Eyes to See

 I haven't updated this blog in almost a year. To say a lot has changed since last February is an understatement. We moved from our lovely home and dear friends in North Carolina back to the spacious fields and dear ones who we thought we would only see rarely. Now the same friend who came to visit me down in North Carolina for a weekend is my 13 year old's algebra teacher. That's good stuff.

We bought a house sight-unseen in Indiana on some land out in the country. And while there have been bummer homeowner surprises in the mix, many days we stare out at the sunset over the fields and know that we hit the jackpot. The house is the opposite of open-concept which is ideal when you have four children who are as different as ours, and the kids spend hours outside or in the barn playing with the kittens-turned-cats that solved our mouse problem in a hurry.

This year the kids have all attended their former private school that feels more like an extended family gathering. Classes are small, teachers love hard, and Jesus is King. It's the place I first taught after I graduated from college, and it's no small joy to see each of the kids thriving there. The boys are both playing on the jr. high basketball team. We are so proud to see each of them growing and being challenged and to watch them beam when they make the shot.

We had begun attending a church that was growing us well in the fall before the pandemic When March 2020 happened, many of the church gatherings became virtual and all small groups shut down. Imagine our shock in coming back and realizing we had missed NO small group gatherings between when we left Indiana in July and when we returned in April. Not one. It was like jumping back into a dance without missing a beat. And the daughter who could barely get out of the van for Sunday worship because she was so overwhelmed by PANDAS-induced anxiety will be performing a solo in the children's Christmas program in a couple weeks. What God hath done.

David has done what he always does, hit the ground running. He's part of the IT team at Taylor University that makes life and learning work for the thousands of students and faculty there. It's a joy to see him enjoying his teammates, his work, and the university that means so much to us. We missed college students, and this year has been a special opportunity for us to reconnect with TU students.

With all four kids being at school all day, I jokingly (okay, not so jokingly) referred to this year as my Year of Jubilee. No diapers. No toddlers. No homeschooling responsibilities. No daytime occupational therapy appointments. What in the actual world?!?! In the process of dreaming how God would have me use this time, I gave myself permission to test the waters of going back to school. As a spouse to a TU employee, I can take up to 6 credit hours a semester for free. So as soon as the kids were done with our school year last May, I signed up for two consecutive classes in the fall semester (Abnormal Psychology and Introduction to Autism Spectrum Disorder, in case you were wondering) on Monday, Wednesday, and Friday afternoons. 

By far, my favorite part of these classes has been the students I get to interact with and enjoy. And going back to school...totally different as an adult. For one thing, I care. Not just about finishing the classes but about the information I'm learning. Connections abound between these classes and my day-to-day life, and I'm honored that my professor even gave me a class period to share with the class what it was like to parent a child with autism. These people have been light and hope for me as I watch this generation rising up to be the next medical practitioners, pastors, and social workers. 

On a personal level though, I haven't been well. We moved for the second time just when I was getting my feet on the ground from the first move. My body has taken a hit these last couple of years, and I knew something was wrong when I would wake up exhausted after sleeping for 11 or 12 hours. Countless nights, David would send me to bed as soon as supper was eaten because he could see me fading. Headaches and exhaustion hit at 6 p.m., and David has been the superman who cleans up dinner, takes the kids' for an evening swim, and then wrestles all the alligators into bed. "Thank you" doesn't seem like enough to say to this man who has held my hand as I try to put the pieces back together.

My counselor calls my struggle to put words together, remember names, and think in linear ways by a name that I struggle to own... trauma. The moves. The goodbyes. The battles we had with Laura for years before she found healing. My brain has rerouted many functions to the point that I operate in fight or flight a lot of the time when I absolutely have no need to. I used to. I don't anymore. I'm still waiting for my brain to learn the difference. 

When we returned to Indiana, my daughter was thrilled to return to her counselor for weekly therapy. To be honest, so was I. I was truly curious if the counselor would see the totally different child that I had told her existed under this disease. After a few sessions, the counselor recommended only coming as often as I felt like Laura needed; but the counselor strongly recommended that I start coming on a weekly basis. Laura was operating as an exceptionally bright, healthy 8 year old, but I was operating on a daily basis from parts of the brain that are usually reserved for emergencies. It was exhausting but didn't have to be permanent. 

During last summer, I struggled to see my kids as people. Instead they became beings I had to maintain. I struggled to look forward to anything in the future, certain that someone would need us to cancel. I struggled to believe in the kindness of God after I reasoned that He had orchestrated the hardest years of my life. I struggled to remember that Dave and I were people, not just machines capable of moving boxes, restraining violent children, and making food. I was numb. And when I wasn't numb, I would numb myself with social media or sleep. Thinking of all the goodbyes and hurts was hard and hurt too much. Could someone just turn off the pain and tell my heart and my mind it was safe to come out now?

I guess the reason I feel able to even write this post is that God is starting to give me eyes to see. My counselor began doing EMDR (Eye Movement Desensitization and Reprocessing) therapy with me a couple of weeks ago, taking highly emotionally charged memories and given my brain a way to disarm the memory but still remember. A local ministry took over 3 hours to pray with me, that I might see where Jesus was in the hardest moments. I know it comes as no surprise to those of you who walk with Him, but He was there. Really there. And it wasn't until now that my brain and heart could reconcile a loving God and a family that was in as much pain as we were. 

And this last one may seem silly, but it's been a total game changer. When I started doing extensive reading for my classes, I noticed that my head would hurt almost as soon as I started reading. I thought I was just trying to focus too much on the material, memorizing as I read. Then I realized that even when I was in bed, I was closing one eye to watch movies on my phone. You know where this is headed? Straight to my kids' optometrist. Yep. I've taken my children a dozen times over the last few years but never even thought that I might need to have my own eyes checked. I've never worn glasses or contacts, but the doctor immediately diagnosed that I have a dominant eye and the other eye needs a little help. When the glasses arrived last Friday, I was excited to not have headaches when I read but I wasn't prepared for them to change everything. 

Dinner came, but I didn't need to put my head in my hands and rest at the end of the meal. I felt energetic and alert. It turns out chronic pain can be pretty exhausting, and apparently it isn't normal to finish every day with a headache. These glasses have given me eyes to see the world as it is, which is beyond my natural ability at this point. I need these lenses to accurately read, type, and function; and if I take them off, everything goes a little wonky. 

I needed my eyes to see, and I had no idea how gradually I had stopped seeing life and had only seen through the haze of my pain. Hard memories must be mourned, change must be mourned, but in the process God has been gently prying my hands from my eyes and inviting me to see that He has been here all along. Life is physically hard sometimes and getting older doesn't make that easier, but there's a fix for that. It's called glasses. I'm not where I want to be, and I have a lot more work to do to unpack the last few years and lay them at the foot of the cross. To not only leave the hard memories there, but also to beg one step further. Lord, give me eyes to see You in those moments and ... in this one.

Even with glasses the words are getting blurry. It's late. I'm tired and have a cold (yes, it's been confirmed that it's not COVID :-).)  If you want pictures of my new look, you'll be happy to hear that the kids INSISTED that I wear my glasses for family pictures on Sunday. But for now, know that I'm praying this for myself and for those who read this: "Lord, give me eyes to see others and the world You made the way You do. And when I'm tempted to cover my face with my hands and hide from all the hurt, would you take my hands down and hold them in Yours and remind me that You are there?"

Blessings, friends. I'm grateful you're in my life.

Being a branch

My ears are ringing. All the time. And my mind is alive. All the time. My eyes looking over a room may seem casual, but they're not. They're evaluating each piece of property I own in that room, deciding the weight, size, and breakability of each object. I am mentally packing even when I'm not physically packing, and this all feels too familiar. Weren't we just here?

And I have a zero tolerance level for ridonkulous... What do you mean you didn't think you needed to shower after sweating all day?!? What do you mean my entire downstairs smells like dirty feet?!? What do you mean I still have to make supper after packing all afternoon?!? Okay... in all fairness, I knew I was supposed to make supper... but still. 

And my mind is filled with "what if's." What if we move back and it's not as rosy as we thought it would be? (Spoiler: we know it won't be.) What if we regret leaving behind all the incredible people who have made us their own here? (Spoiler: we will miss y'all like crazy! You are our people, and our doors are always open to you.) What if we don't love the house in Indiana as much as I think we will (and I really think we will)? What if the stupid radon detector the home inspector dropped off is actually a recording device that is permanently keeping track of the insanity in my home? Yes, I know I've gone off the deep end...

And in the midst of all of this there are SOULS in my house. Small souls that are processing a lot of the same questions I am. Well, maybe not the one about the radon detector, but... you never know. And it's ridiculous, but I am always surprised that they are feeling as many things as I am. That the weight of all that bears on me as an adult, one who knows what is going on, is just as heavy for those walking this journey of change who don't know all that's going on via email and electronically signed documents. Their heavy just finds its weight in the unknowns, the vast number of things they aren't given a front-row seat to and that they have zero choice to change. While I am bogged down by all the choices before me, they follow us, burdened by the fact that none of this is their choice. How unbelievably hard.

This is what they do know. Mommy and Daddy are stressed. There are boxes everywhere. All the friends that they have learned to love dearly will not be part of their daily lives in a few weeks. That hurts. The house they live in is being sold to strangers. Their parents are buying a house that we will move into, Lord willing, in early April. They are returning as changed people to friends who, most likely, have also changed. They are returning to a community that, due to the global pandemic, has also changed. That's a lot of change. Some pieces of the puzzle they used to call their life will not fit together anymore. And that has to be okay. 

That has to be okay. And as they process what that means for their lives, I struggle to find the space and emotional bandwidth to decipher what this move back will mean for my life. Will the kids still homeschool? Will they go back to school? What will my days look like if I am kid-free for SEVEN HOURS A DAY? That much liberty is overwhelming. What is God calling us to in this next season? How will we love our family and friends well as we re-enter the community? What will my Reader's-Digest-version explanation be for every time someone is surprised to see me in Indiana? Will they be disappointed that we returned? Will I?

I have no answers for most of these. Dwelling in the possibilities is a beautiful cycle of big, gorgeous dreams and sheer panic. Not really a stabilizing meditation. This week I've been in John 15, which is the only answer I have for the questions. The word: abide. It's really all I have the ability to do. Christ tells us in this chapter, "I am the vine. You are the branches." I have never been so glad to NOT be a vine. I'm not the source of all answers and all strength. Christ is. I'm just a branch. I'm receiving His life, His Spirit, His strength. They are flowing from Christ, who is so firmly rooted in His Father's love, to this lowly branch who feels like she has been pruned beyond all usefulness. 

And Christ continues, "Apart from me you can do nothing." Yep. Got that. Nothing. My ear-ringing meditations that dwell on possibility and catastrophe could not be further from what He has called me to in this moment. I am to abide, to stay, to remain in Christ. To stay connected to Him through His Word and prayer in the moment by moment crazy. Apart from Him, I can do...nothing. And in Him, some things never change. (Yes, I know I'm quoting Frozen 2. I quote Frozen 2 in most of my conversations, and you probably should be too. But that's another post...)

Christ is my eternal friend. His love for me does not change. My eternal salvation (like where I will spend the VAST MAJORITY of my life) is secure and unchanged. I will forever dwell in the presence of my God and Savior. I DO dwell in the presence of my God today. His grace is sufficient for me. And His power is perfected in the weakness where I find myself right now. His Word is a lamp for my feet and a light for my path. And though I don't know all the curves of that path, I have enough light to do the next right thing, even when that right thing is retreating to my room or taking a nap. I can choose today to abide and to dream only the kind dreams, knowing that the pruning we're experiencing is preparing us for something good to come. 

 Abiding is my choice to listen to Christ and His truth and to refuse to let the din of this earthly life roar louder. This sounds high and holy until you realize for me it is actively forcing myself to remember that the radon monitor in the corner is JUST a radon monitor, no matter how many times that blinking red light tries to trick me into thinking otherwise. And more often than not, it's remembering that I am just a branch. That in Him, I can do all things. Apart from Him, I can do nothing. My ears are ringing and my mind is alive, but my soul abides in the God who never changes. He is the vine. And I am only a branch.

There and Back Again

If you think we've been strangely silent here in North Carolina, don't worry. We've found so many lovely people and activities to fill our days that my time to sit and type is limited. It turns out that homeschooling four kids, being involved in a homeschool co-op, caring for a family of six, and establishing friendships with a whole new community of incredible people can make time fly!

Even at this moment, I have more than enough to do right now, which brings me to an announcement that we did not see coming... We're moving back to Indiana! What in the actual world!?!

When I've called family to let them know our next step, there are so many questions. "Wait! You've only been there six months!" "Did something go wrong?" "What happened?" "Couldn't you find community?" And all I can say is, we're not running away from anything here. North Carolina was all we imagined it would be and more.

David LOVES his job working for JAARS. He has worked with a team of kind, Jesus-loving, hard-working individuals; and they've made so much progress in the last six months toward updating systems and infrastructure. I'm so proud of him. He loves Jesus fiercely, and his dedication to excellence during his working hours at JAARS is only one of the ways that this radiates from his life.

The kids and I have found medical doctors, an incredible homeschool co-op, Farm Club (where the kids care for animals and learn about nature), and the most amazing friends a person could ask for. Most days you'll find our boys running around the woods of JAARS playing disc golf, and the girls have a brand new tree fort that David built for them in our woods. It's hard-core awesome. 

"So if everything is so good, why are you moving?" Yeah. I get it. It doesn't make sense.

Back in the fall, one of our children was really struggling to the point that David and I agreed that our life here was not sustainable for us. We weren't sure where to look for help for ourselves or for this child, but we knew something needed to change. As a mom who was home full-time with struggling children in the middle of a pandemic, I was drowning. My whole day was loving special needs children by educating them and helping them process these huge life adjustments. To say, I was exhausted would be an understatement. I fell asleep many evenings at 7 p.m. with nothing left to give.  At the same time, an IT position became available at Taylor University back in the same county we had left in Indiana. We threw a Hail Mary, and David applied for the position, and we waited to see if a move back would be a good fit for our family. 

Let just stop for a moment and make something clear. David and I love Taylor. We were newlyweds when we moved into Fairlane Apartments at Taylor University for David to finish the last two years of his undergrad degree. We brought our firstborn home to the apartments and were humbled again and again by the support the community gave us. David's classes were stretching in the best of ways, and we were sad to leave after graduation. It was a formative experience in every positive way possible. And anytime we were back on the campus (which was only 20 minutes from our home in Marion), I would always sigh and say, "I love it here." And Dave would smile and say, "I know." Taylor is home. And we knew that we would be honored to be a part of the difference the university was making in the lives of the next generation of Christ followers.

Meanwhile, we were faithful to where we had been called to be here in NC. Our children found medical doctors, one of whom actually resolved a lot of the issues we were having with the struggling child (who had an infection we hadn't even known about!). We made playdates and did school. We took long walks in the woods and hosted visitors from Indiana (You made us feel so loved!). We built a treehouse, hosted bonfires, and laughed so hard with new friends that it hurt. We asked for counsel from trusted advisors but did not share the possibility of moving back openly. That's all it was. A possibility. A remote one at that.

And then, a few days after New Year's, we got the text. Dave would be offered a position that would work for our family. And we would have the opportunity to rejoin a community that we hadn't felt ready to leave last summer. We talked. We prayed. We listened to wise counselors, and here's what we heard. Both JAARS and Taylor University are jobs that offered us opportunities to invest in the Kingdom. There are amazing, loving friends in both places. There are beautiful sights and rich educational resources in both places. We have a full, lovely life in both locations. But our families are in Indiana. 

Though our parents need nothing from us right now, the days will come when they will. Through good times and bad, we want to be able to link arms with our siblings and love on their children. It's the one thing NC doesn't have. Our families. And it tipped the scales.

Leaving here feels impossible, unthinkable. When I say we joined a homeschool co-op, let me clarify. I was allowed to learn from (and have my kids taught by) some of the most remarkable women I've ever known. They accepted us, loved us in our brokenness, and spoke truth and goodness over us without reservation. Between JAARS and co-op, I feel like we got a golden ticket to community. And our home in the woods has been dreamy. Low maintenance. Quiet. Beautiful. And neighbors who feel like family and love us so well. We hit the jackpot. We'll be leaving a piece of our heart here in North Carolina and look forward to following these families' stories with loving interest. We are cheering you on!

To the family and friends who are like family in Indiana, we are heading your way and can't wait to catch up on your stories! Our timeline is uncertain as we look for a place for our family of six to settle and would like to be as close to Taylor University as possible. If you have any leads, we'd be grateful. 

And to our friends who have become our family here in North Carolina, don't be strangers! We still have lazer-tag battles to fight here and hikes to take. We have bread to break together, and it is our conviction that we want to love you all right to the very end of our time together and beyond. You've responded to the Spirit when He's told you to text us, bring us food, invite us over, and speak truth into our lives. Thank you for so clearly reflecting His love! You have an open invitation to our home in Indiana. If you're in our neck of the woods, we would be overjoyed to see you!

In meantime, would you pray for us to have love and joy in our daily life and to trust the Father to move us as gently and kindly as He did when He brought us to these beautiful green pastures? I hate change. I hate disorder. I hate goodbyes. And the next few months promise to hold all of the above and probably a lot more. Deep breath. One day at a time. God's been good to us here, and we know He's with us every step of the way back again.

We'll figure it out.

 Never in my life have I used that phrase more. "We'll figure it out" has been my answer to almost every question imaginable over the last four months. The reason? We moved.

Even typing that sentence, I don't fully believe it. We moved. For those of you who are more connected with our family's day-to-day life, you know that up until a month ago, our family lived in the same community where my parents are located, where we went to college, and where David or I have had a job for the last thirteen years. Some people are wanderers. Our family are stayers. Yep. I just made that word up. Because we stay where we are planted. And it takes unbelievable forces to move us when we are capable of doing the next right thing where we already are.

Let's rewind the story, shall we? I know 2020 has been hard for so many, but if I'm being perfectly honest, 2019 was harder in our home. Multiple children in our home were struggling with what felt like insurmountable obstacles. Just caring for basic needs took everything I had and more. Way too many nights I fell asleep in my bed, wearing my clothes from that day and collapsing into exhaustion. Our hard felt too hard. And in the midst of this, one day on a drive I sensed the Lord saying to me, "I'm shaking your roots. And it's going to be okay." Weird, I thought. Everything in my environment was just the way I wanted it, even though our family's struggles were hurtful and challenging. But that's the phrase that kept coming to mind: "I'm shaking your roots. And it's going to be okay."

During this same period of time, I had a dream. A dream so vivid that I actually woke up in emotional pain, feeling like the dream had actually been real. In the dream, our family was moving far way so that David could work at JAARS. Wait...what?? I had no idea where JAARS was or what they did. My only connection was knowing that some retired friends of ours sometimes served at JAARS during the winter months. Again... weird. I remember making my bed that morning and just being thankful that it was only a dream. That I was safe in my comfortable, loving community where I knew where to shop and had all my kids' specialists on speed dial. I didn't even tell David right away. Frankly, the less he knew, the more likely the whole idea was to go away. 

Three days later, David and I had a rare evening where all of the children were having fun at VBS, and we actually got a chance to talk about real things.  And by "real things" I mean the stuff that really matters, like our kids' hearts, the mission-fit of our work and family life, etc. David shared the same thing about sensing unrest in his work, like he was being moved on to something else but had no idea what. Do you know where this is going? Reluctantly, I told him about the dream, and being the problem-solver he is, he checked out JAARS and found out two things. First, JAARS is a missions logistics organization, which means they help with communication, transportation, and education obstacles to make missions and especially Bible translation happen. Second, they had one opening at their headquarters in Waxhaw, North Carolina. In Information Technology. He applied that week and heard nothing back. And I was grateful. No response meant no move. No change. No challenge. No response meant my sense of control could relax back into the throne it had created. 

Ironically, as much as I fought for "normal," our "normal" was horrendous that year. I just didn't want anything else to be harder. Time moved forward. The children started a new school year, and we put one foot in front of the other to serve and love well in the place where we had been planted. It felt like our life in general was being uprooted in different ways (both big and small), but we walked with confidence that God was at the driver's wheel in the midst of those changes.

Fast-forward to this spring. While everyone was panicking about sheltering at home, I felt like the moment I'd been training for my entire life had ARRIVED. I love planning out menus and shopping for a couple of weeks at a time. I love being at home with my kiddos and finding ways to use our time creatively. I love to read, and one of the last trips we made before life shut down was to the library to restock our books and movies. The whole world felt stuck at home, but I was ready to suck the marrow out of this staycation now that I wasn't needed for carpool or doctors' appointments or therapies. It was hard and scary as we watched the world outside from the safety of our home, but we were really making the most of it and gelling as a family. 

But in the midst of this, David knew his roots were being shaken. In fact, though the kids and I were feeling more and more settled, David couldn't sleep, knowing that where he was was not where he should be. So one night at midnight, he was awake, sleepless, and looking at the JAARS website on what I'd like to call a holy whim. This time he found a different IT position, one that seemed tailor-made for his combination of education and experience. So he applied and heard back in a matter of hours. They were very interested, and I was terrified.

Thus began the battle period of 2020 for me, where I fought everyone. I fought God. I fought Dave. I fought my kids. And I fought myself. No part of me wanted to move to North Carolina. It didn't matter that it was "so beautiful" and that "Everyone loves the weather down here." I had found home in a small Indiana town surrounded by the most loving people I had ever known. Not wanting to look like a hindrance, I kept doing the next right thing to make working at JAARS...well, work. I figured if God wanted to stop us, then He would figure out a roadblock. Let's be honest, I prayed that He would make a roadblock, but in the meantime I kept doing the next right thing. (Frozen 2 is really the soundtrack of 2020, right?) I went with Dave to see JAARS, and we ended up putting an offer in on a house in the country. I put the Indiana house on the market. I started collecting and packing boxes. I researched homeschooling in North Carolina. I sold SO many things on Facebook Marketplace. My entire existence became a struggle between "I don't want to move." and "What would the next right thing be if God really does want us to move?" Let me just tell you, living with me was DEEEElightful. 

Even down to the day that we packed the moving truck with a group of the most supportive, incredible friends a person could find, I was wondering, "Will God stop us so we can stay?" It also didn't help that our home in Indiana didn't immediately sell. My mom wisely said, "Maybe it's because you have to step into the Jordan before the waters will back up and make a way." I hate it when she's right. But she was.

Today marks a month since we moved to our little house in the countryside of North Carolina. And the many questions that I answered with "We'll figure it out"...well... we're figuring out. We ended up closing on the house here in North Carolina on July 30th. After wondering for months if all our stuff would fit, we figured out that it did! That all our months of selling and giving away had given us a more streamlined life that was easier to clean and full of the things we actually love. (Yes, I brought most of my books.) The Indiana home has an accepted offer, and we'd appreciate your prayers that it closes soon. The boxes are all unpacked! And though I'm still learning where everything ended up, it feels so good to be surrounded by the things that bring us joy. 

And we've become homeschoolers! For the first time, all four Compson children are being homeschooled, and we are LOVING it! Plus, we were able to join an incredible co-op group that we're excited to meet in September. School is pretty much done by lunchtime, and you can find us in the afternoon at the pool (at JAARS or at the neighbors') soaking up the sunshine and playing infinite games of "Submarine Swim." We've already been blessed by an amazing community at JAARS that we've met at the pool, and we feel like we hit the jackpot with the kindest neighbors imaginable. Oh, and we've found our local library and made a couple of Costco runs. Sigh. Life is always better with new books and gigantic bags of Boom Chicka Pop.

It's helped my heart to be here. To not be in the in-between. To know the answers to a few of the "figure it out" questions. But there are still some days that I wonder if God will take us back to a place where we aren't "figuring it out" every day. Where every errand isn't an adventure and every drive doesn't need to be directed by Google Maps (WHO MAPPED THESE ROADS, NORTH CAROLINA???). Where family is not so far away. SO. FAR. AWAY. But I also see good here. So much good.

David loves his job. He is thrilled to be working every day for the benefit of global Bible translation and missions logistics. The kids are thriving being at home for school, and I'm seeing the amazing giftings they each have up close and in a new light. While we long for the friends back home, we have begun new friendships here that lift up our hearts and remind us that new beginnings are possible. 

We'd covet your prayers though. Some days are just hard. We long for the people and places that feel comfortable. Some days, each of the kids comes to me at a different part of the day, crying and hurting because they miss their friends back home. And honestly some days, I'm a real grouch because I just want to run over to my friend's house, my friend whom I know and am known by, and have a cup of coffee or a bowl of popcorn. I want things to be easy, and they're not, and I no longer have the busyness of unpacking or starting the school year to keep my mind from thinking about how this hurts and is hard. We're mourning what we left even though we are blown away by the loving people we've met in only a month's time. 

So if you've been one of our friendly faces in North Carolina that has made this place feel like home, THANK YOU SO MUCH! And if you are one of our friends who walked alongside us to the final goodbye in Indiana, THANK YOU SO MUCH! We have seen Jesus in the Body of Christ throughout this transition. Though I wish that the pain of leaving never had to happen to anyone, I am amazed by the grace that God has extended to us through our family and friends, both old and new. We are grateful for you! 

Now to get back to life today. The dog is barking at me. Someone is laughing. Someone is yelling, "Hey, Mom!" And my phone has new messages. Not sure which one to deal with first, but that's okay. We'll figure it out.

Please pick the blue jeans

Does anyone else's clothing choice determine their level of tolerance for adventure? Like if you put on your sweatpants, you automatically cozy in for a long day of tea and books and fuzzy blankets. If you're wearing dress pants and a button-down then, of course, you won't be getting out the finger paints that day. That kind of crazy will have to wait for another day.

The last few days have been hard for everyone. I don't want to make light of the hard so many of you are experiencing. So many families like ours have autoimmune illnesses and need to avoid people, even the people we love most. So many families are dependent on an hourly wage and a predictable school schedule, and they have been robbed of those things they thought were the most reliable. Lots of you are extroverts, which means the next few weeks look bleak. Coffee shops are closed. Restaurants usher you out with a to-go bag. And playdates are not going to happen for a long time. It's hard. That word seems so inadequate, even trite. Decisions that used to be perfunctory are now matters of serious contemplation and prayer. It's a whole new world.

In the midst of this, one really trivial decision hits me every morning. What will I wear? What will I prepare for my day to hold? How will I be ready in every way possible to love my children and my husband, to serve and benefit my neighbor, and to not go crazy (it's the little things, right?)? I have an idea I want to sell you on: pick the blue jeans.

"What?!?!" you say. "I finally get to work from home and wear my pajama bottoms for 24 hours solid. Why would I wear blue jeans? No way." But give me a second to explain.

When I wear my pajama bottoms, I'm pretty engaged in my own comfort. What do I want to eat? What should I read? How can I get everyone to leave me alone so I can enjoy silence with this cup of coffee? What are my personal projects that will make me feel successful? I'm fully focused on pleasing myself, but what if it's not about me?

Right now we have the opportunity to do (and not do) a lot of things for the good of many... so that they might live. I'm just going to be honest that if I'm wearing my sweatpants my mind just isn't tuned in to the frequency of thinking that involves others. I am putting myself first and am unwilling to rise to the occasion because, in case you hadn't noticed, I'm in my comfy clothes and this day is about me. I am far more likely to snap at my children because how DARE they behave like...ahem... children in need of guidance. I am far more likely to snap back in disrespect to my husband because how DARE he interrupt my alone time to communicate with me about our shared life. I am far less likely to run across the street and take in my neighbor's trash cans or answer their messages because obviously I'm the highest priority around here.

And none of these responses sound very much like Jesus, who at the end of a very long day was approached by a group of children. His response humbles and inspires me every time I read, "Let the little children come to me and do not forbid them for such is the kingdom of heaven." It's time to invest all we have in others. These souls that need us to love them are HERE and NOW. We don't get a second chance to do this virus thing. So I'm putting on my old blue jeans. The ones with holes in the knees that I so often use for gardening because I want my exterior to match what is going on in my heart. I am willing to do whatever is necessary in this moment, and how things (including me) look matters so much less that what they truly are. I'm here, and I'm ready to be poured out.

I am willing to drop dinner prep to answer a struggling friend's Marco Polo. I am willing to take a walk with the dog and the child who just canNOT handle the indoors another second. I am willing to use my evening alone time to plan for the next day so that our minds are kept focused on what is true, beautiful, and interesting. I am willing to pick up groceries for an elderly neighbor, even if that means showering before and after I make the delivery. I am ready to offer ideas and educational assistance to any friends who may feel like their creativity is buried under the weight of this difficult moment. I am willing to give up my quiet time to hear a child share their heart about all that is happening right now. I am willing to stay home far more than I ever thought possible and even stay six feet away from my dear friend at the grocery store because doing the right thing doesn't have to feel right to be right. There's critical intentionality to this moment, and I don't want to miss my opportunity to be a light.

And please know that all this pouring out would be fruitless and pointless if my heavenly Father weren't pouring into me with His Word and His Spirit. I would just end up depleted and cranky, probably wearing those sweatpants and locking the door to my room. Wearing my blue jeans means I'm gearing up for each day, trying to wake up before my children so I'm ready to respond and not react. It means I'm putting on my armor, and I'm entering the day ready to fight for what is right and not just what is comfortable. And let's just be honest, I'll most likely be declaring a comfy day soon because I'm just as human as the next guy and Sabbath rest is a part of our plan, for sure. We're on day six of this crazy here with no end in sight. Today I'm hanging a lot of my hope on the promise that we are not to grow weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest IF we do not give up.

Just because we aren't going out doesn't mean we are giving up. So pick the blue jeans, preferably the ones that you are willing to get messy... because we don't know what tomorrow brings and we're all rolling with the punches. And even if they don't get muddy dirty because all you did today was play a six-hour game of Monopoly, maybe those jeans will remind your heart to chose the hard work of sacrifice over the enticing promises of selfishness. Because it's not about me. And it's not about you. It's about us. You, my friends, are in my thoughts and my prayers. Our family fighting alongside you (from our house or at least six feet away) and rooting for all of us. So.. please... pick the blue jeans.

Where we are now

If you wondered where we've been, we've been in detox. Gluten and dairy detox. Having now experienced it, I have no idea how Benjamin functioned for the entire month of January when he went gluten free (He was already dairy free.) in preparation for his appointment with Dr. Hulseman. Ben is now my hero for having survived that month, and I'm completely ashamed I asked him to do anything but breathe and eat for those first two weeks.  I'm just starting to exit the fog and am noticing benefits in my own mind and body. The last three days I have woken up in the morning with more clarity and energy. Laura has also had more infrequent flares which is HUGE! Grateful to have done this alongside Laura and Emily although I'm pretty sure Dave would rather not have had all three of the women in the family simultaneously detoxing. It's be a real treat for him.

It may be counter-intuitive and a sign of mental instability (probably both), but whenever I feel sick, I take on massive projects and get things done. Pretty dumb, right? When I get a head cold, I clean the garage. When I'm supposed to be resting, I'm reorganizing bathrooms. It's a super power that makes David roll his eyes and brew the tea for when the inevitable crash happens. As my body detoxed last weekend, the project bug bit me. Hard. In addition to working on the fifteen projects from Dr. Hulseman, I felt like our physical environment was working against me. I'm a bit obsessed with efficiency so as long as I felt crummy, I thought I might as well streamline some things.

I went through the pantry and put all the gluten and dairy free snacks at easy reach and gave away food that I knew we wouldn't be able to eat for a long time.  Even though Caleb and David eat what they want when they're not at home, there turned out to be a tray of ingredients I knew they wouldn't eat unless I prepared them (and preparing two entrees per meal isn't in my abilities right now). Dave distracted the kids while I threw out or got rid of foods they like that aren't great for them and then took them out of my hair that evening so I could start another project.

The dreaded closet under the stairs. Yep. We have one of those. It started out as a coat closet/craft closet/party supply storage and then morphed into the place we throw large awkward items we feel like we need to save. As I've reflected on how to give kiddos who need a sensory break a true rest from the bustle and fun that is our home, that closet kept coming to mind as a space in our home that we just weren't using well. It's the drawback to having an open concept house. Sometimes it's so open, that there's no where you can escape the crazy. So I bit the bullet, got rid of over half the coats that we don't use anymore, decided no one needs over a hundred gift bags, and re-prioritized what we really wanted to save based on the fact that I want to live in the all the spaces I've been given. Not store stuff. The kids were thrilled.

Though I intended it to be a space for Laura to unwind and do crafts or for Ben to sit and color, they have turned it into a dance studio, a band rehearsal space, a house, an art studio, and (my personal favorite) a fort that must be defended at all costs. It's amazing how inspiring empty space can be. As I left a huge pile of our unneeded things at a local resale store, it hurt to let go; but the knowledge that the space has been far more used in the last week than in the seven years we've lived here is energizing. And the physical sign to Laura that we are trying to meet her felt needs has yielded good fruit. It's not a place we send her. It's a place she chooses to go to when her anxiety flares and she just needs to draw and to sit on the over-sized dog pillow we bought for them to enjoy in there.

So despite the fact that we are far from out of the woods, actual important steps are getting done as we seek to heal as gently as we can. In addition to the purging, I had the opportunity to attend a Google talk with Dr. Hulseman for parents of children with autism, addressing a lot of my questions and giving some of the science and theory behind what she does. Super empowering, and I now have pages of notes that give me confidence that the steps I'm taking are helping. We're continuing with specific probiotics, omega-3's, omega-9's, and vitamins which the kids have taken like champs. These are LARGE pills, but they take them without a fight. Baking soda and Epsom salt baths happen every/every other night depending on the child. And I even managed to follow a crazy complicated protocol that was necessary to send some samples to a lab. Grateful.

We also had our home tested for mold by an incredibly kind, knowledgeable biochemist. This is where my story turns a bit less victorious. The air upstairs is safe. The air downstairs is very safe. Even the walls of our home were cleared, but the crawl space has active mold growing and a lot of moisture issues. Last week was filled with contractors coming over to give estimates as well as professional opinions about how it should be handled. Though mold in a crawl space is pretty normal, it would appear that our family has a special sensitivity to it. Can I just be a gigantic two year old for a second and gripe that I do NOT want to spend all our savings remediating mold in our crawl space, installing a dehumidifier and sump pump down there, and digging a trench through the back yard so we can move the water away from the house? This is not a fun kitchen remodel that we get to show off. This isn't an educational RV trip. This isn't a shopping spree at a used book store. It's just boring and messy, expensive and very necessary.

As we wait for all the estimates to come in and watch the money drain away, I realize how much of my faith is in my bank account, how much security I place in having savings and resources. I'm not knocking having an emergency fund, but this week I'm living with the painful reality that the emergency fund is for actual emergencies like this one. I should have been walking in gratitude this week. Instead I've been a rotten, spoiled child who is mad that God gave her His resources and now wants to use them for her and His children.

This morning, I was reading In His Image by Jen Wilkin as part of my community women's Bible study, and the passage on God's character trait of "Goodness" ended with this prayer prompt: "Ask [God] to help you trust his goodness in your current circumstances that are not as good." Yeah. I should do that. Because all the fear and anxiety that are bleeding out of me are clear indicators that my trust has not been in the unchanging Provider but in my own store of provisions. MY own store of provisions. That are there for only ME (and sometimes Dave and the kids). I'm struggling and surrendering multiple times a day because normally the lesson we want to learn the least is the lesson we need to learn the most.

Lord, those You love You discipline. You take away good things that you know aren't good for us to give us something better... Yourself. You place people in our life who have walked this journey so the enemy has no ability to lie to us and tell us we are on our own. You give us rest and Truth, sunlight and beauty. And we have so much. Thank you for giving us the ability to do what is healthy for our family. As we celebrate your goodness, God, please prompt us to live generously with the grace you have given us to steward. Quiet our hearts with Your love and restore to us the joy of our salvation that we may glorify you where we are now.

Hope when we need it most

Over a week ago, David and I took Laura to Cincinnati Children's Hospital to see what wisdom the rheumatology department (auto-immune specialists) could offer us. It was a 3-hour drive one-way that started at 6:30 a.m. so we could be to the hospital in time for our appointment, but we were hopeful that this could be the beginning of a new chapter for us. Every staff member and physician treated us with kindness, understanding, and respect; and I was impressed by how quickly we were seen, how much time our specialist gave us, and how they bent over backward to help Laura feel safe in a new place full of strange faces.

After physical exams, symptom surveys, and a long conversation; the physician we met with simply said, "You're probably familiar with what this could be, but we don't have any clear answers or treatments for what Laura is struggling with. Just keep treating the symptoms." Not going to lie to you, I cried. And couldn't stop. I couldn't even talk. Dave had to try to close the conversation and ask intelligent questions while I pulled myself together. I looked at my daughter, sitting in her chair like she wanted to hide from the whole world, watched her struggling to make it through the day while also confused by the fact that no one around her seemed to share her perspective of extreme anxiety. And I had no hope to offer her that this would get better. The ride home was quiet and painful. All three hours of it for all three passengers.

Two days later at church, a lovely momma asked me how we were doing, and I lost it. Completely started crying and could not stop. The heartsickness of watching my child struggle with pain every day while also powerlessly seeing her emotional and physical health deteriorate just kept washing over me. And by the grace of God, I broke down with the right momma who was not afraid of our brokenness... who hugged my neck, lifted me up to the Father, and has continued to pray for me daily as we live from one moment to the next.

And I know she was not the only one lifting us up. We hear you, family of God. When your card arrives at the exact moment that we need encouragement, when your text dings on my phone at the beginning of a challenging day, it is no accident or chance. It is God's very grace to us, reminding us that we are not alone. That someone else believes in the good work He is doing in and through us as we fight for our daughter, for her siblings, for ourselves to truly LIVE in freedom. God has answered your prayers with peace when we should be riddled with anxiety. Strength when we should have fallen apart. Creativity when our minds were numb. And help.

Last Wednesday, I took Benjamin to see a specialist who has helped a lot of kids with autism to feel better, live better, think better. Before I took him in, I found out from a friend that this particular doctor had also had success in treating children with PANDAS even though her office said she only saw children with autism diagnoses. So I packed up both children and sat in the smallest exam room I have ever been in to find some answers. She took one look at our family's medical history and said, "It's all related." To summarize, she thinks our family has genetic sensitivities to toxins that are a part of modern society. In order to lessen the inflammation in our bodies and work towards healing, I now have a 15-point list of things to read, do, or consider. But do you know what else I have? Hope.

This doctor was kind, sensitive, thoughtful, and knowledgeable. She gave us her full attention, put together a plan specific to Ben's needs (Laura will have an appointment on April 1.), and sent us home with a backpack full of hope. The struggles we now have CAN get better. Laura CAN heal. And we have a medical practitioner who is willing to walk this journey with us from start to finish.

So we're giving our kids baths in Epsom salts and baking soda every night to boost their magnesium. We're slathering their skin in coconut oil and boosting their fish oil intake. We're switching to a dairy-free, gluten-free diet for the entire family. And we're taking a swing at the other 12 points of the plan in the hopes that respecting an anti-inflammatory lifestyle for a year or two could help our bodies find healing and lead to a less restrictive diet for us all as our bodies detox and heal.

This week another sweet momma at church looked me square in the eyes and said, "I have so much hope for you!" My eyes just started watering again. As hard as this will be and as much as we will give up to walk this journey, we do have hope. We have a heavenly Physician who has also provided an earthly physician within an hour's drive of our home, and we are thankful.

And we are thankful for you. When cards arrive in my mailbox from people I don't even know or someone texts me with information I just happened to need, I am reminded that God doesn't need me. That all of the responsibility for Laura's health is not resting on my shoulders. God can heal her without my lifting a finger. I pray with all my heart He would heal her today, but even if He doesn't, He is good, sovereign, and kind. He has never left us alone, and His plans are for our good, for our daughter's good, and for His glory. We are bearing up for a moment. He is preparing us for eternity. And He has given us hope when we needed it most.

Today she went to school.

That title looks so ordinary, but if you only knew how extraordinary it is.  Since last spring, we saw our daughter go from LOVING every minute of being at school to begging us not to make her go. Once there, every teacher described her as happy, intelligent, and kind. At home, her feelings about school where those of terror, rejection, and despair. Her brain on PANDAS was lying to her, twisting the smallest interaction into a gaping wound.

At the end of last year and the beginning of this year, we could motivate her out the door by reminding her of all the wonderful friends she has at school, of how safe her teachers are, of how many incredible experiences her school provides. Our school even has a facility dog-in-training that Laura takes great comfort in. Our reasoning made sense to her mind and so Laura would talk herself into doing the brave thing and going to school despite the feelings of anxiety. Sometimes she would hug and cling to me at the door, and then with tears in her eyes she would bravely walk to the carpool van and do the hard thing.

Fast-forward to this week. There was no force or reason on heaven or earth that would convince Laura to go to school on Tuesday and Thursday. No fear of missing out. No truth about how much she is loved and valued. No physical force. She was terrified. And she just. couldn't. So we did school at home. As a former elementary school teacher married to a former elementary school teacher, we know we have the skills to teach her academically what she needs. What breaks my heart is that the simple act of GOING to school was so incredibly healthy for her. To be brave and do the thing her anxiety tells her she can't means she is still in the driver's seat. To stay home seems like a surrender to this invisible enemy.

While I'd love to cherish the moments I get to delight in teaching my older daughter, her presence in my home is a vivid reminder that she is building walls that she is afraid to climb over. Before she left for kindergarten, I begged her to let me homeschool her. She is a fast learner with a sense of curiosity that is fun to feed. Now, I beg her to be brave and go to school, to place herself in positions where she may not be in control but is, beyond a shadow of a doubt, safe. To not trust her gut because it is poisoned.

But today she went to school. Her teacher lovingly affirmed her in every way she knew how. Her friends were kind, as I truly believe they always are, and she had silly stories and favorite parts of the day when she got into the van. She and her sister are giggling hysterically now as they create crazy skits and then record them so they can replay their latest antics. She is having a good day. No flares. A normal six year old. Today she went to school.

As a type-A, super-structured person, the Lord has placed me in a family that stretches me to discomfort. No two days with my beautiful special needs kiddos are the same. No expectations for growth are the same. Though my personality's strength means that I can provide clear expectations and safe boundaries, the amount of individualization in this family really makes my brain explode. Right now that intentional, loving care means that some days I homeschool my daughter through her PANDAS flare, even though every inch of my rule-follower self says that somehow I should be able to make her go. And on the days she willingly goes, we try to subversively reinforce how much she is capable of. The truth of the strength of her identity in Christ and our family, the truth of her physical strength, the truth of her intelligence, the truth of her ability to love and be loved. She is a powerhouse. Watch out, world.

Next Friday, we'll meet with the pediatric rheumatologist in Cincinnati. We'll see what treatments and answers are out there for her. We'll keep knocking on doors to find answers and hitting our knees in prayer until it is the most normal thing in the world to say, "Today she went to school." And in the meantime, we will be thankful for the good days like today.

It's hard not to be angry. Angry at a disease that keeps my daughter from doing what she loves and being who I know she is. Angry at a medical community that doesn't quite seem to know what to do for PANDAS. Angry that we can't just be done with difficult. And that anger is deeply rooted in fear. The fear whispers, "This will never end. This will drain every resource you have. This will kill every dream you have for yourself and for her. This will kill you and her." It takes every ounce of my faith to whisper back, "Fear is a liar. A liar. A LIAR."

And with that truth, my perspective is freed to remember what is true. God sees. He sees me and my daughter. He loves us. He will redeem our pain. He knows the pain of watching His own Son in agony. He is near to me as I weep brokenhearted behind the wheel because it's the only time I'm alone. None of this has escaped His sovereignty, and He is shepherding us with gentleness. And He has given us His people.

Thank you for praying. There are days filled with inexplicable joy and strength that we know are the result of the Holy Spirit working in our hearts by the prayers of His people. We've also seen Laura have so many beautifully good moments that it's almost a shock when the flares come and she can't stop the panic. Please keep praying and know that we are grateful to you for holding us up to the Father and sending us messages to remind us that we are thought of. As a result of your prayers, today she went to school. And we are thankful.

When there's nothing new in your New Year

David and I went on a rare date night thanks to a dear friend who contacted me and offered to entertain our four for the evening. Yes, please. As we were driving home, I found myself putting together my thoughts as I talked to my best friend.

"It's just hard. Nothing on the horizon is going to change, and we have no idea how long our battle for Laura will be or what it will take."

You see, about a day after I posted my last blog, Laura relapsed. As the antibiotics wore off, the strep virus got back in the driver's seat and started motivating manic behavior. To anyone outside our family, it just looks like we have an out-of-control child that we refuse to discipline. For those of us who live with her when she's on antibiotics and the inflammation is under control, we recognize that we are trying to love a child through a manic episode that scares even her. Did I mention that this manic episode happened at the Christmas Eve service? Bless it. It was NOT a silent night in our row.

She had just started a new round of antibiotics (the pharmacist didn't give us enough medicine to even complete the first round), but the medicine hadn't built up enough in her system to see results. We were stuck in a waiting game as we closely watched her. Even in public, she couldn't restrain it, which is new. But I'm guessing this is a side effect of not having had to deal with the inflammation for over a week, and then suddenly dealing with the mental and emotional side effects of having a strep virus calling the shots again.

So healing will be a journey. And in my heart of hearts, all I want is my daughter to be healed and whole; but we have no clue what to do next and I really don't want to start another complicated health journey. The leaders in the PANDAS field are often doctors that are considered experimental and are not covered by insurance. The nearest ones that specialize in children are 3 hours away. Healing is a process, but we already have so many processes in progress right now. I want something to be easy, fixable. Something. Please?

My heart aches even typing this because I have friends whose children are struggling without a clear diagnosis. I have spoken with parents whose children have PANDAS who have not found relief with antibiotic treatment. So many unknowns. So much pain. It all feels hopeless when my eyes are not fixed on the Author of life, the Healer of all hurt, the Redeemer of my soul and sometimes the Redeemer of even my grief.

What can feel hopeless when I fixate on the problem suddenly becomes a light burden when I remember that the actual goal of my life and ultimately my daughter's is not physical wholeness but spiritual holiness. I can't control the virus that is coursing through her veins, but I can exercise forgiveness in my own life and repent for trying to fix Laura myself. I can't force my children to make mature decisions, but I can surrender to the practice of patience as I love them day by day, screw-up by screw-up. Because you know what? That's what my heavenly Father is doing for me.

As I've gritted my teeth and tried to make everything work, nothing has. And in my disappointment that I can't fix this (and SO many other things), I have no where to turn since I've been relying on myself. But God, rich in mercy, is eager to carry me, save me, guide me. The courage He has given my heart just in the last two weeks is a miracle in and of itself.

So we press on into the unknown, broken and needy, begging God to shape us into the image of His Son and to allow us to stay focused on DOING this journey well, regardless of the outcome, though we also ask that Laura's full health will be restored to her. On Friday, January 24, we'll be heading to Cincinnati Children's Hospital's rheumatology department for any help and wisdom they can offer as the strep infection often makes Laura's joints ache terribly. Would you pray for us? This has already been a journey filled with disappointment, but I know the Lord is up to something in our lives and that something is good. This day...the one with a child who needs discipling, the dog who needs walking, the daughter who needs healing, the homework that needs doing, and the house that needs cleaning... THIS day is the day that the Lord has made. We will choose to rejoice and delight in the One who never changes and never misses a beat even when we don't comprehend His rhythm. Jesus is our King, and we choose to trust Him today.

What was lost has been found. And we rejoice.

I wish the story that I'm about to tell you were one that spanned 2 weeks and not 2 years. I wish it had had an easier solution, but I am beyond grateful to recall our history with the desire that it will encourage, educate, and motivate those who are searching for solutions to struggles that seem beyond hope.

Let's rewind two years. Our entire family of six was violently ill for much of the month of December. It's a twisted family tradition we have. Christmas break arrives, and one or more of our bodies break down. Sometimes we take turns passing pathogens around, and sometimes we all drop. In this instance, pretty much everyone felt miserable for a week or so. Breathing treatments were going around the clock, the meds were recorded in columns on the kitchen counter, and Curious George's Christmas movie played so many times that "Christmas Monkey" was by far the most sung carol that winter.  To the best of my knowledge, our littlest girl Emily was the only one who needed antibiotics to clear an ear infection. Everyone else pushed through to health on the other side.

In January we started a new adventure, having a college grad friend live with us until her wedding in April. The children loved spending extra time with our friend, but gradually we started noticing Laura pulling away from everyone. After a few weeks, Laura became blatantly rebellious and had daily physical outbursts. I would hold her in "safe holds" that I learned working with at-risk kids as a camp staffer. I never dreamed that I would need this knowledge to protect myself, my other children, and my child from herself. As David and I talked, we decided we had probably just messed up the birth order by having an older gal in the house, making Laura feel threatened. We assumed that when our friend got married and moved out, Laura's behavior would fade. It didn't.

My memory is vague as I remember that summer. I don't remember how frequent the outbursts were or what they looked like. Our months have blended into a giant mush in my mind. I do remember that Laura started kindergarten that fall. While she loved learning and her teacher and had a great friend in the class, she would come home absolutely drained and overwhelmed by the drama of daily interactions and the hurts of her fellow classmates. She hurt with every student that was hurting. Every. Single. One. Empathy is one of her strongest gifts, but this burden seemed so much more than a five year old should bear. She would feel anxious about who might be mean to her or to someone else and would have what could only be characterized as panic attacks.

Each night it was as if we could see a switch flip as we started getting ready for bed. In an effort not to feel the tremendous anxiety she was feeling, she would manically fight us for hours. If you've ever met Laura, you know that describing her as athletic is an understatement. She is STRONG. On the day she was born, I placed my hands under her shoulders to balance her and watched her support her own body weight in a standing position. The day. she was born. She hasn't slowed down since. Once her anxiety started causing nightly attacks, restraining her became the only athletic program I had time for. I developed serious abs and arm muscles as I tried to keep Laura from hurting me, the other kids, or herself. If you're wondering where Dave is during this frenzy, he's putting the other kids to bed and getting ready to spell me when my muscles gave out. The other children got used to a "tornado drill" style bedtime where they went to sleep in rooms far away from Laura's so they could sleep and be safe while she fought.

These battles weren't merely physical either. The whole time she would fight us, Laura would spew lies about herself. About her worth. About us. About God. About her siblings. About the lack of reasons for living. Lies. So many lies. We learned more about spiritual warfare last summer (the summer after kindergarten) than we had in 7 years of working as camp staffers. Every night, we fought a shadow of the girl we remembered as our daughter. She was scared. She was anxious. She was trapped. She was exhausted. But she couldn't stop fighting. At school, she would hold it together. At home, she would unravel.

When she would finally break down and collapse after 10 p.m., sometimes she would share the hard or hurtful thing that had happened that day that she thought was making her emotions flare. Sometimes she would just fall asleep fighting, and we'd tuck her in. Every night, David and I fell into bed completely depleted. No one else could watch our children in the evening. And there was little time to process solutions. We started play therapy for Laura at a local counseling center, knowing that what we were dealing with was far above our ability to parent well. We were drowning.

During that summer... just this last summer, friends surrounded us to pray. To pray over Laura, over us, through our home, for our family. To pray pray pray truth, protection, and answers for our questions. They texted us Scriptures, poured into our other children, and loved us as the Body of Christ. David and I lived hungry for the Word of God, desperate for the truth of His Word to revive us. And it did. We learned to put on the Armor of God. We learned to pray truth over our family. And we saw the Word of God do what only it can do: defeat lies with Truth.

When I shared with one friend who lived far away how destructive Laura's words had become, she promised to pray. The next day she texted me saying she thought Laura had PANDAS. She saw a picture of another child with PANDAS in an article she was reading, and I'm going to say the Holy Spirit told her, "This is Laura." She told me to google it and I found this article, and it was like reading a description of Laura.

Laura could NOT sit still at home. Always moving. Always doing. She used to love to read. Now she was constantly on the go. She would sob and cry anytime I left home, even if I was only going for a walk with friends in the evening. She didn't want to go to church. Didn't want to go to school (though she was happy once there). Separation was so hard. Huge mood swings with anger/laughter/panic/sobbing all mixed into the same 2 minute span happened nightly. It was incredibly difficult for her to sleep, and she would complain of pain in her knees, elbows, and ankles every night. We just thought she was having a growth spurt. All of these things fit the description for PANDAS.

Now you're probably thinking... Isn't PANDAS just an animal from Asia? Well, yes. But it's also an acronym for Pediatric Autoimmune Neuropsychiatric Disorders Associated with Streptococcal Infections. In simpler terms, we believed it was possible that Laura had had a strep infection that December (almost 2 years ago) that had never been treated with antibiotics, which allowed it to go systemic. As hard as it is to believe, Laura had been so externally healthy, she had had no reason for any cultures to be taken for almost 2 years.

Now the tricky thing about PANDAS... Very few practitioners actually feel comfortable diagnosing it. It's not common. Though many know that it exists, we don't have a lot of research to support its clinical treatment. Looking back, I wish I had gotten more aggressive about finding a doctor who would at least try to give Laura a strep test even though her throat looked fine and she had no external symptoms. To make a long story short, the doctor I trusted was on an extended leave when we finally put all the pieces together. We waited for her to get back to her practice, and then begged for a strep test. She looked at all the elements we typed up for her and immediately said, "I think this could be PANDAS."

The rapid strep test came back negative, and I was so deflated. Knowing we could not sustain this lifestyle, we agreed with our doctor that an anti-depressant medication was probably Laura's best hope for overcoming the crippling anxiety that was taking over her world. At this point, just a couple of weeks ago, Laura had given up eating more than a few foods. She never wanted to leave the house, except to go a couple of places. She would have panic attacks at home before church or in the car after we got to church. Evening fights were more infrequent since we started therapy and had found ways to speak truth over Laura and pray over her with more intentionality, but we were broken as we watched her world get smaller and smaller. There were so few things she enjoyed and so few safe places and people in her mind.

As we sat down to supper a week ago Wednesday, I thought it was a normal night. It wasn't. A phone call from my child's doctor's office came in. The nurse on the line told me that Laura's strep cultures had come back positive, and she would need to prescribe an antibiotic. I almost laughed when she told me not to send Laura to school the next day. Goodness knows how long Laura had been walking the planet with an active strep infection. I sat back down at the table, wanting to cry and not hope too much. We rearranged our evening to pick up the medication and fought a long battle with Laura to convince her that her body needed the sticky pink liquid.  That she needed it desperately.

Somehow we got her to take it. Somehow we got her to bed that night. Somehow she braved taking the next dose in the morning. And then came the resurrection on Thursday night. After school on Thursday I drove all four children directly to the dentist. I anticipated Laura's anxiety would be high. She had already had several panic attacks about this appointment even though it was a routine cleaning. Taking her directly from school was a tactical maneuver on my part so I wouldn't have to fight her into the van. We arrived and even though she didn't want to go, she walked right in. No battle. No yelling. She was super snuggly in the waiting room, which seemed strange for her. Lately she trusted no one. She smiled through her appointment, shared honestly when she didn't like something, and handled herself like a brave, kind 6 year old.

Then we got in the car afterwards, and I dropped the bomb that we would be driving to a good friends' house for a Christmas party next. She was not happy to not be going home, but once we got there, she hugged her daddy, found a cookie, and started up a game with a friend. It was lovely. It felt normal. I spent the evening enjoying people I have come to love dearly. I checked on her periodically, but she was always engaged in some activity so I never interrupted. Lurking in the back of my mind, I knew from experience I would be paying the price for having taken my introverted, panic-driven daughter from school to the dentist to a large social engagement. I was prepared for her to have a major physical battle at home. I regathered my strength as I drove home, preparing to fight well. And here's where I start to cry.

We walked in the door to the house that night, and Laura saw that all the shelf-stable groceries were still all over the kitchen from my trip to the store earlier in the day. She said, "Mom, I know where all of these go. Can I put them away for you?"         Say. what?   

The other three children ran off to put on pajamas, and Laura and I talked about the party as she put away boxes and cans and I poured everyone's allergy meds and set out vitamins. She came over to the counter and took her antibiotics with zero fight and said, "Huh.... that doesn't taste as bad as I remember." Then she brushed her teeth and went directly to bed. No fight. Just sleep. "Goodnight, Mom."

I sat down on the couch with my baskets of laundry that needed folding and just sobbed. Laura was back. And that night was only the beginning. Though she used to be a morning person as a toddler, the last 2 years had been constant battles trying to get a very sleepy Laura up for school. That Friday morning, even after a late night at the party, Laura was up as soon as her wristband alarm vibrated. She was dressed, breakfasted, and had her lunch and backpack packed before I even got out of BED. She smiled in the morning. Had hugs for all of us. She liked herself and us and her life. And she's done the same thing EVERY. DAY. SINCE.

During all of this, I was trying to get Laura a referral to Riley Hospital for Children. I wanted the best pediatricians in the area to give us the best counsel possible to help Laura fully recover, though we were definitely on the right track. I spent several hours on the phone to finally find out rheumatology and all four neurology departments at Riley would not see PANDAS patients. They just won't. PANDAS just seems like too shaky a diagnosis for them to touch. And you know what, I don't even care.

My daughter came home a week ago Thursday. She laughs and plays with her siblings again. She sleeps soundly and enjoys reading. She has dreams and goals that involve her mind and her body. She no longer has pain in her joints. She no longer cries when I leave the house. When she's upset, she tells me immediately what's going on so we can find a solution together. She comes over and gives me hugs, just because. She's started eating a variety of foods again and even referred to my taco meat as "delicious." My daughter is home. Glory be.

The battle is not completely over, I know. She has established patterns of panic during her formative years (ages 4-6) that will take time and effort to continue to unravel. We will not be quitting play therapy anytime soon. The strep infection may require numerous rounds of antibiotics to finally conquer. But we have named our enemy, and we have tasted victory. We are not giving up.

In all the good things, I'd also like the record to show that for as many moments of her life as she is sweet, Laura has quite a few spicy moments. She's strong-willed, able-bodied, and loves a good practical joke. As I see these spicy habits resurface, I realize we still have a fallen daughter to disciple and love; but I'm also having flashbacks to her four year old self, who loved mischief and laughter and dismantling my stuff when I thought she was sleeping. And I can rejoice as I disciple her heart, unhindered by crippling anxiety and OCD. My daughter who was once lost is found. And I beg you to rejoice with me.

As I type this, I know others are reading this whose diagnoses have not be found, whose pain is still great and unexplained. My heart breaks for you. I wish every struggle had a solution as simple as a free antibiotic. I wish every child who struggles with anxiety, OCD, and depression could be lifted out of those struggles by drinking a pink liquid for 10 days. These last 2 years have, I pray, forever changed how we as a family respond to other families with chronic struggles. If I tell you I'm praying, know that I am. If I ask you if I can help run errands or shuttle kids, I mean it. When my arms were weary, others in the Body of Christ held them up; and I'd be honored to do the same for you. We stand in hope with you, hope for healing and answers. Hope for better days ahead.

I also know there are some in our community that had no idea we were struggling. At all. Laura's story at the time felt too personal for us to share with many. Even now, sharing it feels like we are leaving her exposed for the internet to ridicule; however, our desire for God to receive all the glory for her healing and for others who are struggling with PANDAS to find their own healing has brought us to this post. May you see God's grace in our story as we most definitely do.

And to those who knew about the long nights and the tears, thank you. You cared. Texted. Prayed. Called. Came over. You wept with us. And I know you rejoice with us know.

Our daughter has come home. To God be the glory.

Taste and Hear

We are two days post-op from Caleb's right ear tympanoplasty. If that sounds complicated, well...it is. I marvel at the hands that can operate on some of the smallest bones in the body with delicate precision through a hole that is the size of my pinky fingernail. Caleb had a cartilege-enforced graft created to replace his eardrum that had been perforated as well as a prosthetic earbone placed behind that graft to enable to him to hopefully correctly register sounds. And while the surgeon was working his magic, he also placed an ear tube to allow the pressure from Caleb's eustachian tubes to not pull on the ear drum quite so much.

Though everything looked great to the surgeon when he filled Caleb's auditory canal with surgical packing, put a cotton ball over it, and sent us home; we are now in a waiting game. In a little over two weeks, we return to Indy for the same surgeon to remove the packing material to see if the most important test is passed.  The look.

It happened last time when Caleb had the packing removed from his left ear.  The surgeon was steadily working to remove the material when all of a sudden my 11-year-old burst out with a "WHOA!" Sound finally was able to reach a fully functioning, freshly grafted ear drum. It was magical! His eyebrows lifted, his eyes lit up, and he kept telling us how loud the world was! In my mind, that look is more telling than the audiology report.

In addition to praying for his hearing to be restored, Caleb has had a new twist in recovery this surgery.  Did you know that there are nerves in your ear that control your ability to taste? Pretty wild, huh? I wondered if something was off when Caleb didn't devour all the chicken fries when he came home from surgery... when he said they tasted... different.

Then the next day Caleb said nothing tasted quite right. Most flavors seemed very much the same unless they were strong...like a dark chocolate bar. Now, you might be thinking, "Of course, the only thing he says he tastes well is dark chocolate. I'd say that too if you'd bring me a bar for breakfast, lunch, and dinner." That thought crossed my mind, but the louder voice in my head was that of a friend whose son had a similar surgery and struggled for a few weeks with an altered sense of taste.

Calls to both that friend today as well as the surgeon's office confirmed that we are now playing yet another waiting game...waiting for Caleb to regain his sense of taste. So far today, we've had a major victory in discovering that Caleb can taste eggs if I season them strongly. Bacon is also on the list of strong flavors that he registers. Ron Swanson would be proud. Odds are good that within a few weeks, he'll be back to enjoying his favorites; but until then we're pushing strong spices and flavors and giving thanks that nerves regenerate. Because...let's just be honest, if I had to pick between being able to hear in both ears and being able to taste, I'd be the partly deaf woman in the corner with ice cream slathered all over her face.

So tonight we had breakfast for supper, and this morning I dropped by Culver's to pick up some pints of dark chocolate frozen custard. If you have to wait to both taste and hear, why not live it up?

Also, I just wanted to say thank you. Thank you for the texts, emails, posted comments, and prayers. We're grateful to know there are people praying when the journey takes a turn we didn't anticipate. So many of those messages came through at the exact right moment that we needed an encouraging word. Sometimes technology really IS useful. Blessings to you all.

The Problem with Success

Have you ever had something go really really well? Like you nailed that proposal. People are going to write home about how amazing it was to sit in that meeting with you. Or you really parented that kid in public like a boss.  I mean... the moms in the next aisle over were taking notes and were amazed by how you got that toddler off the floor without messing up your hair, dropping your coffee, or raising your voice. Glory.

In Caleb's case today, he's wishing that his surgeon had been a little less successful about 6 months ago. At the end of May, Caleb had surgery on his left ear to repair a damaged ear drum.  It was a complicated procedure, but his recovery was phenomenally easy.  After two weeks, the surgeon removed the packing material, and what we've been waiting for for almost a year happened. Caleb heard. He could hear so well from his left, newly-repaired ear that if I whispered in his right, he would turn his head for me to repeat myself in his left.  It had achieved the sought-after status of the "preferred ear."

His personality altered drastically as he was able to hear what everyone around him was talking about. Amazing how easy it is to contribute to conversations when you actually can HEAR what others are saying. He played with his siblings more. He smiled more. He even became less self-absorbed since he could actually HEAR what people around him were feeling and needing.

An audiology test in October confirmed what we had been celebrating all summer.  Caleb's hearing in his left ear far exceeded his hearing in the right. Several options were presented to us (waiting, hearing aids, surgery), but David and I kept circling back to our desire for Caleb hear fully from both ears.  To be able to distinguish directionality of sound. To fully engage with the world.

Which brings us to today.  I'm sitting in the family surgical waiting room of Riley Hospital for Children.  We haven't met a person here that isn't top notch.  Their communications staff, their child life specialists, their nurses, and their doctors have done an incredible job of making sure we have all the information that we need to know Caleb will be well taken care of.  Caleb was completely calm and relaxed when he went back to surgery with the nurses, but let's just be honest... he'd rather not be here at all.

He'd rather be playing football or reading a book or even copying his spelling words than be here... because he's 11.  And the only thing he is thinking about right now is right now. At one point when we were talking about this surgery as an option, he said he would rather opt out. He made the fairly logical argument that it was his body and he should be able to choose if he wanted the surgery.  I then asked if we were to buy him ice cream if he would consider the surgery. He eager "yes" was a good teaching opportunity.  If you're still young enough that ice cream sways your major life decisions, you're too young to make major life decisions. So here we are.

We are 2 hours into a 3 hour procedure. A surgery updating nurse rotates around the room once an hour.  She's visited every operating room and gives updates on how each procedure is progressing.  It's truly beautiful to watch her extend grace and care to each family. 

Pray with us, please? That this procedure would result in Caleb having a functioning ear drum and that the ear drum will do its job rather than retracting into the middle ear. That Caleb would stay encouraged and find purpose in his 2-week recovery period of "no activity that works up a sweat." 

Update: The surgeon just came out and told us that the procedure appeared to be a complete success. He said that there was deterioration behind the ear drum that was causing a good portion of the hearing loss which they were able to repair with another prosthetic ear bone and a cartilege-reinforced ear drum graft, along with an ear tube to help the graft to not retract into the middle ear. So thankful. Thankful for this surgeon, this hospital, for Caleb, and for the guidance from the Lord to choose this road. Because what was successful once has the potential to be successful a second time. And, yes, we will be celebrating with some hard-earned ice cream.

It's all in the timing

The last 10 years of motherhood have changed a lot in my life, including the speed at which I live.  Some tasks are just easier at this point, having done them so many times I no longer need to search for directions or even think about what I'm doing.  Bake the cookies.  Make the pizza crust dough.  Pay the bills.  Call the insurance.  Make the lunches.  Drive to therapy.  I am, by nature, a person who thrives with efficiency and dreads confusion and delay.  There are few things I appreciate more than a completed to-do list, yet there has been one thing on my to-do list for a very long time.  Scheduling Caleb's surgery.

Allow me to rewind a bit.  We were told in January that Caleb's left ear (the ear that has ALREADY had surgery) would need an invasive procedure to reconstruct his auditory canal after clearing out the unhealthy tissue known as cholesteatoma. This procedure (mastoidectomy) was supposed to be scheduled as soon as possible, but first the surgeon wanted to see Caleb's original CT scans from before his initial surgery last fall.  No problem, right?  Wrong.  

There are many things that have progressed in the modern age; however, the way that medical scans are transmitted from one office to another apparently is not one of them.  Caleb's scans had to be put on a disk and physically mailed from Fort Wayne to Indianapolis.  No problem, right? Wrong.  

After a few weeks, I called to see if the disk had arrived.  When the surgeon's secretary said it had not, she contacted the office in Fort Wayne again to have the disk re-sent.  A week later, I called her back.  The disk still hadn't arrived. Weird. So with a smile on my face and my efficiency alarms ringing, I got the phone number for the office that sent the scans and began the process of "helping things along." 

If you fast-forward 2 months, you would see that I am now on a first name basis with both the sweet gal sending the disks and the secretary for the surgeon.  Week after week, try after try, we couldn't get the disk to arrive.  I was just about to physically escort a disk to Riley when I got a call that they found a PILE of mail in the mailroom that just hadn't been delivered.  In that pile were three copies of my child's CT scans. Yay! Problem solved, right?  Wrong. 

Having now seen the scans, the surgeon wanted NEW scans taken at one of his offices.  So 2 weeks ago (yes, 3 months after Caleb's initial appointment) we traveled to Indy to have pictures taken of Caleb's ear canals. And having done that, a week and a half later, surgery scheduling called to put Caleb's procedure on the books.

While all the confusion and delay has been time-consuming and frustrating, it's also been peaceful. Yep. I said it.  Peaceful.  With the timing completely out of our control, we have had total confidence that the Lord was ordaining the days and masterfully planning the order in which He wanted Caleb's surgery to occur.  Not too soon.  Not too late.  His timing. No amount of "helping things along" would budge it.  And in the meantime, our family has walked through multiple complicated and difficult situations that would have been even more challenging had Caleb been recovering from a major procedure.  God has been so faithful and kind!

So we're prepping for May 28, the day after Memorial Day if that helps you to remember to pray. This procedure will be the first of two surgeries to improve Caleb's hearing in his left ear. It's a 3-hour surgery at Riley Hospital, and by God's abundant grace, a friend who is very familiar with Riley is planning to accompany me.  Would you pray for healing, for a successful procedure, and for courage for my son?  Having walked through a painful recovery last fall without successful results to show for it, my justice-minded son is struggling with why this needs to be a part of his story.  That Tuesday is also the first day of his summer vacation so having a week-long recovery of no activity or baseball games also wasn't in Caleb's plans. And if you think to, pray for David and me? We are truly resting in the sovereignty of God, but there are still moments when the delicate reality of what the surgeon will be doing makes my head spin.

You are a blessing to us. Thanks for stopping to ask me how he's doing, what's going on, where we're at.  I can't imagine raising my family without this mighty community both locally and through the interwebs.  You love us well.

Wrapping my kids in bubble wrap... or not.

It's hard to put into words how the last few weeks have wrecked my plans for order, simplicity, and quiet.  How, in some ways, the last few weeks have been better than I could have orchestrated.  How they have been harder than I would have requested.  But what has been... has been.  And I believe with all my heart that the Lord of my life holds my days and my loved ones in His very capable Hands.  That the same Hands that formed the stars also designed my children's bodies and hold my very raw heart.  And with this knowledge, I have hope!

Since my last post, we took a few weeks to coast, enjoy the Christmas season, and play a ridiculous number of board games with our littles.  Since my last post, the dishwasher has bit the dust and the furnace has frozen... multiple times.  Water has leaked through my living room ceiling and my pipes have frozen.  Since my last post, friends have prayed for my sanity, my safety, and the outworking of my salvation.  It's been a January to remember for sure.

On Wednesday, Caleb was scheduled to see a pediatric ENT (ear, nose, and throat) specialist at Riley Children's Hospital in Indianapolis.  Wednesday was also a day for record cold temperatures here in Indiana with the windchill being -50 degrees and below during the day. Leaving David at home with the youngest three (including the two girls with strep infections), Caleb and I bundled up in layers, loaded blankets and water into the van, and drove the hour and a half down to Riley for this specialist's appointment that we had been urged strongly to keep.

By the grace of God, we had no driving problems.  The van started every time!  And even though I wasn't sure of where I was going, we parked in the right place, were able to walk indoors to the outpatient center, and made it to the correct office on the first try.  That alone filled my heart with gratitude!

We met with this new doctor for quite a while.  He and a surgical student took a long look at Caleb's ears and thoroughly processed his medical history and past surgeries with us while also reading Caleb's previous ENT's charting. He was attentive to detail, patient with questions, and great with Caleb. Without batting an eye, this doctor just seemed to scoop Caleb's case up and formulate a plan.

If all goes according to the new plan (and that's a big if), the surgeon will start with the left ear (the same ear that had the previous surgeries). Caleb will have a mastoidectomy to remove his mastoid bone and allow the surgeon to reconstruct his ear canal with full access to remove unhealthy tissue from the ear.  Afterwards, Caleb will have a two-week period of rest and low activity as the beginning of a six-month recovery period in which his hearing in that ear will be negligible. This waiting period is necessary to allow swelling to go down before the surgeon goes back in to correctly place the prosthetic ear bones that will allow Caleb to regain full hearing function.  Three months after the left ear has had time to heal, we'll start looking at a surgical plan for the right which may be similar to the first.

I told a friend today that it feels like we just buckled up our seat belts for a much longer drive than we had originally thought would be necessary.  Caleb is struggling with just the idea of more surgery.  The recovery last time was painful and hard. And even with the surgeries, he won't be swimming for at least a year.  Just typing this makes my eyes water.  Something about jumping into a pool is just so inherent in being 10 years old, living wild and free.

The surgeon plans to do the first surgery as soon as possible, probably within a month. My logical side rejoices that there is hope, another option, and an extremely qualified doctor to walk us through this process. However, my maternal instinct wants to slam on the brakes, pull all of my children into my arms, lock the doors to my home, and never let anyone leave until I am guaranteed that none of them will have to experience pain, especially recurring complicated surgeries. In moments of strength, I can calmly talk my oldest through the problem of pain in this broken world, but my mom heart would really prefer to bubble wrap each of my kids and solve their physical, relational, and emotional struggles with a magic wand. So sometimes we talk about God's strength shining in our weakness, and other times we just sit and cry with our kids and say, "This just stinks."  It's like a pendulum swinging back and forth as we choose whether to trust what we know to be true or what we feel. And as I type these words, I'm just going to admit that my feelings are winning today.

Many days this year I have felt like my dreams and aspirations are buried under grocery lists and laundry piles.  Where the few things I want to do just because I am Krista are the lowest priority because what is necessary for the moment is urgent. Just when I think I'm getting a handle on the housekeeping, a leaking furnace causes me to have to move every plastic tote from my attic to my living room. Just when I think I might be able to finish reading that book, a child walks into my room with a fever or a rash.  Today, just the act of choosing what task to start first caused my anxiety to skyrocket, which is not the norm for me.

As everything feels like it is spiraling out of control, I want to grasp for control of something.  My house. My children. My husband. My church work. My friendships. My food. I have to...have to...have to lay all my hope in the same sentences that began this post.  What has been... has been.  And I believe with all my heart that the Lord of my life holds my days and my loved ones in His very capable Hands. That the same Hands that formed the stars also designed my children's bodies and hold my very raw heart.  And with this knowledge, I have hope!

There's more to write.  More about Ben's progress in vision therapy.  About Laura turning 6. About Emmie Jo starting preschool at home. About new dreams and possibilities for the future. And hopefully I'll have time to write more soon, but it's time to pick up the kiddos from school and then finish a very competitive game of Ticket to Ride.  Thank you for loving our family and caring enough to read through all this!  It's a privilege that we get to do life with each one of you!

Where do we go from here?

We thought Wednesday would be a day to plan with Caleb's ENT surgeon.  I thrive with plans, concrete evidence, educated predictions, and expert recommendations.  Instead, on Wednesday we were greeted with the words: "This may not turn out the way any of us had hoped."

Apparently the tissue that the surgeon encountered on Friday during Caleb's unsuccessful ear tube surgery was unrecognizable to him.  He wasn't sure if the swelling was caused by an allergic reaction to the packing material that they used after Caleb's first surgery or if it's some kind of unhealthy tissue (cholesteatoma) like Caleb had had in his outer ear (although he said it didn't look like any cholesteatoma he's ever encountered).

According to the surgeon our best option is to wait 6-8 weeks and take a look at the left ear again to see if the inflammation has gone down.  In the meantime, he thought a referral would be in order to check with another ENT for a second opinion.  This of all the things we talked about was the most discouraging to me. This other ENT doesn't have any special training that our current surgeon is lacking.  He is just another set of eyes and ears who might have a new idea or just confirm the path that we are already on.  As a mom, that makes me feel like our current doctor feels tapped by the puzzle of healing my son's hearing.

Caleb was tested to see if hearing aids would be a good temporary option.  While he is on the border of needing them, his current small classroom situation made the audiologist and the surgeon opt out of the hearing aids. 

So what does all that mean?  Well, no swimming :-( and very careful showering as we do not want any new infection to take up residence in his already unstable ears.  It's looking more and more like any future surgical options may be over the spring and summer (hear: baseball season) so Caleb has to grapple with the reality that he might only be able to train with a team and not actually play in a game. And David and I need to make a decision about a second opinion.  We trust our surgeon, but the fact that he wants us to get a second opinion makes us wonder if more information would be helpful. 

I'm not worried about Caleb's schoolwork.  I'm not worried that he'll fall behind, but I do worry about how I see him retreating from people because it's work to focus and really listen to other people.  I'm concerned that he seems more and more able to tune everything else out and read while he used to be so quick to jump into the activities that were going on in our home.

My prayer requests are:

• wisdom for David and me to know next steps
• character growth for Caleb, that he will grow in being attentive, compassionate, and loving through this trial
• HEALING for his ears, resolution to the inflammation

And in the midst of all this, our hearts really are at peace, which shocks me because WE HAVE NO PLAN!  For those of you who know me personally, you understand how amazing that truly is.  And thank you!  Thanks for the texts, the emails, the calls, and the face-to-face "How's it goings??"  We know we are blessed to live in a community that truly cares!