Baby Squidgette's Real Name

I have a weakness.

I can't name things until I have seen them.

I was like this a child with stuffed animals and baby dolls. I may really, really like the name "Rustic" for my new little stuffed puppy, but if I looked deep into his eyes, I knew, deep down, that his name was really supposed to be "Ferguson." And I just couldn't stick with my first name.

When we were in the process of adopting Grant, we had a list of names that we liked. When we saw him in the hospital, we chose from that list: Grant Alexander. He was our very tiny gift. And we had big dreams about his future defending others and championing the weak. So, that's how he became Grant Alexander.

I then proceeded to spend the next week in NICU absolutely miserable because I was convinced that we had named him the wrong name. Clearly this child wasn't a "Grant." He was supposed to be a "Michael." Although "Michael" was nowhere on our list of preferred names, although I had never, ever even remotely thought about naming a child "Michael," I was miserably convinced that I had misnamed my son.

This is where it's very good that I married Scott. He does not understand my need to see someone, to look into their eyes, to choose a name. So, our son's name is still "Grant" (for which I'm very thankful, and I now believe to be his right name), and he is making a similar list of girl names to take to the hospital this time.

Because, I also have a horrible habit of choosing awful names when I'm under that kind of pressure. (For example: Percival, Matilda, Cecil...)

But prepping for a utero-baby is a little different than prepping for a maybe-adoption. So, we've been hashing and re-hashing girl names for quite a while. In a culture where babies are considered babies only if they're "wanted" or after they pass through the birth canal, we want to be very clear in letting others know that regardless of her size, development, or story, she is a unique little bundle, being created just for us, by our Heavenly Father.

So, wee Squidgette's name is...

Now... where did that come from?

Elizabeth: My middle name is "Elizabeth" and I was named after my great-grandmother. Although I only knew her for the first two years of my life, she was hilariously similar to myself. I say "hilariously" because apparently we both approach life in the same casual, fly-by-the-seat-of-our-pants kind of way... and that usually leads to laughable mishaps.

Elizabeth also means "my God is abundance." Which is strikingly appropriate, as this baby is an addition to our abundance that we never imagined. The Elizabeth of the Bible, who was noted for her fear of the Lord and gentle acceptance of God's plan, is my favorite woman in the Bible.

Wynne: When we found out we were having a girl, my knee-jerk reaction was panic. How on earth was I supposed to parent a girl in this culture? Perhaps because I am a girl, I am even more acutely aware of the trials facing little girls, the perverted messages of beauty, and the distorted view of femininity and roles. As Scott and I prayed over our little one, the same word kept reappearing in both our prayers, in the same request: "Lord, may this baby girl be winsome in counter-cultural beauty." We want our little girl to be strikingly different from her culture, in a way that wins her culture to Christ.

Short of pulling a complete "Puritan" and naming our little girl "Winsome," we abbreviated (and yes... misspelled) this word to become little Squidgette's middle name.

So, Elizabeth Wynne... we can hardly wait to meet you!

Our own little "Bets."

Lessons... that I should be learning

This past week has been a long, long lesson in patience and humility.

I hate learning both.

In fact, my general disdain for learning either or both of these attributes might be a large reason for my current trial. It might be. If God is, in fact, interested in the minute changes in my life and in grooming my sinful soul more into the likeness of his Son... then it might be a lesson I should learn. And it just might be a lesson He's prepared specifically for me.

Maybe.

Let's not get too hasty here.

(insert wry smile)

But, yes, God is teaching me patience and humility... I'm very, very weak right now. I'm largely horizontal on the couch, with an occasional transition to my bed. My body has lost a massive amount of blood. And I'm pregnant. Neither of those is a recipe for overwhelming amounts of energy. This past week, my husband did not get a single meal prepared by me (aside from a frozen pizza), my housework consisted of dishes, picking up, and sporadic laundry. That's it. And my motherhood goals each day were, "Keep the baby fed and changed."I didn't even go grocery shopping. Aside from going to the doctor. I didn't leave my house all week. Shoot. I barely left the couch.

I don't like being still. I like having my house immaculate. (My poor mother worked for years towards this goal, she'd be thrilled to know that something sunk in. They used to call my room "The Black Abyss."). I absolutely love cooking. Love it. I have a chair that's half reupholstered (another hobby that I'm falling in love with!), a house that's unpacked, but not decorated, and a gorgeous "studio" space that's dying for hours of writing and projects. And I have all my goals. My wonderfully outlined stay-at-home wife and mother goals.

Underneath this physical exhaustion and thwarted goals, there's an undercurrent of raw disappointment. I like for other people to see my life well-organized. I like for other people to be impressed by my clean house, willingness to serve, and love for my family. I work because I love my family, yes, but I'm learning that's not the only reason that I work. My love is not untainted with selfishness. I love to work, work, work to show how amazing I am.

But right now, I can barely climb a flight of stairs. Ah... humility.

So God is teaching me about quiet work. About a striving that doesn't come from physical labor. About diligence that's not reflected in how clean my house is, or how yummy dinner smells. My family cannot benefit from tangible, visible love right now. I am physically unable to provide it. (Aside from daily cuddle sessions and book-fests on the couch!)

So, I am learning about prayer. I use the word "learning" loosely. I'm like a barely walking, wobbly little baby deer. My mind is an undisciplined bramble of tangential thoughts. But when else in my life will I have hours of silent, still time, in which to pray for those in my life? (My heart is begging that this be the only time!)

When Scott and I were in premarital counseling, we memorized Psalm 131...

O Lord, my heart is not lifted up;

my eyes are not raised too high;

I do not occupy myself with things too great and marvelous for me.

But I have calmed and quieted my soul,

like a weaned child with its mother; like a weaned child is my soul within me.

O Israel, hope in the LORD

from this time forth and forevermore.

That's it. The whole psalm. I'm learning to still my heart through prayer. To serve others through prayer. To focus on my Savior through prayer. And, because I'm a very slow, slow learner, God had to remove all other distractions and tasks. Because I'm proud and conceited, God removed the props that were supporting my own glory, and is slowly working on me to seek His glory.

Patience and humility.

Not what I would sign up for.

But clearly what I need...

When You Don't Have To Understand...

God has been teaching me that I don't have to know.

I don't have to understand.

And I don't have to provide a unique, trite Christian answer to every struggle.

He doesn't ask me to grow mountains of faith, all he wants is a mustard seed of clinging to Him.

And sometimes, keeping a hold of that mustard seed, hurts more than I ever imagined.

I have been sick the majority of this pregnancy. Normal, nauseated, chronically exhausted sick. And I would give anything to go back there. Because something much worse has started to happen...

I have an autoimmune disease known as ulcerative colitis. My body basically reacts as though normal stomach tissue is some deadly pathogen, and my body attacks itself. It's a painful, embarrassing disease... When I was younger, I used to imagine I was chronically ill with some romantic, wasting disease (the side effect of too much Victorian literature), and now my imagination has become reality. And there's nothing "romantic" about it.

For the past 2 1/2 years, I have not needed any medical intervention. Because I was healthy when I got pregnant, I hoped that I would maintain the status quo throughout pregnancy. And for 20 weeks, I did. Then it came back. With a vengeance.

In the eight years since I was diagnosed, I have never had the disease attack with such intensity and deteriorate with such speed. I have lost massive amounts of blood in a very short time. All my tried and true remedies for controlling this disease have been completely useless.

And I'm in a new home, without my favorite doctor, without insurance (to cover this preexisting condition), without funds to supply medical needs, and without my mom. (I've decided you're never too old to want your mom.)

And another human life is depending on my body for her life.

This is terrifying.

And I don't understand why this is happening.

But in my fear, my distress, and my weakness, this truth keeps coming through: God is god.

It's not profound. My mind can't grasp profound right now. All I can think is He is in charge. I've been living in Job... And never has my awareness of God's bigness been so real. And you know what all that bigness means?

That maybe I can't understand. Maybe I don't see a reason. And maybe, just maybe, I never will.

But I don't have to. Because behind the scenes of billions of human lives, God is creating a story more vivid and imaginative than I could possibly imagine. And someday, I will see it. Someday, I will understand.

May I rest in my ignorance. And may I never grow angry at God for His inscrutable ways.

As Job said,

“I know that you can do all things,

    and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted." (Job 42:2)

His purposes are big. And they are good.

Back Home Again... In Michigan

Well, more than a week after our return, I've finally unloaded my camera (but still not my suitcase!), stocked the kitchen, scrubbed the house, and returned to normalcy. Grant and I were able to fly home for a short visit to see family in Indiana and Michigan before flying became impossible for mommy and miserable for Grant (the child likes to move!). We left Scott in Philly, and became seasoned jet-setters, as we navigated airports solo... just baby, Mommy, a car seat, a massive "purse," and rolling carry-on. Needless to say, we were relieved to finally land in Detroit. (I'm not sure how happy most people are to arrive  in Detroit, but I most definitely was.)

'

We visited "Granny& Gramps" Allison in Lansing... and Grantopatomus enjoyed all the attention (who wouldn't!?), and mommy enjoyed all the pizza and fun conversation.

Probably the cutest lil' gangster around. 

What on earth  are they feeding my little Boilermaker!?!

I would submit that no child's life is complete if there are not plenty of embarrassing bath pictures. And (of course) the quintessential bath picture should really  be snapped while you're in Grandmama's sink, playing with your father's vintage toys.

At this point in our documentation, Grant was still not familiar with any camera other than my iPhone. But Grandmama looks just lovely.