Wonderful Happenings...

Contributions.

2019-03-26T07:44:00.000-05:00

Savoring every bit of these mornings with these beautiful creatures and absorbing the impact motherhood can have for generations to come.

I spoke at a women’s conference this past weekend and, as I was gathering statistics and research, I was reminded of a quote I’ve heard over and over, but the whole of its meaning hit me right in the heart, ‘Your greatest contribution to the kingdom of God may not be something you do, but someone you raise,’ by Andy Stanley. I like to think, as parents, we are perpetually showing our kids what Love looks like. Not just in the sense of how to love our family, but in a greater capacity of how to love the world.

The importance of differences.
The opportunity to grow by getting to know and becoming friends with people who don’t look quite like we do.
Listening.
Learning.
Advocating for what is right.

Maybe, if I am all consumed in raising children while actively showing them what true love looks like, my contributions will be far greater and the impact will reach exponentially farther than than just the lives inside our four walls

Restore Place

2019-03-21T09:11:00.001-05:00

We don’t do this.

Walnut Street Pedestrian Bridge with Art Museum in background.

We rarely have date nights, let alone two nights away from our kids.

Walnut Street Pedestrian Bridge

We don’t leave the life of parents of four. And we definitely don’t take a break from the title of special needs parents. But a couple weekends ago we did, and it was been beyond therapeutic.

The Mad Priest Coffee Roasters

A weekend full of baked goods, coffee shops, full bellies and wandering about Chattanooga, just the two of us. A slow paced weekend of uninterrupted conversations and no unbuckling of carseats is exactly what we needed, and Restore Place made that possible.

Niedlov's Breakworks

Restore Place, Inc speaks to the heart of special needs ministry by showing great love and validation to caregivers by providing time away from the stresses that can all too often seem overwhelming. They gave us a two night stay at a far fancier hotel than we are used to staying in, pampered us with gift cards and goodies, and simply gave us time to be nothing more than a couple.

Milk and Honey

To nurture the soul of children with special needs is more than just meeting their physical needs, it’s equally about meeting their emotional needs, as well; and it’s hard to nurture someone else well if your own personal wellness tank is empty.

The Chattanoogan

We are thankful for this inspiring family and this ministry they provide. Check out their website, www.restoreplace.org and if your heart is led in the way of special needs children, consider donating to such a wonderful cause.

Dear Ten Years Ago Me.

2019-02-04T12:41:00.000-06:00

Dear Ten-Years-Ago Me,

I’m not sure you’d know who I am if you saw me in the store today.

Although we’d probably not be shopping on the same aisles anymore, I’m sure you’d see me. At least you’d hear me coming. I mom so hard with 4 kids in constant tow.

While you’re casually browsing the size 4 dresses, sporting your new shiny diamond, I’ll be checking out the facial moisturizers and reviews on amazon for under eye concealer. It’s really been since kid #3 that I depend on that last one to resemble a human.

If you saw me you’d probably judge me for something. Whether it be the number of kids, the sheer volume they’re emitting, or how my hair appears to not have been washed in (let’s not count how many) days. *spoiler alert: it hasn’t. 😬

Dear Ten-Years-Ago Me,

The plan you have in your head for how your life is going to unfold is admirable. It’s a great plan, really. Maybe the Peace Corps. Two kids, max. Special Education teacher. A few mission trips here and there. Completely go-with-the-flow, don’t stand out kind of life.

I see you looking at me with a look of wonder. How could things not turn out this way? You’re not asking for much. It seems pretty simple.

But then life happens. You’re gonna graduate college. Get married. Learn about so many things, that up until now, you’ve been sheltered from.

Friends will have miscarriages. Infertility issues. Failed adoptions. Loss of houses during an unfortunate recession. There’s a lot of growing up that happens in the next few years.

As you’re learning that plans are good, but remaining flexible is key, a battle is coming. A faith tester, a prayer maker, a life-changing, plan wrecker is coming.

A journey your heart has been preparing for ever since you thought that boy majoring in special ed was cute and decided to switch majors. Funny how decisions are guided that way.

Life will not look like the picture you have in your head. There will be more kids, more heartache, more beauty, more love, more of everything you’ve only had a taste of up until now.

I’m not offering advice, I’m merely reminding you that you’re strong enough for these battles. You’re worthy enough of this beauty. You are graceful enough to see the world and understand that we are all doing the best we can with the hand we are dealt. You’re capable of judging less and shining a brighter light more.

Coffee is your friend. Kids are hard. Your husband is learning to re-evaluate this life path, too. Treat him kindly.

It’s a beautifully, bumpy ride. Hold on and enjoy it. ❤️

Post-Hiatus Introduction

2018-12-18T14:08:00.003-06:00

Hello (almost) 2019! Where did you come from?

Oh how the years fly by.

To say it has been awhile could be quite the understatement. My fingers have yearned to feel the keys beneath them for quite sometime, but life and chaos seems to get the better of me. Everyday life seems to push the peaceful clicking sound to the back burner as it demands me scurry off to make more cheese quesadillas. {Because let's be real, it's the only thing all the kids in my house eat.}

Here's to a little post-hiatus introduction:

In the time that I've been away from this sacred space, a lot has happened. What once was a family of four has transformed into a family of 6; I've grown two more humans! Two tiny creatures that are unique in their own, sweet and salty, ways - filling my days with lots of hugs and hits and demands for food and grace.

I have a few more laugh lines. A few more worry lines. And a whole heart-full of more love and crazy than I know what to do with.

We've moved from our beach home in Florida to a spacious green house nestled right in the middle of a spectacular oak forest. We've gained chickens, friends, and confidence with this move, and are figuring out how to live the homesteading life - while learning how to balance it all.

The beautiful man builds everything with his hands and the kids are following suit - wanting to be just like him. He welcomes them into his shop, as he teaches them the safety behind the hand tools and reminds them to not take the nails with them when they leave. They cause flat tires. Several of them.

Sister Ellery, 7, remains my favorite girl in the whole wide world. She knows it and loves it. This spunky 1st grader absorbs information like none other and can get lost in just about any book, especially ones about dinosaurs. She loves waiting under the mistletoe for us to come cover her soft face in playful kisses. She's smitten with Arlo and tells me how thankful she is we had him, just about everyday.

Elam, 5, is in kindergarten and rocking it. His personality is so shiny you need sunglasses to block some of his glow! (Okay, maybe that's not a saying, but, hey, if the shoe fits.) He rarely meets a stranger and says he wants to be a doctor when he grows up. He'd make a great one. He doesn't let a set of wheels hold him back -- he lets it set him free.

Avett, 3, jumps off couches, bumps his head, and keeps on going. He's a joy and he's a boy. Full blown boy, meeting all the boy stereotypes without backing down. He loves trucks and tractors and Paw Patrol. He loves fiercely, gives tight hugs, and wants to be just like his dad.

Arlo, 4 months, smiles and giggles, and wants to be anywhere Ellery is. He's the icing on our cake. He completes us in ways we didn't know we needed and brings us so much unexpected joy.

We've grown and changed and packed a lot of life into these last few years. I can't wait to see what comes next. Meanwhile, we'll keep loving on these sweet kiddos, doing our best to model grace and humility - with a splash of humor to compliment it all.

Our day of Survival.

2017-01-28T14:32:00.001-06:00

It's our love day.

Our happy day.

Our thankful for everything day.

But more specifically, today is our 'thankful for Elam' day.

You see, it's been 4 years. Four years since our hearts were at their heaviest. Four years since we rallied ourselves to make the hour drive to Jackson, MS awaiting confirmation on our darkest fear. It's been four years since the reality of "Your will, not mine, Lord."

And it's been four years since we heard those happy words, "Your son has spina bifida."

There is a lump in my throat today. One that is there on occasions like this that so guiltily reminds me how much I have to be grateful for.

If you're just joining our story, if you're not really sure why we'd consider Spina Bifida "happy words," I'll catch you up.

You see. Four days before, we were told we were having a boy. A sweet boy who was struggling inside of me and there was nothing I could do to help him. A precious son who would probably not live more than 24 hours after birth. We spent a weekend crying huge salty tears from the depths of our very broken hearts, wondering about funeral plans.

For the entire story, click here.

So, you see. Today is a lovely day.
A day in which we celebrate and go out of our way to keep the mood light and happy.
Today, we celebrate life.
We celebrate differences.
We celebrate wheelchairs.
We celebrate Elam.

From the outside looking in, today doesn't look much different than most. There are no fireworks or balloons. There aren't any special songs or gifts. Instead, there's just a lot of being intentional and a lot of saying yes.

"Yes! I'll hold you!"
"Yes! I'll lay with you!"
"Yes! You can stir the brownie batter AND lick the spoon!"

Less of 'Give me a minute." And more of, 'These chores can wait."

You see. Its easy to get wrapped up in the stresses and messes of the day to day life. It's easy to dwell on the hard when your back aches from lifting and your head hurts from juggling the very big emotions of three young kids. But today. Today is our day of survivial. Our day that helps us remember the gifts of this life and - oh how sweet those gifts are!

Happy Elam Day, everyone. I hope you find as much joy in today as we do!

Wake up, sista!

2015-03-18T09:51:00.001-05:00

A girl just wants a nap.

Brother just wants to play.

A day in the life of older sister struggles.

14 cents of happiness.

2015-02-25T08:06:00.001-06:00

It's the simple things.

Like these 14 cent hearts from the clearance aisle.

The kiddos love them! They've been playing nicely for an hour, meaning I love them, too!

Happy Wednesday!

Dear mom on diagnosis day: Spina Bifida.

2015-01-28T22:14:00.000-06:00

Dear Mom on diagnosis day,

This post has been in my draft box for about a year. I write it. Rewrite it. Then delete it again. There are no words that can help you. No words can heal you; not today. But here's what my heart wants to tell you anyway:

You, sweet friend, are thought of everyday. You're in my thoughts. In my memories. And in my love. I think of you.

I think of you when I remember this day.
I think of you when I look at my sweet son.
And I think of you when I look towards the future.

But today, more than anything, I love you. I love you beyond your wildest dreams. I love you because of the beauty that will come from you.

Today, two years ago, I was you.
The tears you are crying, they were my tears.
The confusion you feel, I felt it.
And the guilt. The guilt you hold in the depths of your heart, sweet mama, I know that guilt.

Was it something I did? Could I have done anything differently? These questions cut deep. They're ugly.

But the truth is simple: my son is exactly who he is supposed to be - and yours will be, too.

Hearing the words: Your son has spina bifida, it's life changing.

You've heard the doctors talk a lot about folic acid. You've heard the statistics. You've been given your options.

Dear friend, now hear me. Hear the words that I hold close to my heart.

I know the journey you are just now embarking on, and it's scary. It's hard. But mama, please know, it is so worth it.

These are some dark days - these early days when everything you've been dreaming of seems to be turned upside down.

But know, you are about to discover that your world, even upside down, is beautiful.

You'll put on your research goggles. Your life maps will have to be revised. But the journey, this adventure through parenting, is worth the effort, because that precious life inside of you will amaze you every step of the way.

As my 19 month old tugs on my pants leg, signing for milk and asking for cuddles from his wheelchair, I think of you. I think of how scared you must be of wheelchairs - because that was me.

They're unknown. They come with a stigma.

But what if I tell you, they come with discovery, and learning, and fun? What if I tell you, they are a conversation starter, a friendship maker, a 'cool factor' on the playground?

Our son has learned more, progressed more, laughed more in the past few months since he learned to operate his wheelchair. He is happy. He plays. He is a normal little boy who happens to have spina bifida.

Words can't help you today, but one thing I want you to remember. When the the clouds start to dissipate and the sun starts to shine again, remember these words.

Life doesn't end with spina bifida, a new one is just beginning.

A hard. Crazy. Emotional. Beautiful. Loving. Unique. Worth it. Life.

It's yours to enjoy. So enjoy it, because our kids, just like any others, are incredible.

I love you, dear friend.

-Casie

Two years ago.

2015-01-25T16:32:00.000-06:00

Today hasn't been special.

At least to anyone looking from the outside in.

Today has been one of the mundane, get the housework done, donate a few things here, throw away a few things there.

Lunch from leftovers.

Naps for the kids.

A little whining. A little laughing. A whole lot of contentment.

Like I said, nothing special.

Except today. Today is life changing for us.

Two years ago, which is hard for me to truly believe, was a fundamentally life changing day for, with prayers and thankfulness, our now family of four.

You see, two years ago, we found out first hand how incredibly fragile life is. We found out that even when you take every precaution in the world, do all of the research, and pray for healthy, some things are just out of our hands.

Two years ago, we were told we were having a son - and he would not live.

There are no flowery words to describe it. No dressing it up or wrapping it in pretty packaging.

It was excruciating. It was terrifying. It was all consuming to the point that breathing literally hurt.

In midst of the storm, it was ugly.

But how beautiful the aftermath is.

Today, there have been things that weren't there on this day two years ago.

There have been laughs!

There has been joy.

There has been sibling love and playfulness.

Today, we are thankful that hugs can help our tears and that kisses can cure our hurt.

This day two years ago changed our perspective. Our perspective on many things, but mainly our perspective on joy.

Although the memories are still vivid and the pain can still be felt - we find beauty in them because we know how much joy we could have missed.

Tonight, in honor of Elam, we celebrated with our favorite local pizza and a scoop of ice cream from the fudge shop downtown. As the sun was setting and Elam was pointing out every bird that flew near, I felt peace.

Peace, perfect, whole.

This is where I'm supposed be. This is what I'm supposed to be doing.

This.

Elam's mom. Ellery's mom. Justin's wife.

Oh the joy that we would have missed.

We are thankful for the hard days because it is only through them that we find unmistakable joy

Another year has gone.

2015-01-01T20:18:00.001-06:00

Dear 2014,

Thank you for such a beautiful journey.

As this year comes to a close, we look back and smile. We smile, not because it wasn't hard, not because we never became discontent, but because we have seen our lives transformed into ones of hope and love and joy in the small things.

Our year was full of learning opportunities. We learned to adjust to the unexpected. We've learned to look past the dreariness of an overcast sky and see beauty in the wholeness. And we have learned that our call to love extends past ourselves and our family.

From start to finish, 2014 was a bumpy road. We have seen our share of disappointments. We have found ourselves throwing pity parties and eating a pint of ice cream while wearing sweat pants (okay, maybe that one was just me). But from this side of the struggle, I can see how the pain changes our outlook, humbles our hearts, and teaches us to look beyond our current situation to see that blessings are not always wrapped up in pretty packaging.

However, please do not think I mean blessings are always messy or that ours have all been that way. I do not believe that for a minute. This has been a beautiful year of perfectly timed friendships, wonderful new beginnings, and countless answered prayers for wisdom when nothing else would do.

2014's beauty didn't come from monetary value, it came from quiet humblings of our hearts - lessons on love and purposefully choosing to see the good.

Life with a three year old keeps us on our toes. Life with our 18 month old keeps us grateful. And life with each other just keeps us happy.

Here's to 2015! It's a new year!

Fall Festival

2014-10-25T12:31:00.001-05:00

We rode our bikes to the fall festival downtown this morning. Between the petting zoo, jump castles, hotdogs and trick or treating, I'd say this princess had a blast!

First Sunrise.

2014-10-16T08:08:00.001-05:00

Dear Mississippi Friends.

2014-09-29T23:01:00.003-05:00

Dear Mississippi Friends,

Three and a half years ago, when we moved to McComb, Mississippi from my home state of South Carolina - away from family and all of the friends I had ever known - I cried. With my hands on the steering wheel and my eyes focused on the rearview mirror, I cried out because of fear. Because of the unknown. And because I never thought I’d find friends like you.

During our short time here, in the little bungalow on Virginia Avenue, Justin and I have changed a lot. We’ve grown up a lot. Our comfort zones have been stretched, and our trust in God has never been more necessary. The tests we have faced have brought us such special memories: memories that you’ve each helped shape.

We have welcomed many changes here, and with each transition came friends to see us through to the other side. From figuring out a new town, to becoming new parents, then on the roller coaster ride of our second child – and his spina bifida – you guys have hugged and prayed and laughed with us. You have cried and shown more love than we are deserving of. For that, we will be forever grateful, and forever indebted. You have been exactly what we needed through each new stage.

Many of you have lent your homes at meal times, baby clothes for our sweet ones, and your hands when our own simply weren’t enough. You have lent us your hearts, and you have touched ours in a forever-changed kind of way.

You have loved us. You have loved our babies. The love that we share as a family was nurtured with the love that you have shown to us. We are joyful because of your friendship, and we are thankful because of your kindness.

As our time in Mississippi comes to a close - as we prepare for more transitions and more of the unknown - we look at what you’ve taught us. You, our friends, have taught us that great friendships can come from the unexpected and from the brand new. You have shown us that it doesn’t take blood to make you family, and it doesn’t take history to make best friends.

So, as we head towards the Florida line, my hands will be on the steering wheel, and my eyes will be focused ahead. Not because we won’t miss your presence, your hospitality, and your generosity, but because you all have taught us how to face change without fear. You have all played a part in the special memories we have made here and have helped make this an unforgettable time in our lives. We are grateful for each and every one of you. From the bottoms of our hearts: Thank you, for all you’ve done.

With love,

The Tysons

2014-09-24T16:40:00.000-05:00

Dear Ellery,

Your restlessness caught up with you tonight, as you've already been awake twice, and it's only 11:15.

Each time calling for me to come. Come lay with you.

So, each time I did. I rubbed your back, I sang your song, and each time I told you how much I love you.

Your response was the same every time. With your eyes still closed, you lifted your hands above your head and asked, "like this?"

Yes, darling, like that, and so much more than you'll ever know.

Your two year old self needs me, so I come.

I'll always come.

Always.

Wheels.

2014-09-22T22:44:00.001-05:00

Justin and Ellery went to Lowes after dinner to get a few things for Justin to make Elam a small wheelchair.

Tonight, while reading books before bed, we were talking with Ellery about her day.

Our conversation went something like this:

Me: 'Where did you and daddy go this evening?'

Ellery: 'The store!'

Me: 'For what?'

Ellery: 'To make Elam some wheels'

Justin: 'Do you know what he's going to do with wheels?'

Ellery: 'He will roll and roll and roll'

Justin: 'yes, that's the plan.'

Ellery: 'And he will pull my hair!'

Justin: 'yes, I suppose that will probably happen, too.'

*Elam just loves to get his hands in those precious blonde locks of hers any chance he gets. And she's already having internal conflicts about his future mobility.

Acknowledging the small.

2014-08-13T12:20:00.001-05:00

'Do not disdain the small. The whole of life - even the hard - is made up of the minute parts, and if I miss the infinitesimal, I miss the whole.' - Ann Voskamp (One Thousand Gifts)

The light speckles the ground, falling through the green leaves and triumphant tree branches, leaving beautiful 'sun puddles', as the toddler calls them, scattered throughout the front yard.

A surprise autumn day has shown up in the middle of summer, and my hair blows gently in the cool, sweet breeze. It's refreshing, and needed.

I am thankful. My pen scratches the paper as I acknowledge my blessings. I hear the etching sound created as my thoughts tumble from my fingertips. It is beautiful, the sound of thankfulness. And it's eye opening.

We are outside this morning and my Ellery is singing along with the birds. She's longing to climb a latter and rescue one of them from his perch on the powerline above us. She's wearing rainbow pants that she picked out herself. They're on inside out and backwards, but she did it. And she's proud.

"You're impressed, mom!" She tells me.

She has heart. And spunk. And independence.

I am thankful.

I watch it all from the rocking chair on our front porch. From the corner of my eye I see the porch swing swaying back and forth as the wind chime, played by the wind, creates a melody for it to dance to.

The swing is light blue, and it's my favorite thing about our porch. It is not exceedingly comfortable, and I do not use it all of them time - but it is special.

It has a cut out of a tulip resting in the center of its back. It was created and uniquely designed for me, with love, by the one man who holds my forever in his heart.

For this, I am thankful, always. Even when I fail to acknowledge it.

I am thankful for this love. This forever. This one man and his heart.

I have reminders all over my house of the love that radiates from the center of it all. Reminders of God's love for me.

This love shines through the light in the eyes of my children.

In the way my husband adores me.

And the way nature sings us a beautiful song, with sun puddles and sweet chirping.

But this love, the irreplaceable, glorious, undeserving love shines the brightest when I take the time to acknowledge it. To acknowledge the big, but maybe more importantly, acknowledge the easily overlooked, the everyday and routine.

2014-06-25T13:37:00.001-05:00

Let me tell you a story.

One day, a few months ago, I was at Ochsner, riding the elevator after one of Elam's many doctor appointments. It was raining and we had just heard some discouraging news.

Elam was riding in the Ergo, snuggled closely to my chest, I kissed his forehead as the elevator descended downward.

From over my shoulder an old man asked how old 'the cute little boy' was. And when I answered his first question, he then took the opportunity to ask about the braces Elam had on his feet.

With 7 more floors to go, I mentioned he had spina bifida, clubbed feet, and lack of movement in his legs.

I smiled, kissed Elam again, and reassured the stranger, "We couldnt possibly love him any more than we do, and we're learning life doesn't end with Spina bifida."

As I was finishing my story, the elevator came to a stop.

When it opened, the old man nodded, again mentioning Elam's cuteness as he tipped his hat in farewell.

After he exited the elevator, I then noticed stares from a women to my right. Stares I did not understand. She was with her teenage daughter. She hurried out, with her hand on the small of her daughter's back, encouraging her to move a little faster.

She stopped just outside the elevator, making sure to keep me within earshot.

Then she said,

'See, honey. That is why you take your prenatals, so kids like that don't happen. People like her shouldn't be allowed to have kids if they can't even take their vitamins.'

I'll let you think about that for a second.

'...so kids like [Elam] don't happen.'

[ I shouldn't be allowed to have children.]

To this day, my heart hurts when I tell this story. It hurts for Elam, it hurts for me, and it really hurts for people who judge without knowing someone's details.

This woman judged me on something she knew nothing about. She determined I was unfit for motherhood because of the physical disabilities of my child.

I challenge you to realize we all have our details that others may not know about.

It is easy to judge when you think it is something that couldn't happen to you.

It is easy to judge when you think you take every precaution to 'do everything right'.

Sometimes, it is just easy to judge.

But we need to stop.

We need to stop belittling others in this journey that isn't always easy.

We need to love. Love despite mistakes, love because of mistakes, love because none of us are perfect.

Let's just love.

Is your advice graceful?

2014-06-04T15:35:00.001-05:00

I reach for the milk in the refrigerated section of the grocery store. I look down, kiss Elam on the forehead as I turn to place the milk in the cart.

Elam is happy to be riding chest to chest in the Ergo, smiling and babbling at me. He's wearing a jumper, with his legs completely exposed to the air. It is 80 degrees outside and humid here in Mississippi, so he's not wearing socks.

As I turn the shopping cart towards the produce section, checking my list to see what else I need, I hear, "Isn't your baby cold? He should be wearing socks! Shame on you!"

Looking over my shoulder, not believing what my ears just heard, I see an older lady still semi-shaking her finger at me.

My immediate response was to smile and say, "No, He's fine and happy, thanks though."

She scoffs and walks away.

I stand there for a couple of seconds, looking around to see if anyone else witnessed this.

I proceeded to get the rest of my things, and head home, but couldn't shake what just happened.

I am usually pretty good at letting unwanted advice go in one ear and out the other. I am experienced enough as a mother to know that the decisions I make are made to benefit my family in the best way possible.

But this.

This shame placed on me because someone doesn't know our story, doesn't know my reasoning, really bothered me.

What this lady doesn't know is: Elam spends most days in braces. He sleeps in braces. Our morning out of the house was a good opportunity to let his feet air out.

What this lady doesn't know is: we avoid wearing braces to the grocery store to avoid unwanted looks and questions about Elam's feet.

What this lady doesn't know is: her comment hurt more than she will ever know. It brought up the fear in my heart that I try to suppress about Elam's future. About judgemental eyes, not caring about the whole story and picture. About the stigma that will come along with Elam's handicap.

This journey with Elam has given me a perspective that I failed to have before him. A perspective that keeps me trying my best to avoid judging others.

You see, we all have our stories. We all have our problems and reasons. Although our hardships may look different, we are all just trying to make it.

So, before you judge me because of my sockless child, please try to see my love for him, and how it dictates my every action.

When you see my son, try not to judge him because he was born with a hole in his back and your body happens to work better than his. Instead, see his smile and the beautiful light that shines from it.

And when I see you, I will look for the good, too. I will try and look past your bad attitude, giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming life isn't going quite you expected it to today.

This is important.

Not just to me, not just for Elam, but for us all.

We all need grace to be an action.

Maybe we need our advice to be rationed to 'when asked for only.' Remembering that we never know when our piece of advice just might dig deeper than we could ever expect it to.

Let's remember not to stare at someone who looks different from you - and not judge just because someone acts a little different, too.

Remember there's a story behind it all. God's grace covers us, let our grace cover them.

Ellery says.

2014-05-23T12:15:00.001-05:00

"Here, mom, here. I'm bringing you your coffee. I'm being careful. Really careful, mom."

Slosh, slosh, slosh.

"Uh-oh, mom, I got a ploblem."

This is the synopsis of my morning.

Thankful through Exhaustion

2014-05-14T12:41:00.000-05:00

On many occasions, when I am pondering motherhood, I become exhausted. Just thinking about it, I'm exhausted.

It is not one sole act that leads to exhaustion. It's not the twenty thousand books we read a day, often, each one twice.

It is not the shoes left scattered in the yard. Not one pair, but three, that must be found in a difficult game of hide-and-seek before the coming storm.

And it certainly isn't the helpfulness of the toddler. The way she sweetly 'helps' make pancakes by creating a masterpiece of droplets of batter on the kitchen floor, followed by a proud proclamation of her accomplishments.

You see, it's the combination of everything the two-and-a-half year old darling does, on top of everything the ten month old needs.

Some days, if we're honest, it's just rather difficult.

Most days, if I am not consciously, actively, zealously looking for the good in the trenches of motherhood, I am pretty sure I'd overlook it altogether. But some days, those precious days, when both kids nap at the same time. When laundry has been folded and put away, dishes are clean, and I have approximately 30 minutes of quietness, I see it. I see the beauty as the toys lie motionless. The sound machine hums in the background, while my fingers hold fast to the chai tea steaming between them, and I smile. I smile as what I perceive as hectic, all fades away.

This leads me to my point.

This hectic moment, the days that pass quickly but seem to drag on forever, are supposed to be work, but this work, the work I am doing in my daughter's life, in my son's life, should be glorifying to the One Most Holy. Bringing him glory through the raising of my kids.

You see, the shoes left strewn about the yard means there must have been playful, happy feet tromping over the grass just moments before. The pancake batter in puddles on the floor means there must have been a little girl wanting to be just like her momma, taking notes, and learning what life is all about, at the heels of the one who loves her most. The books, the thrill of reading, yearning to learn through imagination is what we all hope to inspire in our kids.

But how often do we see it that way? How often do we long for the messes to not happen, the shoes to just be put away, and the books to read themselves?

Perspective. Maybe I need a change in perspective.

"In everything, give thanks, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:18

This is His will for me.

My perspective should be with that focus.

Motherhood. A fiesty two year old. A sweet son with spina bifida. There's a reason, and every hour, every minute, every moment of chaos, I must choose the perspective of joy. The perspective of thankfulness. The perspective of raising God-loving children by showing them how to love our Lord through every minute of craziness.

This is my prayer.

Elam's Birth Story

2014-05-09T22:17:00.003-05:00

Today, I sit down with the cursor flashing before me on this blank page. My blog, I have so desperately deserted you, and for that I am sorry. My heart is still overflowing with words, words that have been quite difficult to make public, to make open for everyone to read, including myself. Sometimes it is easier just to keep the words of your heart so locked away that you don't even recognize them when they finally come.

I keep shifting in my chair. Shifting back and forth, occasionally sipping on the glass of ice water I have before me. Thinking. I'm thinking of the appropriate introduction to a blog that is so intensely ingrained into every part of my being: Elam's birth story.

Elam's story is a little different than Ellery's. Although, the gist of it is the same: labor, delivery, baby. With him, emotionally, there is much more to it. Much more heart behind it. Much more terror. Much more awe laid out before me as God's grace covered me completely in my time of desperation.

June 20, 2013.

It began.

Unprepared and without a bag packed or plans for Ellery, I woke up at 5 am and used the restroom. I crawled back in bed and noticed something a little odd; I was leaking. A little curious, I went back to the restroom, continuing to leak. I was quite certain, although not completely positive, my water had broke.

I woke Justin up calmly, informed him I was going to the hospital to verify that, in fact, this was not a false alarm. I left, and he took charge of packing a bag, finding someone to watch Ellery, and being ready when I got home.

I arrived at the local hospital 5 minutes later, informing them upon arrival I would not be having our baby at their hospital, however I did need to make sure this was 'go time' before I drove to New Orleans. After being checked in and put in a room, I had already determined that this was 'it', but now I was stuck. I was determined 'the hospital's property' and they did not want me to leave. They wanted me to stay, liability reasons, and have the baby with them - to which I proceeded to set them straight. All of my emotions and every ounce of fear were put aside as I was protecting my right to birth my baby in the best place possible for him. From what I remember, I asked for a release form, relieving them from any liability if anything was to happen to me or the baby upon leaving their hospital, and that was it.

Longer than it should have taken later, I was home telling Ellery good-bye for an undetermined amount of time, shaking as tears left my eyes. This wasn't supposed to be happening, not yet. My heart hurt as I embraced the mystery that laid before me. The mystery that left me feeling more out of control than anything else has ever come close. Within ten minute of returning home, Justin and I were loaded in the car and headed to Ochsner. The two hour drive seemed like ten. Prayers for a safe delivery, prayers for strength, prayers for peace and knowledge that God was in control were breathed with every exhalation of my lungs. Tears continued to roll. Nervous tear. Excited tears. Finally, we start the second half of this journey, tears.

The drive was uncomfortable - as liquid continued to leave Elam's side and enter the world where he'd be welcomed soon. My doctor was expecting me, and we were escorted directly to a room upon our arrival.

I did the typical change from my everyday clothes to my laboring gown and positioned myself in bed. It was a little after nine in the morning at this time and I was 3 cm dilated. Since this was an unusual case and several people were to be in the operating room upon Elam's descent and entering, I was hooked up to Pitocin to help induce contractions.

At this point, I made my decision public that I did not want an epidural. This was my journey, a rollercoaster ride with my son, one where much joy and much pain had already been encountered, and this was the end of our time as one. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to experience every bit of our transition to something deeper, to something more beautiful - to life.

Looking out the window, I saw clouds rolling in over the Mississippi River. The clouds came, the sky grew dark, and it began to rain. Cars crossed the bridge that connected the shores. My heart was made full in the distraction God had placed before me. It was ominous, yet it was so very beautiful.

At this point, contractions were coming on strong and I was progressing pretty quickly. Justin never left my side once labor had truly started. He began to support me like he had during Ellery's birth by rocking me through the tightening, but this time around, I just needed to do it alone. I found a way to breathe through the intense moments, eyes closed and humming softly. When relief would come, my eyes would find Justin with his nose buried in the bible his grandparents gave him a long time ago. He'd read a verse aloud and God's presence would fill the room.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us. Ephesians 3:20

How those words sound so sweet.

A resident would occasionally come to monitor progression, but for the most part, we were left to peaceful laboring on our own. This continued until around 3 o' clock in the afternoon when Elam must have moved. Suddenly his heartbeat was being detected at an alarmingly slow rate, and all of the fiddling and adjusting of the external heartbeat monitor would not indicate that it was a false alarm. We tried changing positions and walking around, all of which was unsuccessful. The resident made the decision to place an internal monitor on the top of his head for a more accurate heart rate read.

That was the end of my peaceful labor.

The scare of something happening to Elam, after our already long journey, was unbearable. The heart rate was now within the normal range and all proved to be a false alarm, however, I couldn't get settled back down.

All of my nervousness came rushing back. Every thing I had put aside in order to enjoy the last moments being intimately one with my little boy invaded my every thought and breath. The devil was attacking me where I was weakest, and he was winning.

My progression stalled at 9 cm for two hours. Back labor controlled me. Swaying, humming, and dancing only brought tears of frustration, when finally Elam began to descend.

He was coming down face first, so the doctor decided it was best to manually manipulate and rotate him before we were wheeled down to the operating room to start pushing. This was 5:35 pm.

As we entered a room of solid white, medical professionals all around, needles and gauze, scrub hats and sterile everything, I was once again at peace. I wasn't thinking of his future surgeries. I wasn't thinking of everything we had to be afraid of. I was thinking about him. My son. The one I'd always fight for, always love, and always give everything I had to make this world a better place for him to live.

I began pushing at 5:40pm. I took a deep breath, I let my body control my movements. Three breaths later, Elam's little lungs filled air and our hearts transcended to a place of perfect love.

He was quickly taken away from us to a side operating room. They wrapped his back in temporary gauze, swaddled him tightly, and brought him back to me.

Chills ran through me, as tears filled my eyes. My face suddenly drenched with tears, the nurse asked if I wanted to hold him. Shaking with joy, I held him close as I whispered, over and over, "I love you. I love you. You're perfect!"

He was everything we'd hoped for. He was our son; breathing, crying, beautiful.

Our time together lasted close to ten minutes. They eventually wheeled him up to the NICU and told us they'd call us when he was ready for us to visit. I headed back to my room.

We made the "He's here!" phone calls and announced his name. We loved, we ate, we were so happy.

Our 5 month journey of curiosity and uncertainty had just turned into a lifetime of it. A lifetime of 'I don't knows', medical interventions, and a million reasons to hit our knees daily in search of our loving Lord's grace and wisdom.

We went five days only being able to look at him.
We spent nine days in the NICU.
We made countless trips up and down the elevator and back and forth from the parking garage.

Every minute, every stress, every tear was worth it.

We're thankful for the way God shows up in the most beautiful of ways, in the exact moments you need His warmth the most.

Because he's here, we celebrate!

2014-01-16T20:15:00.000-06:00

'I wait for The Lord, my whole being waits, and in His word I put my hope.' Psalms 130:5

We hope, we wait, and we only find pleasure and contentment when we place our whole being in Christ our Savior and His blessed will.

It is incredible the difference a year can make. This time last year we were blissfully ignorant of the journey our God was about to reveal to us. A journey that initially left us winded and full of heartache, but has since brought more joy than one can imagine.

In case you missed it, our journey with Elam started with this.

Then four days later, it turned into this. Praise God, it turned into this!

This day, one year ago, I was unaware of what was to come. Unfamiliar with the details of spina bifida, never dreaming the child growing inside me would have it.

We spent five months traveling from specialist to specialist. From Nashville to New Orleans. Month after month still uncertain what the diagnosis meant for our child. We knew a lot, but at the same time, we knew very little.

With all that we knew, and all the more we didn't, we loved. We loved every little piece of our precious boy, and were thankful.

Thankful for life. Thankful for hope. Thankful for spina bifida.

You see, spina bifida doesn't just affect Elam. It is affecting me. My heart. My walk with God. And my drive to do something more. Something more than the selfish desires I get lost in.

And I know, also, it is affecting others. Elam's life, Elam's story has reached beyond our living room, beyond our town, state and country. Lives all over have heard and prayed and have seen God move in ways only he can. And we are thankful. Thankful for the opportunity to be used as an instrument in God's perfect plan.

This year, and every year from now on, our plan is to celebrate January 28. It's not Elam's birthday, but it is something equally as special.

It is the day we celebrate life and celebrate spina bifida. We celebrate the dark hole we were graciously pulled out of, and embrace the journey in which we were blessed.

'For I know the plans I have for you, Elam, declares The Lord!' Jeremiah 29:11

Because he's here, we celebrate.

Praise God, we celebrate!

In lieu of a Christmas tree...

2013-12-03T23:16:00.001-06:00

As the Christmas season begins, our hearts are overflowing with the blessings this past year has brought us.

This evening when Justin got home from work, we loaded the kids in the car and headed to the Christmas tree farm. One kid was throwing a hyperventilating fit because he's probably teething, and the other one was screaming because she was out of crackers - and because she's two. Apparently they have a saying about two year olds.

Everyone was in, buckled, and semi-contained when, about a mile down the road, we realized the Christmas Tree farm closed at 5. It was 5:15. We turned around and Ellery asked, "What you doing, mommy?"

"We're going back home," I said sorrowfully.

Insert another tantrum here.

All day we had talked about Christmas trees and how much fun we were going to have cutting one down when daddy got home. Now I tell her we aren't getting one today.

When we got home with a very disappointed toddler asking for a Christmas tree, Justin went to the backyard and cut down something resembling a very large twig. He brought it inside and called it a Christmas tree. She didn't know the difference. To her, it was a Christmas tree.

He hurredly draped some colored lights on it and plugged it in. Ellery's face lit up with pure delight, and my heart melted.

Innocence. I was reminded of innocence.

Each year, we usually spend about $50 on a Christmas tree. We spend money on decorations and festivities and unnecessary gifts. We find great joy in all of these things, yet we sometimes fail to let the true reason for the season envelope our hearts, inspiring us to think more about others than we do ourselves.

As we stood in awe of how such a simple branch could be transformed into something so incredible, we had an idea.

An idea that I really love.

We aren't going to buy a Christmas tree this year. Instead of spending that money on something that will pass away as quickly as it came, we want to donate it to a good cause.

Our hearts have not been led in any particular way yet, as far as where our donation will be going, but we are prayerful that the right opportunity will be opened to us.

Though it is no great sum of money that we are planning to give, we are excited about this opportunity the Lord has laid upon our hearts, an opportunity born of a very hectic afternoon. Perhaps in the simple act of comforting a disappointed toddler, the seeds have been sown for a new family tradition. Isn't our God good?

Thankful.

2013-10-31T16:13:00.000-05:00

Today I want to revisit thankfulness.

Thankfulness in the sense that, even when things are going wrong (for what seems like constantly), we remember how much we have already been given.

I am human, I am just like you. I sometimes ask the question, "why" and maybe feel a little sorry for myself. My husband has even seen me throw a hyperventilating fit from time to time.

That's me.

It's crazy how we can so easily get sucked into the "but that's not what I had planned" phenomenon and use that as an excuse to just sit and wallow in our own self pity.

But you know what? That's the easy way out. That's the way for the cowardly!

And I choose not to be a coward.

I choose to trust that my plans aren't the best for me anyway, and whatever God has in store for our family will be far more fulfilling than the uneventful, perfectly polished picture I once had of our future.

Thankful. Today I am thankful.

I am thankful for my husband who lets me hyperventilate.

I am thankful for my (very close to) two year old, and her spunky, independent personality.

And I am thankful for Elam and how he continuously shows me how to see past imperfection, and teaches me to embrace it.

Things haven't been necessarily easy for us lately, in regards to Elam's health. A few weeks ago tests showed we needed to start cathing him four times a day. We half expected this, but it still stung our hearts a little.

Since then, he has had several reactions to several things, a UTI, and a strabismus diagnosis. All of which, in the big scheme of things, and a few years down the road, don't mean much, but in the here and now, it is a little stressful.

Although life is chaotic, we've got it pretty good. I choose to remember that today, and not take this time for granted.

Ellery says...

2013-10-29T16:55:00.001-05:00

Ellery and I like to make the time for daily dance sessions in our living room. I am not sure if you can really call it dancing, since we just jump up and down with our hands above our head. But nevertheless, we dance and have fun.

Today, while Elam had some tummy time, and Ellery and I were giving him entertainment, Ellery loudly proclaims, "S-op! Kiss Eyum bwake (break)!" And runs over to him to kiss him on the head. And then returns to dancing.

She is only slightly obsessed with her little brother.