SheLoves Magazine

Wellness Wednesday: The One Decision I Regret Most

“I wanted to forget that I’d ever felt that momentary joy preceding the horrifying loss of my one and only pregnancy.”

By Tara Rodden Robinson |Twitter: @tararodden 

When I went to church this past Sunday, I grew a little tense. It was Mother’s Day and I usually avoid any public observances that include motherhood. It’s not that I have a bad relationship with my mom—in fact, quite the opposite. It’s that Mother’s Day reminds me of an inescapable fact: I am not a mom.

Just the other day, I got treated to big dose of all the mom-ness that I am not privy to. I had been invited to a mid-week happy hour–a drinks with the girls evening. I arrived at the bar early so I could sit and sip my wine in peace for a while, just to enjoy the sensation of having nothing to do and nowhere to go.

When my friend arrived, another woman rose from a table across the room to intercept her. I knew this was going to happen—my friend had told me that she’d invited others to join us—and I knew that probably all these other women were going to be complete strangers to me. No big deal: I’m good at meeting new people. What I didn’t know was that all the women at the table had kids in the same Montessori school. Yep, it was a Mommy’s Night Out.

To be honest, my non-mommyness didn’t phase me. At least not at first. The conversation didn’t revolve entirely around kids. We talked about other topics, like one woman’s impending divorce and her soon-to-be-ex-husband’s complete meltdown. And when they learned that I am a productivity coach, the group became positively enraptured, asking me all sorts of questions about time management and such. But then the dreaded moment arrived.

“How old are your kids?”

I paused. Swallowed.

“I don’t have any kids,” I replied.

Cue the crickets.

“Oh!” she said, finally.

I didn’t realize how truly awkward that moment was until a few days later when I received—no lie—a handwritten letter of apology from the person who’d invited me.

Damn.

Looking Back

It’s not that I never wanted children. I was just very ambivalent for a long time. Plus I was waiting for the right time: the time when we had a stable income and health insurance. When we finally got around to trying, I was 38 years old. It took me three years to get pregnant. And in my eighth week, I miscarried.

It felt as if my heart had been ripped from my body. I spent weeks doubled over with grief. And when I wasn’t howling in pain, I was in my office, working as usual, trying to pretend that nothing had happened. I didn’t (and still don’t) understand the shame that came with the sadness. Why should I be ashamed of myself? I hadn’t done anything wrong. And yet for the longest time, I wanted to forget that I’d ever felt that momentary joy preceding the horrifying loss of my one and only pregnancy.

My aunt, one of my mom’s younger sisters, tried to comfort me. The little book she sent told me, “never doubt that you are a mother.” Of course, I know this is bull****. Mommies have actual children. For me, no child equalled not a mommy.

Do I sound bitter? I don’t mean to. There are many things about my life that I love. I have a lot of happiness, joy, abundance. There is only this one thing that is missing.

In Hindsight

I wish I could go back and talk to my still-ovulating younger self.

I’d tell her that there is never a right time to have a baby. I’d kick her butt and tell her to stop second-guessing her heart’s desire. And I would tell her to throw out her birth control pills and get herself pregnant.

When I look at my younger friends, the ones wrestling with the same ambivalence about being a mom, juggling the same timing issues and looking for that just-right moment, I want to take them by their shoulders and shake them until their teeth rattle. I want to yell, “When you’re fifty and menopausal and highly accomplished, the only thing that will matter to you is your family. Please, for goodness sake, have one!” If they didn’t call the cops first, would they get the message?

I wonder how my cocky twenty-something self would have reacted to such a visit.

I hope with all my heart I would have listened to me.

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Dear SheLoves readers, take a few moments to consider these questions:

• If I got a visit from my twenty years older self, what would she most want me to know?
• The heart’s desire I am second-guessing right now is …

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About Tara:

Tara Rodden Robinson is an author, coach, and educator. Known as The Productivity Maven, she blogs at tararobinson and tweets @tararodden. She lives in Corvallis, Oregon, with her husband and their two dogs. She is working on mastering complex yoga poses and searching for the perfect gluten-free bread recipe. When she’s not writing, coaching, or teaching, she’s out in the wilderness hiking and watching birds.

The Sound of One Girl Crying

“Ramona says the sadness inside is unbearable. Her childhood made her afraid of white people.”

By Kisa MacDonald | Twitter: @kisamac

 You know what it’s like, when a little girl cries. She sobs uncontrollably.

Tears overflow. Cheeks get soaked. Shoulders get all scrunched up. Her little gasps for air get bigger and bigger. But eventually, she starts breathing again. She remembers that somebody loves her. Tears stop. Life goes on.

Red-cheeked with fear, this one little girl asked quietly for her mother. Tears began to fall down her cheeks. Her teacher responded quickly. The little girl could not stop crying.  In a fit of anger, the teacher suddenly kicked her. She fell backwards, down a flight of stairs, and died.

Her mother came back to the school. The teacher told her: “We do not know where your daughter went; she ran away.”

Nobody knows where she is buried.

Sacred Story

Ramona tells me this story: a complete stranger, waiting to be picked up from the ferry arrivals lounge. She tells me that she saw the little girl fall, and die.  She was always terrified to cry in school, after that.

The dusky waves come into Departure Bay. While we wait, Ramona tells me a few more stories. It is hard to realize how this happened. Here. On the gorgeous island that always feels like home to me. Her words linger in the atmosphere, dancing between us like lights.

Ramona says the sadness inside is unbearable. Her childhood made her afraid of white people. Her voice shakes. She tells me of more rapes and beatings. I watch her, reflecting the pain and reality of it. She asks how healing is possible.

She wants her spirit to be free.

I feel a deep sense of awe at the tenacity of her life. Her courage outshines the sun.

Truth and Reconciliation

I know that her story is true. I have researched and wept over many stories just like hers. I have seen the black and white photographs. I have heard similar words, from different voices. Ramona told me her story, simply because it needed to be told. But her story echoes the stories of others. The Canadian Truth and Reconciliation Commission is providing a unique opportunity to speak and hear the truth about the experiences of aboriginal children in residential schools, and to seek healing.

Dusk comes, and it’s time to go. I lean forward and tell her how her words have touched me, deeply. I will not forget them.  I tell her it is time for her healing, and that her words have meant a lot to me.

When I look at her, the deep-setting sadness in her eyes hits me like a wave. Tears begin to stream down her face.

I cannot stop them from falling.

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About Kisa:

Kisa completed her law degree earlier this year and is currently finishing her articling year at a non-profit that focuses on law reform, legal research and outreach. She grew up on Vancouver Island but has lived all over: North America, Southeast Asia and Europe. In this next season of life, she hopes to see creative community and access to justice established in Vancouver.

I’ve Never Been Married, But I Have Been Divorced

“I’m not married and I’ve never been married. I have been divorced, however.”

By Ashley Mandanici | Twitter: @ashleymandanici

My parents split when I was 10 years old. Although I’m sure it was nothing nearly as devastating as the split between Barbie and Ken last year, it quickly became the lens through which I began to view my life.

I can never claim to understand how either one of my parents felt, but I can say with complete confidence that divorce separated me from my parents as truly as it separated my parents from each other.

All of a sudden I was living with two adults who were trying to reclaim their long lost youth, at the same time as I was being confronted with the reality of my own. As I entered my teenage years, I realized it wasn’t getting any easier. Nothing is more damaging to the fragile ego of a teenage girl than when her mother goes on more dates than she does.

Being the Child

Divorce is strange and unnatural for everyone involved, but I dare say it is more foreign to the child. Both parents have lived life without the other at some point, however for the child, being distanced from their parents is an altogether new experience. It’s hard for a child to see his or her home being broken, even if the home looked broken before divorce entered the picture.

In Mark 10:13-16 we read the story of Jesus blessing the little children:

“Then they brought little children to Him, that He might touch them; but the disciples rebuked those who brought them. But when Jesus saw it, He was greatly displeased and said to them, “Let the little children come to Me, and do not forbid them; for of such is the kingdom of God. Assuredly, I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God as a little child will by no means enter it.” And He took them up in His arms, laid His hands on them, and blessed them.”

“I needed someone to push through the crowd for me.”

In his book Woman Though Art Loosed, Bishop T.D. Jakes makes a fascinating observation: “It is interesting to me that just before this account took place in Scripture the Lord was ministering on the subject of adultery and divorce. When He brought the subject up, someone brought the children to Him so He could touch them.”

When my parents divorced, they determined the best way to deal with their child was to assure me they would always be friends, and to take me to a counselor. I am sad to say, however, that neither of those things proved very comforting to me.

I needed to be dropped into the lap of my Savior, not dropped at the doorstep of a counselor. I needed someone to push through the crowd for me, not so that I could receive another sermon, but so I could rest in the protection of my Savior’s arms.

Now, I am not here to bash on counselors, or bash on the divorced, and I am certainly not here to judge anybody else’s decisions–Barbie and Ken included. My purpose in writing is simply this: whether you are 10 or 50, whether you are a parent that is divorced or a child that is divorced, I pray that the first place you find yourself at any time of great pain and loss, is in the presence of your Savior.

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My dear SheLoves friends, I’d love to hear:

• Have you been affected by divorce?
• How have you made sense of it?
• Any other thoughts or comments?

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About Ashley:

My name is Ashley and I am the Children’s Ministry Coordinator at Relate Church in Surrey, B.C. My mission is to develop the God-given potential in every child who crosses my path *Insert Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All” here*. I love all things jazzy, particularly music, and I tend to break into song throughout the day for no apparent reason. I blog here and tweet @AshleyMandanici

Sudanese Refugee Boys Sing for Justice: Called Me Out

“Stop the hate and the evil in the world …” –Chakuen Chucks & Youah Mut, Called Me Out

By Jacynta Pittaway

Kony 2012. As this phenomenon sweeps the online world and in turn the world in general, I can’t help but feel an overwhelming urge to jump on the bandwagon with everything I’ve got.

My name is Jacynta. I’m currently living in Berwick, Australia. Under a year ago I started working, through the Salvation Army, with youth from South Sudan and their parent (or parents) who brought them to Australia as refugees from their war-ravaged homes. They are the ones picking up the pieces of years of LRA intimidation and violence.

Where I work, we have contact with about fifty young Sudanese males and females. I have a pretty awesome job. I play basketball, spend nights wrestling, teach and make music and weekly engage in some random fun activity. While this may sound like just simple, fun activities, I have learned that these activities are saving lives and changing communities.

Each one of these youth have their own unique story and so many carry their trauma in silence. Putting myself in their shoes, how do you explain witnessing the violent death of a family member as a child? Or the true pain of starvation? Or even experiences like being on the edge of death and not knowing how you’re alive? Where do you even begin to share those stories with others or reconcile it within yourself?

Yet, even with all this as the foundation of their lives, these youth seem to find a way. In a dynamic like this, it can be difficult to articulate what we achieve with these youth. The best way I can explain it is that, as a team, we seek out opportunities for these youth–opportunities that are a way out of the oppression their past can bring and a bridge towards a hope-filled future.

Let me give you an example:  the boys I work with are in love with basketball. They all secretly hope to play in the NBA one day. One of the boys in particular has trained incredibly hard. Neither one of his biological parents ever came to Australia; he was brought over by another women. His father passed away, fighting for the liberation of South Sudan and he hasn’t seen his biological mother in 10 years. This youth has pushed himself and believed in himself and as a result been offered the opportunity to attend a camp in the USA where college scouts come and see if they want to take anyone onto their teams. This is really his last chance to achieve his dream and it’s an incredible opportunity for him, but also his community as a whole. He needs $5,000 to get there. This is where we come in: we don’t know where we are going to get that money from, but it’s an opportunity and one that holds a lifetime of hope in it, so we will push to do what we can to see this dream become a reality for one boy.

There are more stories like this; the details vary, as do the hopes and dreams. For those that literally have no dreams we fight against the world’s destructive impact and do what we can to draw these kids towards hope.

Called Me Out

Recently, I asked two of our youth Chakuen (pronounced Shar-qwin) and Youah (pronounced Yow-uh) to write a song about their experience as refugees. They wrote about the journey from South Sudan to Australia and the struggles they have had on both ends, I told them that in this song they would be speaking for many people. They embraced the opportunity and we collaborated–the boys wrote the verses and wrote the chorus and melody. Both have very clear memories of their struggle and this song is just one form of expression for them. They are 16 and 17 years old.

They sing: 

“In the Lord’s eye

We are all counted as equal

The wars around the wold

Is all nonsense and evil

I went through the struggle

And came out a hero”

So, as the world looks at Kony and the devastation these kids know well, I can’t help but feel an incredible sense of Justice as we draw these youth into advocacy against someone who has inflicted so much grief upon their lives and stolen so much from an already struggling people group. It gets me pumped! Let’s stand as global community and say, ENOUGH!

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LINKS

Editor’s note:

If you’d like to learn more about Joseph Kony and the LRA’s activity in the South Sudan, Democratic Republic of the Congo (DRC) and Central African Republic (CAR), here are some links for background:

• Most comprehensive report on the LRA I have read so far by Sudan Human Security Baseline Assessment: Download the report as PDF: SmallArmsSurveySudan.org 
• The Star.com: Who is Joseph Kony? A look at the Ugandan warlord, March 8 (a good timeline) Notice: He started moving into the South Sudan in early 2008.
• AllAfrica.com: South Sudan: Kony Must Be Kicked Out of the Bush to Make People Rest, Feb 28 (does he really only have 20o men now?)
• Interesting research and perspective from the Justice and Reconciliation Project: Pay Us so We Can Forget:* Reparations for Victims and Affected Communities in Northern Uganda

PETITION

Please sign the petition to Canadian PM Stephen Harper. Let’s reach 5,000 signatures! We’re almost there.
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About Jacynta:

Well, what do I say? I’m a 25-year-old chick who stumbled upon justice and fell in love. Now here I am a part of things I never even imagined I would be. I live in Melbourne, Australia. Currently I work with The Salvation Army as a Youth Worker. The youth I work with are mostly refugees from South Sudan and are faced with the difficulties of being the first wave of refugees in Australia from South Sudan. I’m currently studying a Bachelor of Social Work full time at University. It’s not a boring life. Not even close.

TGIF: What My Grandmother Taught Me About The Hero’s Journey

On PDA in a hotel lobby, crying cashews and spooning my grandmother.

by Tina Francis | Twitter: @teenbug
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“Diet Pepsi at 11pm was a bad idea,” I think to myself, staring at the empty can on the bedside table.

I’m exhausted, but can’t sleep. My restless body curls into the shape of a cashew nut, and then unfurls into a giant flag.

Cashew. Flag. Cashew. Flag. Cashew. Flag.

I look at the digital clock above my head that blinks 3:15am in scarlet red. In my wayward state of insomnia, I decide, “I’ll wear my black skirt that doesn’t need to be ironed,” and jump out of bed. I roll up my pajama pants, shave my legs, slather a generous scoop of cocoa butter on my now shiny smooth limbs and look at the clock again.

3:30am.

In exactly five hours, I’ll be reunited with my 95-year-old grandmother, my Ammachi.

The grandmother who saved my yellow scissors.
The grandmother I hadn’t seen in nine years.
The grandmother I didn’t want to speak to.

I was on a whirlwind work trip that took me to my motherland, Kerala, in beautiful South India. The azure sky bejeweled with lush emerald coconut trees made me sigh deeply. An unexpected trip that facilitated the luxury of being able to visit my beloved grandmother.

PDA and an inappropriate sling bag …

At 6am sharp, I greeted my dad’s oldest sister–my 4′ 6 75-year-old plucky aunt, Sister Vera, in the hotel lobby with an over-exuberant hug. She turned cranberry pink and burst into nervous laughter. Given that South Indians rarely hug, and compounded by the fact that she’d been a nun for almost sixty years, I could see how my overt public display of affection gave my poor aunty a heart attack.

As I settled into the back of the cab, my eyes slowly wandered and I encountered an unexpected glee-inducing moment. My adorable aunt was carrying a Chivas Regal sling bag. Lawwwd, have murrrrcy! I was so tickled by how incongruous this image was, I almost clapped.

Oh life, and its beautiful ironies!

The Second Half of Life 

I’m not sure what I expected when I walked into my grandmother’s room. I gingerly placed three totes filled with an odd potpourri of gifts on the floor: cereal, towels, Vaseline, chocolate-covered almonds, rice crackers, a coffee mug, Turkish sweets, my sister’s homemade toffee brittle and cleaning wipes.

As I approached her bed, I saw that her breathing had become laboured and heavy. Her eyes were full of tears. I bent down to kiss her cheeks and she “sniff-kissed” me. The customary South Indian grandma kiss. She pressed her cauliflower-shaped nose against my cheek and took a deep audible breath — inhaling the scent of my skin, inhaling my entire almost-thirty-granddaughter-essence with each sniff. She kissed the right cheek and then the left cheek. Switching back to the right cheek and the left again. This went on for what felt like 15 minutes.

Sr. Vera brings me a foldable wooden stool so I can sit beside Ammachi. When I finally pull my face back, I get a proper look at her. She was wearing a loose white cotton dress with cute-as-heck pink polka dots, a white rosary around her neck and a wedding band on her finger. Her hair snowy white, her face gaunt, her tiny-tiny arms and her skin hanging from her bones. She was so much smaller than I remembered. Her forest green metal walker to the left of her bed, an ugly reminder that she would be taken away from me. Worse, she’d been taken away from my dad. I was angry and wanted to burn the stupid walker  in the front yard.

My pyromaniac fantasy was interrupted by her quivering lips which whispered the words, “Devum thanna pilara…” This loosely translates to mean, “The children God blessed me with …”

This was the moment I officially became a wreck. I remembered why I didn’t want to see her or speak to her. It hurts too much. Loving my grandma breaks my heart, and hers.

She cupped my face firmly with her jittery arms and looked at me. I mean, really looked at me. She drank in every detail of my face, committing it to memory: every curve, dimple, bone, bump, eyelash and pore. I was humbled by the silent awe, elation and gratitude etched on her face. She seemed to be looking at a glorious, beautiful, perfect version of me, that I couldn’t see in myself.

“The world is more magical, less predictable, more autonomous, less controllable, more varied, less simple, more infinite, less knowable, more wonderfully troubling than we could have imagined being able to tolerate when we were young.” - James Hollis, “Finding Meaning in the Second Half of Life”

A Handkerchief + A Cross + The Great Wounding

My dad has seven sisters. Three of his sisters are nuns. The youngest of the three, Sr. Cecelia (my favourite–she sang) passed away a couple of years ago from cancer. My grandmother asked my aunt Sr. Vera to crochet the cross Sr. Cecelia wore around her neck onto a green and white plaid handkerchief.

In his book “Falling Upward” Father Richard Rohr talks about “The Great Wounding” or “Necessary Suffering” in every hero’s journey. The whole story pivots on the resolution of the trials that result. The great wounding eventually leads to a great epiphany, and the wound becomes a secret (even sacred) key that takes the hero to the next level. The wound breaks the hero before strengthening him. This strange balance between ascent and descent, victory and suffering, is every hero’s journey. Richard Rohr says the hero “floats forward by the quiet movement of grace.”

I thought about my grandmother’s “great wounding.” She lost her husband, her siblings, her parents and eventually her own daughter. I can’t imagine anything more painful than a parent having to bury their child. She had to leave her home, her roots and her legacy in Kerala. She shuttled between her children, all over the world, from the Middle East to Canada and she did it without her husband, sisters and family.

The LORD had said to Abram, “Leave your country, your people and your father’s household and go to the land I will show you. - Genesis 12:1

My grandmother is a hero. She is a hero in the classic Greek sense of the word. Unlike the modern definition, where celebrity is equated with heroism, the classic Greek hero was somebody brave enough to leave her home, accomplish a greater task for the greater good, suffer the great wounding, learn to rise above it and come back home to share her wisdom with the next generation. Hello?! That is my grandmother in a nutshell.

“First is the fall, and then we recover from the fall. Both are the mercy of God.” – Lady Julian of Norwich

Spooning  + Like a Child

As Sr. Vera silently crocheted the cross onto the handkerchief, I climbed onto the bed and lay beside my grandmother. Everything that needed to be said had already been said. I just wanted to be close to her.

The moment I climbed on the bed to spoon my grandmother, tears began to run down her cheeks and she said, “You have so much love … like a little child.”

I felt my chest tighten, throat close up and my legs start to tremble. There were tears. Warm, fat, monster tears.

Two [crying] cashews lying on a bed, just taking each other in.

“I want her to melt into me, like butter on toast. I want to absorb her and walk around for the rest of my days with her encased in my skin.” ― Sara Gruen, Water for Elephants

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My dear ones…

I still have tears coming down my cheeks as I write this. I need a minute. *deep breath*

Okay.

I recently read an article in the Guardian about Bronnie Ware, an Australian palliative nurse who recorded her patients’ dying epiphanies in the last twelve weeks of their lives. She wrote a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying and here they are in random order:

1. I wish I’d had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me.
2. I wish I hadn’t worked so hard.
3. I wish I’d had the courage to express my feelings.
4. I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends.
5. I wish I had let myself be happier.

I would love to hear your thoughts:
- If today were your last day, what would be your biggest regret?
- What do you want to achieve/change before you die?
- Have you experienced “the great wounding”?

Love you more than Salt and Vinegar Kale Chips,(<- Recipe)
xoxo,
Teen

To read more TGIFs from Tina: Click here.

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My name is Tina. Loved ones call me: Teen.

Words are my chocolate. Music, my caramel. Photography, my bread. Girlfriends, my butter.

Confession: Some girls dream about Manolo Blahniks or their next Hermes bag. Not me. I dream of freshly baked bread, perfectly barbecued meat & steaming bowls of Pho. My dream lover *cue Mariah Carey song* is someone who would read out a menu to me in Barry White’s baritone voice.

I celebrate food, ask for help, interrupt conversations, laugh and cry hard, acknowledge the elephant in most rooms, fight for the underdog and believe in the power of storytelling.

My word for the year is “leap.” If something scares me, I do it.

I was born and raised in Dubai and currently live in the beautiful city of Vancouver, known for some of the best sushi in the world.

On the Other Side of Abortion: When Grace Tells Another Story

“I saw words that spoke of my potential, not my mistakes.”

By Daniela Schwartz | Twitter: @dannyschwartz

 ”He forgives your sins—every one.

He heals your diseases—every one.

He redeems you from hell—saves your life!

He crowns you with love and mercy—a paradise crown.

He wraps you in goodness—beauty eternal.

He renews your youth—you’re always young in his presence.” - Psalm 103:3-5 (The Message)

I wish I could come up with a story sad enough to justify my actions. A story that would tug at your heart and somehow make what I did, seem okay. Something that would justify my actions.

That’s not going to happen.

Here’s what I’ve learned:

We can’t rewrite our past; we only have today.

My hope is that in telling this story, it could change someone else’s story. That a woman held in bondage from her past would be set free. Or maybe change the way someone thinks about another person who has made the choices I have made.

I am talking about abortion.

When I was 15 and found myself pregnant, I was scared out of my mind. I was one step away from homeless and I wondered if there was a way I could keep the baby. In my ignorance I thought that because I drank alcohol one night, I had ruined the baby anyhow. So even if I had him, he would be damaged and how would I take care of him? At that time, I couldn’t even put a roof over my own head. I got the money for the abortion and ended the pregnancy at 15 weeks.

I wish my story ended there.

When I was 17, I was having unprotected sex with my boyfriend. At this point in my life, my heart was hard. I knew what the consequences could be, and didn’t care. The people in my world had let me down and I refused to love or be loved. I got pregnant, again. This time I did not hesitate to choose abortion. I did not want to end up a single mother. I definitely did not want to be tied to my current boyfriend for the rest of my life. So I ended the pregnancy at 19 weeks. Refusing to acknowledge the life that was in me.

When I was 20 years old, I found Jesus. I was told I was a new creation, cleaned from all sin, but there were choices I had made in my life that fired a war on my soul. I felt like certain things I had done in my life were too big for God. I was covered in guilt and shame. After two years I backslid from God and walked away for seven years.

Looking back, I still see God was working in my life. The very fact that I can write this today is proof of that.

I married when I was 27 to a wonderful man, and we were expecting our first child by our first anniversary.

Any mom, when you hold your baby for the first time, knows the wonder of the miracle that has taken place. The child that grew in your body. A life full of future.

When Owen was four, I wanted him in Christian school. Why this was so important, I can’t tell you; particularly when I was only attending church at Christmas and Easter. I requested a reference letter from my church and it was completed by an Associate Pastor who has known me since the beginning of my journey. She filled out my application and when she got to the part about my involvement at church, she talked about what she saw in me and what she believed for me. In that moment, I had hope. I really wanted God and needed him in my life.

I saw words that spoke of my potential, not my mistakes.

I got involved in serving and planted myself in the house and about eight months later, I recommitted my heart to Jesus. I learned that I could go through the motions, but until I opened my heart, it was impossible to grow. In my willingness to serve and be obedient to God, however, walking through the doors that were opening, I believe it allowed God to begin a work in me. The actions of trusting God with my life allowed my heart to soften enough to put my hope in Him.

So now Israel, what do you think God expects from you? Just this: Live in his presence in holy reverence, follow the road he sets out for you, love him, serve God, your God, with everything you have in you, obey the commandments and regulations of God that I’m commanding you today—live a good life. - Deuteronomy 10:12-13 (The Message)

Ryan and I had been trying to have another child since our eldest turned two. After several failed fertility attempts, we were diagnosed with “unexplained infertility.” I began to think of my abortions. The lives I had ended and the one I was trying to begin.

Condemnation and guilt entered into my heart and I was tormented by what I had done.

I began to feel like a con-artist. The life I was living, stolen. “I should be a single struggling mother,” I thought to myself. “I should have never met Ryan, and had my beautiful Owen. I should not have this beautiful life. It was my horrible choices that brought me here and I am a living fraud.”

I believed those words and they robbed my joy.

Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, (s)he is a new creation; old things have passed away; behold, all things have become new. – 2 Corinthians 5:17 (New King James Version) (gender included)

By the grace of God, I got pregnant at 35, seven years after my first born. I had my first ultrasound at seven weeks and saw that miraculous little heartbeat. At 20 weeks, I saw the miracle of our little baby in a 3D ultrasound.

I felt that tug at my heart, for my unborn children.

Grace.

We had a guest speaker come to our church, and it’s not that I hadn’t heard amazing sermons on grace, but I felt like this message was about me and my abortions and my life that God gave me. God spoke to my heart and truth resonated in me.

The hardest part of Grace, for me, was understanding it. When we truly understand the Grace we live under when Jesus enters our lives, we are not pushed to our knees by guilt and condemnation, but instead we gratefully fall to our knees in worship to the One who paid for it all. Jesus.

I don’t deserve this life I have. None of us deserve our lives. It’s by Gods grace we have a second chance (sometimes a third and a fourth). God saw across the oceans of time and saw me at 15, 17, 27 and 35 and loved me the same. The blood of Jesus covers my sins.

It is not that my heart doesn’t ache when I think of those babies; I sit here in tears thinking of them. It will always hurt, but I don’t live under condemnation. I have a new life by the grace of God. I know some of you may not understand and maybe have the urge to hurl a few stones my way, but I would bear the scorn of a thousand to help one person learn what it took me 15 years to learn.

Here’s more of what I learned: If you are recovering from an abortion, God knows your story and is still smiling on you; your child is in heaven with Him. God still loves you and always will. Your child still loves you. Jesus’ blood covered all of your sins. He covered every, single, sin.

And then he told me,

My grace is enough; it’s all you need.

My strength comes into its own in your weakness. -2 Corinthians 7: 10

If you can stand nowhere else today, let’s stand here: God’s grace is enough. Maybe it is not an abortion that keeps you tied up. Maybe it is something else you have made bigger than Jesus. Let’s know this together: nothing is BIGGER than God. In our weakness, God makes us strong. I love that.

God looks at us and loves us, just as we are.

______________________________________

About Daniela:
Daniela is loving her role as stay-at-home mom. She loves Jesus, her husband and kids and jumps feet first into opportunities to serve in her community. Daniela lives by this statement, “Preach the gospel always, use words when necessary.” She loves to live life big and laughs a lot. She blogs with her twin sister Trinity at Lime in the coconuts.

My Christmas Miracle: On Friendship, Faith and Fertility

By Daniela Schwartz | Twitter: @dannyschwartz

Every Christmas I believe for a miracle. Sometimes it’s silly like the year we got an espresso machine. The miracle was the guy working at Starbucks offering me his staff discount, because we could not have afforded it otherwise. It has brought years of joy.

Another year it was a Wii when they were a hot item. Two years ago Disneyland. (That was truly magical). I try to create memories for my family–each Christmas a special memory, so that as time passes, it will not be forgotten.

Last year’s miracle changed my family forever. We welcomed Oliver. The biggest Christmas miracle ever.

My story:

A women’s cycle is on average 28 day. Here’s my CliffsNotes version:

Day One: Your period.

Day 7-14: Sanity Days. No PMS, cramping, bloating or irrational demands.

Day 14: Ovulation

Day 15 – 28: Varying degrees of craziness, moodiness, overheating, overeating and slow gradual transformation to your fat clothes. A.k.a. comfy pants and your husband’s old T-shirt with the grease stain from last month’s chips ‘n dip.

This is the natural course of a woman. OK, I am speaking for myself. Then there comes a time, where you decide to do something productive with these cycles, liiiike … for example, make a baby. When Ryan and I were first married we decided to try for Owen and two weeks later, the bun was in the oven.

Two years after Owen, we decided to add one more child to the mix. I decided I would get pregnant in August, so the baby could be born in the spring, I’d then have time to de-fat for summer and BAM I’d be lounging on the beach, my babe napping beside me–Ryan and Owen chasing each other around in the distance.

August passed. Negative. Oh, well, late spring is good too. Negative. Summer? Negative. Fall? Winter? Negative.

Two years passed.

Here ‘s what the cycle of a women with infertility looks like:

Day 25: Obsessing over every twinge your body makes. Am I nauseous? I feel sick, yes I am going to throw up! Oh joy, could this be it? My boobs? Definitely sore. And tired? Yes, exhausted. Thank God for those early response tests. Negative. OK, it’s too early.

Day 26: Negative. Still too early. Definitely feeling something, though.

Day 26 evening: Negative. Darn it. I should have waited til the morning; that’s when there’s the most hormones.

Day 27: Racing back to the house with pregnancy test still holding first morning urine. Negative. It’s OK. Tomorrow it will show up.

Day 28: I’m holding the pregnancy test up to the light. Maybe the line is so faint I can’t see it? (I did that a lot.)

Day 1: Oh.

Day 15: Cleansing breath. Maybe …

I was so glad the day I found pregnancy tests could be purchased in bulk online, since store-bought ones were costing a fortune. I literally ordered a hundred at a time. I think I felt that if I took enough tests, I could somehow stop my period from coming.

At year three we sought help at a fertility clinic. Tests, tests and more tests. Only to discover that Ryan and I had unexplained infertility. Factoring our age and the time we had gone without conceiving without medical intervention, our chances were five percent. Awesome. We began to discuss treatments and decided to try IUI’s and drugs. Night sweats, hormone-induced rages, awkward fertility treatment with a nurse (shouldn’t Ryan be here?) produced a Negative.

My twin sister became pregnant. My best friend became pregnant. I went for another IUI. Negative.

There was I moment with I was standing with my sister and friend in my kitchen one day, trying not to stare at their swollen bellies and I felt my uterus physically RECOIL. It took my breath away and I wanted to lay down and go to sleep forever.

Let’s pause here for a moment. Please don’t think that for one moment I wasn’t grateful for my Owen. I treasure that boy. This was something I was dealing with on the sidelines of being his mom.

We stopped our fertility treatments. We went back once to explore in vitro,  but because we had Owen already,  we decided we would use the money to adopt eventually. At that visit we discovered that due to time and increasing age, our chances were now 1.7 percent.

It had been 3.5 years. Every time I sat in church, I cried. Every time someone near to me conceived, I’d smile, shut down my heart so I could get through the next five minutes without screaming, WHY???? WHY???? And then say, I’m so happy for you. (If you are one those friends, I’m sorry.)

What changed?

We had been back to church for about a year, mostly to have Owen there. I had a wall around me, because I felt so fragile and broken in my disappointment and hurt. One month, my very close girlfriend told me she was expecting. For some reason I got it in my head, This is it. This is God’s timing for me. We were meant to have babies together and to boot, it’s Christmas! God knows how much I love Christmas. It is His perfect timing. I had been praying for this. I was smug in my confidence of knowing God’s will for my life.

Day 1: I felt the color leave my face. Ryan must have taken Owen to school that day. I was home by myself getting ready for work  and listening to music. Numb. “A Bridge Over Trouble Water” came on. It was being sung by a Christian singer. These words stopped me:

“Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way.”

God speaks to us in so many different ways. In that moment I knew God knew my heart. There were a lot of tears that day. I gave my burden to Him (although for the next year and half, I tried to take it back a few times.)

I turned my heart back to God that day.  I took my eyes off what I didn’t have and put them on Him.

I went on birth control eventually to help my hormones. They were a mess from the fertility treatments and it felt good to close the door, to know that I did not have to have Day 1 that month. When a close friend (let’s call her Linda) approached me one day and asked if I would go off the pill and try again, I looked at her like she was insane. If she knew what she was asking me, she would not be asking me this. I was doing well, and I did not want to reopen that door.  She committed to praying for me for three months. I loved and trusted her, so I committed to having unprotected whoopy with my husband for three months.

Negative.

Negative.

Negative.

I did not hop back on the pill once the three months had passed. Partly cause I did not get to my doctor’s; partly because I knew Linda was still believing. At month four my hormones were raging and I told her I was done. I was turning into a hormonal lunatic. She was disappointed, but understood.

Day 29. No Day 1? Weird. I went to Walmart and bought the cheapest test possible. Peed on it and walked straight to the trash to chuck it. Hold the phone. What’s that? I took a picture and sent it to my friend.

“Is that two lines?”

I called Ryan and he said: “Why did you buy the cheapest test?” (To date, Ryan has NO idea just how many tests I took over the years and how much it cost.)

Please don’t be an illusion, I prayed. Please don’t let this be a mental break down. I drove straight from Walmart to my girlfriend’s. I needed an extra set of eyes. I went straight to her toilet. Instantly there were two bright pink lines. I flew out of the bathroom: *JOY*  “It’s positive! It’s positive!!!” My friend, her friend who I had never met and I started jumping up and down, hugging and shouting like lunatics.

I called my husband. Speechless.

Then I called Linda.

Me: “You don’t have to pray for me to get pregnant anymore.”

Linda: “Why?”

Me (giant lump in my throat):  “’Cause I’m pregnant.”

Linda cried for two days.

December 18th, 2010.

I’m in labour, and Oh-Martha-Something-Stewart it hurts. We are driving to the hospital and it starts to snow. In between the waves of contractions I know this is a gift from God. He knows how much I love the snow. This is God’s perfect timing. I soak in the sereneness of the star-kissed night, soft white flakes covering the earth in a blanket of white brilliance.

_______________________

One week before Christmas we welcomed Oliver. When I saw him, he took my breath away. When I saw his big brother holding him, it stopped my heart.

“Your time has come to shine

All your dreams are on their way.”

When God told me He knew my dreams, He did not answer MY dreams right away. He worked in my life, fixing things that needed fixing; healing where healing was needed. When I gave Him back my life, God transformed it and then He topped it off with Oliver.

He never forgot.

Linda and Oliver just recently.

For those of you who have a friend walking through infertility, here are four things never to say to her. EVER:

1. Stop trying so hard.
2. Stop thinking about it so much.
3. When you stop trying, it will happen. It happened to my friend.
4. If you decide to adopt, you’ll get pregnant. That happened to so and so.

[Insert applause from infertile women.)

Here's what you can say to her:

I am sorry you are here. It sucks. Big time.  You are doing everything right. Have faith and if you don’t right now, I have enough for you.

[Insert tears and hugs.]

“God answers in three ways: He says yes and gives you what you want, He says no and gives you something better and He says wait and gives you the best.”

____________________________

My dear SheLoves sisters, I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Do you have a Christmas miracle?
• How has God met you in a special way at Christmas?
• Do you have an experience with infertility?
• Or a friend who has believed for you when you stopped having faith?

____________________________

About Daniela:
Daniela is stepping into the role of stay-at-home mom. She loves Jesus, her husband and kids and jumps feet first into opportunities to serve in her community. Daniela lives by this statement, “Preach the gospel always, use words when necessary.” She loves to live life big and laughs a lot. She blogs with her twin sister Trinity at Lime in the coconuts.

The Women We Are

“We must let our light shine through the cracks. Step into the light and let people see what a real God woman looks like.”

By Christina Crook

When I asked to tell her story, she said there’s not much there.

She said the same.

And so did she. And she.

But I said, “You’re wrong. There’s so much. So much you’re missing. The thriving career, working with the big-name designer. The kids kept safe, the lives you’re shaping. The Friday night make-stuff-party you host in your loft apartment.

“Don’t you see?”

But they don’t. They are women who believe they are made by the Choreographer of the Universe, but they see themselves as small.

And, in a sense, we are small. James 4, my favourite bit of the Bible, tells us that we are but a mist that appears for a little while and then vanishes. That our lives are ordered by God, and that the time we have here is but a breath on the wind. But we are also more.

John Wesley said that the whole world would come watch a person who had lit himself on fire. The Greeks wrote of inspiration as a gift from the muses, a kind of madness, a divine fever.

The capacity to create …

the passionate pursuit of a life well lived …

the fervour of uninhibited ambition …

These are evidence of our divine image — the breath of God which animates us.

And we live it all broken. Seeing ourselves as small; as not meeting our potential. And we aren’t. Not on this side of heaven. But this is no reason to hide. On the contrary. We must let our light shine through the cracks. Step into the light and let people see what a real God woman looks like.

Like you. 

________________________________________

My dear SheLoves sisters, I’d love to hear your thoughts:

• Do you believe you have a story to tell?
• Which expression of you is evidence of your divine image?
• Any other thoughts?

About Christina:

Christina recently traded the seaside views of Bowen Island, BC for the banks of Toronto’s Humber River where she, her husband and two young children attend Grace Toronto Church. Her work has appeared in MUSE and Vancouver magazine, and is forthcoming in UPPERCASE, Geez and the Literary Review of Canada. She is the founder of SeekingEve.ca and blogs at www.christinacrook.com.

Image credit: Dance Like No One is Watching, by HDC Photography.

ShePonders: Another Anointing

“Can we messiah one another–propelling each other into the larger salvation story of which we all have a part to play?”

By Kelley Johnson-Nikondeha

“You have to quit your job.” All the others around the room that morning nodded their heads in agreement. A sober-minded brunette reached for pen and paper: “We can help you write the resignation letter now.” Among this group of trusted friends gathered to help me discern my current situation, it was all but settled–it was time to embrace Africa and let go of lesser things.

“I will cover the cost of your first year,” one said. Such a bold investment brought immediate gravity to the sunlit room that morning … and then I felt another take my hand and whisper, “I am coming with you.”  Within moments there were hands laid on us and prayers ascending; the room awash with tears and blessing. This was a holy moment that pushed me forward into my deeper purpose–and I needed my sisters more than I realized.

The weekend I was messiahed.

* * *

For many months she had been following the Rabbi. She had heard him tell many of his parables–some more than once. She had listened to his teachings on hillsides in Galilee and in homes like Martha’s. She had witnessed healings and walked so close behind him that dust would sometimes cover her garments. She had eyes that saw and ears that heard … and she knew where he was headed because he said so on more than one occasion and in more than one way.

So she saved coins here and there. She even found one in a corner–she had thought it long since lost! But not too long ago she took her small purse and purchased some ointment of nard. It was a small alabaster jar–all she could afford–but it was of the best quality. She had it by her bed where she could smell the fragrance like night-blooming jasmine.

There was a dinner party at Simon’s house in Bethany, a familiar occasion for the Rabbi and his disciples. But that night, as she left her house, she reached for the alabaster jar and carried it with her down the street to her neighbor’s home.

By the time she arrived, the Rabbi was already there. He was sitting at the table and laughing with Simon (once a leper) and some other friends. Other disciples were mingling about the room in spirited conversation while the house staff brought platters of food and began pouring the wine.

Now. Now was the time. She took a deep breath and felt the weight of the jar in her tiny hand. She walked toward him. She broke open the top of the jar and began to pour the ointment over his coarse hair … dark hair that reminded her of her own brother. But, unlike her brother, the Rabbi was destined for Jerusalem–for death and yet for victory, too. In her bones she knew him to be Messiah, though she hardly could conceive of what that really meant. She poured slowly … pondering these many things.

She was thinking of this when jolted by Peter’s sharp elbow and the angry words of Judas. The room was filled with noise. With shouting. With accusation. She felt confused … didn’t they all know what she was doing? Like Samuel and Elijah she was merely recognizing the Rabbi’s true calling.  She was affirming his destiny.

But they did not have eyes to see or ears to hear.

But the Rabbi knew. He felt the cool ointment dripping down his scalp and down his neck–and knew the fragrance immediately. She was preparing him. She was empowering him for what lay ahead. She was making visible his salvific purpose: a martyred messiah.

He pushed back Peter and the others pressing toward her; he chided Judas with one sharp look. Then he spoke: “She has anointed me.”

The woman sighed in deep relief as she realized the Rabbi had received her gift.

Like the prophets of old, the woman anointed Jesus and proclaimed his true identity. It was the woman who stood in the long prophetic tradition–not John the Baptist, who baptized with water; not Peter who attempted to announce Messiah but then misunderstood his agenda entirely. It was this woman who was the perceptive prophet. She messiahed Jesus.

She possessed the insight cultivated over months of patient watching, listening and pondering. She invested in the ointment of nard and made an intentional decision to take it with her on that cool night. She was inspired by the Spirit to anoint and therefore participate in the work of Jesus, giving momentum to his salvation agenda. One scholar notes that she empowered him, the disciple empowering the Rabbi. How stunning a reversal!

* * *

I have grown up with another concept of anointing, one that is more spontaneous and charismatic.  For many years I carried a green glass bottle of scented oil in my purse in case a moment arose where anointing was called for. Not too long ago I anointed the feet of some African leaders on Ugandan soil with olive oil.

It is good to bless one another with rich symbols. I recommend it.

But this is a story of another anointing. This woman, most likely a disciple of Jesus, observed him and was attentive to the meaning of his life. She knew there was a deeper purpose afoot. And she prepared for a prophetic moment when she would affirm and announce it. She would, unbeknownst to her, push him into passion week with her anointing. She pushed him in much the same ways my friends propelled me that sun-drenched morning. They messiahed me into my part in God’s salvation story of transformation in Africa.

This anointing involves more than scented oil in shapely vessels.

This anointing involves:

attentive observation,

intentional action and

bold participation

in the divine purpose of another.

This anointing pushes others toward their true call. We are invited to anoint each other toward the things that matter–for our sake, for their sake and for the sake of the world in need of transformation.

Can we messiah one another–propelling each other into the larger salvation story of which we all have a part to play?

__________________________________

My dear SheLoves sisters and friends, I would love to hear your thoughts and comments:

• Have you ever been messiahed?
• Who has seen you in and participated in the divine purpose of your life?
• Other thoughts?

___________________________________

<<<Another Anointing>>>

Click on the link above for an audio version of Kelley’s ShePonders: Another Anointing
____________________________________

About Kelley:

Kelley Johnson Nikondeha is co-director of Amahoro Africa and international staff member of Community of Faith with her husband Claude. She’s a thinker, connector, advocate, avid reader and mother of two beautiful children. Kelley lives between Arizona and Burundi. She loves handwritten letters, homemade pesto and anything written by Walter Brueggemann.

When Life isn’t Quite the Dream, But Somehow Better

On turning 30, juggling marriage, motherhood and career

By Katherine Folkers | Twitter: @KatherineSHill

From the age of four, I knew what I wanted to do. I wanted to perform, create art and tell stories. As I honed my skills and worked on furthering my craft, my dream grew and I mapped out my life: focus on my career as an actor, land leading roles in major productions, then begin directing and eventually own my very own production company. Twenty-eight seemed like a good age to get married and at thirty I imagined I would have children. The children would come and visit me on set in my trailer while I continued to work and earn millions (which I would give to the poor) and I would be a blessing to those I worked with.

Like I said, I had it all planned.

But life didn’t turn out quite the way I wanted; it turned out … better.

Growing Up

Growing up I experienced a lot of bullying from other kids. I developed an eating disorder and hated myself. I faced many challenges at school, with friends and with loving myself and believing I could ever be loved. Through this challenging time of wanting to follow my dream and yet also wanting to end my life, I leaned on God and He carried me. God showed me I needed to push through the pain and keep going while He held me. God showed me a peace and a joy on the other side of the storm. At thirty years old, I now know why:

-             In that stormy season, I learned to be strong and stand up for myself.

-             I learned to love others when I didn’t want to.

-             I learned the value in loving myself and fighting for something and someone I believed in.

Life did get better–God was right–but I still faced many challenges along the way.

And then?

I got married at 24 and had my first child by 26. When I graduated in acting from film school, a casting director called me up and offered me a role in a TV series. It was incredible. My dream was coming true, I thought. Then she told me what the role consisted of: a telephone call with my ex-husband (the lead) and a sex scene …

A what?!!

“O, you won’t have to be naked, you’ll just appear that way,” she said.

I was just engaged at the time and my hubby and I had decided to wait to kiss till our wedding day. Yikes! I knew the answer as soon as she told me and I graciously declined the role. That opportunity never came up again. I don’t regret it. Many of my friends think I should, but I don’t. I stood up for what I believed and refused to settle for anything less, even if it meant temporarily sacrificing my dream. [Note: I said "my dream."]

New direction

When my beautiful daughter was born, my career took a new turn as I began getting cast in short films. Doors were opening. I started a production company with a dear friend and we filmed our first film just this year. Ironically, once upon a time I couldn’t stand women. Now I work closely with women, make films about women and I want to make a stand for “us.”

I can now see that the plan was always bigger. If I hadn’t pushed through the hard times I may not have developed a passion to help young girls find their potential, believe in themselves and love who they are. If I hadn’t endured the bullying and the rejection, I wouldn’t have had the strength today to stand up for others.

So, when I turned thirty this year, it actually felt good. I wanted to write about how great it is to be in this place in my life. I imagined sharing how life didn’t turn out the way I wanted it to, but better. But as I began to write, I felt a pull on my heart and a little sadness. The truth is: I felt discouraged about my career.

“God Kiss”

Six months ago I had my second child. My kids are amazing and they help me dream bigger dreams, but let’s be honest: it’s hard to have a career and be a great wife and mom. I had worked so hard to keep the momentum going with my career during my pregnancy, but it began slowing down when my son came along. Then I got a “God kiss.” I received a phone call from a wonderful woman offering me a free membership to Women in Film and Television, an organization that connects and celebrates women in screen-based media.

We had just submitted our film to their festival. I couldn’t put money towards a membership because we had just bought our first house and family needs came first. So, this membership felt like this little kiss from Heaven. God was letting me know this is still where He wants me to be and that He sees my heart, even though I just moved 45 minutes out of the city.

I have so much more on the inside of me than to be a selfish actor. I want to tell inspirational stories and make a difference in this world on a greater level. I have a strength on the inside of me that God put there for a greater purpose. I want to be a great mother, nurturer and educator to my children. There will be times of confusion, there may be times of sadness, but it really does keep getting, better because I know who I am, I know whose I am and I know (roughly) where God is taking me.

Life is fuller, bigger, better and harder than I ever imagined and I wouldn’t settle for anything less.

_____________________________________________________

So, my SheLoves sisters:

• How has life turned out different from your dreams?
• Do you have a God kiss moment you want to share?
• What do you do when your dreams and reality don’t quite line up and you get discouraged?

About Katherine:

Wife, mother of two little ones, business owner, entrepreneur, actor/writer/director, filmmaker. I like to keep myself busy taking care of my family and chasing my dreams! I am passionate about encouraging others to follow their dreams and giving a voice to those who have no voice. Always ready for a fight, I love to take on new battles that seek justice while secretly dreaming about being Wonderwoman. Often quiet around those I’m getting to know, you’ll find me blunt and honest, outspoken and goofy with my besties.

My taste in film and music is likened to that of a 60-80 yr old. I’ll be watching psychological thrillers, period films, indie flix and listening to jazz, motown, opera etc.

I love education, constantly learning and sharing what I have learned.

In the mornings you’ll find me grumpy and crawling for my soy, hazelnut latte. At night you’ll find me energized and hammering away on the computer or getting into a good TV show with my hubby, who, might I add, is an incredible supporter of my career and of fighting for women’s issues (which I do on a daily basis).