A Family of Four {The First Month}

Well, our house is now "empty."

After five wonderful weeks of Grandma, Grandpa, Oma, Opa, aunties and uncles... we are all alone. Just the four of us.

The past month has been a blur of learning and sleeplessness. It's been much easier than when we did the same thing with the Grantopatomus. I want to believe that the "easiness" has come as a result of increased spiritual maturity on my part. That's what I want to believe. I did walk into this period of sleeplessness better prepared--I had verses to meditate on, a Bible reading plan, and a commitment to mental and spiritual discipline.

But in the end, it was the grace of God, not all my striving... He knew I needed spiritual rest. And He graciously provided it when I sought it.

The Lord is my provider.

That's what I've learned this month.

I can do everything "right." And it doesn't matter. God calls the shots. He provides and withholds as He sees fit.

I learned this in His willingness to provide spiritual rest. And I learned this in His allowing physical difficulties for my little baby girl. Wee Bets is still not at her birth weight. I did everything "right." And God, who is the ultimate provider, decided that my baby would stay small, that breastfeeding would be a massive challenge, and that feedings every hour (even through the night!) wouldn't be enough to boost her weight.

Now, armed with internal peace and a small syringe/medical tubing to feed my baby, I think we're finally on the upward trajectory. We'll find out on Thursday at our doctor's appointment!

(One of these days, I will have a fat infant... But so far, my children seem determined to test my sanctification by being incredibly small and difficult to feed.)

Because stringing words together is still a challenge, I've decided to finish off a summary of this past month with pictures. I've countless other thoughts tumbling around in my head, but I'll wait until they can be more coherently produced.

Meeting Oma at the hospital!

Tia Julie and her newest niece... 

"Umm... what is this?" 

Our precious "Bettina"

Helping Daddy with a project. A 124 year-old house means he'll get lots of opportunities to learn!

Playing in the toolbox Daddy made when he was little.

Little "Chicka-Bee" meeting Opa

Of course, a visit from Uncle Teej guaranteed that Grantlet wouldn't be neglected.

This was not staged. They both clearly enjoy napping.

Fighting for his title of "the cool uncle."

Imbibing the Grantopatomus with a love of hats.

Wee Bets and "cool Uncle Teej."

Whirling across the floor in a diaper box... Opa is so COOL!

Like we said... Opa is so cool. Mad grandparenting skills.

Meeting Grandma Marcia! (Baby is our own Little Miss Bug-Eyes!)

Meeting Grandpa Keith!

Exploring the most amazing bubble machine of all time.

Loving our Moby wrap... Baby heaven, Mommy multi-tasking.

Cuddles with Daddy-o.

Milk-drunk baby... Our daughter is quite the ham.

Learning to use a fork! (Although, we prefer to use it as a baton, as opposed to an eating utensil.)

In case anyone was worried... The Grantopatomus didn't suffer from a lack of attention.

Daddy/daughter nap time.

Stay tuned for our next post: Newborn pics of "Bettina," "Wee Bets," "Chicka-Bee," "Betsy-Boo-Boo."

It's a miracle my children ever learn their given names...

Elizabeth Wynne: God's Abundance

This is the story of how we met Elizabeth Wynne, face-to-face, after nine long months.

Every child has a different story. Regardless of the way in which God brings babies into families, each moment, each breath, each tiny soul is a picture of God's ceaseless grace to mankind. God doesn't have to give new life. But He does.

My mother booked her plane ticket in late December. She was coming on January 28th and staying till February 18th.

My due date (as of my last ultrasound) was February 6th. (Although both Scott and I were firmly convinced that this baby's actual due date was January 25th.)

I was staunchly determined that Bets was going to arrive on January 29th, one day after my mom, so that I could have 3 long weeks of help from my mother. I had no idea what obstacles I would face while parenting two babies, but I was determined to have my mama there to walk me through the first tricky weeks.

Right on schedule, at 6 a.m. on January 29th, I began to have contractions. I was psyched. I had just had an amazingly restful night, and I was ready to meet the little person inside of me.

Throughout the rest of the day my contractions continued, but the time between them varied from 4 minutes to 15 minutes. I had a midwife who (in her own words) told me, "I'm a one-woman show. Let's not spend hours hanging out at the hospital." And I was totally in favor of that. My plan was:

1) arrive at the hospital
2) pop out a baby as quickly as possible,
3) sleep.

Further "birth planning" I did not do. Perhaps that was foolish, perhaps I use up all my planning mojo on a daily basis (I do love a good planning session!), perhaps I was just ignorant, but I firmly believed that the baby would come how she wanted when she was ready. Stories from my friends had taught me how often birth plans get thrown out the window. So, I didn't even bother.

By five that evening, I was exhausted... and that's when the contractions really took off. By 8:30 p.m. I was admitted to the hospital at 5 centimeters dilated.

In my ignorance, I thought I was tired then.

Over the next 2 hours, my contractions intensified. And I was super-duper mad at Eve for eating that fruit in the garden of Eden. I'm sure every woman has coping tactics for labor. Mine consisted of cutting off my husband's circulation to his hands, neck (yes, neck), and arms. Scott was wonderful. He didn't say corny, encouraging nothings. He didn't pretend to know what I was going through. He merely let me order him into a variety of positions that let me lean on him for support. Fortunately, the nurse and midwife stayed out of the room for the majority of this time. For whatever reason, I hated it when others were in the room. Talk to me, and I wanted to punch you. I wanted to do this alone. Only Scott was comforting.

By 10:40, there was no break between contractions and I was in horrible pain. I was no strenger to debilitating pain, and had dealt with it (with a morphine drip), multiple times in the hospital. This was a completely different kind of pain. Not worse. Just different. Think menstrual cramps that make you want to commit suicide. Many of my contractions were in my back. It was excruciating.

And I was done.

I had been trying to have a natural child-birth. My reasoning was two-fold:

First, I did not want to pay for an anesthesiologist. My pregnancy was a "pre-existing condition" when we switched insurances, so none of my hospital expenses were covered. The church had graciously given us a very generous gift to cover labor and delivery, but my recent experience with hospital billing departments (compliments of Grant's adoption and my ulcerative colitis) had taught me that the crazy prices of medical care are a constantly moving target. I didn't think an anesthesiologist's addition to a bill would keep us within budget.

Second, I wanted to see if I could do this. Women have done this for centuries. From Eve's induction into pain-drenched motherhood, to Mary, birthing a Savior, alone in Bethlehem with Joseph--alone without her mama--women have dealt with childbirth. When the west was being settled, I'm pretty sure there weren't competent doctors with happy drugs and a big needle. I have this weirdly stubborn streak (which never exhibits itself at good times, usually just when I'm sinning or being stupid), and my stubborn streak wanted to prove I could do this. (Like I said, my stubborn streak makes me stupid.)

But at 10:40, while I was groaning, "No, honey, I'll be fine please... Oh, this hurts!" Scott had had enough of my pain (and frankly, so had I), and he left to track down the midwife and an anesthesiologist. I did not try to stop him. I was done proving to the long-gone women of the Wild West that I could do this. I wanted to not feel anything south of my neck.

My midwife, Ronni, returned, and (after telling me that I was dilated 9 centimeters), gave me a calm, matter-of-fact pep talk. She basically convinced me that an epidural wouldn't really help much at this stage in the game. Ronni was God's provision for this labor and delivery. I love her. Even though any future pregnancies will be covered by insurance, I'm not going to an OB. I am going back to Ronni. Her coaching was clear, her directions concise, her knowledge amazing. Her business-like approach to the next stage of labor, coupled with a brief break in contractions convinced me that I didn't need an epidural. I could do this.

And I did.

Tiny, but so loud! Even the nurses commented on her lungs.
Scott said she's the next Sandy Patti.

At 11:27, I started pushing. And at 11:46, Elizabeth Wynne Allison was born.

God gave me a wonderful blessing after months of miserable pregnancy: He gave me a smooth, fast, and (comparatively!) painless delivery. 3 hours of real labor. 19 minutes of pushing. And a healthy baby that made the months of misery and the hours of pain fade like fuzzy nightmares in the morning. Within 24 hours of labor, I felt better than I had felt in months. Such an unexpected blessing!

Scott caught Bets and cut the cord. I cuddled my baby, sticky, slimy, squalling. She was so tiny! Six pounds, ten ounces, 18.5 inches long. She had a head full of dark curls, my massive chunky fingers, Scott's hairline, huge blue eyes, and gorgeously deep nail-beds which she will love when she hits high school.

She was a complete and total surprise. I spent 9 months convinced that I was probably just growing a massive tumor with its own heartbeat. When I tried to picture my daughter, I never imagined such big eyes and dark hair. I never thought she would be so petite. Honestly, even though I tried, it was hard to imagine a human at all...

Poor Chicka-Bee... Adjusting
to life is hard!

"Elizabeth" means "My God is abundance." As I held her, my body shaking with fatigue, my mind washed with joy and adrenaline, I was in awe at God's goodness. God did not have to give me this baby girl. God did not have to add to our family. He had already done massively great things by giving us Grant, and now He has given us "Bets." He grew them both. He planned them both. He orchestrated their entrance into the world and into our family. One He used paperwork and a selfless birth mom, the other He used my DNA and months of sickness. But He planned them both for our family. They are not our babies. They are a trust. A gift. They belong to God. And He is letting me be their mom!

So skeptical! And so precious.

Every baby has their own story.

And the underpinnings of each baby story, regardless of differences of conception, development, and birth, belong to a God whose love and grace cause Him to give new life.


Hallelujah, my God is abundance.

Why Obedience? Why So Young?

I am a young mommy.

With a young son.

And an even younger daughter. (In fact, because said daughter has yet to make an appearance into the world, I'm beginning to doubt that she's a girl... actually, I'm beginning to doubt I'm even growing a human. 40 weeks of pregnancy makes me feel like a giant tumor has taken over my life.)

But although I'm a young mommy, I have been teaching Sunday school, babysitting, and orchestrating pediatric therapy for a total of 15 years. Consistent interaction with children and their parents has led me to develop a nice little package of pet theories and opinions. But until the advent of Grant, they were just that: theories.

So, I am venturing out into the waters of parenting in a very new, unsteady, untried little boat of philosophies and personal mantras.

God is very nice to new mamas. Unless it's the case of an older-child adoption, He usually starts us out with training wheels. The extent of "parenting" required in the first few months of a child's life is fairly minimal. It doesn't feel minimal. It feels exhausting and overwhelming and completely impossible. But I distinctly remember, as I learned my baby's cries ("Ah, this means he's hungry... that means he's angry... this one means he's settling down.") how relieved I was that I didn't have to discipline my child, or redirect sinful thoughts, or pray for a prodigal son who was making horrible choices. Parenting starts off with training wheels. My first parenting decisions were when to comfort versus when to let him comfort himself.

Loving these "training wheels" days!

But children have a very tricky habit of growing up.

I still consider myself in training wheels stage. We're not having esoteric discussions on God's sovereignty and the nature of sin and grace. We're just learning the basics. Grant knows, and can obey the following commands: "No," "come here," and "gentle." He's also learned that "yuck!" means let go/spit that out of your mouth. (An early fascination with toilets helped us develop this last skill...) We're working on sitting still, contentment, and playing with one toy at a time.

I'll be honest, there's this golden period after he learns new command. After the learning curve, he obeys beautifully. It's like being in parenting heaven. I feel like a rock star. My child is so good, so well behaved, such a blessing.

And then the little sinner learns that he doesn't have to obey.

And things get dicey.

He starts "coming, " but then he'll stop 10 feet away. He hears "no" the third time I say it (despite making very obvious eye contact during the first two commands). He plays with the boundaries. He tries to see how far he can go before there are consequences. He is, after all, human. We all do it.

And this puts me in a very sticky, new-mommy position. After all, he is only one. Perhaps I should let it slide. Maybe just this once... I mean, I know that he knows what he's supposed to do, but maybe something is making it hard for him to obey. Maybe he's cranky, or tired, or hasn't gotten enough "mommy time." After all, won't we all be happier if I just let it slide? I do want him to be happy...

And I was forced to ask myself, "Why do I want my baby to obey?"

For my convenience? No, because it's more convenient to let things slide and cater to his every whim.
For public show? No, because the majority of our interactions are just him and me.
For just the sake of obedience? Not really. Obedience for its own sake is a hard task master. Like obeying laws in a dictatorship.

Why demand immediate, complete obedience from a one year old? Or a two year old? Or any child?

There are two reasons that I've landed on in my new parenting thinking...

1. Obedience keeps the heart tender. By requiring my son to obey, by teaching him and showing him how much he needs help to obey, I'm preparing his heart to accept the fact that he is a sinner. Boundaries and consequences reiterate to him that he is not perfect. He can't do this on his own. He needs help. My child is only one year old. But every night I cry out to the Maker of Grant's soul to save my baby boy and help him to grow into godly manhood. I, as his mommy, can help Grant be aware that he needs a Savior, by providing reasonable boundaries and guidance when he does not meet these expectations. No child will obey perfectly. That's not the point of required obedience. The point is a steadfast demonstration that they need the help of a Savior. They can't measure up on their own.

2. "Obedience comes before understanding." I'm currently reading The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert. In this book, she clearly articulates the fact that obedience often has to come first... before the emotions, before the rewards. We can't live by our feelings, we can't allow them to dictate how we respond. Obedience is paramount to emotion. While healthy and necessary expression of feelings is encouraged in scripture (read the Psalms if you don't believe me), they are by no means supposed to drive our behavior. His entire life, my son will be battered by emotions. He will get angry, lust, crave, despair... but obedience can save him from worlds of hurt. By learning to obey, regardless of his feelings, he can avoid the pain that comes from disobedience.

The entire book of Deuteronomy talks about the blessings of obedience and the curse of disobedience: "But if you will not obey the voice of the LORD your God or be careful to do all his commandments and statutes that I command you today, then all these curses shall come upon you and overtake you." (Deut. 28:15) God doesn't ask for his people to want to obey, or to be in the mood to obey. He merely asks for obedience. By training my son that obedience is not dependent on internal emotions or external circumstances, I'm equipping him early to fight his own sinful tendencies. I'm preparing him for a life of delighting to do God's will: "For this is the love of God, that we keep his commandments. And his commandments are not burdensome." (I John 5:3) God's love is displayed by providing commands that make life more enjoyable. By teaching my child unconditional obedience, I am preparing him to believe that goodness and joy come from obeying.

Now, I understand I am raising a sinner. He has his own free will. God knows what his future is, but I do not. I could parent perfectly (I won't, but theoretically I could), and he could still choose to walk away from truth. But I want to prepare his heart to accept truth, to accept salvation, to accept his Savior. And I want to start that preparation early. Immediately. I want to keep lies of disobedience from building a callous around his little heart.

So, to that end, I'm working to expect immediate obedience. From a one year old.

I'm glad this is still "training wheels stage."

Because this is a big job...

When Grant Met His Best Friend, or, When The Whites Came to Philly

Grant is surrounded by females.

Surrounded.

Here at Harvest Bible Chapel-Philadelphia, we have a surplus of adorable little baby girls. They fill the nursery with pink, and bows, and adorable giggles and screams.

Someday my son will be very happy about this ratio.

But for right now, it means that he doesn't have a "best friend" in the nursery.

Granted, he's one year old, so, let's be honest, does he even really care?

No, probably not.

But when the first weekend of January blew in some old friends, Kelli and Corbit White, and a little playmate, Louis, Grant reacted with surprising joy.

My child has been largely oblivious of other children. He watches them calmly. And then proceeds to ignore them.

However, with Lil' Louis, Grant became totally, immediately, irrevocably attached.

He smiled when Louis woke up. He laughed when Louis laughed. He even started coughing so that he could sound like Louis (who had a horrible head cold that he generously shared with Grant). They sat together at meal time, they followed each other throughout the house, they played side-by-side. Grant would cry when it was time for Louis to go to bed.

They became buddies.

And while Louis will grow-up in Germany, and Grant will have to settle for being near a "Germantown," I'm sure that their friendship will continue to grow... Because when their mommies and daddies are such friends, do they really have any choice?

Louis was very vocal. Grant spent a large amount of time jumping and staring as a variety of sounds emanated from his more verbal friend.

Because don't we all just look at giraffe heads and think, "This should go in my mouth"?

So happy for playtime!

This was immediately before they both fought over the girly teething toy. Apparently, Grant is old enough to work on "sharing."

Buddies. 

Guess what we're going to do now, Mom?! We're dumping the blocks!

Grant: This is my Louis. He is my buddy. I will love him forever.
Louis: Dude, are you hungry?

I mean, did you ever see such an adorable lil' chunker!?

We enjoyed having the Whites (and briefly the Brownfields and their three little ones!) the first weekend in January. It was such a wonderful time of friendship and encouragement. I'm so incredibly thankful when this huge house can be filled up with people. It makes my heart happy...

A Whole New World... of small glories {Part 2}

I cracked my knuckles with a chuckle of glee as I started this blog post. It would probably be my signature move, if I were a mastermind, or an evil villain. (As it is, it merely served to remind me that my hands were dry and I need some lotion...)

Yesterday, in this post I talked about how being a stay-at-home mama caused your world to become smaller.

And the reaction was just what I was hoping for. Because I knew that "Part 2" was coming.

Many people responded with encouragement (thank you!), and many more reminded me that I had baby #2 on the way, and perhaps it was good for my world to be small. That perhaps narrowing my focus to just my family was appropriate...

And to a certain extent, I agree. My life is about to radically change. Two babies under 13 months is not exactly a recipe for tackling huge mountains in the world. While I'm standing by yesterday's post, and I still think it is incredibly important to constantly turn my eyes outwards, to constantly seek to interact with others, to not allow myself to become selfish, I will admit you all are right. I will have two very young children. My life will, per necessity, have a certain "smallness" to it.

Ah, but my friends, here's where I would argue: should my world ever really, truly be small?

Several years ago I attended a conference expecting to hear Joni Eareckson Tada. At this point in time in my life, I was battling massive health problems (again), and was feeling chronically demoralized by the limitations of my energy and health. Seeing Joni, hearing Joni, listening to a woman who has battled the physical world and gleaned so much fruit in the spiritual realm, was just what my heart was longing for.

But she didn't come.

Joni was in the throws of a battle with breast cancer. And then she developed pneumonia.

Good grief, Lord. The woman is already paralyzed. Couldn't you have spared her the cancer? Or maybe just the pneumonia? How much does one person have to take?!

She did record a video. As it clicked on, I was very disappointed. I wanted to hear Joni, not listen to her in some disconnected way. But God had different plans, and He used this testimony powerfully. My broken heart and tired body found new strength... Because this is what she said:

Especially in the night when it's dark here lately. When I lie in bed . . . As you can imagine, being paralyzed, gravity is my enemy, and I can feel so claustrophobic. Yes, from the paralysis, but now here lately from the uncomfortable side effects of chemotherapy. But lying in bed awake at 2:00 a.m., I remember something that helps me to endure. I learned it long ago when I was first hospitalized after my diving accident back in 1967. And it has served me so well these many years.

It's Ephesians 3:10. Now listen to this. This is so key. This is so critical. It says there that,

[God's] intent is now, through the church [that's you and me, through us], the manifold wisdom of God is made known to the rulers and authorities in the heavenly realms.

Okay, let me paraphrase it. Because it says there that God wants to use our lives—your life and mine—as black boards upon which He chalks marvelous lessons about Himself for the benefit of millions and millions of unseen beings. Angels, even demons, are intensely interested in the way I respond to my afflictions because it teaches them something about God.*

Listen to that. 

Read it again.

And again. 

Let it soak into your soul.

Every moment, every battle, every choice, every word, every thought... every. single. response. you. make. It portrays GOD. It shows the Creator of the universe. It highlights a glory, a picture, a story, that we won't see until the very end. You are constantly, without fail, without break, without rest performing for an audience that is bigger, grander, and more powerful than any you could imagine here on this earth.

And stay-at-home mamas? That means us, too. 

When you're wiping up peanut butter... and you do it cheerfully although it feels like it never comes off the high chair tray.

When you're disciplining with consistency... patiently although you've already taught this lesson a hundred times today.

When you're reveling in bath time... and delighting in the joys of your child, although you have a million things on your to-do list.

When you're cooking yet another dinner... thankful for the hubby that is coming home.

When you speak graciously, kindly, gently. When you complete the same task over, and over, and over again with joy. When you laugh at chaos and a disrupted schedule. When you sing as you go around your work. When you stop and pray over the little troubles. When you pour out your heart over a sink full of bubbles. When you cry with a friend. When you rejoice with others' success. When exhaustion doesn't dictate your response. When fatigue crowds in, but you still choose gentleness.

When your life is characterized by ceaseless patience, joy, and thankfulness...

You are proclaiming: MY GOD IS ENOUGH! MY GOD IS GLORIOUS! MY GOD IS WORTHY!

And thousands, upon thousands, upon thousands are watching you.

In the middle of the night. All alone. Surrounded by little ones. Those thousands watch you. And they learn...

Because, without the accolades, without the acclaim, without the publicity of this world, you are choosing to bring glory to God. You are making Him the reason for your joy and peace. The very nature and character of God are all you need. That's it.

And someday, when we reach heaven, I suspect that those quiet moments of victory over impatience, fatigue, and selfishness will be worth more than we could possibly imagine.

Fight for those small glories.

My world may be small. But the possibilities for proclaiming God's glory are endless.

*Follow this link for Joni's entire talk... I would encourage you to meditate on what this amazing woman has gleaned from her solitude of suffering. God does big things with human souls.

A Whole New World... of shrinking horizons {Part 1}

I miss working.

I love being a stay-at-home wife and mama. It's a dream come true. I love that sanctification and patience are easier to give out. I love that I have the energy for empathy. I love caring for my home. I love flexibility in my schedule. I love not feeling horribly guilty whenever I'm sick and have to call in.

But I miss working.

Not because of the money, the structure, or even my coworkers and patients (although they were all delightful!).

No, I miss working because of what is happening to my world.

It's shrinking.

Five days a week, I encountered human beings. A variety of people. But they all had something "wrong" with them. My job only existed because of sin and the fall. People don't go to the hospital to party. People go to the hospital to battle, to die, to grieve. Hospital trips are not on anyone's to-do list. Years of therapy aren't what any parent signed up for. A debilitating accident or stroke... no one volunteers for that. Addictions. Surgical malfunctions. Cancer. Pulmonary failure.

No one wants that.

And so, on a daily basis, I saw grief, struggles, pain. I saw humanity in the grips of the curse of sin. This is not how life is supposed to be. "Death is a part of life." No it's not. It was never intended to be. Death is horrible. Terrible. Depressing. Imminent. We fight it for all it's worth. It was never in our original design.

And I needed to see this.

Because I so easily forget.

I forget that people are hurting. I forget that our world is broken. I forget that pain lives side-by-side with joy. My world shrinks. My horizon narrows. I become more consumed with what's for dinner, than with what's plaguing humanity. I like my house clean. I like the laundry done. I like play time with my son. (And these all need to be addressed!)

But I forget that there is more.

When I became a stay-at-home mama, I was aware of the creeping shrinking of my world. Most days, I interact with two people: my husband and my son. That's it. On really exciting weeks, we go to the grocery store and maybe a play-date.

And I became afraid.

Afraid that the shrinking of my sphere would transfer to a shrinking of my soul. Afraid that my selfishness would grow in the comfortable smallness that was my new life. Afraid that the things I would become most passionate about would be nit-picking my child's development, Facebook rants, and new ways to make laundry detergent. I am very capable of this smallness. I'm very capable of taking all my energy and pouring it into things that do not matter. I can spend myself, and at the end of the day, have nothing to weigh in eternal scales. Nothing that brings glory to God.

My world is smaller.

Would my soul shrink as well?

It could. And it probably would. My world right now is unbelievably comfortable. There was a very strong probability that my selfishness would take over and things that should never be big would become all-consuming.

So, this year I have several goals... The first of which is personal, inwardly focused. I've set up a structured reading and Bible study plan designed to make me dig into God's word. Because I can be philanthropic and delightful towards others, but if I'm not first loving the God who gave me breath, I'm giving out pointless altruism. I'm practicing a "feel good" religion, as opposed to "true religion" which is designed to give God glory. So, I'm using my "extra" time as a mommy, and the freedom that goes along with this job to focus my studying of the scripture. I finally have time to be a theologian!

The second goal is outwardly focused. I want to actively seek to find ways to interact with those around me. I have a play-date goal (building relationships among the body of believers), so if you would love to come play, please just ask. (Or I'll be the crazy woman stalking you down at church. I have an entire Pinterest board of sensory play that I really, really, really want to explore!)

But I'm also looking for ways to consistently interact with women who are not Christians. So, I'm looking for a mommy-and-me group in my area (if trends continue, I'll probably be the only white woman at this group, and I'm actually a little excited to experience being a minority). And I'm researching crisis pregnancy centers, because I've become increasingly convicted about my lack of anything beyond lip-service that I've been paying to abortion prevention, adoption, and young-mama counseling.

So, that's it.

I'm fighting the narrowness.

I'm fighting with my mind, my soul, and my actions. I'm praying daily that God would give me the energy and discipline to passionately love Him. To take His love and grace and show it to the hurting world.

I want to use this flexibility, this time, this phase in my life to actively, with abandon, whole-heartedly love my God and love others.

Do you want to join me?

Frosted Window Panes... and plenty of presents! {Christmas 2013}

We had a simply glorious Christmas.

Scott's parents and sister drove in from Michigan. I still can't get over how willing our families are to make such a long trip in order to see us! We've had visitors every single month since we've moved to Philly, and you won't hear me complaining.

My Uncle Scott, a pilot based in Philly, also was able to have a 24 hour leave, and he spent Christmas Eve and Christmas morning with us. Of course, I didn't get any pics of him with his "great nephew," but we were thrilled that he was willing to join in our family festivities.

Harvest Bible Chapel-Philadelphia had their first Christmas Eve service this year, and my hubby was able to share the gospel with over 100 people on that special night. I cried, as he painted a picture of the wonderful rest and forgiveness that Christ offers. I continue to pray that God used that night, that moment, those words, to grow seeds of repentance in people in the audience. For me, it was an excellent reminder that behind all the glitter, brown paper packages, and family banter, there's a wonderful peace and joy in my life because of God's sacrifice and consistent love. Christmas was glorious, because I was able to rest in my Savior. What joy.

And now, pictures... Because nothing else captures Christmas so very well.

One of the five churches in our two-block radius. We had an "ice day" with Daddy, and enjoyed a down-day before the craziness of the season took off.

We were visited by an ice storm right before Christmas. It was gorgeous. Although, the homeless man watching me take this picture told me I was being stupid and that a branch was going to come crashing down on my head...

Someone loves icy walks with Daddy.

Christmas decor is up!

I don't think there were quite enough presents. (And yes, that is a push-broom handle. Scott's present from Trevor.)

I have a weakness for mantles around Christmas. I just think they demand to be made up in style. I blame it on the previous two generations of women before me and their impeccable mantle-pieces.

The tiniest of my four nativities, with yet another beautiful church in the background. We're surrounded by beautiful, but dead religion in our neighborhood. It makes me happy/sad.

I have a weakness for brown paper packages. In fact, this year, I wrapped with nothing else. I also liberally spread glitter throughout our entire house. "Glitter: the herpes of the craft world"--according to my husband.

Although I know people bemoan taking down the Christmas tree, I think it makes it that much more special if it's only on display for a month. 

The mantle. At night.

This is another infatuation I can chalk up to my grandmother. Her Christmas stairs always looked heavenly. Someday, I'll be just like Barbara. Until then, this is as close as I can get.

Not a stellar picture, but literally the only one I have with even a portion of my uncle in it. I was not good at taking pictures of any person other than my baby... Classic new mom.

Scott, trying out his father's gift of "Doodoo Head." Don't ask. 

Scott and I traditionally don't spend money on each other on Christmas. We try to homemake all our gifts to each other. This was his "humorous" gift from me... According to this article, and our subsequent Meyers-Briggs personality types, my hubby is a beaver, and I am an octopus. We found this so hilarious, that it's been a part of our joking back and forth for several months now.

Scott wrote me a fairy tale, complete with illustrations. It humorously (and then poignantly) talked about our relationship, and addressed my recent phobia of getting old. I laughed and then cried. I have a hubby I don't deserve.

Grant with Auntie Sarah. She was the ONLY person who obeyed my "toys that don't make noise" rule. And she was duly rewarded by Grant loving his blocks more than any other toy.

Helping Daddy as he begins the yearly tradition of cutting toys out of boxes. Classic Dad job.

Grant loves his new bath toys, and "Roland the Hedgehog" is his favorite. 

His very own "choo-choo." Every boy needs one.

We still haven't fully grasped the concept of unwrapping presents.

It was a lovely Christmas. And adorable little Bets, although she didn't make an appearance, and appeared contented to flip around in Mommy's belly, was also very generously gifted. Every Christmas serves to remind me of what a generous family I have (on both sides!). I'm so thankful for parents who have taught Scott and I to love sacrificially, and who continue to lavish love, even when their parenting job is "done."