Teaching the Teacher

One of my roles in youth ministry is to lead a small group for middle school girls.  Our small group meets on Wednesday evenings, and early this week I was thinking about the girls in my group and thinking about the concept of beauty.  Before I even had looked over the materials for what I was to cover this week, I started thinking about our society and the messages of beauty that we convey to our young people.  

In nature, specifically with birds, the male is always the more attractive bird, by comparison.  This is because the males know they cannot reproduce on their own and need to attract a mate.  The males are often more brightly colored, and get very “puffed” up, sing mating songs and try to attract the female.  When I think of humans, it’s completely different.  Somewhere there was a breakdown.  Everywhere I go, even to pick up my daughter from school, I see women utilizing every “tool” at their disposal to garner the attention of men.  The necklines plunge lower, the hemlines creep higher, the makeup gets thicker, salon fees go up.  What has happened?  When did we as women devalue ourselves so deeply that we will physically give ourselves away for the sake of acceptance??  

I was musing over these thoughts when I sat down to prepare for our lesson, which was on the topic of “Who I am NOT.”  The lesson spoke to the girls about how God doesn’t want us to strive to win the approval of people, but of Him.  Even as adults, this is such a poignant message.  I think specifically adult women and their handbags.  I could never rationalize spending several hundred dollars on a designer bag.  This is not something that I see the value in.  Largely because I change my mind and opinion so often, I wouldn’t be content to carry the bag long enough to “get my money’s worth” (which in my opinion would be something like 10 years!)  Yet, I look around at these women (and even teenage girls) carrying Coach purses and I scratch my head.  In most cases these bags are not exceptionally attractive, or more so than a bag that could be purchased for a fraction of the cost.  I have to assume it’s a position of acceptance.  Whether or not this is a conscious mentality is of little consequence.  The fact is that somewhere along the lines someone somehow conveyed the message that “you’re better if you carry a designer bag.”  

As I was preparing and sharing this message with the girls in my group, and thinking about the verse in 1 Samuel 16:7 that says, “The Lord doesn’t see things the way you see them.  People judge by outward appearance, but the Lord looks at the heart.”  This got me thinking about my own insecurities and the messages that I share.  Even before we left for church on Wednesday, both of my girls had fallen to tears because they didn’t think they looked “cute” enough in what they were wearing.  They were worried that their friends would think it was “ugly.”  Again, I stood aghast because the messages that they have been lead to believe are that appearance is everything.  My heart ached, and I wondered how much of that I was at fault for.  As someone in the fitness industry a tremendous amount of attention is given to physical appearance.  Every gym in the country focuses on looking better.  The focus of fitness should be health, not appearance, but the fact is that we’re lead to believe that health is secondary.  I like to try and convince myself that is my motivation, and initially it was, but now, when my nutrition falls off, or  I start to slack on my workouts, it’s always the reflection in the mirror that gets me back on track, not some health effects. 

How different would things be if I actually followed this message that I tried to convey to my students—finding our beauty and value in God?  This is something that I’ve struggled with a lot.  I’ve done a few Bible studies that have focused on this.  I’ve attended several seminars, I’ve shared this message with young girls for as long as I can remember, but it’s still a struggle.   Maybe it’s because this message wasn’t shared with me until I was an adult.  As a child I was always overweight, which is part of my obsessive focus on my weight, but as an overweight child I was always receiving the message that I was less valuable.  Boys would act disgusted if they found out that I liked them.  Girls would make fun of my adult clothes that I had to wear because when I was growing up, there weren’t child plus sized clothing.  The point is that I had already been so indoctrinated with the messages that if you aren’t thin and pretty, you aren’t worthwhile, that as an adult, hearing messages counter to that were difficult to believe and accept.  I think this emphasizes the importance of teaching our young people, especially girls, to know their value in Christ.  To share this message young, and often to ensure that they internalize it, believe it and carry it though their lives.  It’s equally as important to teach our young boys that a girl is more than her appearance and how to treat them with respect.  Maybe at some point, we can shift this attitude and mentality to have the self confidence to keep our bodies covered and our self-esteem high.

The Journey to a Shaved Head

A few months ago, I was sitting in a youth service when two beautiful young ladies came into the room.  One of these young girls was in a wheel chair.  I knew nothing of these girls, I didn’t know their story, their names or even who they arrived with, but my heart went out to them.  Not in a sympathetic, I feel so bad for her being in a wheel chair sort of way, but in a compassionate, heartfelt, I love these girls sort of way.  

About 2 weeks went by and I hadn’t thought much else about these girls.  I hadn’t seen them and I’d been preoccupied with the business of my own life, when I was asked if a woman named Sharon could contact me and tell me a little about these girls.  Of course my response was an immediate “yes.”  Sharon contacted me via email and connected me with website managed by their mom where I could read their story and daily challenges.  I quickly learned that there were more children in the family and they all struggled with similar medical disorders that have tremendous impact on the brain and basic function.  I sat at my computer for nearly 3 hours, tears streaming down my face as I read these blog entries, over and over, trying to make sense of it all, and feeling so insignificant.  I sat and I prayed, and I looked at my two perfect little girls and I cried and it didn’t seem fair.  This poor mother struggling with all of her children, why was I blessed with such an “easy” route??  

I looked through the pictures and I thought about these sweet children especially these pre-teen girls who had to shave their heads for their brain surgeries.  I thought about myself as a pre-teen girl and how devastating that would have been for me.  I thought about myself now, how much vanity is tied up in my hair; how much time is spent fussing over it in the mirror, how much money is spent on expensive shampoos, conditioners and styling products, or time and money at the salon.  How much emphasis I place on fixing my girls’ hair “just right.”  I felt sick.  What vanity!  How much had I invested into something so trivial?  What kind of message was I sending to my daughters?  I thought about these girls, and I wanted to love them.  These girls didn’t know me.  They’d never heard my name.  They probably didn’t even see me across that dark youth room several months ago.  I wanted to know what it was like.  I wanted to feel the vulnerability of not having the superficiality of a pretty head of hair to rely on.  I wanted to shave my head. 

I struggled with this thought.  I was fighting my own insecurities.  I wanted to shave my head but I was fearful of what that would mean.  I was fearful of how I’d be responded to.  I was fearful of how my husband would respond to me.  How would I explain that I wanted to completely alter my appearance for complete strangers?  I dropped hints at the idea.  I wanted to see how people would respond.  Sitting at the dinner table one evening with my family and best friend, I said, “I think I’m going to shave my head.”  I was met with overwhelming opposition.  I didn’t know how to explain to them WHY I wanted to do it.  My husband pleaded with me, not to shave my head, and so I didn’t…

Two weeks later—more vanity.  On a whim, my husband and I decided to dye my hair.  I wanted something different, he wanted to see how I’d look with dark locks.  When we were finished with our evening experiment, my bathroom was a speckled mess and I was devastated.  What was supposed to be brown came out jet black.  I became obsessed with trying to fix it.  I spent hours staring in the mirror, trying to figure if it was better straight, maybe if I twisted it this way, or fixed my makeup that way…ugh, I’m just going to re-dye it.  So I went and bought more hair dye.  My mom and I spent another 2 hours trying to dye it, and style it, my recently assaulted scalp was burning from all of the chemicals, and the result was exactly the same.  At this point I was obsessed, and then in a moment it all became crystal clear.  You are more than hair.  These girls are more than hair.  So much time, energy, money and emotion has been wasted over something so superficial—cut it off.  I said it, and everyone gasped.  At that point it no longer mattered.  I knew why I had to do it.  It wasn’t because of the hair dye, it wasn’t because of anything but standing up and affirming within myself that my value is more than my appearance.  

As Alex left to pick Michaela up from school and Emily was contentedly playing with dinosaurs in her room, I parted my hair into 4 pony tails and I lifted the scissors to it.  My heart was racing as contemplated, not doing it, but then I made the first cut and the second, and the third, and the fourth.  I stood there with a mess of odd lengthed hairs all over my head and then I picked up the clippers.  There was no going back.  I started to shave, and I started to cry.  I cried because all at once I knew what it felt like to no longer feel like a girl and I knew what these two girls felt.  As I stepped from the bathroom with a bag full of my hair, my beautiful 3 year old daughter looked up at me and started to cry.  Through sobs, she told me to “put your hair back on mommy, you look like a boy!” I knew I made the right decision.  I’d been teaching her all wrong!

When Alex got home, he was upset.  Michaela didn’t say a word.  At dinner, he wouldn’t look at me.  He didn’t kiss me, or hold me as we went to sleep that night.  He said, “At least you still have a pretty face.”  He didn’t understand why I made the decision, and I didn’t know how to tell him.  The next morning, at breakfast, Michaela still hadn’t commented on my hair.  Knowing that I was about to take her to school and be seen by all of her friends, I wanted to be sensitive of my child’s feelings.  I asked her what she thought about my hair and if she was ok with her friends seeing me without any hair, and immediately she started to sob.  “No, mommy, it looks weird, will you PLEASE wear a hat when you take me to school?!”  I too had been teaching her all wrong.

The next few days I was frequently asked if I was crazy, or I “pulled a Brittany” no one knew the real reason.  I didn’t think that they’d understand how strangers had such an impact on my heart, and why I’d shave my head for a family who had never seen me and didn’t even know my name.  The response was mostly positive.  “Well, you have a good head shape for it”  “I’m surprised, you still look very feminine”  “Wow, you’re brave.”  When it came out on Facebook, I finally revealed the real reason, or as best as I could in a few words of a status.  I was overwhelmed with praise and encouragement and positive words and thoughts, “likes” and gratitude.  I met the family virtually.  They gave me such positive reinforcement.  They wrote kind words about me and praised me for what I’d done.  I became the “talk” of the web, and all of a sudden I felt like it was all wrong.  I didn’t do it for fame, I didn’t do it for attention, or praise.  I did it because of a deep conviction.  

I had been so afraid of how everyone would respond to me that I felt like I had to be honest about my motives.  I thought that maybe if they knew why I did it, they wouldn’t think I was crazy, they could look past the glare coming off of my scalp—and most could.  The truth is though, this society is superficial.  I get stared at everywhere I go.  And even though there is no way I could ever understand the physical pain that these children deal with daily, I think I’ve had a glimpse at the emotional pain, because the truth is, people don’t relate to me the same way, and no matter how much it is said that people support me, or are proud of me, I’m still the “freak” in the room—and for them, I’m ok with that.

Weight loss: The Good, The Bad and The UGLY

First off I want to preface this by saying, this gets a little personal. If you're squeemish, or a man, you probably want to stop reading, but if you choose to continue, know that I warned you and I certainly do NOT want to hear about your reactions to this post outside of the interwebs. K, Thanks!

I write a lot about weight loss, and honestly what I write is far less than how much I think about it. It's a consuming mentality actually. At any given moment if you could hear my thoughts you would likely be overwhelmed by calorie calculations, meal planning, assessing physical capabilities for my next workout, planning my next workout, thinking about what the scale said this morning, wondering what the scale will say tomorrow morning, thinking horrible thoughts about the pooch that still remains around my mid-section, admiring the muscle definition of my arms in any reflective surface, etc. The fact is I'm obsessed, and I admit it.

The Good

By and large, I am very proud of what I've accomplished thus far with my weight loss journey. I can certainly attest to all of the positive attributes of weight loss, increased energy, better attitude, lower cholesterol (not that it was bad, I mean come on I'm 26!), better posture, sleeping better, more confidence, etc. It certainly is way more fun to shop now, and I can wear heels all day without feeling like I need to cut my feet off. I mean have you really ever thought about trying to balance a truck on a tin can?! That's about the same concept when I used to try to wear heels. Sure there's tons of attention, my husband is way more into me, I get a lot of compliments, and most of the time I feel pretty good about myself. But this is only one part of the equation.

The Bad

The fact of the matter is that weight loss isn't all glamorous. It takes a lot of hard work, a lot of time spent gross and sweaty and exhausted from pushing your body to it's physical limits. It means that sometimes you have to look across the table and see your spouse dining on a delicious prosciutto ravioli in a rich cream sauce with a side car of crusty Italian bread with real sweet cream butter, while you send back your tilapia and steamed broccoli, because it's salted or dripping with oil and you ordered it dry. It means that sometimes, it's better to just dine at home, because the thought of not knowing if your meal was prepared as you requested is overwhelming. The process means your probably going to stink...A LOT. If it's not from sweating, and the body odor associated with physical activity, it's the by-products of a diet rich in fiber and natural foods. (Please tell me you got that and I don't have to spell it out for you).

There is a new appreciation that I've developed for the undergarment industry, though, particularly Victoria and her secrets, and the ultra padded push-up bra. You see, it seems that the first area of the body to lose weight is the chest. In other words, kiss your girls goodbye! While I never much appreciated the ultra large DD breasts that I developed during pregnancy and nursing my children, I will say that a little more than an A cup might be nice...at least a full B...please! The thing is that without the assistance of an ultra padded bra, sometimes it's hard to feel feminine. Not that it's anywhere near the same level, but I certainly have a greater sense of empathy for mastectomy patients. And then of course, there is the ugly...

THE UGLY

Do me a favor, take the shirt of a toddler and stretch it over your husband. Have him wear it for about a week, continually tugging on the fabric, so that he can make it "fit." After that week, try to put the shirt on the toddler, and watch it hang off of their small body, shapeless and over sized. This is not dissimilar to what has happened with my skin. You see when you take something meant to house about 135 lbs of bones and muscle and you stretch it to cover 275lbs of fat and then take that fat out, no matter how many squats, crunches, bicep curls or how heavy of weights you lift, it's never going to fit the 135 lb frame properly. You're encouraged to "show off your new body" but the fact is that the body is ugly, it's droopy like an old woman. I wear my pants too high to hide the sagging skin on my stomach, I only wear Bermuda shorts or swimwear with attached skirts, to hide the skin on my thighs and I've become consumed with finding products to try and re-tighten the skin, in any means possible, without resorting to surgery. And so every day, I am going for another procedure, wrapping another body part in plastic wrap, or slathering on another layer of firming gel, all in hopes that some day, I might actually have some semblance of the body I've hoped for. Instead of being 26 in an 80 year old's body. So, I wonder if I will ever be happy in the body that I have.

So, I implore you this. PLEASE, if you have even just a little bit of weight to lose, do it now. It's easier to lose a few pounds than to have to work off over 100, not to mention, there's hope for your skin to recover, and you likely won't experience quite as dramatic a loss of your girls. Do it for yourself, before it's too late.

Dancing Like a Child

I consider myself blessed that I have the fortunate opportunity to experience musical worship twice on Sunday mornings. Seeing as how the super hot worship leader also shares my bed, I get to hear the worship set, during practice and then again in the service and so do my girls. I find that often times they are the ones teaching me more about the presence of the Lord than I could ever share with them. As an adult I think that the busyness of life and the preoccupation with appearances often prevents us from fully experiencing the presence of the Lord. I've often heard it said that children need to attend church services with their parents so that they can see people worship and learn what it means. I also believe that children need to attend church services with their parents, so we can learn to stop being so uptight.

This morning, during practice the worship team was playing the song "I Can Only Imagine" by Mercy Me and my precious little Emily, who had attentively been sitting watching her daddy practice all morning suddenly stood up and moved to the front of the room, and with arms outstretched and head thrown back, began to dance her little 2 year old dance.



Surrounded by your glory, what will my heart feel, will I dance for you Jesus or in awe of you be still... That moment spoke volumes to my aching heart.

Wouldn't it be just like a child to dance in the presence of the Lord?! And I imagined what it will be like on that day, basking in the presence of God, arms outstretched and head thrown back, feeling His presence wash over me so completely, and I prayed for my inhibitions to be removed, so that I might worship my Savior like He deserves, with reckless abandon.

Full Out Irrational

I have this little problem, and I've always thought of it as a little problem, until last night. I firmly believe that everyone is afraid of something, whether they chose to admit it or not. I've always acknowledged my fears, though tried to disguise some of them as they are a little embarrassing and of course, that's the one I have to talk about.

Yesterday was a tizzy. There was this certain buzzing anxious energy in the air clear across the country as we all braced for the "Deadly Tornado Outbreak." I'll admit that weather this year has been chaotic, but once again we were built up for little more than a few strong thunderstorms (at least in our area)*. So, perhaps it was my heightened sense of anxiety from watching 10 solid hours of weather coverage predicting some of the worst weather we've ever seen as I reexamined our renter's insurance decisions and wondered if it was too late to call and change the policy, perhaps it was the emotional chaos that has been my life over the past several months that has me overly sensitive to my phobias, or perhaps it's just getting worse.

You see, I have a fear of all things with wings. I'm not talking fear of bees or wasps, or even birds, but rather ALL THINGS WITH WINGS, especially (brace for the crazy...) butterflies and moths. I don't particularly know what it is but they completely freak me out. I mentioned the weather earlier, because with all of the threats, in true Jefferson county fashion, we, along with all of our cigarette stenched, beer toting, toothless neighbors, stood barefoot in the street watching the clouds converge overhead and amass into the "wall cloud" that would torment south county and city, while our front door stood wide open. So, it should have been no surprise that as I sat awake at midnight, self-loathing the food choices I'd made and trying to determine if I had the strength for one more workout, that I'd see a large winged insect join me in the living room. As it flitted toward the lamp, I was completely gripped with a debilitating fear. I was caught in the place of how crazy is it to wake up my husband in the middle of the night to kill a harmless bug, there is no way I can possibly think about sleeping with this menace wreaking havoc in my home, and I'm going to have to get close to this thing if I'm going to kill it. So, naturally, I did the only logical thing there was to do...and tried to lock myself in the bathroom. EXCEPT I apparently had lost sight of it for a moment and he beat me in there. So, there I was in the smallest room of the house, with my worst fear staring me in the face, I decided that I'd have to muster the courage to kill it, and ran out of the room to find something sufficient for the job. Moments later, I returned with a notebook, shaking like a scared chihuahua with tears streaming down my face and soliciting the power of the Holy Spirit to help me kill this thing, I finally mustered the courage to do it, scooped up the remains with some toilet paper and flushed the toilet 3 times just to make sure it was gone. As I caught sight of my tear stained face in the mirror, I realized "There is something wrong with me." Although this realization quickly faded as I surrendered to the physical fatigue and went to bed.

This event would largely have been erased from my conscious memory, had I not faced another very similar situation just moments ago. A small moth, no larger than a dime, somehow found it's way into my kitchen. Perhaps it had been camping out somewhere since last night waiting to toy with my emotions for killing his buddy, or perhaps he squeezed in through one of our ill fitting screens. At any rate, as I came into the kitchen to make my daily shake, he fluttered up from the sink. Completely paralyzed by fear once again, I did the only thing I could think to do and tried to dump water on him. They can't fly with wet wings, right?! That's what the fairies in Tinkerbell say anyway! Well, let me tell you, those fairies are dirty, rotten, little liars!! I must have dumped a full cup of water on that pest and he sat very still, so I thought I was safe to squash him with the nearby coffee mug and carefully wash his remains down the running garbage disposal (don't judge me, I told you I was irrational and I have fears of them coming back to life and having it out for me, for trying to kill them. I gotta make sure they're dead). BUT as I approached him with the mug he took off flying right towards my face! With flailing arms I shooed him away, not sure where he got off to and as I anxiously flinch at every hint of movement I see in my home, I realize, it might be time to seek help...

*My heart truly goes out to all of the families across the country who have faced the devastating weather over the past several weeks, especially those in Joplin, MO and in no way mean to minimize their devastation by ridiculing the meteorologists in our area who overplay weather fears.

Hello, My name is Michelle and I am a stay at home mom...

I am a stay at home mom. There is no debate as to that fact, though I think there is some debate as to what that actually means and what it truly entails. In recent weeks there have been certain expectations of me that don't exactly fit into the mold.

Initially the issue lies in the title itself--"Stay at home" I might be in the minority here, but of most of the moms who I know who don't work outside of the home, staying home is rarely on the agenda, or if the schedule does permit for residing inside the residence, there are a whole slew of tasks which must be accomplished, and therefore my issue lies in the title "stay at home." You see, when I hear that I think of the date night proposition, "What would you like to do tonight honey?" "Oh, lets just stay at home" As if the notion of staying home alludes to a form of relaxation and de-stress, where as the role of unpaid mother is anything but. So, for all of my readers who have a misconception about the SAHM let me clear up a few things for you.

I am a SAHM this means that I raise my own children. I am solely responsible for teaching them the principles of sharing, cooperation, courtesy, manners, basic skills, etc. I am responsible for providing well balanced nutritious meals for my children, and alternatively I am the only one to blame if the foods they eat are not of the nutritional value that is optimal. This means that I am also responsible for providing essential entertainment for my children, including but not limited to occasional playdates with Nick Jr., Disney Channel or PBS. Having made the decision not to incur the weekly $120 expense for pre-school, this means that I am also responsible for nurturing the young minds on all matters of counting, color identification, letter identification and all of the certain "required" pre-school musical renditions. My care for my children also includes keeping a meticulous schedule of play dates, doctors appointments, and extracurricular activities and all of their necessary accoutrements.

Unrelated to the care of my children, my responsibilities as a SAHM also include keeping a tidy home, running the necessary errands to keep the pantry and refrigerator stocked with only the most nutritious of nourishment which I am also responsible to prepare 3-6 times per day. I launder, mend, alter and sometimes manufacture the clothing. I prepare Bible studies, try to maintain some friendships, and peace within familial bonds as well as try follow-up with some of the 30+ adopted children of sorts that are in the youth group. Seeing as how I value physical health I also must allow ample time to achieve my necessary caloric burn for the day, and sometimes manage to get a shower and brush my hair.

However, as a stay at home mom, I do not sit around in my pajamas all day (with the exception of the instances when my day starts chaotically so early that I am unable to get dressed), nor watch television and spend hours perusing Facebook. I do not eat bon bons and certainly do not watch soap operas. I like to cook good food, but am certainly not a gourmet chef nor a short order cook. I read far less often than I would like and much of what I read is 26 pt font on a board book, or all of the "proper" ways to parent of which I'm usually miserably short on the check list. I can't remember the last time that I attempted a novel, and the IQ required reading that I am able to accomplish is usually, fully or in part related to my home based business. I may not work outside of the home, but I do work, likely more hours than any individual on the planet would be willing to work for any employer. I don't get paid. I manage a budget for which I am not factored into. I wake up early and go to bed late and my days are full of appointments.

Believe it or not, just because I do not have set hours, does not mean that my time is at your disposal. I am not available to run errands, make appointments, or do lunch with out advanced notice. I come with excess baggage, and if you would rather that baggage not be part of said appointment, even more notice is required. I do not check my email or Facebook messages all day long. If you need me, you must call me, and if you do call me and I do not answer, that means I am busy. What it does not mean is call again in 2 minutes. LEAVE A MESSAGE! I am completely unavailable between the hours of 1-3pm, which is nap time. This is the single waking opportunity during my day when I can *potentially* have just a few moments of silence, assuming that nap time occurs without a hitch. This is the time that is usually used to workout, shower, and/or manage my home business. Should an appointment or meeting have to be attended to during this time, I expect the caregiver during the time to put my children down for their regular naps. However, this regularly does not happen and I am therefore forced to deal with a completely irrational and emotionally unstable semblance of a tiny human. If there is no caregiver during that time and my children miss their naps, I accept full responsibility for the meltdowns--begrudgingly. If you show up at my home unannounced, do not expect it to be perfectly tidy, or my appearance to be desirable or even presentable in most cases.

Therefore, I bring my rant full circle to this. I am not a stay at home mom, but rather a mother who does not work outside of the home. Though my life may not have written appointments with high brow executives in overpriced suits I am not at everyone's disposal at a moments notice.

"Jesus Loves Me"

There are certain events and situations in life, that no matter how well you think you'll be able to handle them, seem to hit you like a ton of bricks right to the stomach. This is not to specify any event in particular, but the presence of the unexpected, uninvited, and certainly unwelcome. In these times it feels like even the most eloquent and well intentioned individuals never seem to have the right words to say to express the emotion of the situation, or to offer the adequate encouragement, but sometimes the eloquent is superfluous and it truly is the pedestrian that encompasses all that is necessary.

When I was pregnant with Emily, I had an overwhelming fear of having to re experience the horror of the delivery that I had with Michaela. C-section was like a 4 letter word to me and I would literally have rather carried that child in utero until she was 18 than to have been cut again. I know that my situation was unique, and most c-sections are performed without consequence, but since it had happened so horribly once, I was certain that it would be just as awful. Thankfully I was able to find an OB who was willing to work with me and supported me in my decision to attempt a VBAC, but every ounce of my being was wrought with fear over something going wrong again, and so I resolved that I would do everything "right." I was doing everything I could to ensure that my body would go into labor on it's own, and for fear of medical intervention slowing my progression again, I resolved that I would take no pain medication...no IV, no IV pain meds, and certainly no epidural. In my resolve, when I finally went into labor, I was so afraid of the hospital that I was literally 30 seconds to 1 minute apart on my contractions before I ever went to the hospital.

It wasn't long before I was in hard labor, and as I rest in that hospital bed, doing everything I could to remember my breathing techniques and be a hero through the blinding pain of back labor, trying to focus on the calming environment of the lights low and soft worship music playing as we labored through the night, I started to feel broken. I started to wonder if I could really deliver this child, if I would survive this pain, and there in the midst of my desperation, between the recitation of verses to keep me focused, the precious words of that simple children's song came to mind. There at 4 o'clock in the morning 7 cm and no epidural, I started to sing, "Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so, little ones to him belong, they are weak but he is strong" Some how resting on that simple truth was all that I needed to push through to know that even "giving in" and getting the epidural that I'd be safe and protected. In that moment, that song, however simplistic became more essential than I ever imagined it could be.

A few days ago, we had a Night of Worship at our church and one of the song selection during that evening was "Jesus Loves Me" Among all of the songs that evening, classic hymns, contemporary worship, and this simple children's song, my heart was most spoken to in that one short chorus. In all of the busyness of life, I'd gotten so stressed and stuffed it all down so deep and just like a wave crashing through a dam I finally allowed my emotions to release and I was touched more deeply in that single chorus than ever before. It was almost humorous that on our way home, that evening my husband and I were discussing the evening and how nice it was to have that opportunity, when he said, "Jesus Love's Me, was a little odd though." And I couldn't have disagreed more.

It was as if that night was my reminder, the preface for the challenging week that I would face, as if God was using that one song to say, "Things are gonna get really tough again soon, but remember that in it all, I still love you. Though you may feel weak and small, I'm holding you in my arms and will always protect you" And so today, in the midst of the unforseen, unexpected and unwelcome, I sing out, "Jesus Loves Me" and with every fiber of my being cling to those words, because when all else is ever changing that's the one constant in my life.