God is good. Let me tell you all about it because, y’all, God is good.
2 weeks ago, a dear friend and leader at my church answered a prayer request as she gathered items for a basket filled with gingerbread houses, board games, snacks, gas cards, and dinner gift cards for a family needing a little joy this Christmas. She made it happen in 2 days. She, partnering with our church, truly was His hands, His feet, His wallet. Last night, with the love, support, and generosity of another local church, 2 car loads of gifts were delivered to two families in the community. This church does not know these families, has not sat with them, has not heard their story firsthand, but you wouldn’t know that by the outpouring of love shown in a car full of wrapped presents, each labeled and ready for Christmas morning. This church prayed over the gifts in hopes that they would bring warmth where the chill of grief had filled the hearts of His precious daughters. I was a witness to tears of joy and sweet giggles as I carried in armfuls of wrapped presents. This church, this body of Christ, truly was His hands, His feet, His wallet. Today, I delivered gift cards for groceries to these families. Not because of my own selfishness, but because of the selfishness of a group of women who refused to take “no” for an answer. Women who pour patience, kindness, and love into His most precious children everyday. And yet, they still were willing to give without receiving. These women, each of them, truly were His hands, His feet, His wallet. As a whole, this is an earthly example of Christ’s “community.” Where everyone had a common goal that brought unity, spreading wider than the city limits. This is an earthly example of 1 Corinthians 12:12-31. Each part of the body of Christ being vital, each rejoicing as one, suffering as one. What a humbling and breathtaking experience to have played a small part in this immense outpouring of love from the men and women of a community, His community. I have never felt so proud to serve in His community. To love on families in His community. To be His hands and His feet in His community. To be a beloved daughter in His beautiful community. To River of Life Church (Elk River), thank you for being apart of His community. To Alleluia Lutheran Church (St. Michael), thank you for being apart of His community. To those gals willing to support my super secret mission, thank you for being apart of His community. Merry Christmas! God is good.
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It’s okay to be both. Overwhelmed and overjoyed. No one has told me that, but I’m telling myself that. I could also title this “Loretta is: fiercely passionate about her work as an early intervention teacher and is also getting her ass handed to her by grad school, and, at this rate, will never catch up on housework in a home she loves surrounded by her favorite people and she is desperate to feel as connected with this baby as she was during her pregnancy with Lincoln and, also, Loretta could really use some sort of “how-to” guide on showing her husband how much she appreciates and adores him while being next-level exhausted, but don’t forget, it would also be helpful if she recharged her soul through crafting and friendships and community, but only if she has made time to see the doctor about the ongoing swelling and pain in her knee and the morning sickness that refuses to let up, then she should be asking herself if spending time in His Word has been a priority or on the back burner, but mostly Loretta’s willingness to admit she has let people she loves down in attempt to do it all and be it all and please everyone while absolutely failing to drink enough water everyday.” But I suppose overwhelmed and overjoyed works too. A year ago I was pregnant. 8 months pregnant. But other than that similarity 2022 has been significantly different than 2021. 2022 held several moments of feeling overwhelmed and overjoyed. In the past year, I was blessed to have been part of building a family, beat down after a year’s worth of the treatment for Lyme and post-infection Lyme arthritis, elated to have been accepted and then to have started graduate studies in infant and early childhood mental health, fulfilled with God’s promise in finding our church home and other Jesus-loving couples to do life with, devastated by the loss of my best friend, Grandma Bobbie, then filled with a million hopes and dreams about what life will look like with two babies, followed by a disconnect like I’ve never experienced from my pregnancy, my marriage, and simply being all of me. In 2022, I’ve been overwhelmed and overjoyed. On Thursday, with a pit in my stomach and worries filling up the hidden places in my mind, I walked into an ultrasound appointment with Zach by my side (which, itself, is an miracle considering how I had treated him that morning and how I’ve treated him the last few months). I lay down, get settled, and the tears began to fall. I was overwhelmed. Since July, I have desperately sought to feel something towards this little one, but I’ve felt (next to) nothing. As the tears blurred my vision and Zach squeezed my hand, a sweet baby appeared on the screen in front of us. Dancing from the world’s tiniest hiccups. I was overjoyed. Finally overjoyed. We continued and the tech said over and over again, “your baby” and then, finally, she said “your daughter.” I was overwhelmed and overjoyed. And It’s okay to be both. Overwhelmed and overjoyed. So, I’m gonna be a momma to a little girl. And Molly told me that my little girl will heal parts of my soul I didn’t realize I needed to heal. And Zach spent a half hour on the phone to his own momma about how excited he was about her. And Grandpa Larry said that he had already known because Grandma had told him. And Grandma Ang already spoiled her with clothes. And Aunt Holly gave me her first bow. And all her aunties from small group all screamed when they found out. And Daisy is excited for us to outnumber the boys. And so many more people who love me, who already love her, celebrated the news. And I’m overwhelmed and overjoyed by all of them. By all of you. So, just want you to know, it’s okay to be both. Overwhelmed and overjoyed. Side note: Send me ALL the hacks on taking care of someone else’s hair. Brushing my own hair is not my jam, so that’ll be a learning curve for me. Some know, some may not. I was diagnosed with lyme disease one week before Christmas after nearly two months of indescribable pain and immense swelling of my right knee and leg. At the time, I was a surrogate and, in order to protect Baby Bram, we choose to do the safest antibiotic possible with no prescribed pain medication. The lyme, unfortunately, has not yet cleared and has continued to cause knee pain, stiffness, and swelling. This is the story of the past week, as this diagnosis continues to cause angst in my heart and mind, but also, understanding of God's pursuit, comfort in the unknown, and an ability to face my bell. Monday: 9 Hours, from the time I walked into my first appointment with Infectious Disease to finally leaving the hospital with a PICC line in my arm and my anxious mind consumed with worry and confusion. For all of us non-medical folk, a PICC line is a long, thin tube inserted into your arm and passed through to the larger veins near your heart. My PICC line has allowed me to receive daily IV antibiotics, which I am scheduled to get for two to four weeks, depending on my body's response. At the end of the day while sitting in a cancer center during my first infusion, I sent a text to my sister, Molly, "It's like a glimpse into our possible future. Which is sad and twisted." Tuesday & Wednesday: I had a full day of home visits, meetings, and paperwork ahead of me, but first, I had to get my second "infusion." Due to some insurance limitations, my infusions have taken place at an infusion center 30 minutes from home, which turns into an hour when you include daycare drop off. I checked in at the desk and settled into another uncomfortable waiting room chair. This waiting room felt all too familiar all too quickly, but I was not sure why until my name was called. I was lead to a chair sitting directly across from "the bell." Cancer warriors everywhere know "the bell," which is rung at the end of treatment as a celebration of life, a declaration for all to know that whomever rings the bell had endured hell on earth and survived. While I see the beauty in the bell, I, personally, have not heard its glorious chimes when I so desperately yearned for it in years past. First, Grandma Bram. A woman of God, stubborn in her daily walk even through chemo and radiation. No bell. Next, Jennie, my second momma, my sister, and, sometimes, the grumpiest of gals who deeply loved Jesus despite nine years of endless treatments, trials, and tears. No bell. Then, Momma. My momma. No bell. And now, another vitally important woman, who I look to for compassion, guidance, and unconditional love. No bell. I sent a text on Tuesday to Molly, "F***ing Cancer Bell." I know that isn't Christ like, but that was my raw response to seeing it. And on Wednesday, "Sitting across from the bell." But the Holy Spirit tugged at my heart and I sent a text on Wednesday to a relatively new "mom friend," who is quickly becoming my sister in Christ, inviting her and her boys, close to Lincoln's age, over to play and have supper. She called it "rebellious" and, in a way, that's exactly what it was. Out of our norm, out of our comfort zone, perfectly "chaotic and calm." But God is often beautifully rebellious in His pursuit, shouldering the heaviness of this life through compassion and community. Thursday: Me: "Remember Jennie's smell? It's the smell of cancer. I just got hit in the face with her smell while in the waiting room for my infusion." Molly: "How was that?" Me: "Gut punch. F***ing bell." Again, not "proud", but I refuse to be anything but real when writing from the heart. Friday: Five days of heaviness. Both personally and professionally. Each day, I continued to show up. For my students and their families, my infusions, and my boys. My blood pressure, however, was not playing by the rules of "keeping it together," which usually would put me into a fit of anxiety, but instead forced me to begin to let go of the circumstances I have no control over. This time I opened up to a dear friend by saying "If anything, having the high blood pressure reading today was a reminder that I have to take all of these things in stride. And it's a lot. And it's okay for me to realize that it's a lot." In her constant compassion, she has become a safe place to share life's joys and sorrows. Saturday: Another infusion, this time having to drive 45 minutes to a cancer center where I am scheduled to get all my weekend infusions. But spending time with two gals and their families over the course of Saturday afternoon and evening lifted the heaviness, once more, reminding me of His pursuit through compassion and community. Sunday: I arrived to the cancer center 15 minutes early, hoping to get done in time to make it back for church. A nurse I had never met before and will likely never meet again, at least this side of heaven, greeted me with a smile and a sweet southern accent. Because of Momma, I have a deep respect for nurses, knowing they truly are the hands and feet of Jesus, so I always do my best to be kind, patient, and respectful of their time. We make small talk for the first few minutes and my guard came crashing down simply by her ability to make me belly laugh when telling a story about her hairless chihuahua. It took less than five minutes to feel seen by this woman, to feel loved and cherished. It was like talking to Momma, if only for 20 minutes. She saw past my (masked) smile and into the heaviness I had been carrying all week. After "casually" mentioning the bell to those who are in my everyday life, I poured my heart out to this woman, a literal stranger. "I keep thinking that this is a glimpse into my own battle with cancer. A sneak peek. And I am hating every moment. I will never get to ring the bell." She paused, put her hand on her hip, like a good momma always does, and said, "I can tell you've got the Holy Spirit in you sweetheart, so I am gonna tell you something. The devil is using your fear of cancer to separate you from God. Stop giving him that power." Gut punch, but this time, a somewhat welcome one. Later that afternoon, I listened to a podcast for the first time and, after listening to a couple episodes I came across, The Unfolding: Page 118, Susie Larson. Zach and Linc woke up from nap to Momma sobbing, feeling, once more, seen, loved, and cherished in the midst of it all. Susie Larson has also struggled with lyme and described exactly what I am walking through right now. She described, in detail, some of the neurological issues including short term memory loss and brain fog, that have caused frustration and confusion. But she also described her walk of faith, her glimpses of God's presence through it all. The most impactful lines of the episode are these, "He was giving me a lowercase no to give me a capital Yes....God is content to be misunderstood....what He was doing was answering our prayers in a way that we just didn't understand in the moment....I just marvel...we love people, but our hope is in God....we serve an audience of one..." And finally, Susie shares about her struggle with fear, "The storms reveal the lies you believe and the truth we need....I heard the enemy railing in my ear, 'I can get you anytime, anywhere and God will never stop me.' and God just roared into my heart, 'You have believed that your whole life and do you know that he can not get you anytime.....but I have to let you fight, it feels like he has you by the throat, but the God of peace is going to crush satan under your feet, so rise up and fight.....I'm not going to let you lose, but I have to let you fight....what happens in our souls happens in our cells." Seen, loved, and cherished by two complete strangers. Monday: Home visits, meetings, paperwork, and an infusion. I love routine. With the words the nurse and Susie "ringing" in my ears, I was ready to face my fear, to face the bell. But, from my seat today, I couldn't see the bell. And maybe that was God, or maybe it was the scheduler. Either way, I sent another text, Me: "At my infusion but can't see the bell today." Molly:"Comforting or no?" Me: "Well, after my nurse yesterday scolded me, it might have been good to 'face my fear," Molly: "Write it. Face your bell." So, I did. And I am. So, now, my question for you after reading all of this, What is your bell? Are you ready to face it? Are you surrounding yourself with a compassionate community who can support you in shouldering the heaviness? Are you willing to be rebellious on a Wednesday night with another momma or open up to those who you do life with each day at work or in your neighborhood? Is God invited to know your greatest fears and darkest secrets? What is your bell? Write it. Face your bell. And, may I add, pray. Just talk to God, or yell at Him, or laugh with Him, or sing with Him. He just wants a relationship with you, a raw, real relationship. And if you are reading this and you don't know where to start or maybe you totally do, either way, I love hearing people's stories, I love loving people. Send me a text or call me. I want to be rebellious in my pursuit of community and maybe you do too. Long before I decided to start my own blog my sister, Molly, began to share her heart with the world through her blog, To Move. Molly has always encouraged the parts of me that I am too timid to share with the world. The following blog post was written shortly after my wedding day, which was five years ago today. This blog was also written one week before Momma passed away. Blue edits reflect the passing of time, the changes, the growth. Hi guys! Loretta here. As most of Molly’s readers know, I recently (March 11, 2017) went from a Ms. to a Mrs. I got hitched. I tied the knot. You may also know that Zach and I (along with an army of family and friends) planned and executed a pretty stinking spectacular wedding in just 5 weeks. What some of you may not know is this. Zach and I were supposed to get married up at the cabin in early September. God decided that March was just more fitting for us, I suppose. Someday, whether it's our ten-year anniversary or beyond, Zach and I hope to renew our vows at the lake. You see, I had received a phone call on Tuesday, January 31 (2017) while studying for an exam. It was Momma, her voice only cracking for a moment after I had asked what the doctor had said at her appointment that day. There was nothing left they could do. There would be no more treatments. Hope of winning this war against cancer had been lost once more. I was angry. I still struggle with this anger 5 years later Over the next five weeks, in the midst of planning our wedding, taking 18 credits, caring for Momma on the weekends, attempting to keep my relationship with Zach afloat, and participating in premarital counseling late on Sunday nights, I was angry. But joyful. And sad. But giddy. And lost. But also found. All of this, and more, all at the same time, even now as I write this. And now, as I reread and edit this. I am angry. I am angry at my father for not staying committed to the vows he had made to Momma 24 (30) years ago and the vows he made 6 years ago too. I am angry that the doctors had given up on my momma, despite knowing that each and every doctor that has ever come in contact with her, in both her personal and professional life, has come to adore her and only want what is in her best interest. I am angry at some of my siblings who have been absent for all of my young adult life, even more so during this time when we would have benefited from their presence. This anger has faded, although, as a way to protect my heart and my family, I no longer speak to two of Momma's children. I am angry at Momma, she should have gone to the doctor sooner, she could have told me what she knew. She should be here, teaching me how to get Goldfish cracker crumbs out of the couch cushions. I am angry at God, with each drive to and from Mason City I scream at Him while tears force me to pull over to the side of the road. The song, You Make Me Brave, was played loud enough to scream to, loud enough to worship through the anger. So, again, I am angry. I am joyful. Making the Dean’s List fills me with joy. Damn, I worked my tail off last semester and, apparently, that work paid off. And now, that work has paved the way for me to work with the littlest of learners, and their families everyday. Laughing with Momma and now Linc fills me with joy. Over the past 7 months (2 1/2 years), laughter has filled my heart. We have shared stories about each other’s childhood and what the best brand of dill pickle chips are. Lincoln refuses to eat dill pickle chips and makes me belly laugh everyday. Zach fills me with joy. In Zach’s arms, I find peace, I find rest, and I can cry ugly tears. Through this season, he is my grace, my protection, and my light. In this life, he is all of this and more. And God is our joy. In God’s arms, we am humbled, broken, and made new. Through this season, He is our grace, our protection, and our light. In this life, He is all of this and more. I am sad. I had a plan for Momma, regardless of who my husband was going to be. A plan I had thought up years ago. I planned on Momma living above my garage after I got married. I planned on making certain that we had an in-law suite just right for Momma. She would “come over” on Tuesday nights for pizza and game night, watch the kids one Saturday a month for date night, and my husband and I would sign her up for ridiculous old-lady clubs that she would say she hated, but secretly adored. Momma was supposed to be my classroom’s designated grandma. I planned on her coming into my classroom and reading to my students the way she had always read to me, using silly voices, wild facial expressions, and unruly gestures to bring the story to life. I was supposed to finally get to take care of my momma the way she had always taken care of me. But, now Momma and I have discussed a new plan, one that is ideal for her, but a little more difficult for me to swallow. First, before anything else, Momma plans on watching over Adeline, my beautiful step-daughter, my first baby girl. As time goes on and Zach and I decide to grow our family, Momma plans on holding our babies long before we ever have a chance to. Momma says that she is going to teach them things that only she can, so we know that Grandma Diane was with them first. Lincoln was held by Momma. DK too, and Manny, and Haisley. All of her grandbabies will have heard her belly laugh. Momma plans to still live above our garage, just in a bit of an upgrade from a piddly ol’ in-law suite. I am giddy. I do not make a very good wife. Hell, I don’t even make a very okay wife. I vowed to steal Zach’s socks and keep the fridge stocked with mint chocolate chip ice cream. One of those vows have been held up, the other is too tempting to keep around the house. I am giddy to continue to keep our vows raw, honest, and always present in our walk together. I am giddy to be given a lot of grace, a lot of love, and a lot of joy from my incredible husband. And I am giddy to give grace, love, and joy right back. In five years, we have faced a lot of life, beautiful life, heartbreaking life. We choose each other, everyday, even when it would be easier not to. I am giddy as I have watched Momma and Zach gain respect and love for one another over the past 7 months. When Zach was here last, Momma said, “I love you, Zach.” Zach said, “I love you, too.” I can still see Zach leaning up against the doorframe of Momma's bedroom, Momma reaching her hands out to him. The two strongest, most stubborn, most incredible people in my life love one another. Zach has shown his love for Momma by breathing life back into the cabin and ensuring that her baby girl's wildest dreams don't stay just as dreams. I am giddy. I am lost. I had to ask my nephew, “What’s it like to lose your momma?” “Tata (family nickname), I am lost.” Jennie passed away nearly five (ten) years ago, yet he still, at times, feels lost. Jennie is now a grandma, as sweet Joey welcomed Haisley last month. For us all, feeling lost is what most people find when death gets settled in. A loss for words, a loss of time, a loss of appetite, a loss of patience, a loss of joy, a loss of understanding, a loss of a loved one. When you walk alongside death, you walk hand-in-hand into darkness, confusion, anger, and, for me, anxiety. Death, without the presence of Life, consumes you. I am lost. I am found. God is life, our Saviour guaranteed that much. Life is present, God is here. As I walked down the aisle, hand-in-hand with my momma, being pushed by my father, being lead by the Spirit, I was found. I was made new. I was clothed in white (I was literally in a beautiful white dress), walking towards my joy, holding onto my laughter, letting go of my anger, setting aside my heartache, and singing out, “Your GLORY God is what our hearts long for, to be overcome by your presence.” I am found. I am broken, hurting, banged-up, and bruised but I am found and I am free. I am still found, I am still free. |
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