Four Pregnancies, Three Kids & Joy Complete

“You have three kids?”

I get this a lot, for a lot of different reasons. It comes less often as I get older, but it slips out of people’s mouthes more often than you’d think.

Yup! Three incredible boys that I would die for.

Four years ago, we took a punch to the gut. Instead of excitedly announcing to our friends and family that I was pregnant, we were grieving the loss of a little babe that never made it.

I was reminded of our loss and triumph today when I reread something I wrote to share our news with our friends. I remember it being one of the hardest times of our lives. Just standing up in church to sing felt like a battle.

But, we made it, and the Lord did something in us that changed everything.

Here’s the post in its entirety:

My son sleeps quietly tonight. He sleeps against his father’s chest, safely and soundly dreaming about wherever his mind takes him.

Within the past two weeks, I have been longing for these moments of my own. A moment to curl up in my Father’s arms, feeling safe and away from any form of fear or harm. A moment to breathe in deeply and rest. But for two weeks, I have been clawing for strength, praying for grace, hoping for truth to overcome doubt. For two weeks, I have been crying out to God for answers to questions that swirl in my soul, hoping for logical answers to overcome my lack of faith. I long for my Jesus to overcome my pain. 

About three weeks ago, God granted us with a new pregnancy. I was very early, hardly detectable by a pregnancy test. At first, I was a little afraid as the doubts creeped in, but joy overflowed and overcame it all. Another baby. Another life to love. Another joy to fill our hearts. But just as quickly as the good news came, so did the bad. My body was reacting differently. Something was wrong.

Two doctor appointments, one ultrasound later, and it was over.

“I am so young. This body is so young,” was all I could think. How could I miscarry at a little over five weeks? How do I explain this? How could a tiny life, a life not yet lived, just be taken from us? A life that to some, wasn’t technically a life. How do I explain this? I don’t know how to talk about it. I don’t know how to grieve the loss of our child when it was hardly formed. I don’t know how to praise an unseen God in this. I don’t know.

But I do know that we grieve. We cry for peace at the knowledge of our loss, and we praise our God. Some days, I don’t know why. Some days, I do. I welcome the joy and relief that comes when I remember my God, my great Almighty holding our dear child in His hands. This baby has known no fear, has known no pain. My Father cradles our baby in His arms today, yesterday, and for all of eternity. I welcome the comfort that His peace brings.

My prayers and pleas are sometimes sorrowful. I have spent time wanting to throw bricks at God because of what happened. I have spent some days angry at everyone and everything, hoping that my anger would be considered righteous enough. But it wasn’t. It wasn’t enough to undo what was already done. Nothing I do will fix this. But each day, I pray for peace, for joy in the hard times, for patience in my anger, for strength in my weakness. I long for Jesus to make me whole once again. 

Friends, pray with us. This feels debilitating, yet I know it is not. We will overcome, just as hundreds of families before us. And as you think of us, think of the families before and after us who suffer this great loss. He will rebuild us. We will try again. And we will never lose sight of God.

Thank You Lord for keeping us. You changed our lives forever when we lost something we loved. You didn’t take from us. You didn’t steal any joy.

That little baby only knows Your arms. I don’t think it gets any better.

And then You gave us our own babies to hold, to care for, to disciple. Thank You Lord. You’ve never failed us.

Confessions of a Woman

I gave away my first kiss when I was 16. It was to a boy that I probably should not have kissed. One red flag: he had just had a piece of pizza right before he decided kissing me was a good idea. (Tip: don’t kiss someone after you’ve eaten pizza.) This boy was also younger than me, not that age matters (since I’m older than Evan…by four months), but when you’re in high school…let’s just say it matters.

I valued myself, even when I was giving away a kiss to a pizza-breath freshman. Maybe not as much as I should have in that moment, but I knew. I knew that I was deeply loved by a big God, and I was lucky enough to embrace that before I entered high school. I believed I was worth more than what a guy could tell me.

I was also woefully inconsistent. I would like boys for longer than I should have, spending hours writing about them in my journal and some fabricated future I had come up with. I wanted badly to be loved.

When I began seriously dating my now husband, I stopped investing time with my best friends. I wouldn’t consider it a detrimental sin, but it wasn’t healthy. I made the mistake of replacing some of the best women I knew with a man who I loved incredibly deeply. I love my husband, but my best friends, my women…their companionship is different, and oh so necessary.

As a new wife and mom, I thought my value was found in how clean my house was or how good of a dinner I could come up with. I secluded myself from my friends, and I dove deep into impressing nobody but myself. (I was a tough crowd.)

It’s really true, about everything: nobody actually knows what we’re doing. We’re all just faking it until we feel it, and that’s what motherhood, being a wife, and this new post-pregnancy woman I had become felt like.

Being a woman, being myself, has been like this. There are hundreds of stories between these ones where I feel like I make a fool of myself. I do something stupid. I hurt people. I think less of who I am, as if I am only as good as my mistakes. I can’t imagine what perfection must feel like, because I’ve never been there. I have always been unimpressed with my own lacking.

Sound familiar?

Maybe it’s time that brings it or experience, but there came a point where I stopped believing that I was this woman, this woman full of mistakes and coming up short; the one who quit when it got hard; the woman who was hindered by her children or encumbered by  the duties of being a stay-at-home mom and wife. “This is all I will ever be!” I would say, as if whatever I was at that moment was not living up to a standard no one had set but me.

God is different. He works differently than our minds can fully understand. We know that He sent His only Son to die. We know He didn’t ask us for anything. We know that there is never a thing we can do to repay Him. We know that He doesn’t ever want us to.

My imperfection is perfect for God, for it is the perfect canvas for Him to create His greatest work.

If a stay-at-home mom and wife is all I’ll ever be, then my ministry is full. My work is laid out. “All I’ll ever be” is more than I had hoped for in the beginning.

I am not everything I failed at; I am not a product of my mistakes. Grace is on me, God’s love sustains me, His arms keep me.

Everything I need to be is everything He is.

It is never about perfection. It is always about believing He is perfect, that He is everything I am not, and that I have no weights to carry because of it.

He didn’t have to save us. He didn’t have to redeem us. He didn’t have to give us grace so deep that we cannot escape it. But He did. And confession: getting to bring my baggage, all of my ridiculous stories and mistakes, and dropping them at His feet makes me feel like the woman I always wanted to be. Free.

 

My Country, My Family & My Faith

When I was growing up, we attended a Catholic church close to our house. We occasionally went to mass on Sundays and would go to Hall’s afterward to have breakfast. I went to classes on Tuesday nights so that I could have my first communion, and eventually be confirmed, like my brothers.

My sons are growing up rather differently. Our faith is the most important part of our life, and it isn’t anything like it was when I was a kid. We love to love and serve God. Just the other night my boys were singing a verse out of the Psalms in unison: “Give thanks to the Lord for He is good! His love endures forever!”

I grew up differently than my husband, than my best friend, than my own children. It wasn’t, by any means, a bad childhood. I loved everything about it. I loved working on the car with my dad and pretending I was just like my brothers. I remember fondly all the times I would drive with my dad to his work and go so fast up and down hilly roads that my stomach would do somersaults. I remember watching CSI and Survivor every week with my mom, snacking on cheese and crackers and reading books.

I was well loved. I was always provided for. I was shown by my parents how to take care of myself.

Somewhere between the day I took a government class in high school and the day I witnessed a woman running for president, politics became important. I started to care about what my president had to say. I started to care about international relations, social and economic policies, and the history of my country.

I used to hate everything about politics. I hated disagreeing with people I cared about. I hated the rage that people had. I hated news shows that ripped politicians to shreds. I wanted nothing to do with it.

But then I had children.

Everything changes when tiny people of your own blood start running around your house. The innate desire to protect them kicks in. The fury over giving your children what you were so lucky (or not so lucky) to have is a battle parents run into daily. We want to rescue our children from the depravity of a world full of hate, and we want to give them everything we loved, or never got the chance to love, when we were their age.

I didn’t grow up like a lot of Christians. I didn’t wake up every Sunday excited to go to church, I didn’t learn about how to read my Bible or use devotionals. Nobody showed me how to have my own faith. And that’s okay. My parents did show me how to believe in something. How to be confident in myself. They showed me how to have compassion, have opinions, and be someone who gives selflessly.

We talked about race. We talked about homosexuality. We talked about abortion. We talked about social and economic divides, and whether I liked it or not, my mom talked about politics and politicians, who she liked and who she didn’t.

I was often a student of my parents. Even if I disagreed with what they said, I listened in silence. Disagreeing makes me uncomfortable. That doesn’t mean we didn’t argue, but we lived together. They were my parents. I loved them more than I cared to be right.

My parents taught me how to have a passion for the things I believed in, because I saw it in their own lives.

My parents taught me how to be a woman of integrity and character; they taught me things that transcend faith and humanity.

In this political climate, truthfully, since the day I voted in the presidential election of 2008, I have stood in a tense place of being a Christian who was raised on liberal values.

It feels important–no, necessary–to enlighten those who disagree with other people vehemently. Especially those who will read this, feel the need to correct me, or feel a rise because I said “Christian” and “liberal” in harmony.

My actions speak louder than my words. I am not a result of a failed upbringing, lest you think my family are a bunch of “libtards” (Can that word be banished?) or just plain evil.

To put it simply, they are some of the most generous, caring people I have the opportunity to love.

They never failed me. They raised me better than for me to think that; they equipped me with the ability to see beyond differences and to love people.

I remember the day I drove home from college and cried into my mom’s arms because I felt like I had failed everyone in every way. I couldn’t last even a month in a new place. And my family did just as families should do: they loved me anyways.

It almost sounds like the Gospel, doesn’t it?

Nobody is perfect. No family is without fault. But I would not be half the woman I am if I hadn’t been given a family like mine.

What Freedom Feels Like

A few months ago, my friend & I started a women’s group called Rally. I saw it clearly in my head: the group of women gathered to connect, be seen, and find friendship with other women all for God’s glory.

As I drove to Rally last night, I started praying some fierce prayers. We hadn’t met in about three weeks, and I was praying for the Lord to revive me and to revive all of us. I even dared Him to stir His Spirit in the women I knew and to bring them to Rally.

But…there wasn’t a crowd. In fact, we had one woman show up.

Before this week had even started, I felt like I was behind. There’s been laundry to put away for a few days now. I had to throw away some fresh chicken because I forgot it was in the fridge, and it was rancid. I never opened my Bible until 6 PM. Thank goodness there’s tomorrow, right? Tomorrow will be better.

Maybe tomorrow or maybe next week is something that rolls off my tongue quicker than my yes’s. I feel the Holy Spirit tell me to do something, and I push Him away because maybe tomorrow or later or never (which is what I really mean by later) is easier, more comfortable to say. I would bet it’s true for you, too.

With Rally, I decided to listen. I decided to give the Holy Spirit space to be my guide, and I agreed to jump into something that felt difficult, foreign, and uncomfortable for me. It felt like magic, seeing how God could bring together a group of women, almost out of nothing. It was good and holy and glorious.

I’ve learned a few things over the years, and one of them? My soul is lighter when I am in a room with women who I know will pray with me. My soul does not ache when I discuss with other women the works of the Father in my life. My soul finds rest with other souls like that are like mine: needy of a Savior.

You know what’s difficult about this? We don’t believe it. Us women, we are stubborn creatures. We allocate our time to duties, work, children, and everyone else, and we forget ourselves. We forget our most basic need to connect. We forget that our phones are not replacement friendships and that our typed out words do not replace coffee shop conversations. We consider church on Sundays and the occasional Bible story with our children “good enough” for the week, or we excuse our lack of spiritual depth with a solemn, “Well this is life right now.”

And it is! This is life, right now. I cannot bear to let you miss it.

Sister, friend, woman. This is my call to your revival.

I don’t care where you go, I don’t care if you decide to never come to Rally. I care that you find your women. I care that you get with your sisters in Christ, and you dare to be needy of a Savior, together.

We had Rally, we had one woman join us, and I don’t regret it for a minute. I loved spending an evening laughing about things of my womanhood with my women, because you guys. It feels like freedom. I don’t have to perform for these people. I don’t have to put on a brave face, pretend I am chipper, or be some kind of woman I am not. I get to be me.

Revive your real friendships. Be in sisterhood with women. Get off your phone, get out of your house, and get with women who want to pray for you, love you, and encourage you.

Rest assured, I’m here praying for you, too.

 

 

The Art of Motherhood

A little over a year ago, I started taking picture of my son’s art.

In case you didn’t know, or if you needed a warning, having children means you receive pounds of artwork. From everywhere.

Go to Sunday school? Here’s the craft. Stay for two church services on a Sunday morning? Double that. Your kid is in school? Monday: five papers in the take home folder. Wednesday: twenty. Friday: one thousand (at least).

Now, with my oldest, he doesn’t just do crafts. He does above and beyond. He draws on every piece of paper he gets, therefore, I also receive every paper he uses.

It’s not bad, but we could probably save a forest if he didn’t draw so much.

So, after hearing about an idea shared by other people on the Internet, I decided to start taking pictures of “every” drawing Liam did. (“Every” being most, because if it was truly every, then I would have thousands of pictures.) I put my favorite ones aside, and then I throw away the ones that I’ve photographed. Sometimes I cringe because the art! I cannot throw it all away! And then I remember the growing pile of crafts, paper, scrap pieces of paper, and also more paper that accumulates in my house.

I did not think for a moment that I would have a child who would become an artist. I don’t like making art. Making things with my own ideas and creativity feels a little bit painful to me. Give me directions and a plan (or paint by numbers), and I will love every minute. Ask me to draw a picture of a dog with his owner on a piece of paper, and I want to shrivel up and die because I hate drawing.

But my sweet son. He is an artist.

Lucky for him, and lucky for me, we’re surrounded by people who love art.

In October, Evan and I took a solo trip to Chicago for my birthday. My brother, an artist and an art teacher, took us to The Art Institute of Chicago. It was the best thing I’ve done in years. The last time I willingly went to learn about art was years ago, probably as a teenager. We spent hours and hours looking at the paintings as my brother told us stories about the artist and the techniques they used and their influence. I felt like I saw something in the world I had never really seen before.

My grandma told my brother, “I have always hidden my talent. I don’t want you to do that. Take your art to the world.” I think about this often because of my son. I think about this often because of who I am, too. This right here is art, even if it doesn’t always feel like it.

Maybe one day I’ll pick up a paintbrush and create art to learn to let go and create something without a plan. I think that would be good for me. It’s something that I want to nurture slowly: the ability to create simply because I can. Not because I have to be good at it. It feels easy here as I write, but I think there’s always room to learn and grow.

My son does it well. He teaches me what it’s like to dream and create with abandon. I watch him draw the world around him, and the tears that well up in my eyes are significant. He’s already learning to do what he loves. I can’t believe I get to watch him.

I think of the crowd that day at the museum in Chicago. We were lucky to have my brother with us because he told us things that the little plaques on the wall couldn’t. I don’t think I’ll ever go to a museum without him. (Hope that’s okay with you, Josh.) The people, regardless of race, gender, nationality, whatever, they flocked to see the art. It transcends the limits of humanity. There is so much beauty in that.

I hope one day there’s artwork on those walls that originated right here in my home.

Anything is possible when we take our art to the world.

If you’d like to read more about my grandma, the book Dead Rita’s Wisdom by my aunt, Vicky Trabosh, is one that I cannot recommend highly enough. I come from women of great wisdom, and I couldn’t be more proud of the work my aunt has done through this book. There’s also a picture of me when I was seven, so if anything, buy it for that. (But mostly for the wisdom.)

The Story of Us

The year I turned 18, I met the love of my life.

Cheesy, I know. 

But it was for real. Terrified by how charming, witty, and attractive Evan was, I broke up with him the day after Valentine’s Day because I was a wimp. He wooed me again two months later, and the rest is history.

Eight years ago today, I friended the famous Hottie McBody on Facebook, and I decided to write on his wall and pretend like I hadn’t noticed him at an all-nighter we were both at. (Spoiler: I noticed him. And nicknamed him Hottie McBody, because this is what teenage girls do.)

Eight years later, and you know what? I think we’ve still got it. Watching the man I fell in love with play air guitar and headbang with my sons, believe it or not, does make me a little weak in the knees.

We have seen everything we vowed to withstand together. Death, health, sickness, poverty, riches, life. He’s seen me at my worst. We’ve cried together. We’ve laughed so much over the past eight years that I’m pretty sure it sums up our marriage: downright joy.

And I honestly have no secret for how we’ve done it. I make mistakes all the time. Evan does too. We miscommunicate once a day, at least. But we have an agreement: we’re both busted up humans who need Jesus’ love. We’re both forgiven and redeemed by grace. So we extend to each other the same grace and love that the Father gives us every minute.

There’s a lot of forgiveness here. A lot of space for messing up and getting back up again. There’s room for grace to intercede where we fall short as a married couple.

And did I mention we laugh a lot? About everything. We laugh about inappropriate things. We laugh at our kids behind their backs (love ya, boys). We laugh at how stupid I sound when I’m hungry and angry. We laugh about our arguments, our past, and our inside jokes.

I remember what Evan was wearing the night I saw him. I remember the summer night when he told me loved me. I remember the time there were cows in his front yard while we were making out on the couch. (See what I mean? Our entire marriage is based on humor.)

I remember that we’re not perfect people, and our marriage is not perfect either. But he brings out the best in me. He gives me glimpses of what heaven will be like with the way that he loves me. He points me to God.

Happy friendaversary on Facebook, Evan. You’re a stud, and I’m thankful I get to call you mine.

The Great Faith

In the summer of 2014, my husband came home from his 9-5 job for the last time. The first month afterward, we were in a frenzy, and I remember living in a lot of fear. How could I not? Our main and only source of income had disappeared.

A month later, in the first few weeks of July, I peed on a stick. I knew I was pregnant before I even opened the pregnancy test. I sighed the minute those two lines appeared. I walked into the kitchen holding the fate of our future in my hands and in my belly, and I cried into my husbands arms. I had never held fear like I did in that moment. Simultaneously filled with love and terror.

In short, the Lord worked it out. The surprise child I was afraid to bring into the world filled a place in our home that was meant just for him.

I wasn’t planning to read about the woman at the well this morning. I had read about Saul and his battles and God’s triumph and victory within Isreal. But instead, I found myself in John 4.

I’m not overlooking the red letters in this passage, but I keep seeing this woman’s words. In response to Jesus, she says these things:

“You are a Jew, and I am a Samaritan woman. How can you ask me for a drink?”
“Sir, you have nothing to draw with and the well is deep. Where can you get this living water? Are you greater than our father Jacob, who gave us the well and drank from it himself, as did his sons and his livestock?”
“Sir, give me this water so that I won’t get thirsty and have to keep coming here to draw water.”
“Sir, I can see that you are a prophet. Our ancestors worshiped on this mountain, but you Jews claim that the place where we must worship is in Jerusalem.”
“I know that Messiah (called Christ) is coming. When he comes, he will explain everything  to us.”

Jesus is gentle with her. He doesn’t chastise her for being unaware of to Whom she speaks.  I encourage you to go to this passage and read it in its entirety.

In the later months of 2014, I was very much full of faith. We had nothing else. We couldn’t trust anything but the God who was giving us everything we needed. That time was both the hardest and most faith-filled. Sometimes, as hard as it is to admit, I even wish I could go back.

Today, I am much like her, the woman at the well. I have a lot of words to say to God about how things are, how they will be. I often tell Him what I think, whether it be about Him or about me or what should be happening in my life.

Sometimes I speak without consideration for Him. I pray without consideration. I decide without consideration.

I overlook my King, who is often right in front of me.

After the woman’s conversations with Jesus, she goes home and spreads the word. It’s true that she was a woman living in sin. She was not a reputable woman. Unbeknownst to her, she had just met the man who would pardon every sin in her life.

There’s one line in verse 21 that knocks me a over a little. Jesus says to the woman, “…believe me.” It’s something I feel within my whole being often. I feel God saying, “Janelle, believe Me. Just believe Me.”

But Jesus, how will you do this? How? What will we do when ____? I have this idea, can You bless it and make it real? Jesus, can you hear me? Why do you seem to be silent?

I am often talking. Using big words, saying eloquent sentences, writing in my journal, conversing with God. But really, it’s just me talking at Him. I don’t always listen. I listen for what I want to hear, or I ignore what He has already said. I get frustrated with the truth I already know because it doesn’t align with what I want. I bargain. I plead.

I just need to believe Him. Just believe that He is who He says He is. That He will fulfill promises and walk with me and give me everything I need to give Him glory.

I don’t always want to believe God. I end up being like her, the woman at the well, who talks to God like He isn’t really who He says He is. And then God tells her, “I am he,” and she is changed. She goes and tells her people who the Messiah is. And the people are changed.

It’s a reminder that I do not have to arrive in God’s presence with perfect, good faith. Great faith grows in time; trials make it deeper, the every day struggles make it long-lasting.

It’s hard to believe God. But I do get to try, and I think that’s a sweet privilege.