Good Neighbors. Not just a parable.

In a world that feels upside down more often than not of late, and where the less-than-beautiful sides of humanity seem to be front and center every where you turn, I need to tell you a couple of stories that reminded me recently of how much good still exists.

I wanted to share sooner, but honestly it has taken me a minute to process, to swallow the knot that jumps into my throat as soon as I think about the phone call telling me my mother had been transported to the hospital by ambulance.

Let me pause right here to say that my mother is home. Perhaps it is just to calm my own racing heart that I need to say she is feeling healthy and hopeful about her health and life has resumed its normal rhythm for today. My brothers and I are so grateful.

But two weeks ago tomorrow, she was not ok. The woman who has to be coerced to take ONE solitary Tylenol when she has a head or muscle ache was in such pain, was struggling so much to breathe, that she called for help.

We would learn once help arrived that she was in serious trouble with a lack of oxygen getting to her brain. I am sure that is why the numbers to call for help -- 9-1-1 -- completely escaped her. She told me later that she couldn't think of how to get in touch with me or my brothers. She could only think that she was going to die if she didn't get help. She dialed 6-1-1. Yes. Six -- not nine -- one, one.

She called customer service. And when the customer service rep answered, my mother told her that she could not breathe. Mom is a bit fuzzy on the details, but the rep apparently called an ambulance, gave them her condition, phone number, her address. And then, this dear dear service rep stayed on the phone with my panicked, frightened-for-her-life-mother until help arrived.

I don't even know how to begin to thank this woman. Mom has Verizon -- do they provide the staffing for 6-1-1? My family and I are so very grateful for someone who didn't react with a "not-my-job-mentality" but rather took her role seriously, and seriously saved a life in the process.

Paramedics got oxygen going as soon as they arrived. Mom is much clearer on the details once that began; For instance, she remembers the paramedics asking her about her medications, and how she jumped up and ran to get them, unknowingly dragging the medic holding the oxygen tank for her through her house.

But the part of the story that even now, as I type, brings tears to my eyes is what happened after they loaded my mom in the ambulance and began transporting her to the hopsital:

Ambulance driver: "Ma'am, this neighborhood must love you."

Mom: "Why?"

Ambulance driver: "I have never seen this in my career -- but there is someone from every single home standing at the end of their driveway as we drive you by."

Now, this might be attributed to curiosity were it not for the fact that my mother's phone blew up the entire time I was there. Those neighbors called to check on her, offered assistance, brought food, and assured a daughter who lives far away that they were near and would keep an eye on her.

My mom is doing well today. She went back to work the day after I flew home - she is tough and stubborn, and so strong. Those neighbors know her because she bakes them breakfast when they are bearing hard things themselves. They know her because she decorates her yard so that when they walk their little ones first in strollers, then on tricycles, then bicycles, by her house they are sure to smile. She crochets baby blankets to welcome each new little one in the neighborhood. And then she bakes some more.

In a world where being a good neighbor seems a struggle for so many these days, I am grateful for the life-saving compassion of a Verizon customer service rep, and the homeowners on Rogers Drive in Tupelo, Mississippi. 

May we all be neighbors like them.

Chlorine, Converse, and the Beauty of Friends.

The beauty of social media -- I know I sound like a broken record when I say this -- is being able to reconnect with people I have known in every season of my life.

There were some serious dark ages where long-distance phone calls cost a fortune and email was not yet a thing. I know. I'm old.

So, leaving college and moving out of state, meant losing contact with those friends who I enjoyed knowing and talking with but my long-distance budget required that I limit calling. Oh sure, we wrote letters, or at least we sent Christmas cards. But in those early years out of college and newly-married, we all scattered and moved a lot and keeping up-to-date sometimes fell through the cracks.

But for ten years or so, I have delighted in finding friends from high school and college -- seeing their families, watching those families grow. I have found great joy in the re-connections and have even had some in-life reunions as a result! And perhaps one of the sweetest parts of this has been reuniting with my Garawya girls -- the girls who worked at Camp Garaywa with me during our summers in college.

Oh we lived large those summers -- we corralled little girls, we marched with our little campers following as we sang, and skipped, and kept them giggling in a valiant effort to ensure they did NOT miss home! 

We learned lifeguard skills and sported tans and chlorine-bleached hair. We learned to start campfires, and cook over them! We learned to wake on a moment's notice and deal with all manner of emergency. Those summers smelled of sunscreen and bug spray and a healthy dose of chlorine and THE best chocolate brownies I have ever had.

I have no idea what we were doing. I'm sure it was quite serious, however.

And we bonded. There are no walls when you are serving as camp counselors together. We shared cabins and a bathhouse. We found our silliest self and performed skits, and sang songs, and just giggled. We shared details of our lives and walked with each other through hard stuff. We overcame fears and pushed our physical limits. And we did it all together.

Skit night.

Oh yes, reconnecting with the Garaywa girls has been one of my favorite things.

And this week, one of our group lost her son. That isn't even accurate. She didn't lose him. He died from the horrible that is cancer. But she didn't lose him. She knows exactly where he is and her joy on  Social Media in this horrible, very hard, terrible thing has reached through the screen and grabbed me. I have prayed for this young man for years as he battled, recovered, lived. And I am grieving with her -- even though I never had the chance to meet Harrison in person.

A  young me and my friend Charla singing at camp -- "Jesus Never Fails."

And so I keep thinking about those young girls who spent their summers working, serving, loving life. And I wish I could go hug them and scream, "Enjoy these days. There are hard days coming. There are great days coming too. But outside these camp grounds bad things can happen. Hard things can hit. Climb back in that lifeguard stand and relish the chlorine-scented moments!!"

But even as I type that, I know that we were already facing hard things. We didn't need to be reminded that life could get harder.

Perhaps the one that needs to be reminded is 50-year-old me...perhaps I need to remember to find my silly. Maybe I need to jump in a pool and let the chlorine do its magic. Maybe, there are some pink converse and a silly skit just waiting for me to perform.

And maybe the biggest lesson of all: I need to remember that walking hand in hand with some amazing friends who will hug me, love me, laugh with me, cry with me, and always (always always) point me to Jesus was the real magic of Garawya and the memories that I hold so dear.

So Charla, I am here. I can put on some silly on a moment's notice. I can offer a shoulder. Or lend an ear. I'll even grab a couple of mics and sing my heart out with you (I can't however fit myself back into those white pants! ;) ). I love you, friend.

More pictures. Less yelling. Please.

I am the woman that cries standing in line to vote. I wear red, white and blue and I usually hum the Star-Spangled Banner. I have cherished the right. I value the sacrifices many have made to give me that right. I am proud to be an American.

But I have to say that having said all of that...nothing kills my joy like election season since the birth of social media.

We have moved around the country over and over again for school/training/jobs. We spent 10 years in the desert as far from "home" as I could ever imagine. And I homeschooled for six of those years which can be translated as I spent very little time with other adults outside of my home from six years.

Hear me. I LOVE the fact that Facebook was invented and allowed me to connect with my dear ones far and near -- friends made as we journeyed from training ground to training ground and even from one side of the Valley of the Sun to the other. In the middle of my long days of teaching my amazing wonderful children, I counted on a brief look at FB on my phone to connect with even just ONE other adult and know I wasn't alone. It kept me sane...well, it kept me from going completely crazy.

Face to face time always trumps computer to face, but, oh dear ones, this computer thing has been a gift. I have connected, reconnected, celebrated births, prayed for illnesses and watched my darling friends' children grow and blossom all from the beauty of this media. I have cried with, smiled with and celebrated with so many because we aren't in what I describe to my children as the dark ages anymore. For years, we moved and the cost of phone calls prohibited remaining in close contact. But this instant photo-album, status posting thing closed the door on all of that. Praise the Lord.

Right up until it stopped being about catching up, engaging in the lives of each other and supporting one another -- and became about posting links that berate each other, statuses proclaiming the harshest of opinions, and memes that slam those who oppose your views.

Honestly, I would make my children wash their mouths out for half of what is posted and make the other half sit in a corner for trumping up lies -- or at the most half-truths.

Seriously, enough.

I want to see your kids' going back to school pictures. I need to know how I can pray for you. I want to know what scholarship you kiddo received and which school is lucky enough to snatch him up!

Really, if you want to have coffee and discuss your views -- like views, differing views, views that just strike you as funny -- call me. I am a woman who thinks and reads and at 40-something realizes she always has much to learn. IF we are in relationship -- do you get me? I don't want you yelling at me one-sidedly. I don't want you be-rating me without ever hearing my opinion. And I don't want you to think that just because you post it on social media you are NOT attacking anyone and everyone with a different view. You are. And you are not going to change my opinions on presidential candidates that way. You are not going to convince me that you are right about your agenda that way.

So please, can we stop. Can we work toward relationship building where maybe, just maybe, we garner enough respect for one another that I am willing to listen to you and you are willing to listen to me?

Because listening to each other, building relationships with each other, that my friends is the true way to make a difference.

Counting availability.

We are on Day 28 of my Write 31 Days challenge. I am still here but I would not be being completely honest if I didn't confess that I am relieved this is the last week. (Sorry Markeitha....I know you have enjoyed the journey and I just love you for that!)

Today I am thinking about how many times God has closed a door that I desperately wanted him to open.

January 28, 1999 -- "Have I told you that Benjamin's big thing now is answering questions with 'no' or 'OK'. I"m not sure why he uses OK instead of YES but he does! Well, tonight he was soooo tired...he hadn't napped well at all and it was dinnertime so he was past ready for sleep. He was crying at the table and I said 'Benjamin, do you want some more xxx? And he would just keeping crying with everything I asked. Then I said, 'Well, would you like for Mommy to get you some ice cream?' He looked up at me with a big smile (in mid-cry mind you!) and said, 'OK!' It was so  hilarious."

This apple did not fall far from the Mama-tree. As a matter of fact I am pretty sure God feels with me almost daily the way I felt with Benjamin sitting in his little high chair before he even turned two.

"Carol, let me give you things that are good for you -- trials, challenges, hardships."

I kick and scream and cry like crazy.

"Carol, here is a easy task. It won't grow you, or strengthen your walk. It won't make you the woman I know you can be. But it is sweet, easy and completely palatable."

Me, mid-cry: "I'll take it, Lord."

Sigh.

Parenting has taught me more about my relationship with God than anything in my life. As adorable as my one-year-old was asking for ice cream, I don't want to be a petulant child.

Grow me in the areas that count, Lord. Take me where YOU can use me. Place me in situations that test me, change me and serve you -- even if they taste like green beans to a baby.

I am ready. I am willing. And I know I serve a God who counts my availability way more than my abilities.

Solving the mystery.

 So I haven't shared nearly all my pics from London. So today there is this:

 The Shraders are all big fans of Sherlock Holmes. Big big fans. We have read the books, seen movies, TV shows and read the books again. It is one of those family things we enjoy together.

While checking into our hotel in London, a gentleman in line behind us asked Cate was she was hoping to see. When she got to the place in her list where she was talking about Sherlock Holmes, he bent down very close to her face and said, "He's not real, you know."

We laughed and laughed at that. Of course, he isn't. Cate never thought he was real. Silly man.

Years ago, Wade and I visited London as part of a business trip. We took an afternoon and went to see the street made famous by the great detective:

Baker Street. 221B Baker Street to be exact.

There were maybe two other people at the site. We were alone for most of our tour of the town home museum on Baker Street. But clearly that was a few years before before Benedict Cumberbatch picked up the um, pipe if you will in his BBC production of Sherlock.

Because goodness gracious, this day we were not alone on Baker Street. Not alone at all. Rather we waited in line for two and a half hours to visit 221B. (Two and a half hours of listening to people talk about the show...many of whom had no knowledge of the books. None at all. Mason and I wanted to pass out copies!)

And sadly, Sherlock's home is upstairs. Up a lot of stairs. Benjamin and I said farewell to the crew as they went up the stairs while the staff of the gift shop helped me lift him into their area so that at least he could peruse the myriad of Sherlock-themed books, and merchandise!

But we would never end at Baker Street. No, one of the best episodes of Sherlock takes place at St. Bart's hospital. Even if Benjamin couldn't see inside the apartment, Dad knew the way to the hospital. And off we went.

As I posed my family in the ambulance bay of St. Bartholomew's Hospital, a strange thing caught our eye. (And I won't spoil the series by telling you why this ambulance bay was of interest...you should watch the show!)

Sticky notes all over the phone box in the ambulance bay. Sticky notes declaring belief in one great detective.

Even the dirty windows proclaimed London's affection for the detective.

And suddenly, the gentleman in the lobby whispering to Cate that Sherlock isn't real made a lot more sense. Apparently, everyone is not as wise as my 8-year-old. Apparently, some people actually believe in um, this fictional character. Oh mercy, he is delightful. The shows, the books, the movies are fun and entertaining and my crew and I are already counting the days until Mr. Cumberbatch returns to our tv with the next installments of Sherlock.

But we know how to distinguish reality from fiction. We understand the difference in a character on TV or in a book and a real life person.

I'm not a great detective -- but even I can figure out that our world is hurting for something to believe in. For someone to offer hope and an answer to life's myriad of questions. How blessed we are to have Jesus -- a real life comfort in times of sorrow, a real life hope for the hurting, a real life hero.

And my friends, belief in Jesus is worth a lot more sticky notes!

Available to be stalked (catchy right?)

I stalked a woman. I did. I couldn't help myself. She was pushing what looked for all the world like  a triplet stroller and we had just been told I was expecting triplets. I made my husband circle the block three times -- certainly giving her cause to worry in our south-side Chicago neighborhood. Finally, when he said I needed to get out and talk to her rather than keep circling the block, staring at her in the hopes she would hold up a sign full of wisdom and how-to-helps, I got out of the car and approached her timidly.

"I'm sorry. I am sure you get this a lot. But are they triplets?"

Dear lady, rolling her eyes because of course she got that a lot, "Yes, yes they are," as she forcefully walked in the opposite direction from me.

"Um, I'm sorry. I am not trying to stalk you (who was I kidding? She had probably watched us circling for the last 15 minutes. We WERE in fact stalking her."), but the doctors just told me yesterday that I am having triplets."

The fear was obviously apparent all over my face. Dear G stopped her stroller and smiled the biggest most welcoming smile a stalkee could ever smile and introduced herself. We stood talking for several minutes...until her own triplets became anxious to move on and my husband had grown weary of circling the block.

But G gave me her name, number, and email. She promised to stay in touch and promised to walk me through this exciting, scary, overwhelming season.

And she did. She counseled me on sleep techniques for the three; she encouraged me when I was nursing and was certain my body would never um...fit in normal blouses again; she helped me learn to navigate my trio in public when the world wanted to stop and stare at them. And once a month she forced me out of the apartment to enjoy dinner with her and two twin moms in the area.

In hindsight, I am certain that G had a million things to do the day I stalked her. She probably had places to be, babies to feed and laundry to sort. But she gave no indication of any such thing. She stood and spoke straight to my expectant heart.

Last week, my kids and I were headed in a trillion directions with four to-do lists a mile long when we learned a friend needed help. Because God pushed me, I stopped what I was doing and offered assistance. My Claire was concerned about my to-do list getting done. And I realized my response to her is a lesson I need to not just teach but model appropriately:

"Oh my girl, if we don't have enough white-space on our calendar to stop and help a friend, then we have big problems."

Even as I spoke, I flashed back to G and her willingness to stand and encourage me all those years ago. I have not always paid her graciousness forward. I far too often let a busy overwhelmed schedule dictate my ability to stop and help a friend. But today as we begin adding activities back for the upcoming school year, my prayer is that I will remember to leave white space on my calendar.

My children do not need for every single minute of their lives to be scheduled, organized and activity-fied (I made that word completely up.) and you know what, your children don't need that either.

My prayer for this season is that you and I will be willing and able to sit with, stand for, or be stalked by a friend in need during this season. My prayer is that our children will see us being deliberate in leaving time for friends, and God-ordained moments, so that they can learn to do they same with their own schedules.

May God use all our moments. May God be reflected in the white space of our calendars. And May God be glorified in the way we use our time.

Let's build some ramps.

The room was lined with people. There were doctors and nurses everywhere just taking care of me. Then lining the wall beside me were more doctors and nurses waiting to take care of the dear little babies about to be delivered. My mother was outside the operating room and said the staff was going up and down the hall notifying everyone that, "The triplets are coming. The triplets are coming."

Honestly, the faces are a blur in my memory. I was scared to death. So very scared.

The days following their delivery are in much better focus. I remember the sights and even the smells of visiting my babies in the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit the day after their birth. I was overwhelmed by the constant beeping of the machines, the myriad of wires coming out of these teeny tiny babies, and the fact that the bustling busy nurses seemed way more confident in taking care of my three then I thought I would ever be.

And I remember the sweet voice of the nurse taking care of Claire. She called me Mom, identifying my rightful place beside the bed of this tiny beautiful little girl. She explained what the machines were doing. And then she asked if I wanted to hold my daughter.

"Is it ok?" I asked, so worried, and yet so eager to have this baby in my arms.

"Of course. She needs you to," precious nurse explained.

And with the gentlest of handling, she pulled my little pink bundle out of the isolette and handed her to me, arranging the wires and tubes so that I could have as "normal" a moment holding my daughter as possible.

If I had never seen Nurse Laura again, I would have still been grateful to her for the rest of my life. If I had never seen her again, my memories of her gentle care of Claire -- and often of Benjamin and Mason and always of Mommy -- would have stayed with me for ever. If I had never seen her again, I would still thank God for her life and the work she does.

But God is so gracious, and though once-upon-a-time our contact was only through Christmas cards, we stayed in touch. I would eagerly rip into her card every year, eager to see her growing family, eager to see the eyes of this dear lady who brought so much comfort to me in the hardest days of my mommyhood. Then the blessing of Facebook happened and has allowed us to be closely connected for the last six or seven years!

Laura and her family came to visit us a couple of years ago. And last week, when we visited a colleges in the Midwest, they met us for dinner one night and invited us to their home for dinner the second night.

I kind of get weepy thinking about it. See, inviting us over for dinner can not be off-the-cuff, spur-of-the-moment. You have to think it through, consider how you will get us into your home -- any stairs are a challenge -- and if Benjamin can get around in your house. We know it is a challenge. We have friends in town who we have never seen the inside of their homes. It just doesn't work to invite us in.

But Laura and her husband, Jay, did. They invited us over. To their house.

And Jay and his son built a ramp. A big, complicated, amazing ramp. They built a ramp so that we could come to dinner for the ONE night we were traveling through.

They rearranged furniture and moved throw rugs. They welcomed us with their arms, their actions and their hearts. When we circled their beautiful table and broke bread with them, we experienced true fellowship. It was a balm.

One of our discussions centered around the fruits of the spirit, the evidence that Christ is alive and active in you:

"But the fruit of the Spirit is love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control; against such things there is no law." Galatians 5:22-23 (ESV)

And I love the Message translation here:

"But what happens when we live God's way? He brings gifts into our lives, much the same way that fruit appears in an orchard -- things like affection for others, exuberance about life, serenity. We develop a willingness to stick with things, a sense of compassion in the heart, and a conviction that a basic holiness permeates things and people. We find ourselves involved in loyal commitments, not needing to force our way in life, able to marshal and direct our energies wisely."

Even as I sat in the midst of this discussion, I was struck by the raisins in my own life -- fruit that once grew but now lies drying in the sun, pruny and useless. The basic holiness that permeated Laura and Jay's home convicted me that while I have been working to rip down walls, I have neglected so much.

But no more. I want to be a fruit-bearer. Fellowship requires more than just tearing down walls to allow others access to your heart. Oh dear ones, sometimes, sometimes you have to build a ramp. Sometimes, we meet those who just can't access the fellowship. Perhaps their needs are not physical, maybe there are emotional barriers, or spiritual barriers.

How often does our need to share our opinions on every single subject hinder someone's growth rather than help it? How often?

How often do our personal struggles put obstacles of accessibility all around us? All the way around us? How often do we fail to see the pain in our neighbor's eyes because we have made ourselves so out of reach to everyone near?

I want to be a ramp-builder. It is not enough to give lip-service to the fruits of the spirit -- to say I want to be compassionate, patient and kind. No, I want to actively build bridges to serve others, to help others, to encourage others to grow.

Thank you, Jay and Laura. You and your beautiful family have been teaching us for years -- your ramp-building was simply another wonderful lesson on how Christ wants us to love. I pray I am just like you when I grow up!

Grief.

*March is Cerebral Palsy Awareness Month. I am sharing a series of posts about my amazing children, in the hope that by hearing our story, you'll be more aware of the stories around you!*


My friend purchased a baseball glove the day she discovered her third child was a boy. Her excitement was adorable to all of us gathered around her. I loved my friend. I loved her children. And I was delighted for her. So I was completely caught off guard when the walls started closing in on me and I felt desperate to flee the room. Desperate to grab my three three-year-olds and run far far away.

My husband was not surprised. Grief, he explained. You are grieving for the dreams you had for our boys.

I refused to accept that.

I knew grief. Grief is what happens when your amazing wonderful Daddy dies before his 50th birthday. Grief is the pain of knowing you won't have his unconditional love for even one more day on earth. Grief is a pain that sits in your heart causing an ache of longing that can not be filled. It is hard, it is awful and it is about loss.

I was not grieving. I had three beautiful children who I adored. I refused to believe that my emotional response had anything to do with loss when I had been given so very much! I was -- and continue to be -- awed by the fact that God chose me to mother Benjamin, Mason and Claire. No. No. I wouldn't believe grief was involved.

To his great credit, my husband was extremely patient with me -- even though I was not patient in my absolute insistence that what I felt was not grief.

Over time -- he didn't nag or belabor the point -- he would remind me that grief has different faces. It isn't always about death. Sometimes, it is about the loss of what we thought life would look like.

Oh how I wish I could tell you that I understood and accepted this truth quickly. I did not. I remained in my stubborn insistence that I would not grieve for years. Years.

The triplets were around seven years old when I finally made peace with the pain. See, I knew the five stages of grief --  I had cycled through denial, anger, bargaining, depression for a long time before finally reaching acceptance with my Daddy's death. I understood grief. But what I needed to understand was that sometimes grief is not about a losing a person, or losing hope. Sometimes, we can receive a gift far more precious than the one we imagined and yet still hurt for the gift we thought we were getting.

And while those five stages are good to understand -- I need to say that having a list led me to believe I could work through the list and be done, done with the whole grief thing. But that is not the case.

With every surgery, I cycle through denial, anger, bargaining and blasted, some depression. I ache and hurt and am mad as a hornet that my dear boys have to endure so much. I cycle through and often get stuck in one or more of those items on the list. It isn't like a to-do list where I can check them off as I go, making progress and moving forward. I hate that.

With every milestone, I can cycle through again: starting kindergarten, high school, turning 16, prom. I imagine high school graduation. Every single milestone that we are taught to mark, celebrate and that it will look like xy and z, can cause me to cycle through those blasted phases again.

And sometimes, the trigger will be something mundane, like a girlfriend expecting a baby boy, that pulls the rug out from under me and starts the chain.

Counting my blessings is far more than a catchy blog title. It is the key to breaking the grief cycle.  For almost 17 years, it has been my privilege to parent these amazing three, my privilege to walk with them when days are hard and cry with them when the obstacles are too much and fight with them when we all need to overcome.

The seasons of grief will come. I recognize that. But I refuse to wait for the painful times to recede, I chase the grief, I push it away, I fight to remember that these children are an absolute gift, an absolute blessing. And my boys. My boys are quick to remind me that the very thing that causes them pain is the thing that makes them unique, special, who they are.

And believe me, who they are is an incredible blessing.

When God brings scripture to LIFE to get the point across...

The early years following the triplets’ far-too-early birth, I blamed myself. The guilt of not being able to carry them to full term was a cloak I wore every single day.

Benjamin, Mason and Claire in the NICU.

It probably wasn’t always visible – I loved my beautiful babies and found such joy in being their mother even under the weight of my cloak.

But when I watched Mason try to walk, and his little legs would scissor under him making every step a challenge, the cloak was heavy.

When our occupational therapist would ask baby Benjamin to reach for the brightly-colored beads and he would try with all his little might, but fail, the cloak was heavy.

When Benjamin has his first surgery at 3 – and every surgery since – the cloak of guilt would cause my steps to stumble and falter.

In my own might, I worked to lay the cloak aside. I made excuses for myself – my short stature made it hard to carry three babies to term, obviously. But even in the excuses, I felt responsible.

Then I came face to face with the truths contained in Psalm 139:

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made. My frame was not hidden from you when I was made in the secret place. When I was woven together in the depths of the earth, your eyes saw my unformed body. All the days ordained for me were written in your book before one of them came to be.” Psalm 139:15-16

God knit me together. God created my being.

And did you catch that last sentence? All my days were written BEFORE one of them came to be. Oh, how that comforted my heart. It was no surprise to God that I had triplets. It was no surprise to Him that my body couldn’t carry them to a full term – He designed my body exactly as is and knit it together. Furthermore, he knit Benjamin, Mason, Claire and years later, precious Cate’s bodies together as well! And He planned their days. He wrote their story. He knit them.  Wonderfully he knit them. Wonderfully.

If you follow me on Instragram (and please do -- @momtotripsplusone), you know I have recently taken up the art of Crochet. I am quite addicted to finding that perfect color yarn and creating ear warmers, beanies, diaper covers – all manner of things that make me smile.

But the act of crocheting has made these verses come further to life for me. I am not perfect. I like to make a project quickly and move on to the next. But the creative part – coming up with a twist to the pattern that makes it uniquely my creation – is my favorite part. Listen, ya’ll, if the creation doesn’t look right, one tug of the yarn and the whole thing unravels. Which can be satisfying when I have made a mistake and terribly frustrating when the unraveling is a complete accident.

Hat and diaper cover to donate to the Neonatal Intensive Care Unit -- so the littlest "Claires" can look adorable!

A work can be fragile while in the creating process. And if the ends of the yarn are not woven in correctly, it can stay fragile. But if done right, the pieces I have made will last for a long long time.

I like to think God felt the same when he was creating my children. He knew his plan. He knew their story. He could have said “Oops, I didn’t mean for that one to have cerebral palsy” and unraveled Benjamin’s little life with a breath. But the fragility of my little 2 and a half pound babies was not an error on the Creator’s part. He knit them exactly as He intended them to be for His purposes.

Because the little bitty "Benjamins and Masons" need to be cute, too!

I wish I could tell you that I never put the cloak on anymore. I wish I didn’t. I can go for a while wondering what is weighting me down before I realize that I have yet again, picked up the heavy, ugly coat of guilt and draped it around my shoulders.

But always, one glance at Psalm 139 and I remember. I can throw the cloak away. I can burn the ugly, unappealing thing because God did not make an error in this crochet project. He wrapped the yarn and wove the sinews of my body in exactly the manner He intended. And He did no less for my four children.

Because even if my Cate was full-term, there might be a tiny "Cate" who needs to be cute too!

Thank you, Father, for being a perfect Creator. Thank you for the blessing of what the world often considers imperfections. Thank you for the reality of walking a road less traveled (or rolling down it as the case may be) for your glory.

Now, if ya’ll will excuse me, I’ll be over here, crocheting…..

“A good woman is hard to find….she shops around for the best yarns….and enjoys knitting [crocheting]….” Proverbs 31:10-13 (The Message) Oh, yes, I think this should be my life verse!