And Yet.

As a child, I was the picture of an old soul. I longed to be a grown-up. Some kids couldn't wait to just make it to 16; I was day-dreaming of college course plans, career paths and buying a house. And in that house, I would have a husband and a beautiful bunch of kids. I was that little girl, who carried around ragged, worn pages of her future children's names. When I met my husband, and I saw those blue eyes and that curly hair, I would let my mind wander into the what-if of our future together. Tiny brunettes with bouncing curls and infectious laughs. A girl first, and then maybe a boy. Would we have two? Maybe three or even four! Over the years the specifics of my grand life plan changed as I  did the same, but one steady element was those children. 

When we decided to start "trying" for a baby (by the way, I hate that phrase), there was never a thought in my mind that it wouldn't happen according to plan. In fact, we had planned that start date strategically. I read books. I researched. I was in the best shape of my life. I was prepared!  All was now supposed to fall into place. So, we waited. And waited. I began to dread that one year mark of trying. A clinical definition of infertility is 12 months of actively trying without pregnancy. It seemed such a heavy word and one I wasn't ready to face. I coped with attempts at control. I charted temperatures, I used every prediction kit on the shelves, I obsessed. And I did it all in quiet. As illogical as it may seem, the entire thing carried a sense of shame. I silently wondered if I was broken.

Well-meaning friends and family would ask all the time about our plans for children. They'd ask what we were waiting for, or some even teased that we were lucky to get a full nights sleep and not have to deal with diapers and spit-up and all that. And every word was a twist of the knife. They didn't know; how could they? We told only a handful of people, and even to them I worked to keep a facade of light-heartedness about the whole thing.

We marked two years of trying to get pregnant in August of 2013. I could write for pages about what went on during that period, but I think it's easiest to suffice it as 24 months of cyclical hope, anxiety, disappointment & sadness, marked with frustration at my lack of control. The harder I tried to hold onto the pieces of my life, the more they shifted - Jon struggled with finding a job, friendships were strained, we lost love ones, we closed the doors to our business.

And yet (isn't that just like God? I think those two words sum up so much of His character) there was good. I don't exactly know when, but at some point during this journey, the tiny seed of adoption was planted in my heart. I kept it to myself, unsure of what Jon might think. When I finally worked up the courage to tell him, I breathed a sigh of relief as he met my timid words with a soft smile and an "Okay then". We would talk casually about it over the following months, and congruently God began to place people and stories in my way that grew my general thought into a genuine and specific desire, one for waiting children in foster care. We agreed to go to an informational meeting for Foster and Adoption put on by the state. Area agencies take turns hosting these meetings and Gladney happened to be the host at the one we attended. My heart broke a little more with each statistic they told us, and we left a little more determined to do something, but left it at that.

Meanwhile, I underwent a battery of fertility tests, each one coming back with "normal". When the last test was scheduled, our doctor explained that if it proved untelling, our next option should be considering more invasive methods of trying to conceive. Those came with a hefty price tag and only a marginal improvement of our odds. When the final results were in, again carrying that seemingly benign word "normal", our doctor asked us when we wanted to schedule the next phase. I am so thankful that when it came time to discuss it, Jon and I arrived at the same answer: we don't. A few weeks later, in April of this year, we sat in a church service as my dad talked about fear vs faith. He gave everyone a piece of paper and asked us to write down one thing that we knew we needed to actively choose faith over fear, and I knew there was only one word that needed to go on that page. Adoption. There were a million logical reasons to not proceed. It's hard. These kids are hurting. We don't know how to be parents. Will we have enough money? Every roadblock I could come up with led back to one source: selfishness & fear. My mom likes to say, "you can't not know what you know", and at that moment I knew that I couldn't let that dissonance continue, knowing what I know about these kids and choosing not to act in the way I knew we were being called. The following day we contacted Gladney for our application. The rest, as they say, is history.

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I left out many details in the recounting above, but I don't think it matters. All of that is just the groundwork for what I need to say. We kept quiet for so long about every part of that journey, and if we continue to do so and give you only the shiny, pretty parts, that will only serve to bring a false glory to ourselves. He doesn't waste a story, and I don't want to either. So here is the honest, raw truth.

I am beyond excited to grow our family through adoption. I do have times of great peace. But, I still struggle. There are days when hot tears still rise to my eyes as I consider the possibility of never having the biological children I once dreamed of. I get angry when I dwell on the thought of "unexplained infertility", almost wishing they'd just would just diagnose away my hope. The unknowing feels harder. I feel guilt, sometimes, wondering if I'll ever be satisfied as a mother. I feel scared that I won't be up to the challenge of parenting a hurt child. I waiver between hope and trust. Those seem like they would be interchangeable, but not always.

The Bible is chock-full of the earnest prayers of barren women. They long for God to fill their empty wombs, and He comes through in miraculous ways, bringing forth children that would change the course of the nation of Israel and eventually pave the way for the Messiah himself. But I find myself not taking full solace in their stories, because you know what? God hasn't promised me a child, at least not biologically. Do I hope and know that He is big enough to do the impossible, if He wills it so? I want to. Or do I trust Him enough to find peace in a closed door, thereby silencing my petitions for a biological child? In some way I feel like these two pull against each other. Stop asking in peace or pray fervently in hope. Some days I pray he'll just remove my desire for a biological child altogether.

And here we are at Christmas, when we focus in on the baby who changed the world. And we talk about what it must be like to have been Mary, to shush and rock the Hope of Nations into slumber. I think, though, that I forget an important element of this story. Though a savior was prayed for, this baby to these parents was not. Mary's motherhood did not come after years of hope and disappointment and prayer and petition. She wasn't looking or praying expectantly for a child. And yet, she was chosen. And yet, He came.

The book of Luke begins the nativity narrative by contrasting Elizabeth's struggle with infertility and subsequent miraculous pregnancy and Mary's equally miraculous virgin conception. The reason Gabriel gives for  Mary's selection? "You have found favor with God." And when Mary asks what I'm sure was an astonished, "How?", the angel concludes his response with "For nothing is impossible with God." The NIV puts it beautifully saying, "For no word from God will ever fail."

 

"And Mary said, “Behold, I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word.”

Mary wasn't looking for a miracle. She was just looking at Him. She wasn't asking, or even ready, to be a mother, but she was poised to be a servant.

My heart is naturally inclined to the prayers of Sarah, Elizabeth and Hannah. But I want to desire to pray the words of Mary. To want to be His servant more than I want to be served. To be so focused on Him that my strongest hope is not for a baby, or a smooth adoption, but that I would simply make much of Him. I'm not there yet, y'all. Mary had so little control. Her situation made this scenario impossible, even scandalous. Fear would've been a wholly natural response. But y'all, this was His story, and He is in the business of the "And yet."

Yesterday, at church, we discussed the story of His birth, and wondered at the impossible grace of a human-born savior. We sang these words, "Mild He lays his glory by, born that man no more may die..." In the most innocent, exposed and vulnerable way He came to us. He put aside His glory, so that we would give it back to Him. The gifts he desires from us aren't Frankencense and Myrh, but instead reflections of what He's already given us.  And the thought hit me, that instead of asking for Him to remove the desire, maybe He's simply asking me to lay it down.  Author and speaker Paul Tripp has a saying:
"A desire for a good thing becomes a bad thing when that desire becomes a ruling thing." (Hagar, anyone?)
Children are good. Motherhood is so good. Biblically good! But when my desire for anything other than Him begins to rule my emotions and move my faith barometer, things are in need of realignment. I have learned that this is rarely a once-and-done transaction. My relationship with Him ebbs and flows and I know I will return to this particular altar again and again. And though I have not been given specific promises of a child, I have been given many, many more throughout His word. May Gabriel's words stay fresh in my heart: No word from God will ever fail.

May I be found in favor with Him. Despite my flaws, failures and recurring doubts and questions, may my story read "And yet." When I am shown His will, may my response echo the heart of Mary, "I am the servant of the Lord; let it be to me according to your word."

Merry Christmas.

(A little PS - I am not pining for your sympathies, and I know good and well that there are those who have suffered and struggled so much greater than I. This is simply an honest outpouring of my thoughts & feelings. I hesitated so long in writing this post because I do not like to be the center of attention. These are fresh feelings, so please handle with care. :) )

The Year of the Unknown

By the time January 2013 rolled around, I had no clue what the next 12 months would bring. All I knew is that I was beyond ready to lay 2012 to rest. I was exhausted and stuck firmly in the ambiguous, uncomfortable space of "what now?" The best choice I could make was "forward." And forward we went. Some baby steps, some canyon-sized leaps, but by george did we move.

I relearned what it was like to have weekends. I memorized scripture. I found quiet. I felt boredom. I rekindled friendships that had dwindled to embers and watched as altogether new ones sparked to life. I faced my fears. I marked two years of unsuccessfully trying to have a baby. I went to a fertility doctor, left without answers but with peace. I started the adoption process. I celebrated birthdays, graduations, new babies and new marriages. I gained 5 pounds and ate way too many snowcones. I traveled to the mountains, to the ocean, the east coast and the west coast. I quit my job. I started a year of service with a food bank. I cut my hair off. I did almost no blogging. I think I made maybe two crafts. I had countless moments where I stood breathless at the beauty of my life, smiling like a silly fool. I fell more in love with my husband, and firmly out of love with the idea that I am Martha Stewart (or that I even want to be).

It's a list that may not show much by the world's standards of finances, promotions and move-ups. Heck, I took a job that pays less than minimum wage. But, what a time of learning. When we closed the Pie Place, I had grand ideas in the back of my mind that with my new found free time, I would begin to learn, and master, my dream list of crafts, projects and trades (basically, Pinterest). Instead, the thing I became a student of was myself. The slow-dawning light of my season of quiet illuminated parts of myself I had never noticed, or perhaps never wanted to admit. Some were surprising, some were not so pretty, but with every revelation I settled a little deeper into the comfort of who I am. It required forgiveness and honesty with myself. It was finally seeing worldly standards I need to abandon and heavenly ones I'm sorrily short of. It was an invitation for grace to enter in and before me, acting as that ever-sweet buffer between who I realize I am and who my Lord asks me to be. If we were charting that as a means of success, I'd say it's a marked win. I began the year in a state of mixed anxiety and eagerness to trust because I had No idea where I was going. And guess what? We're three weeks away from 2014, and I still don't know what the plan really is.

Except, forward. Always forward.

Love in the unknown,
K

November: The Days We Said Goodbye

This post just about refused to be written, stubborn little thing. And in its rebellious streak, it will likely leave out important details. Downright unruly, I tell you. And late to boot!

For the last three years of my life, November has arrived with equal weightings of dread and excitement. It's the gateway to the Holidays, time with friends and family and food amuck; but it also means little sleep, stress to the max and more pies than I can count.

In many ways,  this November was no different, and yet, it was also like walking into a foreign land. This would be our last Thanksgiving at Pie Place, at least in its current format. My way of coping for the first three weeks was basically to pretend it wasn't happening. Not healthy, I know, but old habits are hard to break. My general plan was to just "get through", and so I did. And by the time we arrived at November 21st,  my heart began trying to back-pedal, realizing I had arrived to this moment OK, but wasn't ready to keep going.

Over the days and weeks preceding, I had cried intermittently, nearly always at the wrong time. Come to think of it, that seems to be a trait of mine - like not crying at funerals, but instead on the drive home. I read somewhere that introverts are often less outspoken because we internalize and slowly process things before we making an outward response. It makes perfect sense to me. I'll chalk it up to that, but it usually ends up meaning situationally-imbalanced tears, belated words of thanks, and terrible responses to surprises (sorry, all). During most of closing week the air felt thick, like the sky before a storm, almost tangible with the weight of imminent rain.  The impending "lasts" threatened to do me in. I've never been very good with lasts, even with things that caused me heartache.

Luckily, baking several hundred pies will serve as a pretty decent distraction. Best friend and I wore our pretty aprons. We worked hours on end, we rolled dough, shaped crusts, made countless fillings, egg-washed, and admired our handy work. I photographed everything I could think of; all the things I had been too busy to notice in the last 3 1/2 years. I almost felt panicked about documenting the details - the flour on the butcher block, the stack of rolling pins, the pie boxes. Would I remember what this kitchen looked like (would I want to? haha), or the dining room, or these people and this moment? Click, click, click went the camera. We changed the sign from "Open" to "Closed" one last time. Click, click, click. We hit the lights in the dining room one last time. Click, click, click. We sold our last pie. Click, click. We roused the boys (who had fallen asleep on tables/the floor after having been up for well over 48 hours), and broke out the champagne (which I'd been saving, little knowing that it would be to commiserate more than celebrate) and managed to find a handful of words to toast the closing of this chapter. To pie. To a sold-out empty case. To broccoli, the glitter of the kitchen world (I would explain this, but it probably wouldn't seem very funny). To new adventures. Click, click, click.

We went to dinner at Frescos, a post-Thanksgiving-pie-rush tradition. We smiled and laughed, genuine in our joy, but the rain still loomed. As so often happens with me, when it was over and we were headed home, it was in the quiet that the downpour finally came, and so did the tears. I had fought them, as to my logical brain it felt utterly silly to be crying over such a first-world problem. I was clothed, fed, happily married, not broke, friends still by my side. But God - my God - He is big enough to catch even the tears that don't make sense. And so they fell. They fell for my feelings of failure. They fell for my hatred of endings. They fell for dreams unrealized. They fell for my self-perceived lack of bravery. They fell for fear of the future. They fell for every single moment that took place in that building - the good, the bad, and the ugly. And that dear sweet husband of mine wrapped me up in his arms like a physical extension of my Comforter. He didn't shush or try to reason with me. Lord, bless that man for sticking with the dose of crazy he married.

God let me lament. He let me say goodbye. He patiently waited until my tantrum had run its course and I was ready to listen, again, to the words He whispers - this does not define you. And I know that. He knows I know that. I think my head knows all of the right words and answers, but that journey from head to heart...its a slow-go sometimes. I fell asleep in exhaustion and awoke the next morning to a quiet house, sunlight streaming in my windows, and my heart quietly says The storm always loses to the sun. Amen and amen.

I kept up my three-years-running ritual of grocery shopping on Thanksgiving morning. Something about wandering the empty aisles of a grocery store feels therapeutic to me (cheaper than a therapist, and often resulting in good eats...I'll take it). We spent the morning cooking and the remainder of the day with family. And although we had chosen the previous day as our last day of business, I couldn't help but feel that it was God-orchestrated that my day of self-focused sadness was hemmed in by a day of ritualized gratitude. Because as I've repeatedly realized, thankfulness is quite the antidote  to self. So I gave thanks. For knowing that earthly failures are small in His story. For endings, which also mean beginnings. For dreams yet unrealized. For knowing that true bravery can be found in a heart that is tied with His. For the hope that lies in a future unknown to me. For every single moment that took place in that building - the good, the bad, and even the ugly. For a friendship that outlasted a business and a husband ordained for me. And I prayed for a life-manifestation of that thanks in place of just words. Because my head knows that to make this worthwhile, to do that gift of the Pie Place justice, to hope to progress our business with any firm foundation, gratitude must go before me. And while that knowledge makes its way from my head, to my heart, to my feet, I'll say again and again, Thank You.