdens and heartaches totally unique and particularly gut-wrenching, God will, in His providence and mercy, give you a check in your Spirit - in effect, the wooing of the Holy Spirit, or the very Spirit of Christ - to know that these teachings are deceptive. In sharing this information with others, take heart in remembering that God ordained the king of Persia, Cyrus - who certainly did not know Yahweh - to accomplish His purposes (2 Chronicles 36). It is not beneath nor beyond our creative God to use unbelievers.

Do not be afraid. Though we, too, have been called "for such a time as this," we have also been called to great joy, great compassion and great hope because of this Man, Jesus. He has promised that He is able to keep us from stumbling - and also, that Satan Himself is a "stumbling block, [who does] not have in mind the things of God, but the things of man" (Matthew 16:23). Let us rest - and proclaim truth! - in knowing that, though we will have troubles - and sorrows, and heartaches, and insecurities, and calamities and tragedies - in this world, we can hope! For He has overcome the world.

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the mystery of truth

2008-02-11T23:10:00.000-06:00

Someone, a girl I don't know, but one who is a mother and who is grieving the loss of her own child, said something to me today. "It's been two months. What am I supposed to feel? What am I supposed to say? Am I normal?" Oh, the great creeping notion of normalcy. It slinks around us and encircles itself about our feet and convinces us our calling is to fit into a category, or a box, or a statistic, or a quota. We love the idea of being corporate. And not that we shouldn't. But it's usually about following a crowd so that we can be loved instead of folding in just as we are because we are loved. We've bought into the idea that if we don't make sense to everyone else we must not make sense at all.

Someone else asked me tonight if I thought praying really did any good. If God already has this whole thing mapped out, then why pray? What's the point? I remember hearing once that prayer isn't about changing God; it's about changing us. I like that, it sounds pretty - and believe me, I know it to be true. Partly. But if prayer doesn't at least affect God then somehow, our relationship doesn't feel much like a relationship. It feels more like me talking to myself. When the Israelites built their golden calf out in the desert, after God had parted the Red Sea and shown them He was serious about delivering them from the Egyptians, I don't think He was angry because that was protocol. People doing naughty things? Check. God mad? Check. I think He was angry in the righteous sense - which means the kind of anger that comes from love. And love comes from a heart that's affected. It has to. Otherwise it's not love at all.

Here are a few of my favorite things: the smell of horses, the sound of the word 'indefatigable', Jane Austen, Hans Zimmer, going out to dinner with my husband, grapefruit for breakfast, hyacinths, gold earrings, the feel of cool grass on my feet in summertime, amaretto sours, chasing Sellers around the house... all these are things I'd call 'good.' I like them. They make me happy, or they make me smile, or they bring back fond memories of something special or a time I felt closer to something I want to be close to all the time. David once wrote that "apart from You, God, I have no good thing." So, for me, if I take that literally - and I love to take the Bible literally - that means apart from God, I can basically nix the grapefruit and "Pride and Prejudice." I believe a God who can give me these things is a God who's affected... who loves me. And so I'm going to keep on praying because I've got an in. The God of the universe gets me. I make sense to Him. My normal is the normal He made.

I don't really know where I'm going with this other than to say that I hope, tonight, or today, or whatever hour it may be when you read this, you feel like where you are is okay. Christians are obsessed with finding the formula, with making everything fit into a mold. When we talk about the Word of God being "inerrant" we want it to mean more than simply "total truth" - we want it to mean no one can debate or discuss or ponder or question or shout out to God in frustration. It is what it is - or is it? Everything that's true is a mystery.

Fight for your joy. Not your happiness, but your joy - whatever gives you the sense that you're closer to something that feels like Home. Loving God is like catching a scent on a breeze - it captivates, but it's untraceable. It cannot be created - it must be received. Let Him teach you to love Him. After all, we love Him only because He loves us. It's like the man in Mark said to Jesus as his son was seized by the demon: "Lord, I believe!" And in the next breath - "Help me believe!" Basically, "I get it! I believe it! I love You!" And then, "Okay, not really. But I think if You helped me, I could!" The complexity of the human heart! A great American thinker once urged his countrymen to "simplify." How? We are creatures woven in secrecy, fashioned after majesty, and filled with divine curiosity. Oh, that we would never shake these truths for ones less compelling!

this is a little awkward...

2008-02-02T11:25:00.000-06:00

What I'm about to write, if I were speaking it aloud before an audience, would come from a head looking down at the floor, cheeks flushed, feet shifting uncomfortably. I don't usually have much trouble sharing my heart, but this isn't really that at all. I've struggled for weeks now wondering if it, indeed, is something I ought to share in the first place, if it was something you'd be blessed by, and at this point, I'm simply going to hope that at least one of you will be.

For Christmas, Conor and I found out about a website called Blurb. Through it, we were able to make a book celebrating Copeland's life. It's comprised of blog entries as well as photographs. We went out on a limb and hoped it would turn out right; much to our delight, when it arrived on our doorstep Christmas Eve, it was absolutely beautiful. It's small - only 7x7" - which seemed fitting, somehow, and precious to us. Sellers has loved flipping through the pages.

My desire in telling her story, in ever getting on this computer and sharing my heart, is simply that the suffering we've sown will reap within you a harvest of hope, or joy, or compassion, or faith. If you have someone you'd like to share Copeland's story with in a more tangible way than via the blog, please feel free to order one of these books. Visit blurb.com and search "Copeland Fair."

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say what you need to say

2008-01-27T19:25:00.000-06:00

Recently, as I was getting my hair cut, I began to think about the part of the Bible where Jesus says, "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your mind." When I was in high school, someone brought to my attention the fact that, whenever the apostle Paul wrote letters to struggling Christians, he usually began with "grace and peace" - a phrase that, were we to consider it closely, we'd see operates somewhat like an equation. Grace must first be received before there can ever be peace. As it turns out, Scripture is packed with these riddles; each word is placed precisely, meant to deliver an exact punch, so to speak. I became a little obsessed with this idea and, over the years, whenever a particular verse strikes me as poignant, I try to "plug it in" and decipher it. Most all of it seems to be more than what you see on the page.

So since Jesus says we should love HIm with our hearts first, I'm guessing that kind of loving is most important - or maybe the hardest. I sat in the chair and wondered what loving with our hearts really looks like. To say that you love someone with all of your heart is a pretty heavy statement, even more intentional than simply saying "I love you." It seems to have a desperation, a passion, a windswept feel to it. If I love God with all my heart - really, truly - then I love Him deeply, tenderly, unabashedly. I love Him so much it hurts me. If He were here, I'd want to take Him for a ride in my car to see the pastures behind my house. I'd play some John Mayer on my iPod and take Him to dinner at the local restaurant with the best crusted Tilapia. I'd want to look at Him in the eyes and hear His laugh and ask Him to tell me stories about His childhood and feel the weight of His hand in mine. Mostly, I guess, I'd want Him to love me. I'd want to know, without a shadow of a doubt that while I followed Him around like a puppy dog, hanging on His every word, He was doing the same. The kind of love that loves with the heart has no worry of being unrequited. Maybe that's why the Bible says that perfect love drives out all fear.

And yet, though He isn't here for me to touch or see or hear, He's present. And most of the time, my love for Him is anything but from the heart. It's practical, convenient, disinterested, obligatory. It's angry and unforgiving and selfish and holds quite a few grudges. It's formulaic. I'm always looking for the equation, for the variables to plug in so that I can "figure Him out." Not really the picture of a romance.

Perhaps I must love Jesus first with my heart because until I do the soul and mind stuff is a little irrelevant. After all, knowing and understanding someone aren't worth much if you don't love them. We scramble around a lot, trying to decipher a God who just wants us to give Him the time to reveal His heart. Maybe your time with Jesus would look more like several hours in intense therapy. Maybe you'd take Him to the house you grew up in where you felt unloved and insecure. Maybe you'd remind Him that while you went to church every single Sunday for ten years straight and prayed for the same things over and over again, you're still lonely.

I still don't understand why Jesus took Copeland from me. And I don't know what He's doing with my life. But I can say that, despite the moments when I want to scream at Him and throw a few mugs, I'm pretty in love. He wins me over. He reminds me of the ones He loves, like the Mathenia family, who are suffering and agonizing over this crazy, confusing, love-struck God of ours who would still allow us to, well, suffer and agonize (cold-water-news.blogspot.com). He reminds me that, as someone mentioned the other day, if our galaxy could be shrunk to the size of the North American continent, our solar system would fit into a coffee cup. I'm insignificant. David said it best: what am I worth that You, God, even think about me? And yet - He does. Constantly. Every single thing about us matters to Him. And He wants to hear about all of it.

John Mayer has a new single out called "Say." It reminds me of my dad because, when I was growing up, we were always taught to communicate. Don't let the sun go down on your anger. Get all your crap out on the table. The Bible is filled with men and women who were totally screwed up. And yet God kept pursuing them, kept revealing bits of the fantastic story He had for them, because even if they were yelling at the top of their lungs, they were still talking to HIm. Maybe that's ultimately what loving someone is really about. Saying what you need to say. The vulnerability that comes from sitting down with someone and saying, "Well, here's the thing. I need You to love me. I love You. Something about You makes me feel like I don't suck. And yet I'm coming into this conversation just about as messed up as anybody can get. I've been hurt and abused and pushed around. Take me as I am, because it's all I've got."

Loving God with all your heart is just like everything else in the God-plus-us equation. If you take us out of it, He's still enough. He can give us the love we need to give to Him, and He can provide all that Love requires. We just have to be willing to ask for it.

Say what you need to say.

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pray for nathan and tricia

2008-01-15T19:00:00.000-06:00

Sometimes God wants to remind us to get a grip. I needed that today. I needed to hear that there are people out there in the world who are suffering, and their heartache is different - and perhaps heavier - than my own. Sometimes it's good to remember that what we are facing, these trials and tribulations we are handed, are not uncommon to man. I read in David McCullough's masterpiece, "John Adams," a beautiful biography of one our founding fathers, that Adams and his wife, Abigail suffered the loss of two children in infancy. History will remind us, over and over again, that those who've gone before us have tred a path marked with many similarities to our own. There has always been joy. There has always been suffering. What triumphs to know that only one will remain.

Having said that, I ask you to pray for Nathan and Tricia. I don't know their last names; I don't even know where they live. I encourage you to visit the blog Nathan is keeping on behalf of his wife, who suffers from cystic fibrosis, and their newborn daughter, Gwyneth, who is herself in perils related to an early delivery. Every day, a new trial, a new sense that perhaps some terrifying report will bring on greater sorrow - or that news of a brighter nature will lift their hearts a bit. To live like this, to wonder what's coming next, is perhaps a kind of suffering in and of itself. Beacause I do read each comment that is made on this blog, I know how incredible it is to feel loved and prayed for. So I ask you to go and leave your own words of encouragement for this precious young family. Visit cfhusband.blogspot.com.

Come, Lord Jesus, come!

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dwell in possibility

2008-01-09T16:03:00.001-06:00

"I love You, O Lord my strength!
You are my Rock, my Fortress and my Deliverer;
You, my God, are my Rock, in whom I take refuge.
You are my Shield and the horn of my Salvation,
My stronghold. I call to You, O Lord,
Who is worthy of praise,
And I am saved from my enemies!"
-Psalm 18:1-3

The night before Christmas, Conor and I drove to my parents house for dinner. As we rode in the car (how strange is it that so many epiphanous moments hit me then?), I began to weep. I hadn't cried much in months. Months. And suddenly, without reason or even explanation, I began to sob. Conor looked at me and asked if I was all right, why I was crying? I remember what I felt then. Looking at him, I said, "I guess I'm emotional because, unbelievably, I feel so delivered." That moment will be forever etched in my memory. How is it possible that, after only a few months since my precious daughter passed, I feel delivered? How does that work? Only God knows. Only He is sufficient enough. Who is worthy of praise? Only He.

Last night, shortly after I fell asleep, I woke in a fit of terror, screaming at the top of my lungs. I've never done this in my entire life. When Conor finally got me to calm down so that I could articulate what was wrong, I told him that, in my dream, I had seen someone - a man - standing beside the bed. And I was practically clawing at Conor trying to get away. We prayed together, prayed over the house, but I woke this morning reminded of one thing: "...our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the authorities of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms" (Ephesians 6:12). I am delivered. I am walking in the light of hope and promise and joy and victory. Let me make no mistake in saying that this is a threat. It's a threat to Satan, who wishes to deceive us, to convince us that whatever bondage we're in is permanent -- there is no deliverance to be hoped for. And where there is a threat, attacks are sure to follow. To paraphrase a British theologian, the stronger the faith, the surer the assails will be. Many of you have said that you felt compelled to ask the Father to allow you to carry some of the burden Conor and I were meant to carry during this trial. I have felt that load lifted; I have felt the weight and the agony of it taken away so many times, so unexpectedly. Now it is my heart that is aching, because I know that my desire and my innate sense that this is a story I'm supposed to share is only evidence of the fact that many of you are in bondage. My heart is heavy because of it. I am here to proclaim to you that you can be free. As Daniel was fond of saying, "There is a God in Heaven", and as David said, "[from Him] comes deliverance." Do not think your situation too bleak, your mistakes too many, your own heart too lost..

That night, Christmas Eve, Conor looked at me, after I had said I felt delivered, and spoke words that had more power than I could've anticipated: "Isn't it amazing that you can feel that way even when we don't have another baby?" Amazing, indeed. Let me be clear that having more children is the great desire of my heart. I cry out to the Lord every day, asking for His provision, reminding Him of His own Word which says that "a hope deferred makes the heart sick" (Proverbs 13:12). To endure every day not knowing, wanting, longing, is often so burdensome that I truly feel its effects physically. I can imagine many, many, share this bondage with me - a bondage that we could easily call "what if?" What if what I most long for is never fulfilled? What if I spend the rest of my life in this place? What if God forgets me? What if He doesn't desire to give me the desires of my heart? Perhaps the bondage is really about control, or discontent, or anger. Whatever it is, I must surrender every day and ask that God help me. Not to quit questioning. Half the Psalms are questions! I imagine Jesus loves to hear us ask what's going on in His mind! I need help believing that, even while the questions remain unanswered, God loves me. He can deliver me from bondage without giving me the desires of my heart. He can fill my spirit without filling my arms with another baby. What a mighty God we serve! May He pour out the fullness of who He is continually, on you and I, that we may experience a deeper, richer, more abundant life - no matter what our hands may hold.

Emily Dickinson wrote, "We dwell in possibility." Truer words may never have been spoken! On this side of heaven, we are continually breathing in the sweet fragrance of hope. There's no telling what God may have in store! We can rest assured it is more and better and sweeter than what our eyes can see or our ears can hear.

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structure

2007-12-16T00:52:00.000-06:00

I told a friend recently that I'm sick of structure. I don't really know what this means, per se, but I've discovered that I am a very structured person with ideas about how things should go in life and, after this latest season, I've decided I'm ready to be done with it. Mostly this just means I don't feel like going to church much but really it translates into something deeper: I kind of want to test this 'grace' thing out.

I feel my faith is like a large, rambling house - something I inherited but something with a lot of sentimental value that I have no intentions of ever giving away. And in this house are lots of things - items that make the house home. These things, in my house of faith, represent ideas or concepts that make my faith what it is. Just as my real house is filled with trinkets and treasures that make it, well, home, so my faith-house is filled with notions that define my faith in its most individual sense. So metaphorically, a table could stand for the Resurrection and a picture frame, what the Bible says about homosexuality. A glass vase is the Trinity and the bookshelf, generational sin. What do I really believe about these things? If I take them out of the house, if I put them all out in the front yard and re-examine them, really try to determine if they're important and if I should keep them, does it make my house any less of a house? No. So this is what I've done. Everything went out on the lawn, so to speak, ready to be evaluated and taken back inside to return to its rightful place as a "fundamental truth". Some of it went back before it even hit the grass. Some of it has taken longer. Some of it still remains. This is what I mean when I say I'm sick of structure. The old, structure-loving me (which I confess I have to talk myself out of going back to about every thirty minutes or so) wouldn't have been able to stand having everything out in the front yard, even for a second. That old me wouldn't have even told you any of this. But the new me doesn't see things so structured. Things aren't always black and white. Faith isn't formulaic and neither, naturally, is God. We can't just "figure Him out." We have to dig.

Grace is one incredibly confusing and totally ridiculous concept. I started to consider it the other day. If there's really nothing - absolutely nothing - I can do to earn God's favor, then why in the heck do I do good stuff? Why make "right decisions" or choose not to make "wrong" ones? That's easy. Because ultimately, I care a whole lot about what other people think of my decisions. Not just God. Even if I didn't think God existed, I'd probably still be making "good", moral decisions. There've got to be some atheists out there who'd agree that "not killing" is far more often the best plan. We don't do good to earn anything, really, other than other people's approval and praise. And if we do good so God will see us - well, we're basically as screwed up as you can get, especially if we believe in the God of the Bible. Because the Bible says we don't have to earn God's love. In fact, it says we can't. Jesus took that burden away from us. And that brings me to the next confusing point about grace. If there's nothing we can do to earn God's favor - or His blessing - then why in the heck does He give it? Why do I have a perfectly healthy child sleeping upstairs? Why do I get to drink clean water and sleep in a warm house? If I believe in the God of the Bible, it's not because I did something right. And it's definitely not because I didn't do anything wrong. David gets pretty irritated with this in the Psalms. He talks a lot about how the wicked prosper. Job does, too. I have a feeling Daniel and Esther and Joseph all spent their fair share of time wondering why all their messed up neighbors seemed to walk through life footloose and fancy free. If the wicked prosper, and sometimes the righteous don't, then it makes sense that wickedness doesn't always merit pain and righteousness doesn't always merit gain. And nothing we can do or say will make us more worthy of the latter. God doesn't lavish blessing on those who "do the right thing." If He did, grace wouldn't matter. It wouldn't have any value. If Jesus's blood were simply an asterisk to doing the right thing, then doing the right thing would have at least a little value - and I'd get to take a little credit. And that's exactly what grace won't allow me to do. I don't get to claim any responsibility in my own salvation. And I don't get to claim any responsibility in my blessing

So why do I get them? Love. That's it. He loves me. Unlike me, He has nothing to prove to anyone. Jesus of Nazareth hanging on a cross, dripping in His own blood and sweat and tears, dying a common criminal's torturous death, is evidence enough of that. Jesus born in a barn with farm animals and their dung should have set the stage - our God is not a God concerned with keeping up appearances. No. My blessed life is simply a gift of love.

Someone the other day asked me if I looked back on the day Copeland died with anger. I don't really know why this is true, but it is: for some reason, when I look back on that day, even on all the agonizing days prior to and after her death, I can only see one thing. Love. I look at Copeland's birth and life and feel marked by Love. Marked because it hurt. But marked in remembrance. In the Old Testament, God says, "See, I have engraved you on the palms of my hands" (Isaiah 49:16). As He was marked for Love of us, we shall be marked for love of Him.

The day that Copeland died, the hour the funeral home came and took her body away, was Satanic. It was death-filled and dark and demonic and evil. I could almost hear the clang of swords around me; never in my life had I experienced spiritual warfare in quite the same way. When I look back now, I cannot imagine going through it again without kllling myself. I don't mean to dramatize. I'm being serious.

When I graduated from high school, I walked across a stage and received a diploma for the knowledge I had gained during those four years. If I had to do it again, based on the same standard, I could: the knowledge, once gained, was not lost. I have as much right to that diploma now as I did then. Maybe even moreso. I can tap into that knowledge at a moment's notice and probably pass most of the tests a teacher could hand me. It's no mystery as to why I graduated; it makes perfect sense. The same cannot be said of that night, the night I had to hand my baby daughter over to a total stranger knowing perfectly well I would never, never see her again. I have no idea how I did it. I cannot tap into the strength that I had then, now. I cannot because the strength given to me then was not for now. It was not might or power or even knowledge or wisdom. It was the Holy Spirit. I know this because it is a mystery - a breeze, a breath filling my lungs and causing me to gasp with life when all I wanted was to die. I cannot imagine why I made it through, even now having done so. This is how I know God was there. This is how I know He loved me. This is how I know that blessing doesn't always come in the form of happiness or even, well, what we'd call 'blessing.' My daughter died. She never came back. And I feel loved.

Conor came home tonight with a tattoo on his inner left wrist. Copeland. That's all it says. In small, black letters. Forever traced into his skin, forever a part of him. I told him that the last moment he spends connected to that tattoo will be the first moment he'll spend with Copeland. "I cried when they were putting it on," he told me. I understand. He was marking himself, remembering. "See, I have engraved you...." Paul said that we have [can] have the mind of Christ (1 Corinthians 2:16), if we are believers. Is it possible that part of the purpose in losing my daughter was to think more like Him? Is it possible that what Satan meant to be Satanic, what the world called death, was holy and life-giving? That Jesus just blew the cover off of 'structure'?

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pray for joseph

2007-12-05T13:06:00.000-06:00

Back in the spring of 1996, I had the great thrill of participating in the musical "West Side Story" as a high school sophomore. A lot of it - being almost twelve years ago - is a blur, but some of the seniors who also performed remain etched in my memory as somewhat a part of the character they played. One was a tall, lanky kid named Allen who seemed to embody with comedic perfection the role he'd been given - a member of the American gang, the Jets (I can still see him in his tightrolled jeans and white t-shirt). Allen was one of the brightest personalities I'd ever met: quiet and kind but witty and fun to be around at the same time. I haven't kept up with him since then, really, as he was so much older than me, but I've heard bits and pieces of his story since graduating. One such piece begs to be told today, and begs for your prayers and your outpouring of love and encouragement.

Allen and his wife, Gillian, have two children. Joseph is three. Shortly after Thanksgiving, he began having some trouble walking - stumbling - and Allen, someone who is pursuing a career in the medical world, felt it was imperative to take him to be examined. This was a week ago today. Since his admittance to the children's hospital, he has been diagnosed with a brain tumor and had a major surgery to remove as much of it as possible, as well as to perform pathology on it to determine what kind of tumor it is. This morning Allen and Gillian were given the heart-wrenching news that the tumor is called an anaplastic astrocytoma. (You can Google it for more information.) It is malignant, aggressive and obviously induces a great amount of fear as far as prognosis for Joseph. Please visit their blog, prayforjoseph.blogspot.com, and leave them words of encouragement if you can.

Someone asked me recently if I looked back on the season before Copeland was born and especially those first few hours after her death and wondered how in the world I got through it. My answer was a resounding "yes!" I have no idea how God equips people to get through such horrific times. But I do know He does. And the fact that I actually experienced one such time, and lived through it - am still living through it - without any scientific explanation as to how simply testifies: God was there. God is here. May He be near to Allen and Gillian as they walk this difficult road. May He comfort them as they struggle for answers and wonder what to do next. May He guide them as they make decisions about Joseph's life. May He give Joseph strength and many, many years of joy before him.

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home at last...

2007-12-02T00:24:00.000-06:00

I wanted to be sensitive to let Nathan and Angie post on their own blog - poppyjoy.blogspot.com - about precious Poppy's life and the moment when Jesus took her home, and so I assume most of you have had the opportunity to see her pictures and read Nathan's awesome post regarding her time here on earth. What a beautiful girl!

When I spoke with Nathan this afternoon, shortly after Poppy had passed, my heart swelled with sorrow - and also a sort of odd joy, knowing that our girls were finally, finally together. We've known for so long that they would be. My heart also filled with joy knowing that Angie's dear grandfather is holding Poppy, the darling baby he was probably waiting on from the moment they got word of her diagnosis. My hope is that perhaps he's cradling Copeland, too.

Thank you for praying, for posting, for encouraging them. The Luces are amazing, godly people and yet I know it is refreshing and needed to hear not only from family and friends but from total strangers, people who have simply been touched by their story. Thank you for loving them because in doing so, you remind me of how you loved Conor and I in those, our darkest hours.

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welcome poppy joy luce!

2007-12-01T12:13:00.000-06:00

I so wish I could be there with Nathan and Angie as I type, but I did get to speak with Nathan's sister and learned that Poppy made it through delivery - a major accomplishment for any trisomy-18 baby - and is currently spending time with her parents and extended family in the recovery room. Praise be to God for her safe arrival into this world. Apparently she weighs over 5 pounds - another major accomplishment! - and is breathing on her own or with very little assistance. All of these are huge answers to the prayers I know so many of us have lifted up for the Luces.

Having walked through this same situation myself, and remembering clearly the emotions I experienced that day, I would ask you to pray specifically for:

-time with Poppy, and time that is free from anxiety or fear
-that Poppy will continue to breathe on her own and will be able to feed from a bottle
-that the medication Angie is on will equip her to function as normally as possible after such an intense surgery
-that Marianna will be able to process just enough to enjoy her new little sister and that her parents will know how to protect her through something that will inevitably have some sort of impact on her little heart

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pray for poppy

2007-12-01T10:07:00.000-06:00

I wanted to post as quickly as possible to let you all know that my dear friends - and by now, probably another family that many of you have prayed for - are going in as I type to deliver their own trisomy-18 baby, Poppy Joy. Angie and Nathan are absolutely precious to Conor and I and as they prepare to welcome their second daughter, I have to confess I am just sitting on pins and needles wondering how they are doing, if the procedure is going well, what emotions they are coping with. I wonder. And yet I'm so aware. Knowing what they are walking through is somewhat surreal in the sense that it takes me back. They are going to be led through a wilderness of joy and hope and sadness and sorrow. There will be moments they are unsure of and moments where they've never felt more sure of anything in their lives. So pray for them. Conor and I are planning on driving there tomorrow morning. My heart longs to be with them during this time.

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believe

2007-11-23T15:34:00.001-06:00

Sometimes I wonder if this is all a practical joke. Or simply a fairy tale. If we invented God - a god - just so life would make more sense. Funny, it really doesn't mean things make much more sense most of the time. So that theory isn't quite reliable.

But still, sometimes I wonder.

As Conor and I drove home from our Thanksgiving dinner, I found myself at a crossroads. Sellers was merrily chatting in the backseat, and it just hit me: I'm either going to believe this stuff or I'm not. God, either You exist and I can't figure You out and I'm really, really mad - or this is totally a hoax. Can you seriously tell someone they don't exist? What's the point of saying it at all?

I know I'm not alone. I'm one of a million people out there - and that's just this second - who are suffering. Angry. Hurting. Shattered. Heartbroken. Confused.

There are millions - millions - of people in India who spend each day defined by a caste system that their government long ago declared unjust and antiquated. These people - men, women, children - are called Dalits. Untouchables. Literally. Their children are unable to dip water from the local wells because their sweet, innocent hands are considered unclean. And yet, as I type, more and more of these precious people are hearing about Jesus and deciding to follow Him. Why do they believe? Why do they sing His praises, even as they suffer?

It's hard to wrestle with God. Somehow it feels wrong. I find I get quite hung up on "wrong" and "right." And really, that's what makes me angry. As long as it's all about the rules, life's just going to be one long irritation. There has to be more.

Jesus said, "I am the Way, the Truth, and the Life." I want to follow that Jesus. The One who says to me, "Just as you are... come to Me. I know how to handle it. Bring Me everything." Maybe it's not so much about 'rules'. Maybe it's about the best plan - the Way to get the most out of life.

In John 8, Jesus is teaching in the Temple and a group of religious men bring before Him a woman who has been caught having an affair. As the Message says, "They stood her in plain sight of everyone." Imagine this girl. Her embarassment, her anguish, her shame. The leaders who drag her to stand before the crowd suggest to Jesus that Moses' law - the rules - call for her to be stoned. Stoning might have been something this woman had seen before. Bloody. Merciless. Brutal. I can see her eyes filled with fear, blinking back the tears, cast downward. As Jesus listens, He does something peculiar. He kneels down and writes in the sand. For a while. The Bible says that the leaders "kept badgering Him." Maybe He looked up at her downcast eyes before He stood and said, "The sinless one among you, go first. Throw the stone." And with that, He goes back to the dirt. Perhaps it took some time, some grumbling, some irritable huffs of indignation, but eventually, they leave her. Every one of them. The oldest ones go first. And then it's just the girl. And Jesus. Sweet Jesus. How must she have felt? How in love was she then? "Woman, does no one condemn you?" He hadn't looked up. He wasn't watching. She was no spectacle to Him. "No one, Master." "Neither do I. Go on your way. From now on, don't sin." Imagine her heart thumping, her eyes brightening, her tears welling up - but this time, for victory, for life. "Master." She is His. He is hers. She knew the 'rules'. But now, now she knows the Savior - she knows that she is accepted and loved. Now she calls Him "Master." Now, she chooses life. And we, like her, can choose it, too - because no matter how we stumble, we will continue to find life in His eyes.

This is Jesus. This is why I love Him. Because I know I am loved. And because of that love, that love that is deeper and higher and wider than any other love I will ever find, I want to be different. I want to believe. I want to rest, despite my unrest. I want to surrender, despite my need for control. I want to honor Him, despite my desire to please myself. I want to be and do everything I can't be or do on my own. This is the Jesus I want to follow. This is the Jesus I want to show people.

And this is the Jesus that the millions who suffer on this planet choose, time and time again. The Jesus who gives us strength to walk through seasons of life that call for our total destruction. The Jesus who equips us to love those who reject and abuse us. The Jesus who sees potential and ability in our weaknesses. The Jesus who invites the questions, the anger, the frustration, the tears, the sorrow, the heartache. "Come to Me..."

And so I come. I am a seeker of hope. I thirst for joy and happiness and laughter and peace and something - something that feels like lightness and promise. And if what I have believed of this Man does not help me to piece together the broken parts of my story - well, then, there is more to believe.

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cotton

2007-11-07T19:47:00.001-06:00

As I type, I sit in a kitchen I've known for years, with people who've known me since the day I was born. There is a wonderful comfort in it, a sense of belonging and value and feeling like you fit, even though often I realize my experiences cast me in a separate mold that certainly has its own form and shape. It's easy to compare yourself and feel like no one understands; easy, because it's true. But the challenge is in knowing it and still, still leaning out for that warmth and familiarity in what you do have in common with those you love. Sometimes that commonality is as simple and deep as bloodlines. I am thankful I can look around this room and call these people, not only in love but in reality, family.

So the trip to Texas has gone well. I suspected it might, suspected I'd be glad I came and thankful to be surrounded by these faces. The first few days were filled with busyness; the world was new and fresh, not being the one I stomp around in most days, and distracting. There was laughter and lots of deep talks and even a ride on horseback for me, which basically equated to feeling like a part of me was living that hadn't in a long, long time. I started riding when I was five; I was never that great, but I did find a sense of freedom and joy in it that little else could match. Having been away from it for several years, it was refreshing and vitalizing to be "back in the saddle." Indeed, just what I needed.

I am now in the tiny West Texas town my mom grew up in, a town that feels as timeless and constant to me as almost any place on Earth. I have come here every single summer - and sometimes, Christmases - of my life and very little has changed. There's something deeply calming about that. This would be a place that Copeland would have come to know, too, and I find my heart aching in new ways knowing I'll never get to share it with her. Still, what makes it beautiful is simply a small part of where she is already.

I don't remember ever having come here in the fall, and as I walked alone down the highway towards my grandfather's grave in the local cemetery, I was pleasantly suprised to see tufts of white scattered every few feet: cotton. The fields have only just been stripped and what remains of the little snow-colored plants drifts out onto the road with the wind, catching on brambles and rocks. I had cotton bolls in my bouquet when Conor and I were married and of course I've known that they are inherently a part of my history and, thus, a part of me, but I'd never really seen the stuff or touched it before. Walking along the highway I held some in my hands and marveled at how soft it is, even straight out of the ground. The wind was particularly fierce that afternoon and as I approached the cemetery I thought of Copeland as I held that cotton in my palm - how its sweet, soft warmth would be cast off the moment I let it go, just as she was. Only with her, I didn't let go. My hands were wrenched open.

I stood in front of my grandfather's grave and felt a sort of comfort in knowing he is with her, that although she has been carried off she is not alone. I let the cotton go, just to see what happened - to see how far the wind would carry it. It flew from my hand and caught, about ten feet away, on the ground - and stuck. The dramatic image was skewed a bit... I had almost hoped it would sail away like some red balloon until I couldn't see it any longer.

I write all of this in the midst of yet another season in the grief. It's pressing in, the weight of it, and I wondered last night if perhaps that's because I'm ready for it to. Maybe I can bear it more than I could've a few weeks ago. I can only hope that I, too, will be carried.

My heart aches for those who've gone before me on this path - those who know the ache and agony of losing someone they never really got to know. And my heart aches for those who are walking behind, who have yet to tread here, where I am. Pray for them. Pray that they will be reminded that what has come from God is good, that what has returned to Him is blessed, and that the time that passes until we are all together once again - well, that is as fleeting as a breath, a vapor, a gust of wind.

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jonathan edwards

2007-11-03T15:38:00.000-05:00

I want to ask you to pray today for Jared and Kristin Edwards. They are delivering their third child, a little boy, Jonathan Jared Edwards, as I type. Jonathan also has Trisomy-18. I am assuming Kristin is still in labor - I believe she went in this morning - or perhaps, Jonathan is here. In recent communications through their own blog, we have learned that Jonathan has appeared to be under some stress in utero and Jared and Kristin were apprehensive that he might not make it through birth. We are praying that that did not happen and that they were able to enjoy some time with their son as Conor and I did with Copeland.

Please check in on them via their blog and send your blessings... hearing from all of you during the incredible duress of Copeland's life was an amazing encouragement to me.

jonathanjarededwards.blogspot.com

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not much to say

2007-10-31T21:35:00.000-05:00

I guess I should apologize. It's what you do when you've been really, really negligent in a relationship and forget to call a friend back or bail on them for dinner. Somehow, I feel like all of "you" out there are friends now, people who know the ins and outs of life for me, at least to some degree, and people who are loving me and lifting me up. So thank you. And I'm sorry.

There seem to be moments - days, weeks - in the midst of grief that can best be described as "emotional pauses." Things just stop and suddenly you feel absolutely zero. They're pauses because, of course, they don't last forever, but while they do, living feels somewhat like standing in the center of a whirling merry-go-round: the world around you moves, rides the tide of joy and laughter and sorrow and sadness and you - you're watching it fly past without a single movement. You are still and yet you are carried by the constant motion around you.

I wish I could elaborate a little more, but as I said: you feel absolutely zero. Someone asked me about sending a birth announcement this morning, whether it would be hard for me to get it in the mail, and I found myself honestly telling her that I just felt like Copeland hadn't been here at all, that it was all a dream. I struggle to even type those words - while one part of me rests in the emotionlessness, the other fights against it, longing to feel, even if just for a moment, what I know I can - what I do - in my harder moments. Sometimes I think this is what keeps Copeland here, what makes her existence a reality. It's foolishness, and I constantly comfort myself with the notion that, were she alive and old enough to do so, she would tell me that my needing to feel nothing right now - my needing to go out and do the silly, trivial things of life and simply to function on some level of normalcy - is okay. That even feeling like her time here was a dream is okay. I believe she'd say these things because I would say them to my own mom.

Tonight was Halloween and it's odd that we've made it this far. Five weeks ago we were handing our daughter's body to strangers and staring out at the landscape ahead with fear in our hearts. Five weeks ago we had no idea how we'd get here. And yet... here we are.

My heart is hopeful. Hopeful for the future, for what God has in store. As we walked from house to house tonight, Sellers giggling in her little princess costume and swinging her bag full of candy, it struck me that maybe, just maybe, we might be spending our last Halloween as a threesome. There's always the hope. Always the thought that perhaps things will be different in time. Someone once said to Conor and I that those who choose to end their own lives don't usually do so because, as we commonly suspect, they "lose all hope." Usually it's because they can't stop hoping. It's strange, thinking about hope that way, like a thorn in the side. The Bible says that "hope deferred makes the heart sick, but [that] a longing fulfilled is a tree of life" (Proverbs 13:12). A hope deferred. Put off. Delayed. I remember finding that verse last year, after my second miscarriage, and holding the Bible up as I prayed, somewhat miffed, "God, Your Word itself says that when things that I long for are unfulfilled, my heart will be sick - broken. It's here, right here, in Scripture." I don't know why I was shocked, but I suppose part of it was that I'd never considered the fact that my sadness over a longing that remained unfulfilled might be validated in the same book that says God works everything out for good if I love Him and commands me to trust in Him, no matter what. It's like learning something new and wonderful about someone you love after years of loving them. Strange, perhaps a little disconcerting - how could I have missed this? - and incredibly refreshing. Suddenly there are even more reasons to love them. And maybe to question and to hurt. If God knows that in prolonging my hope to have more children, my heart will literally ache, and that the hoping will continue, and consequently the aching, then why does He let me hope at all? Why not remove the hope altogether?

When Copeland died, I remember smirking. This is the moment, this is the moment my baby daughter breathed her last, and still, You are nowhere to be seen. Surely You'd show up now! I don't know what I expected, but somehow it felt like a let-down, or a betrayal, or a joke. And yet - that moment was holy. How can God be so there and yet so absent? How can we feel Him moving and yet feel so alone?

Thus is the conflict of faith. I find that much of my life is defined by conflict at this point. The battles that wage between the parts of my heart that believe and disbelieve, cry and laugh, walk forward and stand still. It's a remarkably exhausting place to be. This is why I chose to say that these are the words of a girl struggling to "know the God she loves." How you can love someone without really knowing them, fully, is unbeknownst to me. How you can trust someone without having had every hope and desire fulfilled is another mystery. Is it possible - or even okay? - to love someone and not like them that much? Is it all right to decide you aren't sure you want to spend a lot of time with them for a while? But yet you'd like to know they're still around, still available, for when you do? Is it even fair?

All questions for a later moment, a quieter hour, a time when things in the past appear clearer than they do now.

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spiritual detox

2007-10-23T00:06:00.000-05:00

Conor and I were talking tonight about church. It's been almost five weeks since Copeland's birth - as of tomorrow - and four since her death. I can't believe she's been gone almost four times as long as she lived.

I've had zero desire to walk back into our church since her memorial service was held there that September day. I haven't totally been able to understand why, although I've chalked it up to the fact that the place now has memories for me that I'm simply not ready to revisit. It's different than the place we went before her birth. Now it feels sad and somehow less whole.

But, after our conversation tonight, I think that's not really what it is at all. At least not totally.

Our pastor, as I've said before, challenged me recently on my legalism - my need to earn grace, to work to please God, to do the "right" things. Since that conversation, when he pointed out the fact that I was extremely entrenched in a works-based theology, I've found that a lot of the things I used to do in life make absolute no sense any more. That what used to feel like the "right" choice is no longer so clear. That a lot of the normal, moral things I'd done before as a Christian almost seem ludricous in light of the actual Gospel.

If, in fact, Jesus is it - if there's no way to the Father except by Him - and if, in fact, the Cross, and what He accomplished on it, was sufficient, then what the heck is all my working supposed to mean? Church, for me, is fun. It's social. I see a lot of great people - godly people - who make me smile. I get to wear cute clothes. I enjoy standing in the midst of a crowd of believers I know and care about singing songs that make me happy. But mostly, church is compulsive. It's what you do if you're a Christian. It's normal. It's required. Required. What else makes that list of prerequisites for people who claim to be followers of Christ? Bible study? Scripture memorization? Prayer? How do I reconcile this incredible need in me to do the normal, "right" things Christians do and still believe in the idea that only Jesus' blood makes me, well, a Christian?

John Donne wrote a poem in 1635 called "A Valediction Forbidding Mourning." It's beautiful, and perhaps a whole lot more romantic than religious, but it seems strangely relevant tonight. Donne ascribes the characteristics of a compass to the people mentioned in the lines below:

If they be two, they are two so
As stiff twin compasses are two ;
Thy soul, the fix'd foot, makes no show
To move, but doth, if th' other do.

And though it in the centre sit,
Yet, when the other far doth roam,
It leans, and hearkens after it,
And grows erect, as that comes home.

It seems to me that these lines could just as easily have been written about the way we, as humans, can view our relationship to Christ. He dwells within us, if we receive Him as our Savior, and we are connected to Him, as the two parts of a compass might be - we belong to Him. He is, indeed, a "fix'd foot" that "hearkens after" us when we "roam."

Jesus is our "fix'd foot." He is the only True thing upon which we can lean. He is that stable point upon which all our journeying can rely for safe homecoming. And yet we get it backwards. We try to allow our own notions, our own ideas - even what we would consider our own, good theologies - to be the fixed foot. It doesn't work, anymore than swapping the ends of a compass would. Only one is meant to stand firmly in the center. It's like letting our "rights" and "wrongs" define Jesus, instead of letting Jesus define our "rights" and "wrongs."

Going to church is a good thing. A right thing. Perhaps. But for a girl who's terribly legalistic, maybe it's not that easy. Maybe doing the "right" thing becomes the "wrong" thing when it isn't based entirely on the Person of Christ. Maybe all the 'good' things we Christians do are just as likely to be strongholds in our lives as the bad.

I'm not saying that we aren't sinners. I'm not saying there isn't plenty of black and white in the world - good and evil, truly wrong and truly right. But for me, as I continue to see the grip legalism - doing the "right" things to make God happy - has had on me, it couldn't be more obvious: Jesus is the only lens through which I need to be making my decisions about any of that stuff. Jesus. He is the fixed foot. He is the cornerstone, the solid rock, the way, the truth, the life.

James wrote that "faith without works is dead" (2:26). Hallelujah! But just as Paul's salutation often began, "grace and peace" for a specific reason - peace cannot be attained with grace coming first - faith must begin the equation here.

thoughts on today

2007-10-20T00:07:00.000-05:00

I have walked past my computer about a thousand times in the last week and wondered if I should write anything. Words usually come pretty easily to me, but I find myself stalling out in a lot of ways lately.

I discovered I'm apparently in desperate need of anti-anxiety drugs. I've never been one to take pills, of any kind, though as I share my dependence on them of late, I'm amazed at how many people out there in the universe are also somewhat addicted to something. My doctor prescribed them for me before we were even out of the hospital and while I resisted in the beginning, I happily pop one pink pill every night before bed and coast the mediocrity of feeling pretty much zilch for the next 24 hours. I hadn't realized that perhaps the numbness I've noted was due to the medicine until I - stupidly - thought I'd ditch it for a couple of days. What resulted was an afternoon spent throwing pottery off my back porch just to watch it break. The sound of the shattering and the great splay of shards was certainly cathartic, but now I've got pieces of mug to go sweep up and there aren't any more dishes just lying around that I'd feel good about chucking. So drugs, it is, for me. Whether mediocrity and broken china are at all equally problematic, I don't know. I often suspect it'd be better for me to break every dish in the house if only to be real, to feel fully what my heart and mind and even my lungs should feel, but for now, I'm halfheartedly accepting the somewhat feigned sense of control and normalcy my medicated life is giving me.

The grieving feels like a battle waged inside: one part of me desperate to do something, hating the elements of loss that look like helplessness, dreading the moments when I want to hold Copeland or kiss her cheek and finding no comfort for my anguish other than to stroke the computer screen where her picture serves as my screensaver. This is the same part of me that's ritualistic: wear this bracelet, listen to that song, fold this piece of paper just-so, only to remain connected to her. But there's another kind of grief, the other part, the part that battles the frantic movement. This is the laziness. I have no motivation for anything. I loaf about the house like someone who's - ironically - in a drug-induced state and wonder what I can possibly be entertained by. It's the me that will sit in front of the television set and flip mindlessly through uninspiring, unintelligent programming and read what by all accounts are "trashy" celebrity gossip magazines just to eliminate the possibility of stumbling across my emotions.

My mom is taking me to Texas in a few weeks and I confess, I dread it. I dread going anywhere that, inevitably, Copeland will not be. It sounds strange - as though I'm half expecting to turn a corner someday and see her face. But to go new places and realize, again, that she's not there is only to be reminded, again, that she's not anywhere. She's gone and I can't get to her, at least not yet. I could be bundling her up in cozy blankets for walks over the freshly-fallen leaves, but no, my baby's being cradled in the arms of God. Should I be happy? Maybe. If my faith - what I believe - is absolutely true (and I must believe this if I believe it at all), then Heaven is as real and solid and irrefutable as a math equation. But life isn't numerical or formulaic in the least. Life is neither black or white, but gray, and the swirling mess of it all means I can no more find absolute comfort in the absolute truth of Heaven than I can find in the absolute truth of the Pythagorean theorem. These absolute truths may themselves be, after all, absolute, but I'm a constantly writhing, conflicted individual with hardly anything solid or irrefutable about me. What about any emotion, on this side of Heaven, is absolute for me? It's ironic that I will never know complete comfort until I am completely comforted - until there is no more need for comforting.

Rob Bell wrote a book called "Velvet Elvis" and from the first few pages, I can tell he's going to be very hung up on the idea that we need to shake off the dust of our thinking about God and Jesus and even salvation and the resurrection and, well, everything that means anything to any of us who call ourselves Christians (and that, too, is another word that needs re-examination). Thank goodness. For the shaking off, I mean. When I was fifteen I knew Jesus. But that Jesus looked different than the Jesus I know at 28. Has He changed? Certainly not. But my capacity to see Him has. I knew Him then. Now I just know Him more. And praise God for that fact! For the Jesus I knew before my trials would not have been a comfort to me. If my ideas about Jesus never change then I'm certainly not worshipping God Almighty, but rather a god - a god I can conform and contort to fit into a mold that looks and feels the way I think religion and faith and church and Bible study should look and feel. No, Jesus does not change - He was and is and is to come - but our need for HIm does, and thus we are compelled, we are forced, to see Him differently. Not for what He's become. But for what He's been all along. If the Jesus I knew at fifteen would not have been a comfort to me in my trials, it was only because He hadn't given me any. The depths to which He will take us will only be matched by the depths of His character He longs to reveal.

And so I struggle. I long to see Him, to know Him, to understand this Man who does, in fact, hold my child in His arms. But I also ache for the painless, for the life of ease where there was no need for the knowing. I don't want to be the drug girl. Or the girl who chucks mugs off of porches. And yet I suspect that this is the version of myself that is most real. This is the version which sorrow and suffering has generated. And this is the version of me that Jesus loves. He does not want me to be what I once was or even what I have the potential of becoming. This is the me He wants. And it is all I have to offer.

getting to know you...

2007-10-14T22:22:00.001-05:00

the soul and the sinew

2007-10-13T23:03:00.000-05:00

I told Conor the other morning that I feel like I'm standing at the edge of the ocean with my feet in the water and, while I can feel the gentle tug of the tide at my ankles, I'm still too shallow to be completely swept away. That's what the first few weeks of grieving have been like for me: standing at the edge of all the immense emotions you know are beckoning you, pulling you, and yet feeling the grit of the sand beneath your toes and determining to stand still, firmly, resolutely, until you're ready for a good, hard swim.

Perhaps part of me doesn't feel like swimming just yet. And perhaps the Father's keeping me here, grounded, until the waves won't get the best of me. I'm not sure. I went into Copeland's nursery this afternoon and held her things for a few minutes - the silver cups friends had sent, her little hospital booties, the pacifier we'd toted around with us those few, short hours - and tried to cry. Sellers was in the next room, playing, and Conor stood only a few feet away downstairs. The sun shone through Copeland's bedroom window. It was 1:00 in the afternoon. It was safe. I could take a dip into the water, if I wanted to, and let myself get pulled out a bit. There was no reason I shouldn't. My heart longed to dive beneath the waves. And yet my feet wouldn't move. And so I stood before her crib and cradled her things and felt absolutely nothing but the my own compulsion to feel.

This, apparently, is common, the emotionlessness. The numbness. I've heard people talk about grief having stages - one of which is shock - but I find it hard to place myself into them, at least not tidily. How can I be shocked? I knew this was coming. It's like watching a loved one with a fatal disease, I suspect. You know the final outcome is on its way. We pray for miracles, but there's a reason we use the phrase, "don't get your hopes up." At our best, we're all realists desperately longing to believe in what our eyes can't see and our minds can't grasp. Wanting to believe and yet not wanting to appear like the village idiot. So do I think I'm in shock? No. I don't know what I am. I suppose people who run into me think I'm almost nonchalant, amiable - downright chatty, even. I try to show myself for what I feel on the inside, mostly, but, like I said, I don't feel much of anything. Part of me wants the feelings back. And part of me knows that today, they'd drown me.

Shortly after Sellers was born, Conor and I went to see Mel Gibson's much-critiqued film, "The Passion." I have to confess I dreaded it. Something in me felt afraid of what it would do to me. How would I possibly handle the graphic scenes everyone was going on and on about? Looking back, I realize the real fear was in not feeling at all. In being jaded and unaffected. Sure, it's a movie. Sure, it's makeup and lighting and a lot of camera men "working an angle." But it might be the closest you and I ever get to watching what happened to Jesus all those thousands of years ago. What happened for us.

Tonight, I came upon the scene where Jesus is being crucified. The cinematography is, ironically, best described as excruciating - gritty and gruesome and incredibly up-close. I had heard people say that watching the Mary character was difficult for mothers. I tried to imagine what she must have felt, watching her only son up there. But when the lens turned its focus to Christ, I saw something I hadn't expected - something I couldn't have recognized three years ago. Copeland. As Jesus hung there, his eyes lifted heavenward, His mouth parted slightly like a man struggling for breath, I saw my daughter in her last moments, as well. How did they know the face of death? How could they capture so accurately something so few witness?

I have found great solace in the thought that many, many mothers have gone before me bereaved. The ground I walk is hallowed. What I saw that night, when Copeland let out her last, sweet breath against my cheek, was something I would never trade. And yet, something I suspect most would choose to never see. I have been changed by it. I will never look at dying the same. Not death. Dying. The lapse of life in the human form, the parting of soul from sinew. Jesus was fully God. But also, fully man. His death would have looked like my precious girl's. Did He think of her as He gasped for breath? In cradling my darling eight day-old baby, in watching her in her own fight, I did not realize I was watching the face of Christ. How precious those final moments are now to me. Neither gruesome or graphic, though somewhat sorrowful and sad - but moreso: beautiful and tender. Truly, "precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of His saints..." (Psalm 116:14-16). His saints... His children.

I don't know how long I will stand in Copeland's room before He will carry me out into the waves. But I do know He will do the carrying. And when I go under, when the fullness of my emotion and the heaviness of my heartache wraps itself around me like the water, I will see His face beside hers. I will see the rise and fall of His chest with hers. Because of His struggle, hers is now over. Because of His suffering, she is free.

a vision for eternity

2007-10-09T12:46:00.001-05:00

"For the foolishness of God is wiser than man's wisdom, and the weakness of God is stronger than man's strength." (1 Corinthians 1:25)

A pastor who prayed over Copeland at one point reminded me - well, to be truthful: told me - that her disease, her sickness, her plight, whatever you care to call it, wasn't God's design. It wasn't His plan. We talk a lot about "God's will" and of course I do believe He has a will, although I'm growing more and more convinced that our sorrows and sufferings have absolutely nothing to do with it. What we see in the midst of great agony and strife is usually a glimpse into both Heaven and Hell - and in the glimpsing, there's a gift. In my broken, four-pound baby, who looked a little different, lived a great deal differently, and ultimately left me here to grieve her loss, I found a sort of joy that I'd never known, a real joy, and my time with her was not only laced but literally steeped in happiness and blessing. And yet, the hour of her departure and certainly the last moments I held her were wracked with a sorrow and heartache that I could not have imagined. There was a bit of Heaven, and a bit of Hell. How I long to fully know the one and fully spurn the other! Therein lies the real gift. Perhaps God's will is more wrapped up in removing the blinders from our eyes than in giving or taking anything away.

Someone asked me recently if I was angry with Him. Interesting question. My mom told me once that as a teenager, she used to sing that old song, "To Know Him Is To Love Him" at church. I think it was by a group called The Teddy Bears. Of course their intention was never to sing those lyrics about God. But, for a bunch of kids who regularly heard it on the radio, it was a fun twist. I can't hear it now and not think about that story. The irony is: the words are true. Even more ironically, they'd probably be even truer if they read, "To know, know, know Him/ Is to be annoyed, annoyed, by Him." Am I mad at Him? You bet I am. I'm mad and frustrated and annoyed and irritated and perplexed, and yes, I love Him, deeply, but, as in all other relationships, if to know Him is to love HIm then it follows that knowing Him might often make you want to give Him a swift kick in the pants, as well. C.S. Lewis writes about the bizarre emotions he experienced regarding God after his wife, Joy, died: "All that stuff [I wrote before] was not so much the expression of thought as of hatred. I was getting it from the only pleasure a man in anguish can get; the pleasure of hitting back. It was really just... mere abuse; telling God what I thought of Him." He later goes on to say that what he felt - that God wasn't fair, that "when He seemed most gracious He was really preparing the next torture" - wasn't true. Of course God is fair. And good. But to express our anger or our outrage or our incense with Him isn't about expressing truth. It's about offending. We long to feel the subtle comfort of 'payback.'

So am I mad? Sometimes. If God didn't ordain Copeland's sickness, if it wasn't His design, why in the world did she have it? Because I live here. It's like asking why I have a Southern accent. It comes free, courtesy of my locale. She wasn't sick because I needed to learn a lesson. She wasn't sick because I didn't do enough things right - or too many things wrong. She was sick because we live in a broken, fallen world and until Jesus comes back, things are just going to keep going wrong. Not all the time - that's when the glimpses of Heaven come in. But quite frequently. Life is truly one long dysfunction. Only by God's grace - getting what we don't deserve - do we ever see any good at all. I bargain with God a lot. I tell Him that this was it, this was my quota of "bad stuff." And I mean it. But the reality is that as long as I'm here, the bad stuff's going to keep on coming. All I can do is pray the packaging looks a little different and that Jesus will hold me up until He takes me home or returns. It sounds like a pretty raw deal. But that's through human eyes. If we could see differently, we'd think differently.

Before Copeland was born, I prayed that God would give me a "vision for eternity." I think I probably uttered those words more in a moment of personal satisfaction - "wow, that sounds good!" - than true desire, but nevertheless, they seemed to have been Spirit-filled. I want a clearer understanding of Heaven, to be sure. I want to know more fully where Copeland is. But my prayer at that point, while I thought it regarded her experiences, was really about my own. If the only vision I have is for right now - she's gone, i'm here, and the world's literally going to Hell in a handbasket - then I'm going to be one bitter girl. The vision I need is one that tells me that what makes sense to my senses isn't necessarily true. Broken bodies often equal whole spirits. Strength can sometimes house itself in weakness. A vision for eternity turns the truths of this world on end. It's the only way an unattractive, unpopular renegade hanging on a cross can possibly mean more than brutality and devastation.

And so I keep praying that prayer. Fix my eyes on You, Lord. Like another old song, "Come Thou Fount," says: "Prone to wander/ Lord, I feel it/ Prone to leave the God I love/ Here's my heart/ Oh take and seal it/ Seal it for Thy courts above."

not by might

2007-10-06T16:58:00.000-05:00

I am sitting in my living room, my husband has taken my daughter to run some errands, and the only noise is the dull drone of football commentary coming from the television. The image is one of quiet - serenity, even - and I have to confess: I feel it.

We are okay. It's strange to write those words, strange that they are, in fact, true. I don't think I ever sincerely believed they would be. It makes sense. I believed more in my own belief than in God Himself, so of course I doubted. I believed in belief and faith and hope and love and all the other things. These are my deities. These are the golden calves - the things I stupidly worship. Who wouldn't? Tragedy, suffering, sorrow, heartache - all the evidence the world needs to prove that God doesn't exist. Where is this God of ours now? And yet, we must hang onto something - it's how we're made. We can't do it alone.

I saw a woman yesterday on Oprah selling a book called, "Eat, Pray, Love." Perhaps that's the answer, or at least one we can all practically approach: eat a little, pray a little (we're not sure to whom), and of course - of course - love. Love, love, love. But is love enough? Certainly food doesn't fill me up, at least not for long. And if I'm supposed to be praying - well, give me some kind of guideline. If we're all going to go ahead and throw up our hands and admit there's something - someone? - out there who might hear us praying (even, as the author said, it's a "universal power"), then perhaps we shouldn't eschew the idea that there's a god? Maybe even just One?

I am convinced there is no god, there is no deity - there is no good thing or good idea or good concept or GOOD at all - apart from Jesus Christ. Conor and I are reading a book called "Heaven" by a writer named Randy Alcorn and while I love it - I love it - it's strange: he's actually talking like heaven is a real place. He's capitalizing it. Heaven. It's no different than New York or Milan to him. It's a place. But where? I don't know. Neither does he. Conor and I look at each other on occasion and it's like a mutual resignation to partial insanity - "Okay, so... do you believe this? Whew... me, too." And thus, we keep reading. Perhaps it's for comfort. Perhaps it's because I've never had much of an interest in heaven - Heaven - before. And now I think about it almost constantly. I believe it's real, physical, tangible, that there are angels and people - though they're not the same - and that God dwells with them there. God dwells with them. I don't know a lot. I don't suspect most of us do. But I can tell you: I believe it. I believe in the whole thing. And I don't think I'm entirely responsible for that belief. It's a choice - of course - on some level, but the choice is more in the not-rejecting of it than in the accepting. If I believe any of this, if I have a faith in Jesus, in the person of Christ, if I can truly rest on what He's saying to me, even today, even while I miss my baby daughter more than I can ever, ever express, it's because He gave it to me. My faith, my hope, my love - these are all copies. The real ones must be placed within me. If I believe, it's because He gave me the belief in the first place. If I rest, it's because He quieted me.

There's a story in Mark of a father whose child is possessed. When he asks Jesus to heal his son, he uses the word "if" - "If you can do anything, take pity on us and heal him!" Jesus, taken aback, says bluntly: "If I can? Everything is possible for those who believe." And the man, in a moment that will forever define the conflict in the human heart, responds frantically, "I do believe! Help me overcome my unbelief!" We are a mixture of our own dreadful attempts to believe and our desperate, desperate need to have that belief fastened within us. Part of us must do the confessing - and part, the receiving.

Love is not enough. Faith and hope and joy and determination and perserverance and commitment and peace and patience and goodness - they're not enough. They're just pretty words for pretty books that perhaps we'll buy to make ourselves feel better - for a time. But ultimately, the richness and fullness of these things cannot be tapped into unless and until something - Someone - allows it. As humans, we're entirely devoid of and entirely barred access to them all - if not for the cross of Christ.

"Not by might, nor by power, but by My Spirit..." Pitch the book. Pitch them all. Don't go running toward something that, at the end of the day, will leave you feeling empty and alone. There is no person, there is no answer, there is no trick or tactic that will ever, ever be to you what He will. Do not be deceived.

Conor, Sellers and I are making it... we are walking. We miss our girl. I go into her closet twenty-five times a day and smell the clothes she wore, the clothes that are soaked in her sweet scent. I wonder what she's doing, if she's sleeping - do they sleep in Heaven? - or eating, or if she's even still an infant. I hope she is. I pray she is. My heart aches with the grief of what could have been. But were it not for the cross - for that moment in history where my eternity was secured - I would despair. I rejoice that He offers it. Yes, somehow, we are making it. But it's not by our might. Or by any power. Or by faith or hope or love. It's by His Spirit. May it fall afresh upon us.

sitting in the sorrow

2007-10-02T14:54:00.000-05:00

"Then Job's friends sat on the ground with him for seven days and seven nights. No one said a word to him, because they saw how great his suffering was." (Job 2:13)

It's hard to believe it's almost been a week since Copeland left us. We've moved back home... we're trying to settle into life as best as we can without her. It sounds strange, I'm sure, to some degree, the idea that there's much to adjust to in her absence, considering her time with us was so short. But I assure you: something happens when a breath is taken, a soul is present, even for a moment, and we are changed. Nothing will feel the same again. Her void will always be. Even in the grocery store, choosing foods for Sellers's lunchbox, I wondered: what would Copeland have liked to eat? What would she have been persistently "fussy" about? I long to know the silly details of my daughter's being that, had she lived, I'm sure I would have thought nothing about.

I sat at the top of the stairs this weekend, after Copeland's memorial, and felt a pressure on my chest I confess all the months prior to this hadn't handed me. The grief I feel now is different than the grief from back then; in fact, their separateness is so immense I find it hard to understand myself from a few months ago. I cannot connect them, despite the fact that they are, of course, inextricably linked. One spawned the other. Everything in my sense of space and time for now has the mark of Copeland on it: was she alive when such-and-such happened? Or had she not been yet born? When I heard that song last week on the radio, she was in my car... Yet how is that even possible? I know she was here and yet I find it difficult to believe. Her memory is almost ethereal, like a vapor or a mist. Not to sound cliche or supernatural. I, for one, don't believe we become floating spirits in heaven. The Bible seems to support the idea that we'll get new bodies. So I envision Copeland in the same precious little body she was in, tiny arms and pink cheeks, but healed and whole. No, it's just the thought of her that's ethereal, like a dream or even deja vu.

I find it's hard to preserve the sensation of her presence. All of her things are cluttered about the house. I can't put them away. It's not really because I'm sad, although, of course, I am. It's just that I fear in "cleaning up," organizing everything and tucking it all into neat little spaces that won't permit me to see them as consistently, I'll forget her. Everything in life beckons me to move forward, to step out into the sunlight and embrace the reality of her death as an event that not only occurred but that I knew was going to occur. And yet I can't.

Back to the stairs. When I sat there that afternoon, my husband was outside playing soccer in the front yard. At first I was mad: what does this mean, that he can play a stupid sport when our child is gone? I realized then, when the Lord spoke to my heart, that we'll grieve Copeland's loss in much the same way, but often at different junctures along the path. Sometimes grief looks like moving. Sometimes it looks like sitting still. Life requires both of us. Sanity requires both of us. For now, I, like Job, am sitting in my sorrow.

I've thought a lot about the Old Testament, how it describes the Israelites in times of suffering. They ripped their robes and rubbed ashes on their faces. It's a strange, graphic way to grieve, a way we don't totally embrace anymore. A friend told Conor and I about his trip to Africa once. He mentioned the death of an older woman, and how, amongst her people, there was great wailing. I thought of the Biblical phrase, "gnashing of teeth." I've read it a thousand times, but I suppose this would be the first season in my life that it feels relevant. The images are uncomfortable - ashes and ripped clothing and screaming aloud. And yet, from where I sit. there's a solace in them. The physical manifestation of a broken heart.

And so I sit. And it's extraordinarily difficult. I find a compulsive need to do something, to fix the pain - to rise above it, to hash it out, to move forward, move on, get some closure. The Lord knew that when He said, "Be still and know that I am God," we'd struggle with both commands - the being still and the knowing. When your baby daughter dies after eight days and there's nothing you can do to even touch her hand for a moment longer, the knowing He's God isn't necessarily the tough part. Being still is. Sitting in the sorrow means embracing all the emotions, all the incredibly painful stabs of disappointment and anger and frustration and agony that jab at the heart almost every single second of the day. Sitting in the sorrow means refusing to self-medicate. It means finally, finally, embracing the fact that He has created nothing that will give us as much joy and peace and fulfillment as Himself.

I've been to Target. I'll go again. I'll go to the mall and to the post office and I'll take Sellers to school and externally, my life will look nothing like the stillness I'm choosing in my soul. I don't know why I share all of this other than to tell you that there's freedom in it. Freedom in telling people you aren't doing great or that you can't make it for a night out on the town. Perhaps there's healing in the authenticity of the ashes.

home

2007-09-30T11:12:00.000-05:00

Here is the video from the memorial service yesterday. Conor's good friend Jason Ingram wrote the song for Copeland on the night she went to be with Jesus. We are grateful for every second we spent with our sweet girl. This is an amazing opportunity to share with you some of the most precious moments we had with her while she was here. Below that is the letter Conor and I read to Copeland during her service yesterday. Thank you, to everyone, whether you were there in spirit or physically. We felt your presence and we were so uplifted as we walked through one of the toughest days of our lives.

Be blessed...

Dear Copeland,
On the day you were born, we had prayed for you for two years. You were the answer we had been waiting for – with one exception. You were more. You were better. God truly poured out one of His greatest blessings on our family when you came along.

We knew that you were going to be with us only a short time, but we didn’t realize it would be so short. Who can prepare their hearts to lose what they’ve ached for, what they’ve found a piece of their soul to be knitted together with? As we write these words, we know you are with our Father. We know it in our heads even though our human hearts struggle to comprehend. We believe because Jesus came and lived and died an unfair death that you are with Him now, waiting for us, who will be with you one day. Never before have our sights been set on heaven as they are now. Never before have the things of this world been dulled as they are now. We long to see you… we long to rock you, to kiss you, to watch you grow. But we will plant our feet firmly on the knowledge that those longings will not go forever unmet because we rest in the promise of Christ.

Copeland, before your birth, we had no idea how much we would love you. We are so grateful for the time we had to be your mommy and daddy here on earth. We pray the Lord will strengthen our minds to remember the precious moments He granted us with you: your delivery and Daddy’s “thumbs up” when you began to cry, sharing you with the 60-odd visitors who flooded the waiting room upon your arrival, staying up through the night with you at the hospital while Daddy and I talked about how much we had been changed just by your coming, taking you home in your carseat for the first time, laying you in the crib we thought you would never even see, rocking you, singing to you, reading the Psalms over you, changing your tiny diapers and your tiny clothes, taking you to Sellers’s school so your new big sister could show you off, even keeping vigil over you through the last nights as your breathing grew heavy. I know we both count it as a privilege and an honor to have held you in our arms until the Lord chose to take you home to Him. We believe with hope that you felt carried the whole way.

We are not sure how we will go on. We will miss you so much our hearts will be near to bursting. We will long for you and wonder where you are. We will think of you every day, every hour, and ache to recreate the moments we had with you this side of heaven. But because we know you are there… we will walk. We will carry your sister, and all the other siblings the Lord chooses for you to have. We will honor the way you have changed us and the thousands of people worldwide who came to know your story by choosing each day a life that looks differently, a life that says, “Thank You, Jesus, for reminding us that heaven is real… You are real… and it’s time we learned to live like we believe it.”

We will never forget.

We love you.
Mama and Daddy

tomorrow

2007-09-28T19:21:00.001-05:00

Well, here I go again. I can't seem to keep away from you all.

It's hard to believe our girl has been gone for 48 hours. I think about her almost every single second, something moms who've lost babies and children have shared with me... something I confess scared me... but something I find, now, to be strangely comforting. I stood in the mall today with my precious Sellers - we had promised her an "outing" and Pottery Barn Kids was her choice - and wondered what Copeland was doing right now. It's hard trying to grasp heaven, even for someone who grew up going to church and who should know enough to substantiate it. I just feel a little uneducated. Aren't we all? I suspect that losing a loved one does one thing for certain in a soul: you must decide, right now, for each moment, what you believe. No more of this silly blithering on about God and Heaven or even Jesus if it's not going to mean anything when you need it most. I have to choose. Is it real? Is it going to be real in my heart when I can't see through my tears? And does accepting heaven mean accepting everything else the Bible says? That there's also a hell... that without Jesus, none of us can get to the Father? Yes. I cannot take one without the other. I thought of the verse that says, "Store up for yourselves treasures in heaven." I looked at all the cute little doo-dads in Pottery Barn Kids this afternoon and part of me ached for the fact that I can't buy those things for Copeland. And then part of me realized how she would laugh, too. Laugh because the treasure - the real treasure - is Jesus. And she's as filled up with Him as any of us can ever be.

Tomorrow is the memorial. As Conor and I dug in our closets to find the right things to wear, it seemed strange to be pulling tops and skirts out in preparation for this day. Like I've said, we knew it was coming. But I find it odd that we are fast-approaching that moment, the moment these months of walking and crying and laughing and praying have metriculated into. The real moment of victory was the moment Copeland left us, but I know she would understand - and so would the Father - that for all of us here on earth, tomorrow symbolizes our letting her go. And I pray each day that I would love Copeland and Jesus enough to do that.

The video the church put together is astounding; I will post it here as soon as I get the chance. I wanted to share with you something about one of the songs we've chosen for the service. We should have some footage of that, as well. The opener is a song called "Every Road" by Amy Grant. The verses are definitely more "husband/wife" oriented... words that discuss leaning into each other when it would be easier to pull away. For some reason, this song has been on my heart since the evening Copeland died. I sat and listened to it for a while after she had left us and realized the chorus spoke to me in a way I hadn't realized I needed: "Every road that's traveled teaches something new/ And every road that's narrow pushes us to choose/ And I'd be lying if I said I had not tried to leave a time or two/ Every road that leads me, leads me back to you." I love these words. Conor and I were on a road trip once driving in Colorado. As we listened to this song, I realized that I wanted every road I took in life - every heartache, every joy, every moment we'd share that would either send us dancing or to our knees - to lead me back to him. I realize that, ultimately, that's what marriage is - and that's what our relationship with the Father should be. Just a winding, rocky path that requires only one real thing from us: that we keep coming back. I want Copeland and Sellers and all the children we ever have to know that they can rely on that fact: we'll keep coming back. Both to each other and to the Father. We're committed to it.

I pray if you can be there tomorrow, you will be blessed. I pray the songs and the words and the pictures and even the person sitting next to you will make a mark. We are so anxious to share what we have been filled up with.

in her honor...

2007-09-27T15:02:00.000-05:00

So many of you have asked how you can honor our sweet daughter and we are tremendously blessed by that. We have a couple of options that we feel truly represent our family. Please read the e-mail below to fully understand the first:

"It is one of God’s greatest blessings for us to be able to celebrate His sweet Copeland’s life! In our new library, slated for completion in the spring of 2008, there is a large window—the visual, physical, and spiritual 'center' of the library. In this window, there is to be placed a window seat; a place that seems to all of us who love to read like a big hug! We would love to honor Copeland by designating this window seat as 'Copeland’s Corner,' a place where every single day and every single page turned is a celebration of her life. A fund has been set up in her honor."

Boothe attended Oak Hill School here in Nashville from kindergarten until sixth grade. It had a tremendous effect on her faith and allowed her to blossom spiritually in many ways that are having a major role in how we will get through this season now. Oak Hill is a part of a church here in town that we were fortunate enough to be married in back in 2001. So this is a place that means a lot to our legacy as a family. Please send donations for this fund to:

The Oak Hill School
Re: Copeland’s Corner
The Oak Hill School Library
4815 Franklin Road
Nashville, TN 37220

Contact Claire Wilkins at 615-298-9543 for further information.

We understand that many of you may not know about Oak Hill and may feel more comfortable with something a bit more global. Therefore, we have also decided to set up a fund to assist International Justice Mission, a non-profit organization that seeks to work out injustices and set free captives around the world, including young girls in sex slavery. Knowing our Copeland is free even as we speak is a great reminder that we are all ultimately called to a life in heaven where the 'chains' on this earth have no bearing. We believe that it is our duty to seek the Father's will for all of His children, "on earth, as it is in heaven." Please send donations in honor of Copeland Farley to the following:

International Justice Mission
PO Box 58147
Washington, DC 20037

You may also give online; if you are interested in this option, please visit their website at www.ijm.org and select "GIVE" from the menu at the top of the screen.

Blessings this day... we are making it through because of you.

Memorial

2007-09-27T10:52:00.001-05:00

We wanted to let everyone know that plans have been made for a memorial service celebrating our sweet girl's short life. Details are below... anyone is welcome.

Saturday, September 29th
1:00 PM (CST)
Fellowship Bible Church
1210 Franklin Road
Brentwood,TN 37027

Please visit Fellowship's website for more information on their location: www.fbctn.org.

In lieu of flowers, Boothe and I have chosen two ways for those of you who are interested to remember Copeland. More details on these will foilow shortly.

We love you all and so appreciate your words. We are in awe of the way the Lord has used our story and our precious daughter, and we look forward to continuing to see His hand move.

Conor

"hey"

2007-09-27T08:16:00.000-05:00

It is 8:15 in the morning and by God's grace, I have only now just gotten up. I felt compelled to write something, though I can't say exactly why. People asked me before Copeland was born what I would do with this blog after she was gone, and I didn't know then. I still don't totally know now. She was the heart of the reason why I ever sat down to write anything at all. But ultimately, the Lord has used what He gave me to glorify Himself in mighty ways, so who am I to decide 'I'm done' when this is really His in the first place? He has given me an urge to write; it's almost like without pouring out my heart I remain pent up inside with the ache all the more voracious.

i confess I'm still in a bit of shock, knowing that she's gone. The funeral home came and took her later in the night, so we had some sweet time even after the Lord had called her home. I have to keep reminding myself that from the moment she passed, she was no longer there - the body I so loved to cradle, the cheeks I loved to kiss, even her tiny nose that, no matter what I did, I couldn't keep warm enough - they were no longer her. To say she is in heaven is so cliche to me; it feels somewhat like being told, "Oh, but here's the good news: though your child isn't here anymore, she's in Never Never Land. Don't worry." Though my faith is real, and I do believe, it was all I could do not to chase the car last night as it pulled out of the driveway taking my angel away. Later, in the house, I felt as though I would crawl out of my skin wanting to get my baby. I had been told of this panic, but I hadn't expected it, not really. After all, we've known this day would come for 3 months now. But nothing... nothing prepares you to willingly hand your child to a complete stranger knowing you'll never see them again.

i don't mean to sound morbid or even to depress anyone, although I know I'll find it hard at times to smile or to simply 'go on' as normal, despite the absolute necessity of that at some point. I remember thinking last night that I can't believe I actually fall into the category of people who have endured one of the hardest things life can hand someone. It doesn't seem real. And yet that word - endure - stands out and reminds me that somehow, as I sit in the darkness of my bedroom and hope I have the strength to face Copeland's bassinet in the kitchen, I realize that God is giving me what I can't give myself, what even no amount of Bible verses fail to give were it not first for His Spirit imparting to me an understanding and a thirst for Him. I confess I long to understand - to believe - in what I can't right now. I long to believe heaven is real, that my girl is being rocked by caring, loving arms, that she is absolutely healed from the effects of her cruel disease and that never again will she be hungry or frustrated at her inability to breathe. That she will look on the gates occasionally, waiting for her mommy and daddy to appear. My conversations with God right now are more like those you have with a junior high boyfriend as you pass them in the hall at school: necessary in order to remain in a relationship, but short, probably somewhat insignificant to any on-lookers. "Hey." That's about all I can muster at this point. What do you say to the God of the universe who chose not to heal or save your baby? Who, though they are giving you strength to endure, moment by moment, actually allowed the situation that require endurance in the first place? I call on you to pray for me. I will not turn my back on Him. But words fail me.

homecoming

2007-09-26T18:02:00.000-05:00

Just wanted to let you all know... we lost our precious girl tonight at 5:35. We knew the end was coming... she had a very difficult day and we were anticipating it, but nothing can possibly prepare your heart for something so hard. We are clinging to the knowledge that she is no longer suffering but is in her Savior's arms. Our time with her in heaven will be so much greater and so much more special than even the most incredible days we've spent with her here on earth. We are so thankful for every memory the Father gave us. I will never regret a single second spent as her mommy.

Sellers and her Daddy spent some time outside on the back porch talking, so she knows. Thank you for your prayers and for your sweet encouragement.

We love you all...

update

2007-09-26T14:06:00.000-05:00

I went to work for a bit today to try and catch up on some things and while sitting in a meeting, Boothe's aunt called to tell me I needed to come home because things looked bad. We took Copeland with us this morning to the doctor's office where Boothe had some follow-up done (for the c-section). Copeland seemed to do well through all of that, her color stayed relatively pink. But over the course of the day, we are definitely noticing her weakening. We have known it all along, but the physical reality that she is going to be leaving us soon is hitting home with each passing hour.

These are some of the things I never knew we'd have to deal with. Going back to "normal" life, in some ways, and trying to remain as routine as possible, while my daughter is literally on the brink of death. And not knowing how long that process will take.

Please continue to pray for our family. Pray that I will love Boothe and my girls well. And please pray that the Lord wil postpone the hour of Copeland's death until I can get home, if, in fact, I happen to be away. I want to balance working with being here with the girls. I feel compelled to provide as the spiritual leader in our family, and sometimes it is tough to even begin to know how to do it during this season.

We're still touch and go... we will continue to keep you updated.

Conor

8:30 a.m.

2007-09-26T08:31:00.000-05:00

I was woken this morning by my aunt, leaning into my room to tell me that Copeland was looking blue. I had no idea what time it was - my mother, mother-in-law, aunt and grandmother had all taken shifts watching her through the night - and as I headed upstairs, all I could think was, "This is the day. We've had her for over a week now. This must be the day." Indeed, as I went to Copeland and picked her up, her color, while not as drastically blue as before, had faded. Most frighteningly, her breathing had stopped. Completely. On occasion she would let out gasps for air, sweet little cries, but on the whole, things looked dire. She hadn't eaten in about 12 hours. Conor's mom has been gracious to use a stethoscope lately and do what I don't think he or I could (whether due to lack of skill or heart): listen to her heartrate and help us gauge where things are in this whole journey. Copeland's little heartbeat seems to be relatively strong - I say 'relatively' because we are certainly watching things slow down. As we sat in the same living room I wept in only yesteday morning, I found myself screaming at God, agonizing that this could not be the time, this wasn't the moment Conor and I have prayed for.

God seems to have heard our cries for now... she is still here. But her breathing is slower, shallower; her color is definitely weaker, and her heartbeat is fading. Had I the ability to predict whether or not this episode were a 'milestone' on the direct path to her death, I would tell you so. But I don't. We go back into a place where the steps in front of us are as obscure as they have ever been. We simply ask you to pray that we will be somehow, someway, prepared to let her go. Watching her struggle may be God's strange way of giving us the ability to hand her more willingly back to Him: we can hardly bear to see her fight for life anymore. I have whispered over her in the last few minutes, just as Conor has, "Sweet girl, just go. We love you... we're so proud of you. You've fought so hard. But you don't have to fight for us anymore. We want you to be free."

I believe the Lord gave me a vision this morning of His angels, standing guard over our family as we wept over her, ready to take her to the Father when He commands. I believe when they are sent to take her, the moment she enters His arms, she will be made perfect and complete: that were we given the spiritual eyes to see, we would know that while we hold a fragile, broken body, Jesus is taking unto Himself a child who is always breathing normally, whose cheeks and lips remain flushed with joy for life, whose heart is strong and vigorous, who has been given freedom from the incredible chains this fallen world has set upon her frail form.

We love you all and will continue to update you throughout the day...

12:30 a.m.

2007-09-26T00:28:00.000-05:00

Just wanted to update quickly: we are preparing for bed tonight - my mom and I are sitting up talking, while Conor's mom rests so that she can take the next "shift" and keep an eye on our girl - and Copeland is having frequent "blue spells" again. The last resulted in several seconds where she stopped breathing altogether. Please pray for her tonight... that she will make it through. It is almost unbearable trying to "wake her up" when she is so gray and colorless, her eyes are glazed over... as a mommy, I don't know how to keep my panic from surfacing. Please pray the Lord will breathe life into her lungs and that we will be able to remain calm if, in fact, we have to deal with this again in the next few hours. This has been a pattern today, so my fears are definitely heavier as far as Copeland making it through the night. It is hard not to be anxious.

happy birthday, copeland!

2007-09-25T20:37:00.002-05:00

Tonight we celebrated with some family as Copeland turned exactly one week old! It was a really special time... my cousin baked a delicious cake, my mom bought a precious little birthday hat for Copeland to "wear" (we think it's actually meant to accentuate a gift bag!) and Sellers even wore her "Big Sister" crown from school.

I can hardly believe we've made it this far... and yet with each passing day, it's harder to imagine that we are getting closer to the end... whenever the Lord has ordained that. We are preparing for a restful night and hoping Copeland will continue to remain pink and breathe well.

Blessings...

Boothe

thank you

2007-09-25T18:35:00.000-05:00

Copeland is sleeping soundly in her bassinet and has been for almost an hour now... she's finally getting some of the alone time I think her little four-pound body desperately needed. Perhaps all the passing around really meant a bit of exhaustion for her! As for the pink cheeks and lips... your prayers are being felt here with deep gratitude. I stand in awe at a God who will use something as mindless and irritating as the internet can often be for His glory - to amplify His name above all the earth and remind us that if we will but call to Him, we can expect results. We are not always sure what they will look like, but we can be assured they'll come, some way or another. For now I am rejoicing in my daughter's sudden blush!

baby blues...

2007-09-25T16:11:00.000-05:00

Some photos from our day thus far...

Sellers feeding her baby sister her bottle this morning... and Copeland in her carseat with her enormous pacifier. Almost everything in life seems to be enormous in comparison to our tiny peanut!

Still doing well... Not to seem presumptuous, I just wanted to give you all an update. And to ask you to pray for these "blue spells" I keep mentioning. This would definitely fall into the "specifics" category, I'm sure, but I feel a little more at peace with praying for specifics than I did, say, about 36 hours ago. Guess that's what defines much of our spiritual life: constant ups and downs. I'm so thankful that the Father isn't as inconsistent in His ways with us as we are with Him. Copeland has her "good" days and her "not-so-good" days and this has been one of the latter, at least from the perspective I've kept in watching her color change. We are always hopeful for pink cheeks and lips - signs that her bloodflow is strong - and often we'll have that for hours at a time. But honestly, today has been a tough go of it, and I would ask you to lift up our girl and ask specifically - there's that word again - that the Lord would begin to slow the frequency of these blue spells and help her to breathe. It's been a tough day... not as much vigor as we'd like to see her with. Please pray right now for her health and for her life... that God would restore her moment by moment.

one week ago...

2007-09-25T11:55:00.000-05:00

I am sitting in Conor's office, listening to his co-workers wander in and out so that they can get a peek at our girl, and it astounds me that we have actually reached Copeland's one-week birthday! In about an hour, she will have been alive for exactly seven days. Astonishing.

I wanted to let you know we are doing well... we took Sellers to school this morning, showed Copeland off to her teachers and friends (they even made her a "Big Sister" crown to wear throughout the day!) and then headed off to run some errands and spend some quality time 'just the three of us' - Conor, Copeland and I. I am soaking up each and every moment I have as her mom... to get to share her with people who I know have been praying has been absolutely incredible. Everyone marvels at how tiny she is, at how perfect she looks (despite the fact that Trisomy-18 definitely has made its 'mark' on her, she is in many ways just a miniaturized version of a normal, healthy baby). There have been a couple of moments when the "blue spells" returned and my heart fell, thinking perhaps that would be the time the Lord would call her home. I pray each day for more time with her, but I also recognize the very real probability that each day could be her last. Each moment, even.

Conor and I prayed specifically for joy last night. I guess somehow in the middle of all of this, I'd forgotten that if I prayed for the ability to smile, to be able to look past - even ignore, to some degree - the imminent sadness before us, just for today, God would be faithful to answer. I know you are continually lifting us up, as well, and I want you to know how thrilling I find my position in this life to be right now. To put Sellers to bed, to wake her in the morning, to sit up late and talk with my husband about both the heaviest and silliest of subjects, to rock Copeland in my arms and just let Jesus give her each breath - all of these things fill me up so immensely that I find it hard to express. I never want to look back on this day - or the days ahead - and feel that I squandered the gift the Father is giving me.

Happy one-week birthday, Copeland... it is by the grace of the Father and the loyalty of the saints that you are here with us today.

good night

2007-09-24T23:20:00.000-05:00

Deat sweet family and friends...

Well, we made it through another day and our sweet girl is about to begin her third night away from the hospital. Words fail me... at times I am totally in agony watching her, wondering.... and at times I am filled with deep joy, encouraged that no matter what her physical features might indicate, God seems to be working with every single cell in her body and doing what He always set out to accomplish with her.

I am in awe, repeatedly, at how many of you are reading these words. I simply can't understand it. God has always given me a desire to "reach" people for Him, but in this situation, under such difficult circumstances, I can honestly say I am not like Paul... I don't feel thankful all the time to be used by Him and I don't always appreciate the incredible testimony I know He's writing in our lives right now. But hearing of how Copeland's life and our story have affected you is like a balm for my soul. It is the only thing that in any capacity can justify how much pain I feel for her and the pain I believe we may still walk through. Thank you for sharing what Jesus is doing in your lives. Please pray He would continue to fill us up - to give us joy. I find that I often focus on how hard things are, how sad I am for what will never be, instead of reveling in the incredible experience I'm being blessed with as both Sellers's and Copeland's mommy. Not to mention Conor's wife. It is almost too much to process. Please pray that we will be able to enjoy this path. That the darkness will allow us to see the light we might have missed had things on our journey always stayed sunny and upbeat.

I am much more at peace tonight as we head to bed than I've been since we left the hospital. We have loads of family here who have graciously volunteered to watch Copeland and rock her while Conor and I sleep. I am so blessed.

See you in the morning...`

out of the mouth of babes

2007-09-24T17:48:00.001-05:00

Praise the Lord for my sweet sister. I guess that's truly what a sister should do - bear your burdens and help you to get through. I am so thankful you all got the update you were looking for and that you might be able to feel some peace, along with us, that for now, we have our precious girl. I apologize for not being as committed today to writing as I've been; I think the exhaustion from last night has set in and despite the rest I got this afternoon, I'm feeling less and less energized.

I did want to tell you that the Lord has used Sellers in a mighty way today. When Conor brought Copeland upstairs this morning, she was anxious tp hold her baby sister. She did, in fact, come in our room when we were just waking up and asked if she could see Copeland. Although she's shown some interest in her, Sellers has also been a little reluctant to embrace the whole "new baby" idea... I think this is largely due to the fact that for so long, we prepared her that Copeland wouldn't be coming home. That we wouldn't change her diapers or feed her. We wanted her to be as ready to let Copeland go to heaven as we felt we would be. That strikes me as a little bit of a joke now. But we did what we could at the time! Last night, Sellers went to Conor and asked him if they could talk. She wanted to go and sit in a couple of armchairs downstairs - this was a specific request - and when they got there, she looked at her daddy and said, "Daddy, why does Copeland have to go to heaven?" He explained that she was sick and that Jesus would heal her completely, that she would get to run and play and do all of the things little girls should be able to do when they are healthy. We have been talking a lot about salvation with Sellers and what Jesus did for us on the cross, and Conor reminded her that when He died, He saved and healed all of us and that if we will believe this, we can go to heaven, too, because He loves us that much. She seems to supernaturally "get" this as best as a 3 year-old can.

I am deriving such strength from the way she's handled thnigs with her precious sister. I clung to the countertops in the bathroom today, I guess in the midst of a slight anxiety attack, and cried out to God, "How do I let Copeland go while at the same time try to mother her? How can I love her this deeply and still allow her, every single moment, to have the permission to leave me when You call?" Sellers seems to understand that her sister won't be with us for long but that while we do have her, we are called to love her and to make her happy.

We did get a visit from hospice care this morning and to his credit, Conor handled the situation much better than I could have. They are the ones we'll call when Copeland does pass, and they are the ones I will ultimately have to hand her precious little body over to. I hate them in a way. Sellers sat in the living room with Copeland in her arms, daintily stroking her cheek with the corner of her silk blanket. She looked up at me and said, "She loves it when I rub her cheeks." I sat down beside her and watched as she loved her sister for me, as she poured out her little heart and soothed Copeland when I felt so in despair that I didn't know how to. Then, she reached up and lovingly stroked my arm for a few seconds. "It's gonna be awight, Mama," were the words she spoke to me. How a three year-old can possibly know what her adult mother needs to hear I'll never know. But praise Jesus that she's been given something I cannot fathom, something I would no more give her the credit for a few months ago than learning to drive a car, and something I realize the Father knew I'd need from her so desperately that without it, I am weaker and less of the mother He intended for me to be.

from the sister

2007-09-24T13:12:00.000-05:00

Since I'm related to this family and can call at any moment to check on them, but still am checking the site hourly for updates, I thought those of you who might not have the chance to call would like a little update. (And since Boothe and Conor gave me their sign-in info, I'm going for it!)

She's still with us!

I spoke with Conor about 20 minutes ago and his words were "she's doing good". Her color isn't back to where it was this time yesterday, but she isn't gasping for air or struggling - that they can tell. She's sleeping silently and seems to be doing better than last night. The hospice nurses came by today to check in on her and give a little comfort to Boothe and Conor, and all things seemed to be all right. The uncertainty of what the next hours will bring makes this news bittersweet, but lets us rejoice in knowing that she is still with us - not struggling and not hurting.

And can I also take this moment to tell you, first hand, how amazing Boothe and Conor really are as parents. They honestly strive to give their daughters the very best they know how and have thought of no one this entire week but their two girls. If we could all be as sacrificial and Spirit-led in the way we love our children, we would be amazingly blessed.

As you continue to lift up their precious babies, don't forget to mention them. Boothe and Conor are following where He's leading them and He is mighty to save. May He give them strength to walk through this journey.

love from Dallas
(no more surprise posts, Sis! I promise!)

just breathe

2007-09-24T09:36:00.001-05:00

I woke this morning at about 6:30 having had a nightmare that Sellers came into our room wanting to see her baby sister and Conor and I telling her that she was gone. When I realized it wasn't going to be a nightmare, after all, but a reality we'd face, and perhaps soon, my heart sank. I was in a lot of pain - surgical - and needed to take some more medicine, so I climbed out of bed and began to head toward the door. That's when I heard Copeland squeal.

We are convinced that we lost her last night. She went totally gray, stopped breathing, and then, after she gasped several times after that and seemed to regain any strength at all, we simply imagined that though she might seem to be somewhat "back", these were simply stages along the road to death. Our neonatologists at the hospital had convinced us - albeit lovingly and with every ounce of knowledge about this process that Conor and I can't claim to possess - that things like gasping, breathing slowing to excruciating paces, and certainly the absence of any chest movement are all signs... death is upon us. We watched her struggle to breathe and then made the hardest decision we've ever had in our lives: to let go. We placed Copeland beside us, left the lights on, and rested. Our level of exhaustion was so intense that we actually bickered with each other before going to sleep - about nothing important, nonetheless. If you know Conor and I, you know we don't bicker... certainly don't fight. It sounds stupid, but for some reason we just like each other a lot and enjoy being together. Satan was so active in that room, the spiritual warfare so great, that it was all we could do to forgive and weep in each others' arms. I will count it as the most difficult night of my life.

Upon hearing our girl squeak from her bassinet this morning, my heart soared. And fell to greater depths than I can explain. We have let her go as best as we know how. We have said goodbye and given her to the Father. And now we are in a "wait and see" zone. The Lord may not take her for another day. Or weeks. How we ride the emotional rollercoaster of the unknown is absolutely beyond me. Conor was fighting mad last night. We're both mad. What is God doing? Where is He? I'm sick of trying so hard to honor Him and to make sure He is proud of me... only to feel my most specific and heartwrenching cries are not heard. And yet to find my girl alive this morning was the most incredible high I've ever felt. So perhaps He's answering prayers I've yet to pray... perhaps He's answering prayers I was meant to pray and didn't. I don't know. I sat alone in the morning sunlight pouring into my parents' living room earlier and the only words I could pray - maybe the only words I honestly felt I wanted to pray - were, "God, I can breathe. That's what I can do. Now I'm going back to bed."

I am not asking you to pray specifically for anything anymore. At least not at this moment. What I am asking you for is that you would pray God will have His way. That we will not live with expectation, per se, but with hope, certainly, and rest in Him. Pray we will be authentic in the anger we feel, even if that means we have some exchanges with Him that would make conservative Christians balk. I am convinced that if neither life nor death can keep us from the love of God, then certainly a few harsh words aren't too much for Him to handle.

carrying her home...

2007-09-24T03:12:00.000-05:00

It is 3:15 in the morning. Conor and I are watching Copeland struggle for each breath as we lay side by side in bed, hoping that the Lord will intervene and give us all some rest. I confess to you that our prayer - right now - is that He will embrace us in His arms and take Copeland home to be whole, complete and healed. The last few hours have been agonizing.

After the last post, we asked a friend who's also a pediatrician to come by and listen to Copeland's heartrate. As I suspected, it was low. Even as she listened, the rate itself fluctuated several times, but ultimately kept returning to about 60 beats a minute, which, for Copeland, is much lower than the 150 we had left the hospital at just yesterday afternoon. In the time our friend stayed with us, it seemed our precious angel would continue to go downhill.

At about 2:00, her breathing slowed to the point that she stopped it altogether for about a minute at a time. Her coloring was so altered that I brought her into our bedroom and Conor and I lay on either side of her, wept over her, and prayed Jesus would come and take her. He still hasn't.

An hour later, we appear to still be in the "stages of death" that our neonatologist at the hospital described to us. We know that Copeland is not in pain, but it's the most difficult thing I've ever wtinessed in my entire life. We have talked for so long with Sellers about Copeland going to heaven, and while I do believe even now the Father can heal her, we are walking with hope in the Lord that He will reveal Himself to us in a fresh and mighty way tonight - not that she will defy science or statistics, but that she will be free in Him... and that Conor and I, in the Lord's perfect provision, will perhaps defy what the world says two young parents holding their dying child can never be counted on to do: sing His praises.

Blessings...

8:00 p.m. Sunday

2007-09-23T19:45:00.000-05:00

It is 7:45 and we have spent the last hour or so praying over Copeland. I decided to take her temperature to see if that was one reason she might be struggling and it was very low. It's still warm here in Nashville so we sat outside with her and wrapped her in blankets from the dryer and hoped just being away from some air conditioning might help. Her color is still what the nurses called "dusky." I am doing everything in my power to keep her warm and content, which she seems to be, considering she's sleeping in her daddy's arms right now.

I know you all are praying fiercely and I continue to ask you to lift us up. I pray constantly that the Lord would stir in your hearts and remind you of Copeland, which I know He is faithful to do. God has pressed upon my heart that if I will pray specifically, He will be quick to hear and answer. Before the last post, as I wept over her outside, I prayed He would fill her lungs with oxygen and cause her to breathe by whatever means necessary - I asked Him to make her cry. When we came inside, she was bundled, resting peacefully in my arms, and suddenly started screaming. I know He responded immediately to my prayers. I know He heard my words and mercifully answered the ache in this mother's heart.

And so, on that note, I would ask you to pray for several specific things until our next post: one, that she would keep crying, if necessary. That the Lord would wake her body up as often is required to keep her warm and to keep her oxygenated. Two, that the despair and helplessness I feel would be replaced by dependence on the Father and a rest in His absolute power and might. Finally, I pray against any work of the evil one who would seek to undermine Jesus' work in the middle of this strenuous time. I pray every purpose and plan He has for this incredible trial in our lives will prevail, that He will be honored and glorified, and that no weapon set against our family would prosper. We find rest in the shadow of His wings.

prayer

2007-09-23T17:32:00.000-05:00

Dear family and friends,

I am asking you to pray specifically for Copeland right now. She has had a few more "blue spells" than we are comfortable with, they are lasting a bit longer than usual, and she's somewhat lethargic. Right now I am letting her cry as best as her little lungs will permit simply to ensure oxygen is rushing through her body. It could be a rough night. Please pray she will make it through. It is frightening and so difficult as a parent to watch your child suffer in any way. Pray that Conor and I will be strengthened.

photos

2007-09-23T13:37:00.000-05:00

More photos of our night... the girls with their necklaces... our newest member and her big sister!!

the first 24 hours in the real world....

2007-09-23T11:09:00.000-05:00

We've made it through our first night with Copeland. She had only a couple of her "blue spells" and, by the grace of God, we were able to handle them with relative ease. It's almost as though she is teaching us how best to care for her. These photos were taken shortly after we arrived at my parents' home. Sellers has taken to copying pretty much everything any of us does with her new baby sister - but with her dolly, Betsy. It's adorable.

My dad blessed all of his girls with beautiful sterling necklaces right before dinner. They are each hearts - Sellers and Copeland have the same and then I have a slightly different one. The emotion of knowing that we are all truly a family, and that sweet Copeland will always be a part of that, is amazing. Sellers was beside herself with hers and wants to wear it all the time. She felt so special.

Several of you have commented either on the blog or through e-mail about feeling a deep urge to pray that the Lord would give Conor and I wisdom about feeding Copeland. I wanted to include a photo of her eating - with a small bottle, nonetheless - so that you could see you for yourselves: she's doing it! When the nurse that came into our hospital room on Friday night at about 2 a.m. mentioned the possibility of giving her some formula, I later felt a strong urge from the Lord to breastfeed. I have resisted that idea from the day we learned of Copeland's condition, mainly because of the emotional tie I think breastfeeding can build between a mom and a child. I have wanted to guard my heart. But I did feel His prompting me and, upon sharing that with Conor, we decided I would use a pump and hopefully, if Copeland could successfully eat with a bottle or even a syringe (which has been a bit more fail-proof, as even though her sucking reflex is present it's weak) we would be able to feel like I was contributing in a special way to her life and that perhaps the Lord wanted me to go ahead and enjoy that bond with her while she is here. There is such a fine line in protecting oneself from emotionally-upheaving situations: the Bible says that we should "above all else" guard our hearts for they are the wellspring of life, but it also says the heart is deceitful. I pray for discernment, that the Lord would show me when I am making decisions out of haste and uncertainty, and when He is actually stirring in my spirit. I believe that night was one of the first examples of how He will guide me and give me what science might call instincts - but what we as believers can call movement by the Holy Spirit.

We are going on our first family outing today, maybe to the bookstore. In contrast to how I felt when we first learned of Copeland's diagnosis, I am aching for social interaction. Perhaps there's a part of me that longs to "show my girls off" together; perhaps I want to take Copeland to do and see as many things as we can while she's here so that each will be marked, in my memory, with her presence. There are so many emotions that I think a new mother of two feels, especially sadness knowing that the season with your first child alone is now over, but I waiver between sadness over that and sadness that, ultimately, we will go back to the three of us at some point. I want to soak up as much as I can with our foursome and simply live in the joy of that for today. In reality, none of us knows how long we have; it's a bit hilarious that with Copeland's diagnosis we actually feel like we can "plan" on something that is inevitable for all of us and yet can't really be pinned down. Please pray for time for all of us to bond, and for the time Conor and I can share as parents to our girls, that it will be blessed and truly annointed. Satan is definitely attacking as much as he can, and I know part of that attack includes overwhelming Conor and I enough to keep us 'shut down' in communication with each other, even if it's just as a result of lack of time to chat and look into each other's eyes. We will have to be diligent, for our girls' sakes, to make that time and make it special.

We love you all and are so blessed by the words you send. I sit in front of the computer quite often now and read your comments and e-mails and weep. The Scripture you send is incredibly uplifting. I need it. God's Word is truly living and active. It is the only thing upon which any of us can lean, for it will never fade or pass away. Many of you spoke words of encouragement regarding Copeland being ordained by God to be our daughter... that I was called from the beginning to be her mom, Conor her dad, Sellers her sister. You have no idea what that means, either. I'd forgotten it. Sometimes it's easy to feel like this was all random, despite my head-belief that God does pre-ordain things and has a plan. Thank you for reminding me that He's already designed me and my heart, as well as Conor's, to walk this path.

home

2007-09-22T16:59:00.000-05:00

I find it odd that the computer I began this blog on back in June is the same one I sit in front of this afternoon, officially a discharged patient from Baptist Hospital with my precious newborn daughter. Who would have ever thought it possible?

Copeland is doing well. We are going to spend a few days at my parents' home surrounded by family and also prayerful for the next few days. We are grateful.

We would ask you to pray specifically for:

1. Copeland's continued ability to thrive as best she can. Without support from the wonderful nurses at the hospital, I feel a little insecure about taking great care of her. Pray the Lord will keep fighting the battles for us; that I won't feel that as a mom I am responsible for understanding how to meet her every need. Only He can provide her with the things she truly needs, and only He can give Conor and I the wisdom to know what those things are.

2. Conor and I are exhausted. Lack of sleep definitely contributes to this, but there's a really draining element to having a child with any kind of special need. I often feel envious not of mothers whose children are 'perfect' externally but whose everyday routines are so easy. I'm one of those mothers, with Sellers. I have taken it so for granted that she will be able to eat and sleep without consequence from the day she was born. In stark contrast, Copeland's every activity seems like either a trial or a triumph. We feel the Lord has given us far, far more victories of late, but it can still be wearying wondering if the next endeavor toward normalcy we make will rob her of life. Each little detail of her day feels like it's 'touch-and-go,' and the constant uncertainty is definitely tiring.

More updates to come... perhaps a few photos, too...

Thank you for praying us home! It's still a miracle we never expected.

8:00 am saturday

2007-09-22T07:25:00.000-05:00

Last night as I slept on a couch next to Boothe, I woke to see the nurses feeding Copeland some formula through a small dropper. She started taking a passy last night and did a great job with it, so the neonatologist figured she could try and swallow some food. So at about 3 am last night, our little girl ate about 2CCs of real formula and did not spit it up. The nurses are trying again right now so we will see what happens. It is another thing she is not supposed to be able to do To say that we are overwhelmed would be an understatement. Emotionally we are prepared for certain things and God keeps reminding us that His plan is greater. Our plan is to take her home around lunchtime and go from there - I cannot really put into words what I am experiencing right now, I just feel like I am not in control - which is good but so scary. What I do know is that God is going to continue to use Copleland to impact more people, just like she has me.

Conor

I wanted to add my own words onto this quickly. We are in a state of shock, to some degree, as Conor said... Copeland began to eat last night after we were told, unequivocally, that eating wasn't an option for her. The neonatologist who was on-call last night felt that if she could suck - and the passy we offered her has become her favorite thing - and was also enjoying the sucrose drops, there wasn't a reason we couldn't try to get her to eat a little something. After two syringes full of formula, which is a lot thicker than the sucrose, we are convinced that for now, the Lord has decided things should look a little different than we expected. Taking her home has become much, much less strenuous, and best of all: our precious girl is finally getting the sustenance I think Conor and I both suspected she was longing for. If, in fact, her esophagus wasn't connected to her stomach, the Lord healed that in a matter of days. We are in awe.

We understand that ultimately our little girl still has trisomy-18. God didn't choose to remove or change that diagnosis. But she's going home totally tube-free... no oxygen, no feeding tubes... as "normal" as a baby with her status could ever hope to be. We have no idea what to expect, but we are trying to embrace the facts - again, how we've coped for this long in some ways - while at the same time acknowledging God's incredible ability to suprise us with joy.

the road ahead...

2007-09-22T00:39:00.000-05:00

Dear family and friends...
I am about to head to bed, but I wanted to let you all know where we stand... Thanks to my sister's post, I know you are aware we had another wonderful day with Copeland. Discussions with a neonatologist also gave us some peace about taking her home and sharing her last moments with family there, in a more familiar place, so as we enter our final night here at the hospital, I confess my hopes have changed somewhat and we look forward to the possibility of packing our baby girl up tomorrow for the ride back to our house. Sellers has excitedly agreed to show her baby sister her room, despite the fact that we know she won't be there for long. I know the Lord knows what is best and we are trying to trust Him in that. I know all of you can appreciate that it's hard at times.

Today was fantastic... as Chelsea said, Copeland rarely had a "blue spell," her temperature stayed consistently high, and her heartrate was strong. We felt blessed to share in her dedication with some family and friends. I will always remember our precious, precious time here in the hospital. These have been some of the best hours of our life.

It is hard knowing that in the impending days ahead - if the Lord grants us those with our girl - we wiil be facing some difficult moments. Trisomy-18 will continue to take its toll on Copeland's body and I know it will require a strength Conor and I certainly won't have without the Lord to face that head-on. There is just only so much we can do to alleviate her suffering. We continue to covet and appreciate your prayers, both to rejoice with us and also to cover us and lay us before the throne.

We love you all..
Boothe

another day - another blessing (8:30 pm)

2007-09-21T20:39:00.000-05:00

Posted by Aunt Chelsea (Boothe's sister)

What a day of joy today has been. We all left last night uncertain of what the morning would bring - and praying that we would get a chance to hold and love Copeland one more day. However, we have still been praying all along that the Lord would take her if she was hurting at all.

It's been an awesome day to come to the hospital and all day long see Copeland full of color, breathing well, strong heartbeat and as precious as could be. Boothe and Conor have been filled with the joy of the Lord and we have all been able to spend the day smiling, loving the sweetest girl in the world.

At 2:00 today, our closest family and friends gathered with Pastor Don Finto and Pastor Jeff Helton to dedicate Copeland's precious life to the Lord. We all rejoiced in knowing that He has given us another day to love her and spend time getting to know her better. Sis and Conor were encouraged that they have loved her the way the Lord calls parents to love and have done all that is in their power to love her unconditionally. They have shown how much they love their daughter and proven that their desire is for the Lord's will to be done with her little life.

Copeland also had a visit from her favorite NICU nurse, who is in fact off today. Carly brought her husband by simply to see precious Copeland one more time. She was such a breath of fresh air and such a joy to see, as a surprise, one more day.

Today has been filled with surprises, blessings and most of all the joy of the Lord.

What a beautiful thing it is to have another day with our girl.

9:15 am

2007-09-21T09:14:00.000-05:00

We are doing well... Copeland has had less of the scary moments she did yesterday and her heartrate, as well as body temperature, seem to be quite high and strong. Conor and I are still in the room alone, getting to spend some amazing time as parents by ourselves before family begins to arrive.

We were laughing this morning about Copeland's sweet little mouth and dark hair, both characteristics she shares with her big sister. It's wild to be a mom and dad with two girls... we will forever have the privilege of saying that, which is quite a thrill. Copeland looks like one of our babies, and that's also a thought that brings a smile to my face. She looks like us... she belongs to us... she always will.

7:00 am

2007-09-21T07:10:00.000-05:00

Incredibly, Copeland made it through another night. As my mom and mother-in-law held her through the first hours, followed by Conor and then the NICU nurse, she had only a couple of "blue spells" where her body changed color dramatically enough to require a heartrate check. This elicited a few fears that she might be sliding back away from us. I slept through it all, somewhat to my frustration, but she is with us now in our room and seems to be doing as well as her little body can at this point.

It's hard to believe we are going on four days of life for our sweet girl, Our prayers, particularly after speaking with the neonatologist who was on-call yesterday, focus on enjoying Copeland through the rest of our hospital stay. We would love to see her go home to the Father when Conor and I pack up, too. The main reason we're anxious and hopeful that she will have one more good day with us here and that the Lord, then, will take her is that without feeding questions answered, taking her back to our house and trying to care for her would be beyond a challenge. We know the NICU could do a better job, but leaving her here wouldn't work for us emotionally. So knowing she could also be in heaven with the Lord, healed and whole, seems to be the most merciful option. We pray for it.

Thank you for loving us. Conor is holding her as I type and she continues to fight for life. I've thought several times of scripture a friend read over us the week before her birth, from 2 Chronicles, describing how the battle belongs to the Lord. Copeland's battle is God's, which is the only reason our sweet girl has made it this far. We have no idea how many more moments He's ordained for her, but we trust He's already set into motion the victory and is preparing a place for her with Him.

going on 56 hours

2007-09-20T20:42:00.000-05:00

It is 8:45 and we are preparing for another night of mystery with Copeland: it's a total toss-up whether or not she will continue to breathe on her own, whether her heartrate will remain strong, and whether she'll rise above the possibility that both might not happen consistently. She's been quite the fighter today... twice we felt sure we were looking at her in her last moments, but suprisingly she rallied and is now breathing with a bit of a grunting regularity. My mom and mother-in-law have graciously offered to stay here at the hospital with us for some time tonight so that Conor and I can rest a bit. It's torturuous in some ways for me to rest at all, but having had about six hours of sleep since Copeland's birth I realize it's absolutely imperative at this point. Please pray I can find peace as I sleep and not toss and turn in anxiety. It's hard not knowing when her moment will come, but I am trying to rest in the knowledge that God appointed that time long ago. I know she isn't suffering, per se, but watching her struggle to breathe and grow blue at times is simply agonizing; I think for Conor and I both it's hard to believe she's not in any pain. Please pray we can trust the doctors' assessments that all of the transitions her body is making as she continues to progress toward death are natural and somewhat necessary, not painful and worth preventing.

We will continue to keep you updated. We are praying she might make it through the night if for no other reason than to be able to share her last moments with my dad and father-n-law, as well as a few family members who are in town just for Copeland.

Boothe

almost home

2007-09-20T15:21:00.000-05:00

Copeland's heart stopped about 30 minutes ago...she was fading in my arms, but she came back and is now persisting on. They called the doctor in because we thought it was time for her to meet her Father. But she came fighting back. It is so up and down - her heartrate kind of ebbs and flows - we are praying that she is not in pain and have been assured that she is not. This experience contnues to be very surreal. We have sweet moments with her and have shed plenty of tears. I would not trade this time for anything - she is a special girl. I will continue to update you with whatever is happening. Thanks again.

Conor

thursday morning

2007-09-20T09:40:00.000-05:00

Boothe and I were able to sleep from 4 am to 8:30 or so. Copeland is doing well this morning- she is struggling to breathe a little bit more right now, but she is still fighting. So we are excited to spend this day with her.

Conor

1:00 am

2007-09-20T01:01:00.000-05:00

Copeland has lived exactly 36 hours. We are in awe at how well she's done.

I say that knowing we are likely in the final hours of her life. We've had the most incredible time with her, rocking her, cuddling her, singing to her, sharing her with friends and family. Tonight. I sat in my hospital bed and chatted for about an hour with an old friend who happens to be a labor and delivery nurse here. It was wonderful getting to talk about totally inconsequential things while Copeland slept in my arms. Conor slept for a while on the sofa. Then, suddenly, her color began to change and her chest rose and fell a little less routinely. I called the NICU nurse and it seems we've landed on one stretch of the journey we were a little unprepared for: ultimately Copeland will continue to grow more and more weary, and every cell in her body that's fighting for life will give in to the fact that she just can't make it on this side of heaven. The nurse we spoke with was gentle but firm in her statement that "this will be hard to watch." We are aware that as she fades, Copeland may struggle to breathe, and as a result, may turn a little blue. I tell you this only to let you know that we are specifically asking for prayers right now that she will not suffer - not that there will be no evidence of this, necessarily, but that the Lord will give us a peace that despite the physical signs, Copeland will be free from pain even in the midst of the process. I believe He is capable of delivering us from the heat of the fire - look at Shadrach, Meshach and Abednego - even as the flames burn around us, so we ask that you would pray against suffering for our sweet girl.

I told Conor tonight that after my molar pregnancy, which happened in 2005 and required chemotherapy in its aftermath, I felt incredibly betrayed by God. Not that I doubted His sovereignty or even His goodness. God's ways are not mine, as I've always 'known' in a sort of Sunday-school-sense. But to believe that He was good in a way that I might totally understand or feel, from an emotional standpoint, is something I've wrestled with for two years now. If God is good, why does so much of life hurt? After miscarrying again the following fall - 2006 - and then of course getting this diagnosis about Copeland when we believed we were finally going to have the baby we'd so prayed for, I have to tell you the struggle within my soul has raged on. I have often felt that Jesus, the Jesus I knew and loved as a child, has changed in so many ways and that believing in Him wasn't as much the issue for me as believing in His character... trusting Him despite the incredible pain He has allowed into my life. As C.S. Lewis wrote, I don't fear coming to a place where I doubt His existence but rather a place where all the qualities of God I've believed in, everything about Him, suddenly feels like a joke. And then came the last 36 hours.

Having Copeland for any time at all - the fact that she even made it to birth - has been one of the most wonderful and blessed gifts of my life. I know I speak for Conor and I both when I say that we expected a couple of hours, if that. What we're getting has been beyond our wildest dreams. David writes in the Psalms, "Restore unto me the joy of Your salvation." I think sometimes we all need our joy restored, even when it comes to incredibly basic theological ideas about God that we 'should' get after years and years of believing in Him. I needed that restoration in my faith. I needed to believe Jesus would give me good things just because... not because I did something right or asked in the correct way. These last two days with the daughter I thought I might never get to spend a single hour with have been that for me: faith-restoration.

We have no idea what the next hours will bring. We are alone in our room and the hospital is quiet. Copeland is snuggled safely in her daddy's arms. We would ask you to pray for these three things: one, that Jesus would keep her from suffering. Two, that we would be given energy and strength despite our emotional and physical exhaustion, so that we can enjoy her for as long as the Lord oermits. And three, that as we approach the moment when He takes her home, we will be filled with a peace and even a celebratory spirit that allows us to offer her up to Him with joy, knowing full well we will be with her for far longer in eternity than any length of time we might get with her now.

Blessings...

Boothe

5:00 pm

2007-09-19T16:57:00.001-05:00

Just wanted to give everyone an update... I'm so glad you enjoyed the photos and were able to finally put faces with our names! I know for some of you, we've been total enigmas so it's nice to "meet" after all this time. My sister took the pictures and also posted them for me, so thank you to her.

We are doing well. Copeland had a pretty rough start to the day... she struggled to eat, obviously, and we have decided that at this point we will not wrestle with that dilemma. The neonatologist encouraged us to focus on keeping her comfortable and as at peace as we can, which doesn't include forcing her to eat when the process is so strenuous on her little body. We did, however, manage to get her to take some glucose water (aka. straight sugar!) and she loved it. It's been the first and only thing she's taken to with any sort of vivacity so we've repeated that several times and she's done great. The NICU nurses explained that the sugar gives her body a bit of a 'high' that calms and relaxes her. It also "pinks her up," as they, which, after several episodes where she turned a bit blue this morning is a major victory. As I type she is resting peacefully in her MImi's arms (Conor's mom). We will continue the regimen of the glucose to keep her content - and change her diaper occasionally to wake her up and irritate her just enough to keep her color and her breathing up to standard.

Thank you for your continued prayers. We are in awe that we still have our little girl. We were told this morning that the way she was fighting might mean she only had between 12-24 hours to live, so each moment we get is an unexpected but precious blessing. Please keep lifting us up, especially as we enjoy this time but do anticipate the hour when Jesus takes her home.

Blessings...
Boothe

Just a few more

2007-09-19T12:31:00.000-05:00

Day two: Copeland's fighting today. Every once and a while she just rests in this position and looks up at her mom and dad.

Mom, aunt chelsea and copeland

Copeland, like Sellers, loves having her daddy rock her. There's no safer place than in the arms of her parents.

some more pictures

2007-09-19T12:25:00.000-05:00

Sellers and BB (Boothe's Mom) getting to hold her for the very first time. Sellers is already a great big sister.

Sellers was beside herself with excitement when she first got to meet her baby sister

Sweey tiny little Copeland

The Grandmothers BB Boothes mom and Mimi Conors mom

Pops - Conors dad, Papa, Boothe's dad, Conor and his two girls

The proud parents

2007-09-19T12:22:00.000-05:00

This was minutes after she was born. She's breathing on her own and doing great!

Meet Copeland Fair Farley

2007-09-19T12:19:00.000-05:00

We call her "our little pirate". She's only been opening one little eye, but is has barely closed. She's taking it in, one person at a time.

9:00 a.m.

2007-09-19T08:53:00.000-05:00

It is amazing to be writing these words: Copeland has lived almost 20 hours. She made it successfully through the night and Conor and I were able to sleep as well as can be expected. The NICU nurses have done a phenomenal job with her.

Conor went to check on her early this morning and we learned that the hopes the doctors had with the feeding tubes had been somewhat dashed: it's almost as though Copeland's body is so ill-equipped for this world that when she tries to eat, she cannot manage to do other things at the same time. Her breathing becomes labored to the point that the nurses don't feel like proceeding with the feeding can be their top priority. When Conor came back from the NICU around 8:15, it was with tears in his eyes. I think we believed the Lord would take Copeland at His time and due to circumstances beyond our control; it's strange to think we might have to play a small part in making decisions to protect her and to keep her pain-free while at the same time knowing we're risking her life to some degree. Each moment with her is such a gift, but I admit, as I watch her struggle, as she draws breath with increasing difficulty - the nurses said she struggled more last night than all day yesterday - I long for her to be free. No parent ever wants to see their child suffer. So we begin the day with hopes of keeping her a little longer, but also prayerful that the Lord wouldn't let her linger if she is truly hurting.

We will continue to keep you updated throughout the day. I hope to have some photos posted as soon as possible.

feeding tubes

2007-09-18T22:54:00.000-05:00

I am astounded at how many of you commented on that last post in such a short time! It truly humbles me to realize that so many are routinely 'checking in' on our family, wanting to know what to pray for.

I wanted to let you know that the neonatologist came and visited with us about 25 minutes ago. He was very kind and simply said that many, many babies of Copeland's size - irregardless of their underlying problems - need feeding tubes. It's a relatively common way to make sure they remain fed and can survive as long as the Lord permits. He wanted to be sure Conor and I were okay with administering that kind of 'life-saving' technique; we told him that we absolutely wanted her to have every opportunity to live when the choice was in our hands. If the Lord chooses to take her because of something we cannot prevent, we will know His sovereignty. But at this point, we believe He's giving us an option that will protect and provide for our sweet girl. The conversation went smoothly and even as we speak, Copeland should be eating. Please continue to pray that she will, in fact, respond well to the tubes.

We are off to bed... Conor and I both feel strongly that at this point, Copeland is being cared for by exceptional people who have exceptional skills and we rest peacefully as the nurses and doctors in the NICU tend to our sweet girl.

We love you and thank you for your unbelievable support.

rejoicing

2007-09-18T21:11:00.000-05:00

Dear friends and family...

I thought in the quiet of my hospital room I would update you a little.

Copeland is currently resting in the NICU. We are so blessed to have had her even these few short hours... it's been immeasurably more than we could have asked or imagined. I would ask you, if you read this sometime soon, to pray specifically for her ability to eat. We do know that she is not equipped to breathe at the same time she tries to suck/swallow, so bottle-feeding is not an option. The neonatologist is going to come and meet with us in the next hour or so to discuss possible alternatives. Of course, this news makes me a little unnerved. Please pray we will have wisdom about what direction to take.

I will tell you that she is doing quite well at this moment, all things considered. Her APGAR scores were high, certainly higher than we could have hoped for. Her color is outstanding, her little fists do open and close, and she does breathe on her own... she has since she was delivered. We can't really believe it! But we also know that every cell in her body is affected by this diagnosis and we know that even now the Lord has appointed a time to take her home. Please pray we can enjoy each moment without fear, without a sense of dread or even uncertainty... that we can embrace the facts the Lord has given us right now, the facts that she is doing well and is thriving as best as a trisomy-18 baby can. They have predicted that we might even take her home; we don't rest in that, but obviously are anxious to see just what the Lord plans for her life.

All that to say: thank you, thank you, thank you for your prayers. We didn't get the miracle we perhaps most longed for, in her perfect healing, but every moment with her has been miraculous. Sellers is doing well, loved meeting her little sister, and is enjoying her "vacation" at her grandparents' home. Conor and I are at peace. We would simply ask you to rejoice in God's provision thus far and to pray He will equip us moment by moment to carry whatever burden comes along the road.

Much love...

Boothe

Copeland Fair Farley

2007-09-18T16:11:00.000-05:00

She came to us at 1:00 PM today and she weighs 4 pounds. She is 17 inches long and the most beautiful thing in the world. She is breathing on her own, though she struggles from time to time. God is so faithful-it is like nothing I have ever seen. We still do not know how long she will be with us, but she is here now and I have so much joy in that. She opens her eyes and makes precious noises. Boothe is doing great- she already put her earings and jewelry back on. She looks amazing. We are filled to the brim right now-praise be to God....

Conor

broken

2007-09-14T18:21:00.001-05:00

It is amazing to me that we are fast approaching the week. So many things have happened in the last few hours that I find myself remembering will not occur again until Copeland is born. It's somewhat surreal, and at the same time, almost so heavy and solid in its reality that it hurts to think we'll be back at home in less than a week, with or without our precious girl.

I wanted to let you all know that we are making it. We are remarkably at peace... the Lord has heard the abundant prayers that I know are going up for us continually and we are feeling the impact of your supplications. Recently I heard of a family who lost a beautiful 2 year-old; keeping up with them via their own blog and reading how the Lord is responding daily to the prayers of the saints surrounding them is truly one thing that encourages me not to grow weary as I lift them up to the Father. So I assure you: I am feeling the fullness of the love and support you're pouring out on our family and I would not be where I am, walking with any sort of sanity or joy, if it weren't for you. Conor and I thank you and pray, even now, that as you go to the Father on our behalf, He would respond to the needs and anxieties in your own life and bless you.

We met with our pastor at church last week and it was an unexpected, but much needed, gift. I had thought I might not go; I felt that something else involving the details about Copeland's life and probable death would be too much. But as I dropped Sellers off at school, the Lord prompted me to drive that way. It seems He knew it would be better for me to sit and weep with my husband in a church office than in a parking lot alone. I find that revealing my emotion is much easier on this computer screen than in person. Crying in front of anyone is somewhat uncomfortable. But it's necessary and I know that in the days to come there will be a lot of emotions on display that a few months ago I might have found totally embarrassing. I pray that if you happen to witness the tears, you won't feel totally ill-at-ease yourself. Please know that my weeping - and that of my family - is simply an extension of the weight of our hearts. Both joy and grief have a fullness. "My cup overfloweth..."

The Lord used the pastor we met with to reveal some things about Conor and I that I think we probably knew but hadn't connected to this situation. I realize He is shaping and changing me, but I hadn't thought that perhaps part of this is about breaking some of the chains from around my heart and sweeping clean the corners of my soul that I have for so long left unattended. Apparently I am quite legalistic. I laugh at the word 'apparently'; I spend the majority of my time feeling massively guilty about something, so much so that not feeling guilty elicits a sort of discontentedness in me, almost like lethargy. Guilt is for me what liquor is to an alcoholic; while I know it's wrong to indulge, obviously un-Biblical, I find it's almost necessary for me to operate at full-function. It sounds odd, but perhaps it's because guilt facilitates opportunities for work, ways for me to feel useful and important in my own salvation, or even just my own well-being. If I feel guilty about something I've eaten, after all, the quickest and most satisfying antidote is to go to the gym. We live in a society that tells us we can 'fix' the stuff about ourselves that we most loathe - or are supposed to loathe - if we try hard enough or dig deep enough. If it weren't true we wouldn't be buying self-help books in a monstrous continuum.

I hadn't considered - or at least not long enough for it to prompt me in any other direction - that God isn't concerned with what my idea of personally "fully-functioning" is. I hadn't considered that He might, in fact, want to blow that idea to smithereens.

I'd like to hang onto my 'works-based' religion, if I could. Like I said, without guilt, I lose the opportunity to earn forgiveness. WIthout a bought excuse, I lose what is unfortunately my most powerful motivation for doing good things. And without doing good things, I really can't figure out why Jesus loves me if I don't believe in grace. And sometimes the only way to receive grace, and to really understand what you're accepting (that you are responsible for exactly 0% of what God fully accomplished in saving you), is to be broken. Broken enough that you can't hold onto anything except Jesus' hand when He stretches it out.

This season has broken me. It breaks me daily. Someone recently told me that going through an experience like this will leave you with a "limp" - that I can expect to never feel totally "put together" again. They weren't referring to emotions, I don't think. They didn't mean I'd be a constant wreck for years to come. I think they simply meant that the Lord will allow me to incur a wound that, while He may heal it, will leave a scar I will never be able to forget - certainly not cover up. I know the Father uses the weak; the stories of Jesus healing the crippled in the New Testament reveal, over and over again, God's heart for the lame. Irregardless, I don't want to be included in that demographic; I'd rather be 'whole' in the eyes of the world, whole by the standards that I know to be real here in this life. And so Jesus understood - knew from the beginning of time - that I'd need to be reminded that in my weakness, He is made strong. It is in the things the world calls foolish and insignificant that He reveals His glpry. May His strength swallow up my frailty, His joy my sorrow.

peter

2007-09-12T14:00:00.000-05:00

I woke this morning with an old Amy Grant song in my mind. I've heard it literally countless times... the words are so engrained in my memory that I don't think reciting them in my sleep would be an issue for me. But this morning, they had a relevance and almost a power that I hadn't ever experienced. The song is called "Angels," and it describes Peter's trial in Acts 12 when he is thrown into prison by King Herod. I often wake up with random songs stuck in my head (usually something I heard on the radio the day before, and usually a total annoyance), but I genuinely felt like this was from the Lord. He knows that this song is familiar to me - it carries with it almost a balm for my soul, a reminder of childhood and innocence and a belief that was totally untainted by shattered expectations or sorrow. But I felt Him telling me that there was more to this than simply encouragement.

In the story of Peter's imprisonment, he is taken shortly after his friend, James, is murdered. He's thrown into a jail cell with 16 soldiers commanded to keep track of him. His public execution is 'on the books.' To say that things looked dire is to make a gross understatement. And yet, according to the Bible, "all the time Peter was under heavy guard in the jailhouse, the church prayed for him most strenuously" (12:5). The very night before his death was to take place, the Word says Peter "slept like a baby" (12:5) despite the fact that he was shackled to two guards. Shackled to them! Guards stood at the doors to the cell, too. "Herod was taking no chances!" (12:6b). I can't begin to do the rest of the story justice in my own words, so here is the translation found in the Message:

"Suddenly there was an angel at his side and light flooding the room. The angel shook Peter and got him up. 'Hurry!' The handcuffs fell off his wrists. The angel said, 'Get dressed. Put on your shoes.' Peter did it. Then, 'Grab your coat and let's get out of here.' Peter followed him, but didn't believe it was really an angel - he thought he was dreaming.

Past the first guard, and then the second, they came to the iron gate that led into the city. It swung open before them on its own, and they were out on the street, free as the breeze. At the first intersection, the angel left him, going his own way. That's when Peter realized it was no dream. 'I can't believe it - this really happened! The Master sent His angel and rescued me from Herod...' (12:7-11)."

Shortly thereafter, Peter goes to see some of the people who are gathered together praying for him. They are in such shock that they don't even believe it's possible; they tell the servant girl who hears his voice on the other side of the door that she's crazy, that she must be speaking with his angel. When they finally concede and open up, to find him standing there, in full physical form, they "{go] wild!" (12:16). That night was likely to be one of the most incredible that many of those believers would ever experience. The Word says that at daybreak, "the jail was in an uproar.... Herod sent for [Peter] and they could neither produce him nor explain why not" (12:18-19a).

I would normally avoid using so much Scripture. But I wanted to give you the full impact of this story because so much of it landed on my heart this morning as a specific reminder of many, many things. First of all, Peter's being prayed for the church "strenuously." I believe that, if I had the eyes to see, the amount of believers on their knees for Conor, Sellers, Copeland and I would floor me, literally throw me to the ground. I believe your prayers are sincere, heart-wrenching, gut-level gasps for the Father to do what He intends... but to protect us, to glorify Himself, and to give us strength to get through whatever He has in store. These were the prayers of the saints while Peter stood in chains, I'm sure. But some of you are praying the prayers that Conor and I haven't prayed as consistently. Some of you are praying that, despite the 99.9% accuracy rate of the tests performed, Copeland will be born healthy - that the Lord will literally break the chains of the medical evidence and lead us, "free as the breeze," into a life with her that is full and complete. Do I know for certain that the Lord intends to do this? No. I don't believe the saints praying for Peter that night had any certainty, either. Why else would they have remained convinced, until seeing him face-to-face, that his chances of survival were slim to none? And yet God worked a mighty, inexplicable, irrational, mathematically and scientifically impossible miracle for no other reason than to bring Himself glory. The fact that Peter slept as soundly as he did the night before his death tells me that the Lord had already given him a peace to accept the grim situation he was in. There was no agonizing over possible escape plans or how the Lord might intercede. Everything was left entirely up to Him. And I am sure that, had Peter been asked to give his life then, at the orders of King Herod, he would have done so as unflinchingly as he did when it was truly his time.

I pray that Conor and I can be like Peter. It's a stretch, I know, and an incredible set of shoes to fill, but I believe the Lord is preparing us to see His glory revealed in an amazing way. I pray that, even on the night before Copeland's birth, and the nights that perhaps follow in her life, if He chooses to give those to us, we will have restful sleep, with a peace that God's got this... no matter the outcome.

I pray that you can continue to lift us up, to pray as the saints did, "strenuously." I know that the Lord can and still may choose to perform a miracle that is beyond any of our current abilities to fully believe. I would ask that you pray He would, in fact, choose to do that. Pray because if anyone's faith is weak, too weak to "deserve" any outrageous power on her behalf, it's me. And yet I know there is no "deserving" in grace.

Conor and I walk into next week embracing the facts the Lord has given us. There are plenty of soldiers and quite a few iron gates in between our family and any kind of victory. And yet I also walk knowing that with your prayers and with a God who delights in working things out for his own purposes, there is much we will be discussing years from now about this week, in awe and wonder at His might and power, tenderness and love.

Pray for our steadfastness, that we will sleep like babies until then...

you shall not pass

2007-09-10T13:53:00.000-05:00

I wanted to give everyone an update to ask, once again, for your specific prayers. As time goes on - and I know Conor said this in the previous post - things just seem to feel worse, the darkness heavier, the uncertainties stronger. So prayer from the saints is all I can lean on. My own prayers, I suppose. But, as I've heard several times in this journey, I know that sometimes, you will have the strength to pray for what I can't.

We received the good news - and I say "good" with a sense of its relativity... certainly we are not elated to even be having a discussion with anyone about any of this - that when Copeland is born, we will be able to keep her with us for as long as the Lord allows us to. There will be no NICU admittance. The charge nurse that I spoke with assured us that, in these cases, parents are permitted to "call the shots." I am grateful. And I believe this is the result of your approaching the throne on our behalf. Knowing that as long as Copeland breathes, I will be there, Conor will be there, and that her life will not be interrupted by any sort of medical ridiculousness is a blessing. I confess it makes me a great deal less anxious about our time after delivery.

It may be evident in my tone, but I am definitely struggling. I say this to you because I never want to look back on this and wonder why I wasn't more authentic, why I wasn't more willing to just share my heart? I have found immense strength over the past 12 weeks, and I have no doubt that it's because you have been willing to carry as much of the burden as you can. But I confess I wake each morning hating that this is where we are, hating the situation, longing with all I am to just make it go away. I'm sure this is natural, to be expected. But it's exhausting.

I don't think I've ever told anyone about this outside of the group that gathered at my parents' the night we learned Copeland was suspicious for trisomy-18. In the doctor's office, literally in the darkness of the sonogram room, I remembered a scene from a movie I think I'd seen one time, the first installment of the "Lord of the Rings" trilogy. That film released about a month after Conor and I were married, so back in December of 2001. I'm not a sci-fi fan; I've actually never even read the books themselves. In fact, it's a irony that I'd remember much of the movie at all, other than those gruesome orcs and the incredible special effects. But I did. I thought of the moment when the Fellowship of the Ring is crossing through those dark, demon-possessed underground passages, running desperately from one seemingly inconquerable foe straight into the path of another. One such villain is a demon of incredible might and power, and as you watch, it's apparent that the little band of heroes is unlikely to get past him. It's only when Gandalf stands firmly fixed between his friends and the towering monster, shouting like a mad man, "You shall not pass!" with his staff banging frantically against the ground, that the rocks crumble, the demon falls to his death, and the Fellowship is free. Certainly there's more to the story - two movies' worth - and Gandalf's opposition to the demon costs him a great deal, but the image remained etched on my memory for years, so much so that it was what I thought of as I lay on the table in the sonographer's office, waiting to hear from the perinatologist about all the complications our little girl had.

Like I said, I'm no sci-fi fan. I hadn't seen the movies in almost six years. Conor and I had neither been talking about them or listened to the soundtrack recently. I sincerely believe this scene rose up in my mind because the Lord wanted me to remember those words: "You shall not pass." I know it may seem odd or even a little quirky to say that I do, in fact, believe in the supernatural, the stuff our eyes can't see. That afternoon, that room wasn't simply a doctor's office furnished with a few cold pieces of medical equipment. It was apparently a battleground. And the Lord was apparently wanting to signal to me that, no matter what happened, there would be something He wouldn't let pass. I don't know what that something is. I thought at the time it would be the trisomy-18. But the tests came back positive. I've thought, to this day, that perhaps it will be the words "incompatible with life." Maybe Copeland will defy the odds. Maybe she'll be born healthy, or even if she is affected, maybe she'll live longer and happier than doctors would have ever expected. I don't rest in that, but I can see how telling the Gandalf story years from now, looking at a perfectly healthy daughter who was thought to die almost immediately upon birth, would make for a very dramatic twist.

But as I sit here, 2:30 in the afternoon, the sun shining outside, my husband and daughter safe and healthy in this world, I am compelled to think that there's something greater, something far more sinister and more menacing than even death that wants permission to skulk into my life. I am a strong believer. I don't say this to pat myself on the back or to puff myself up; I say it because it's true, and I've been that way for a long, long time. But this is a whole new ballgame. It's easy to believe in a God that loves you and that wants the best for you when things are going well - even when things are going semi-well. But this is different. We have exactly eight days until we bring Copeland into the world. Eight days. It feels like a vast distance away and also like someone's knocking at the door, and I can't decide which terror is easier to live with. Maybe there's more than one "something" wanting entrance into our world; perhaps doubt, defeat and despair.

I need you to pray that this terror, this fear, this anxiety, this anguish, this heartache, this incredible burden the Lord has asked us to bear, will not be able to "pass" - will not have control or a hold of us. You are not Gandalf. But you know the One who is. Please ask Him to "stand in the gap," as my sister has so often said, and cast Himself between Conor and Sellers and I and the one who comes to steal, kill and destroy. I am not naive about the incredible darkness we may walk through in the next few months. I need you to pray the Lord will equip me to leave my house. To put earrings on. To go on dates with my husband. I need you to pray that Sellers will see Conor and I cry and laugh and endure a hardship with a belief, steadfast and unshakeable, that will influence her for years to come. I need you to pray that in the moments when I am completely alone, when Conor is alone, when we can't distract away the pain, that there will be no foothold of resentment or anger between us - that while he goes through his own private experience of grief, and I go through mine, we will still be knit together.

Most of all, pray we will walk with eyes fixed on Jesus, even when we are angry with Him, or confused, or frustrated, or unsure if He even cares. Pray we will be able to remain completely afixed on Him, so that nothing - no desire or hope, nor even future blessing - will detract from the glory He wants us to witness in Him.

carried to the table

2007-09-07T22:17:00.000-05:00

As we get closer to September 18th, everything is getting harder. I still don't really know what to feel or how to try and articulate what it is like. I wish I knew how to comfort Boothe better or how to prepare Sellers for what is coming. But I can't... and again, it reminds me of God's control of our lives and situation. I want to control it, I want to make everything better, but I can't - and I am learning to live with this. Truthfully, I am so thankful for this, because it reminds me of my own immaturity and pride daily.

I am blown away by the love and prayers we are receiving - it's humbling and emotional for me. Thank you for honoring my family. Today my mom told me that my Uncle George's cancer is getting worse; he lives in Omaha and is an amazing man of God. He is a pastor and his wife (my aunt) has faithfully served the Lord in Young Life for many years. I bring this up because it offers me so much perspective. I don't know really what to say, other than to ask you to lift him up as you have lifted us up. He is a father and husband who loves his family like I love mine, and he is trying to lead his family through his own trial.

God has used Oswald Chambers' daily devotional book "My Utmost For His Highest" a lot during this journey. On July 28th, Mr. Chambers talks about how the process is God's end. My selfish brain has a hard time understanding that there is no prize at the end of this trial. God's true purpose is that we would turn to him during the process. That is His one and only end: that He would be glorified. I didn't necessarily like hearing that at first, but I needed it so badly and I am thankful for it. I am sure Uncle George would see it the same way.

I have the privilege of working with amazing Christian musicians. About two years ago, I was able to make a record with a bunch of very young and very godly kids in a band called Leeland. The last song we put on the record is called "Carried to the Table." Here is the lyric...

Wounded and forsaken,
I was shattered by the fall.
Broken and forgotten,
Feeling lost and all alone.
Summoned by the King,
Into the Master’s courts,
Lifted by the Savior,
And cradled in His arms...

I was carried to the table,
Seated where I don’t belong.
Carried to the table -
Swept away by His love.
And I don’t see my brokenness anymore...
When I’m seated at the table of the Lord.
I’m carried to the table -
The table of the Lord.

These words were written by an 18 year-old, yet they resonate with me so much... God is carrying me to the table, to a place I do not belong, to be seated at His side and called His own. I know Copeland will be carried to the table as well - she will be at my Master's side. She will be made whole and complete. God is capable of healing her on this side of heaven, and that is my prayer - but if He chooses not to, I will rest in the knowledge that she will not be broken as she sits beside Him. God makes all things new through His precious Son.

This time is hard - but my God is a God of hope, and a God with a perfect will. What an amazing thing that is. Thank you guys so much for all you have done to love and support us. We are anxious to meet our second daughter...

Conor

two weeks to go...

2007-09-04T21:18:00.000-05:00

I have nothing truly profound to write tonight, but I wanted to give everyone an update and to, again, let you know how we would long for you to pray.

We had our second-to-last doctor's visit today. While I approached it with some trepidation, there is a sweet calm in the season we walk in at this moment. My spirit is less at rest than it has been in the weeks before, but the reality of our day-to-day existence bears a sort of stillness that almost taunts the chaos that is sure to descend upon us in just a few days' time. All went well at the OB's: Copeland's heartrate is still very strong... she even placed a good kick against the Doppler wand while we listened, much to my suprise. She is quite restful these days, although I don't know if that's due to lack of room or simply exhaustion. I can only imagine that she grows weaker as time goes on, but with every appointment it's as if she's reminding us she's still here, not to give up on her.

Our prayers grow more and more specific as we walk down this road, mostly because as we approach the day of her arrival, our anticipation, worry, excitement and fear seem to exponentially grow. I have not asked you to pray for her lifespan before, and I don't really feel one hundred percent comfortable doing so now, but as many of you have asked me what Conor and I want, and what you can specifically approach the Father about, I will give you an honest answer. While I know some moms who've gone before me on this journey, the reality is that each of us experience it so differently. I hesitate to tell you what I, personally, most desire for Copeland's life only because I know we may not see that desire fulfilled - and because I so dread that being difficult for the other women who might have hoped differently than me. Having said that, I can tell you that Conor and I pray that Copeland might be able to breathe on her own when she is born so that our family and friends can meet her, hold her, get to experience her in whatever way we possibly can without too much medical intervention. We know what time in the NICU is like - Sellers spent a few days there, for obviously different reasons - and while it is a tremendous blessing to have such a resource, the restrictions that go with it are also fairly extensive. It would be quite difficult to spend much time with Copeland were she continually in the NICU. So please pray that she might be able to remain close to Conor and I as long as the Lord allows her to live. As many of you do know - and many of you, tenderly, have empathized with me - we are also praying that our time with her, while it is full and precious, will not be long enough to cause more heartache and agony than we might be able to process right now. I am fully aware that the longer we have her, the harder it will be to say goodbye. I am prayerful that Jesus will take her at precisely the right moment. That may sound strange: how is there ever a "right" time to let a child go? I know we will look back on this experience and our time with Copeland for years with a bit of an analytical lens and I pray when we consider the moment of her passing, we will be in agreement that, if we couldn't keep her, the Lord showed great tenderness in the time He chose to take her home.

I ask you to pray for my sense of self-worth. It is an odd request, I know, but I shared with Conor last night that as a young woman who has now had two miscarriages and will soon lose a baby, there is something excruciatingly humiliating about it all. I remember watching an episode of Oprah once where a woman talked about her inability to conceive. Her eyes welled with tears as she was asked what emotion she felt most prominently in the midst of her seeming infertility. "Shame," she wept. I can so acutely relate to this that I'm not sure I even feel totally right in telling it; I hope that that dear girl has since found a peace and a value that, whether children have come or not, she can rest in. I'm not sure why shame, embarassment - whatever you care to call it - is par for the course in these kinds of situations, or even if it is in most. But I can tell you that for me, I feel a great deal of defeat in the idea that after all of this time, I'm still facing the same sorrow I was two years ago. In much the same way that my husband longs to provide, to give Sellers and I a secure home and a sense of stability, I feel a deep and almost imperative need to have more children. It may be antiquated by much of the Western world's standards, but I unshakingly share it here with you because I believe there are many, many women who struggle silently with their sorrows over children longed for. The silence builds walls, creates the idea that you, and you alone, are unable to do what millions of women for millions of years have done, and thus you are constantly awash in a sense of failure. I believe this is one of Satan's greatest battles against our culture of late, and the only way to combat it is to call it by name and stand against it firmly. I want other women - young and old - to hear me when I say that I, too, feel like a "freak" at times... I, too, wish I could snap my fingers and "be normal"... I, too, struggle to understand why a second child hasn't come as easily as the first. It is our human nature - and perhaps the very karmic approach many of us have to Christianity these days - that leads us to question what we've done wrong, to analyze our decisions and choices, wondering what, if anything, we could've done differently to elicit the blessing from above we desperately ache for. Please pray for these broken hearts. Pray Satan will not be allowed to convince us we are failures... abnormal... insignificant... unworthy. I know that Jesus loves me, that He is proud of me, that nothing I've done wrong has placed me in this position. Pray I can embrace it every day with a renewed sense of worth in Him.

I am continually amazed and honored by your outpouring of love for Conor and I. Every day brings new cards in the mail, new e-mails, new phone calls. Even the posts on this blog astound us. While I may be unable to respond to each of you individually, I pray earnestly for you, believers and non-believers, the faith-filled and cynics, the naive and world-weary, the joyful and angst-ridden, that you might feel the Lord in your daily lives, that you might respond to Him, that somehow what we are going through with Copeland will produce eternal fruit that I am never even meant to know about.

It is with deep love and affection that I close tonight. May you be blessed.

the end of the world and a gentle whisper

2007-08-23T10:00:00.000-05:00

I know it's a bit abnormal for me to write something two days in a row. I don't know why I'm compelled to do it now, other than the fact that, in sharing it, you might pray more specifically for Conor and I.

As we sat up late talking last night, I listened to him describe what he feels the most unsure of right now. I was suprised - although now, looking back, I shouldn't have been - at his worry for me, for Sellers, and for my ability to get through this, as a wife, a mother, even just the girl he's known since she was 19. My heart ached. How can I carry that burden? I long so to be strong, to feel that sensation of rising and to know I will, in fact, get through this, that we will get through this and all will be well again. Soon. But as we approach September 18, I realize I am completely not up to the task. I've said this before. But as the days pass, I realize it - feel it physically, even - more than ever. We laughed at how we both, albeit unknowingly, have a strange, almost apocalyptic perception of Copeland's birth: it's like we both somewhat expect not to live through it. Literally. I saw a preview for a television show premiering on September 25 the other day and, without even realizing it, thought to myself, "Well, we'll miss that." It's like we are preparing to slowly begin a disintegration into - what? nothingness? - as soon as our sweet girl is gone. We know this isn't true, of course, but the feeling is there. And it seems strange to even consider that life - even stupid things like t.v. programs - will just keep on coming afterward. That our own hearts will keep beating. Looking at Sellers is perhaps the only evidence that God intends to make this so.

Listening to my husband talk about his worries for me, I turned to him and asked, simply, "Are you scared?" I admit I did so because I have never been so afraid in my entire life. I don't know what I wanted him to say, but when he turned and said, "No, I don't think I'm scared," I felt a mixture of immense relief and immediate concern. What does "not being scared" mean? Denial? Ignorance? Emotional repression? No. It just means we're made from different stuff - man and woman, husband and wife, Conor and Boothe. The burden I feel for him, to be the girl who used to laugh easily and run into his front door at Auburn, my greatest worry about a term paper, is there because I love him, because I want him to survive. And the burden he feels for me, to lead me through this incredible ragged landscape without scarring too terribly, is because he loves me. He wants me to survive. So just when we begin to see our differences, we realize our commonality is our love for each other - our deep desire to see the other live abundantly, to smile and giggle and know it will all, in fact, be okay. I know your prayers that we would be knit more fully together are being answered. Satan will not have this marriage.

I have believed that most of the challenges or "trials" I've walked through before (although, as I told someone via e-mail this morning, they all seem like breaths of air now) have been joint efforts between myself and the Lord. I bring what I can to the table and then He makes up for the rest. It's like that old adage, "God helps those who help themselves." I have liked that phrase, the sense of accomplishment I get from it, from relying, in some capacity on what I can actually do. But suddenly, it's total hollowness stares me straight in the face as I realize I have literally nothing - nothing - to bring to the table this time. I am completely, utterly unable to do this. A lot of Christians might say, "Yes, you can." No. I can't. Don't try to talk me into it. Conor and I are both incapable. And I don't mean that in a dainty, falsely humble kind of way. I can't do this. And yet, even as I hear myself speak those words aloud to him, as I hear the tears in our voices and the incredible sense of inadequacy choke out any strength I thought I had, I realize now is the time I will remember for the rest of my life, the time when the Lord showed Himself to me in a way I never, ever expected, never even asked for. If there were even a table to bring something to, I'd be lying underneath it right now. This will be God's doing. Pray that we, like Moses, will see Him act in a real, literal, even soul-shaking, way.

keeping awake

2007-08-22T14:53:00.000-05:00

My heart is so filled right now that I don't know if my fingers will type fast enough! I don't really have an agenda for this entry, although I know sometimes that lends itself to authenticity that otherwise might be missing from my words. I have to confess, as my little girl plays in the next room and "Robin Hood" blares from the television, I am hardly in a place that I would've expected to generate anything remotely coherent in my writing. Still, the words come of their own accord and I find that rarely will they return if I don't stop to set them free...

I know many of you check this daily, wondering what we're up to... what we feel... how we are coping. I want you to know that after August 3 (a date I remember vividly, as it was right before my birthday and also the worst I've had thus far), the Lord has quite literally been carrying me. The words sound contrived, I know. And perhaps, were I standing in some other season in life, I might doubt their possibility. All I can tell you is that I am doing well. Sad, yes. Disappointed. Still fragile. And scared of where we are headed. But somehow, the last few weeks have been not only tolerable but in a way, quite like "normal" living. I don't know if you would categorize this as emotional numbness. Maybe. I have told Conor that I am often sure God means to give me a "break" for a little while before the true struggle begins - the calm before the storm. Perhaps. I do know that He is leading the way into battle, so despite the quaking in my spirit and the weight of my own weariness, I will follow Him, if for no other reason than because my own fear drives me toward Him, unsure of the darkness I will face if I even attempt to turn away.

Thank you for the cards and the e-mails and the phone calls. I've met some of you for the first time since this journey began, and as I tell our story, your eyes well with tears. I am in awe at your tenderness, at how God somehow gives us the ability to feel for others when we haven't walked down similar roads. It is one of the mysteries of the human heart that I don't think all the science in the world will ever decipher; there is no reason for true compassion other than the Creator. These encounters are what keep my spirits bolstered. To have Copeland remembered is precious to me. This must be how our Father feels! I am convinced - because even I feel this way - that He is unconcerned with our words, unconcerned even if they are clumsy or insensitive. I believe He simply wants us to remember His Son. Even this morning, as I was brushing my teeth, I uttered a silent prayer that I have no idea how He intends to answer - "Keep my heart tender enough not to forget You." When Jesus prayed before His death, "Father take this cup from me," His disciples - His best friends - were a short distance away, sleeping. Though it was their sorrows that had driven them to exhaustion, even then, Jesus asked them to remain awake so that they would not fall into temptation. Perhaps there is a temptation in sorrow, a small enticement toward sin in our own grief. Perhaps it is the temptation to dwell so much on the heartache in our own situations that we forget the Lord.

Please keep praying. Pray we, too, will be equipped to remain awake. That we will not give sway to the deep emotions that will surely cause our world to rock in the next short weeks and months. Pray we will remember that truth does not dwell in the way we feel. Pray we will be kept from the temptation to spoil Sellers in the enormous desire to medicate our own grieving hearts. Pray that Conor will be prepared, even without realizing it, to lead us through the fire. Pray we will be united in our marriage and as parents, that Satan will have no foothold in our relationship at any moment. Pray that the time we have with Copeland will be blessed, precious, and that the Lord will take her home quickly, that our hearts will not be trampled with the agony of wondering, for too long, when her moment will come.

We love you all...

i'm not good with titles, either

2007-08-13T15:52:00.000-05:00

I thought I would try this again. It is good for me to be vulnerable in front of the people who are praying for my family so fervently.

I have not cried for my child in about a month and half, and I cannot figure out why. I don't know what to think about myself. Do I not care enough? Do I not fully grasp what is happening? I wrestle with these thoughts because I have yet to understand how grief works in my own life. The other day I think I cried a little: I was thinking about all of the small things that God is about to walk my family through. I don't really know how to take care of some of the details that we are facing now. Do we need to fill out paperwork at the hospital for life support or to instruct them not to resuscitate? How do you set up a memorial service, what do I do with my child when she leaves this earthly home? I hope I do not sound morbid, but at the same time, I do not want Boothe to have to deal with any of this stuff, so I have to step up as the man, right? In moments like these, I really feel like a child. I don't want to call the hospital... it is almost like I'm waiting for my dad or father-in-law to take care of that for me.

I indeed recognize how God is changing my heart and perspective. This amazing little girl who I long to hold is changing my life - she is compelling me to make decisions as a father should for his family. The message at church this Sunday was about spiritual leadership. It was really powerful. The pastor said that there were three main things to pray for in our spiritual leaders: purity, passion, and one other 'p' that is escaping me at the moment (of course, because of my brilliant Diet -Coke-induced memory). But I would ask that you pray for me to lead my family in these ways...in purity, that i would come to my Jesus daily in order that I may honor him with my actions. And that i would love my family with passion. As we come upon these days, I want to passionately encourage and love Boothe and Sellers. I wish everyone who has ever read this blog could meet Sellers - you would understand how much she brightens our days. I am so in love with her.

I never thought that the little things were going to be the hardest, but thinking of them - that is when I am most upset. I understand things when they are tangible, like most men, I think. I am not carrying the baby in my stomach, so sometimes I lose sight of how real and how hard it is on my wife. It's in the little things that life really happens. And I am a little tired of the little things and of life - I truly long to be home with my Father. But at the same time, I am so thankful for the time I have here and the joy I have every morning with my girls. Life is bearable through faith and through God's amazing mercy and grace in our lives. It feels weird saying that we have joy in this time, but we do - a lot of it.

So anyway, my second attempt at blogging is a blessing to me. You are a blessing to me. Tears may not be pouring out of my eyes everyday, but that is okay with me. Copeland makes me proud. I will continue to smile about her sweet life as much as I can.

Conor

Sarah McLachlan - World On Fire

2007-08-09T12:00:00.001-05:00

I first heard this song in the early fall of 2005. I fell in love with the lyrics, but the video captivated me in a way only visual images can. It's powerful.

This morning I had my iPod going and this song happened to pop on, randomly, and I was suddenly transported back to all the times I'd listened to it, and reminded of how different I feel now.

I told Conor the other day that I never thought of myself as someone with a "ministry." I've probably dodged the word in any capacity for a long time. Not sure why. But as I think about this song, about the words, "the world is on fire/ it's more than I can handle/ dive into the water/ try to pull my share," I realize that ultimately, that's what ministry is. Pulling up the water for someone else's fire.

I've seen those commercials on television about children dying in other countries because of abject poverty. And I've changed the channel because they were uncomfortable to watch. Somehow, if it's a world away, in a land I can't touch or smell or see with my own eyes, I can justify the need I feel to ignore others' suffering. What is it in us that simply can't step into the shoes of those who are weaker than us? Whose heartaches will somehow tarnish the golden walls we've erected around ourselves?

Sometimes, now, I feel like the commercial. I see it in people's eyes when they don't know what to say, or when they say everything but what seems most obvious, most needed. And my heart breaks, knowing I am looking at myself.

Copeland is surreal to me. I feel her moving around and I know, to some extent, that she is living, that she will be, if only for a few hours or days or weeks. I have no idea what to expect her life to look like on this side of birth. But she has already changed me in so many ways. I don't know poverty or sickness or hunger as the people in this short video do. I can't pretend to and I won't do them the incredible injustice of trying. But I do know suffering. It has come to me in a different package, perhaps with a bit more gloss to it, but praise God, even that's wearing thin.

I don't know what ministry the Lord has for me, or for any of you. I do believe that the root of that idea is simply to love people well, no matter where they are or how they look, what they might believe or how they can help you. This is what Jesus did. And it's what He calls us to do. His suffering was real, intense, and excruciating - a word that literally comes from "crucify." He was a man acquainted with grief, as we are told in Isaiah. If He were not, how would I be able to find rest in Him in my own heartache? God knew that sending a Son who was all God but also all man was the only way He could show us - He relates. He understands. Brokenness and angst, sorrow and despair, were not unknowns to Him.

Perhaps the truest and most beautiful gift the Father is giving Conor and I through all of this is the gift of suffering - the gift of comradeship with a hurting and broken world. Pray that we might be sensitive to His gentle leading as we begin to embrace all that His vision for our ministry might be.

no fancy title here

2007-08-05T22:57:00.000-05:00

I told Conor this evening that grief feels like something living inside of you, or at least for me, it does, and that I have to get it out, I have to release it, even every hour or so, or else it starts to eat away at my joy and my peace and everything else that feels sane. So I walk around my house talking out loud a lot. I'm not praying, per se, just sort of chatting with myself - although I guess God, too, knowing He can hear it all, anyway - about what I'm feeling. I find it to be therapeutic to expunge my emotions verbally. This won't suprise those of you who knew me back in the days when I was prone to pick up a bar of Dove soap and stand in front of a mirror, doing a commercial for them. I've tried to do this several times in the years since and it doesn't come naturally anymore, most likely because I'm not really secure enough in myself to act like a total idiot knowingly, even with no one watching. Anyway, maybe idiocy feels more like comedy with a crowd. That makes sense, I guess. But that strain of my personality definitely resurfaces in this whole "talking to myself" business. I find that I'm actually pretty good at psychoanalyzing my emotions if I talk about them and I actually enjoy that feeling of introspection, seeing a part of who I am that perhaps I never had the time or energy or desire to really examine.

All that to say sometimes talking to myself can still get a little stale. And thus, I turn to the blog. So if you feel like I have become particularly verbose of late, just know it's not because I think most of you are just longing to know my every thought. It's simply that somehow, that creature, grief, has to be set free. And writing what I'm feeling down is just about as good as talking what I'm feeling out.

I am scared. Scared beyond any sense of scared I've ever felt. Friday, the day before my 28th birthday, was the worst day I've had so far. We got the word from my OB - Copeland is going to be delivered September 18th. We're "on the books," as they might say. I had 48 hours to process what it might feel like to actually have to pencil that in on my planner, that for most people c-sections are scheduled with a sense of excitement and joy, and that for me, it's like mindlessly agreeing that yes, we're ready to let our daughter die. It's strange. Will it all get worse - or better? I find that the anxiety I live with now can sometimes seem so unbearable that I actually have to remind myself to breathe. Which is strange. And a bit cliche, I realize. But I suppose like all the intense emotions we feel in life, grief has its stereotypes that turn out to be marked realities when once you're going through them. Having to remember to breathe has been one for me. Or maybe not remembering to breathe. Just finding an odd sense of comfort in breathing, like everything else in the world is crashing down but you can still suck oxygen back and that feels normal. The grief I felt Friday, the sadness, scared me. I had never felt that sad before. And it was physical. Exhausting and destructive and somewhat overpowering. It went away as quickly as it came, but the strength of it was such that I certainly don't look forward to it creeping up again. I feel like I should put up Post-It notes around the house with "Don't worry, it'll be gone soon" scribbled all over them. Just so I know that I'll get back to a good place again, at some point.

I have found that the crying is a lot like vomiting. It's one of those symptoms of pain and sadness that you know is bound to come, much like throwing up is one of the inevitable symptoms of being nauseated. And you also know that somehow, weirdly, once you've done it, you'll feel better. But it's miserable. I wake up each morning wondering if I'm going to feel emotionally "nauseous" - whether that impending sensation of crying will hang in my stomach and remain there until I've acquiesced and allowed myself to weep uncontrollably. The crying itself is sickening and overwhelming and at the same time completely cleansing. You're drained and there's nothing else to give so, for the time being, that 'nausea' you felt subsides. The grief creature is appeased.

Reading C.S. Lewis has brought about a new-found sense of inadequacy in much of the faith I've held for years, much of the evangelical Christianity that I've been cultured to accept as "real" or "solid" or "truthful." I don't feel that I can compartmentalize God anymore, or that I can handle this situation with neat little phrases that so often we toss about in times of struggle. I am not angry, necessarily, about this, just sort of disconcerted. Lewis wasn't American. Why does my Christianity have a red state/blue state feel to it? At the same time, the disconcerted feeling is also incredibly exhilirating, like jumping into a freezing lake or something - there's a rush of awakening that happens in your soul, a sense of relief, like there's more to the whole story than you originally thought. God isn't what you might have pinned Him to be in the beginning of your journey, no; He's more and better and not at all the somewhat ineffective deity I often make Him out to be. I don't think He's angry, necessarily, with our tendency to box Him in like that. I suspect it's just a bit annoying.

There's no real point to all of this other than the fact that I don't have to wander about the house tomorrow exchanging diatribes with myself about any of it. So that's good. Thank you for being willing to read. Someone told me recently that my blogs were kind of long and I just had to grin -- welcome to the world of all the people who've ever been asked, unwillingly, to edit my papers or articles or whatnot: I'm long-winded. I don't know how to say anything quickly or with just a few sentences. So enjoy what you can and pitch the rest. Just know I'm working on keeping myself afloat.