gratitude and prayer

How easily I get mired in the muck of everyday life and fail to recognize the little (and not-so-little) miracles that make up my day. It wasn't very long ago that each day was a struggle to get through without crying or having some sort of emotional breakdown; now, the waters have calmed, the sun is shining, and I'm breathing some huge sighs of relief. I'm trying to be conscious of my little successes and moments of happy: the skinny jeans that fit once again without pinching, the friendship that rekindled from animosity, the test score so high that it balanced out a failing test grade to put me half a point from an A. But I so easily forget. I move on to the next area of longing and discontent.

My friend Cheryl, filled with beauty and blue-eyed optimism, tells me about how she would write pages and pages in her journals - when she felt inspired to write. She'd have a week of novel-like entries, followed by months of nothing. I was nodding my head furiously in agreement to this - the words of my 9th grade English teacher ring in my head still: "consistently inconsistent". So, instead of having these feast-or-famine entries that chronicled times of struggle instead of day-to-day prayers and thanksgivings, she now limits herself to just two lines each day. One line is something she's thankful for; the other line is her prayer request, something she's asking of God. It may not be as wildly poetic as pages of rambling prose; it's relatively straightforward. But she does it every day, every night before she goes to bed. And this process allows her, so easily, to look back and see all the things she worried about that God took care of... and His faithfulness on the things that delighted her each day, the little miracles that I don't want to forget, either.

So, I've hauled my journal back out. I haven't done much pen-on-paper writing of my journal since I started blogging, but Cheryl inspired me: God's faithfulness is constant, but my memories of it have very short expiration dates. Writing it all down in just two lines a night is something I can do easily, and I hope the difference it makes in my heart is profound.

we laughed about this all weekend...

...as we watched it during a church staff retreat. It's just precious, the look on his face after he talks about, er, PITCHING TENTS.

somebody please buy me this

I know I'm on Weight Watchers, but this is truly the merging of my two of my favorite things in life:


Chocolate Bubble Wrap

owwwwww!

Note: this post contains references to blood and female stuff, so if that stuff grosses you out, skip this post. Don't say I didn't warn ya.

Without delving into all the gory details, I've been waiting for this miscarriage to finally resolve itself, and last night, it did. And let me tell you, I have never felt pain quite like that! It was the kind of pain where you writhe in bed and your whole body tenses up. I actually moaned. Thank God it only lasted for about 45 minutes: I had called the doctor-on-call because I was worried that I was losing too much blood, and she told me to pop 4 ibuprofen every 6 hours for the pain/bleeding. Blessed, blessed drug. When it kicked in, I was a new woman.

And I know that kajillions of people say not to weigh yourself every day, but I do: I find it usually stays pretty consistent as long as I keep the conditions the same (no clothes, emptied everything, no breakfast yet). All this week so far, the number on the scale has read the same. No big deal to me - I don't expect three days to do a whole lot. I remembered yesterday's number as I got on this morning, thinking I had to have dropped at least a pound with all the water and everything gone from my body (pregnant women retain everything, it appears). I stepped on the scale... FIVE AND A HALF POUNDS GONE. Holy cow. It was quite possibly the fastest 5 pounds I've ever lost, though by no means the easiest. It was no fluke of the scale, either: my skinny jeans fit again. My abdomen looks - to me - visibly reduced. Amazing.

Overall, there's a great sense of relief. I think all the tears and the emotion had been shed weeks ago, and maybe there will be more in the coming days, I don't know, but I am definitely feeling closure and a fresh-start feeling now that this small chapter of my life has closed. I am looking forward to getting pregnant again, though I'm wanting the next pregnancy to be planned, not a surprise, and maybe I'll hold off telling the world until I hit my 2nd trimester. And I'll also not run to celebrate the pregnancy with a large cookies and cream milkshake from Steak and Shake every day. After this experience, I can't say I won't be a little cautious or scared with the next pregnancy - there are no guarantees, it seems. But overall, I am hopeful, and that feels good, finally.

the million-dollar question

One of the reasons running has been so good to me, other than getting me off my tush and reducing said tush, is the "me" time that I have to think, to pray, to reflect. Sometimes, it's just as simple as thinking about what to make for dinner (particularly if I am already hungry during a run). Other times, I get deep. And lately, this week, I've been getting deep.

I often ask Jason what he would do if he had a million dollars, or if every job paid the same, or if he could do anything in the world, what would it be, etc. He's good most times I ask and won't say "two chicks at once", though that makes me laugh because I love that movie. Anyway, no use asking the question of your truest love if you cannot ask yourself the same question. Up until recently, I was quick to answer even my own self with a default response: well, nursing, of course. And every week I would trudge off to class, excited to be starting my new career and soon be earning a steady income and not have to worry about having the electricity turned off or the phone cut off or whatever. It's true: I am excited about it, and not just for the steady income part. I do love helping people.

Sometime recently - the exact day I cannot pinpoint - I started getting honest with myself. After my first attempt at grad school didn't work and I came home afraid to sing for anyone, I quickly concluded that the Performing Life was not for me. And I was quick to tell other people that, too, and because I have such smooth acting skills, I convinced a lot of people that it was true, including myself. Being in the competitive arena in a musical style not 100% natural to my voice made me extremely unsure of myself, especially when I heard people who were completely at home singing classically. I started hating the experience so much that I told people I was having panic attacks (I wasn't) so I could have a more solid excuse to quit and go home instead of "nah, don't like it, sorry." So I wrote the whole thing off - I wasn't made for it, and it was not for me. Looking back, I can say with certainty that yes, classical singing, while I had moments of "good" and "pretty" in there, was not really my path. And I can also say that I'm fascinated by the human body, and I'm good at this nursing stuff, and I know that it will be a good fit for me.

But about that honesty thing: if you asked me what I would do if I had a million dollars, or if I could do anything at all, do you think I would say nursing?

I didn't think you did.

Jason and I have been struggling with massive life discontent lately. It's made me sit down and really examine myself: am I doing what God wants me to be doing? Am I discontent with circumstances I should be content with (but am not because I am - choose one - separated from God/selfish/lazy/clueless)? Do I want to sing for a bigger audience/congregation because I want to reach more hearts or because I want more people to like me and compliment me?

There have been some really extraordinary people God has dropped into my life: people so encouraging to me, just by their lives alone, that I want to scoop them all up and surround myself with them 24 hours a day in some sort of Encouragement Commune or whatever. (I have not told them about this idea, naturally.) People who have inspired me because they threw aside doubt and fear and just went for it, whatever "it" happened to be for them. Moving to opposite ends of the country and even the world because it was something that would make them happy, truly happy, even though it involved personal risk and sacrifice. So many days, I stare these possibilities in the face and get scared to my core, feeling very much like Marlin from Finding Nemo when he and Dory are in the whale's mouth:

Dory: We gotta go. He said it's time to go now.
Marlin: How do you know, Dory? How do you know nothing bad's going to happen?
Dory: (pause) I don't.

And maybe I'm just getting sick of needing a 100% guarantee before I do anything anymore. Every Sunday when I stop singing, I wish we had more songs to do. I love my time up there, and for the first time, I feel totally confident of the gift God gave me and how He can use it to reach others when I am up there leading worship. I can't ignore that, but at the same time, I have no clue what to do next with it (other than what I am already doing now). So it all begs the question: if it's something I love to do more than anything else on this earth, why oh why am I looking in another direction? I just don't have a good or easy answer for that question. But I also don't want to hit 70, 80 years old, look back on my life, and kick myself for not having gone after what I loved, what God has distinctly wired me for. No, I'm not dropping out of nursing school or abandoning that path, no way. But I cannot stand still in the status quo anymore and expect to feel good about my life.

This is one of the scariest revelations of my short life thus far. It turns everything I built in my head pretty much on its ass and also begs the question: what next? Well, I don't know. But I have to do something with it. I really want to blame it all on stress from nursing school, except that deep down, I have felt this way pretty much ever since I found out I could sing at all, so the stress excuse doesn't hold. Stress might explain why it's just now coming to surface, though.

The few souls in whom I have confided this have told me, "Oh, you should go for it!" but I don't know the first thing to do next, so I'm freaked out. All I can think of right now is to ask God for opened doors, seeing as I am so clueless about all of this. If any of you feel inspired to pray for me, please do. This is all new ground!

shrinking once more

Two pounds gone! Woo-hoo! Only four more weeks like this before I can shed those extra pounds January brought on. I defy you, Copious Easter Candy Already In Stores.

I seem to be slowing shedding some anxiety as well as the weight, and that's a much needed relief. Thank God I didn't let my stress levels get to this:


don't mess with Mama!

We all need a little help from our friends. Sometimes, those friends work in rehab programs.

plight of the nursing school perfectionist

I took a test today, a very hard test on EKG rhythms, pediatric cardiovascular conditions (congenital heart defects and the like), and OB stuff like gestational diabetes - all for my acute illness nursing class. I studied my patootie off. Did I get every question right? No.

BUT THERE IS ALWAYS SOMEONE WHO DOES.

You can probably tell I'm a little stressed by this, mainly because it is the same person who always gets 100 (or very close to it) for pretty much every test. She also happens to be my friend, so I won't cast her in a bad light except to say that I am freakishly jealous because not only is she Steel-Trap Minded Princess of Memory, but she always has the right answer in clinical rotations and the professors usually love her. If she was reading this, she'd probably point out the, like, ONE test where she scored a 92 instead of 100. Whatever. (But I love her because she's also witty and dark-humored and humors me and my ADD-ness, on top of being smart.)

I think it's not so much my jealousy of her, but the fact that even my hardest efforts have yet to return comparable grades to my efforts. Or maybe I yearn for stellar grades and never manage to put in the time required, even though I think I do. I don't know. The first time around for me for college, I never really exerted much effort, except when it came to singing, so my grades hovered around low B's, except for all those music courses I took which brought me A's. This second degree program felt like a chance for redemption - I could finally impress the world with my dazzling intellect, study like a fiend, and be the valedictorian of my class (even though, as far as I know, such a title doesn't exist anyway for our program, but whatever).

Only my grades are not perfect straight A's. They are A's and B's, about half and half all total, and that's not shabby at all. It's quite respectable, even enviable in some circles. Only the circles I hang around and the people with whom I study are these people who manage to make straight A's every single semester, no matter how hard the class. Augggghhhh. And somehow, my 3.5 GPA suddenly looks like poopy-caca in comparison. It's the plight of the perfectionist. And suddenly, I'm freaking out because I may not get the one spot available to do my practicum in the neonatal ICU and then, presumably, a job there after graduation. Or, if I completely change my mind and forget that needles inserting into spinal areas send chills throughout my body, can I still be a possible candidate for nurse anesthesia programs? It's all really ridiculous, even as I type this, because you can pretty much get a position anywhere without necessarily having to do your practicum there, and anesthesia holds no interest for me, except that I might enjoy making $125K a year sticking elephant needles into people's spines.

My cousin Christine, wise woman that she is, also went through a rigorous 2nd degree nursing program at a way-harder school, Johns Hopkins. On a side note, perhaps the reason I may not be at an Ivy League school is my use of the phrase "way-harder". Hmmmmm. Anyway, she tells me how insane all the grade competition was among the students - not that there were only so many A's to go around, mind you, but there was the same panic over last-semester practicum, who would graduate with honors, who was a member of the nursing honor society, blah blah blah. And sure enough, none of it mattered when you graduated. In some respects, yes, grades helped if you were hoping for graduate degrees... but straight A's weren't the bottom requirement by any means. And everyone graduated, got out in the real world, and realized how very few times anyone actually considers your grades. They want to know if you passed your N-CLEX exam and have you ever snorted coke, stole a Cadillac, or worked as a foreign operative for some enemy country. And even those last three things were somewhat negotiable.

facing the music

For Valentime's Day, Jason took me out for the most delicious meal I think I have ever had. I ate steak, potatoes, had sparkling Italian water, and finished it all off with creme brulee. Ohhhhhhh. Every bite was delicious. Then, for about two hours after we left, I thought I was in serious danger of, er, returning it all. There was nothing wrong with the food, for sure, but when you attack it like it's your last meal on this earth, well, it does things to you. Eventually it digested and I started feeling better.

I had vowed earlier in the week to go back to Weight Watchers this weekend. Over the past couple of months, I've let myself go. When I found out I was pregnant, I celebrated with a huge milkshake at Steak N' Shake. When I found out the pregnancy might not have "taken", I got a Value Meal at McDonald's. And when I found out the pregnancy truly was not a go, I bought stock in Hershey's and adopted a what's-the-point attitude about my health. Eventually, the sun started shining a little brighter, and life is slowly bringing joy back. But my fast-food forays are still with me, I'm afraid. I went to Weight Watchers this morning, determined to face the music. The scale sang to me that I had gained TEN pounds. Ouch. Now, I realize some of those pounds (some, not most) are fluid retention pounds I am waiting to pass out of my body. But I still can't rationalize a ten-pound gain in just 7 weeks. That's about a pound and a half a week. Yuck. I gave up eating healthy, running, all those things I was doing to take care of myself. And here I am.

I went running last week and was able to do what I normally do, though it felt considerably harder than it used to. The food thing might be a little harder: I have to be prepared for the carb/sugar detox that usually occurs when I first start these things, and the inevitable 2-3 days of headaches and crankiness. Jason's gonna love this.

So, here I am, not quite back at square one, but definitely feeling the setback. Wakeup calls suck, but at least it's not twenty or more pounds gained back on top of this before I decided to do something, you know?

Here we go!

because it's perfectly legitimate for me to say valenTIMEs, but you cannot

I was watching a cooking show this afternoon, taking a break from my massive homework/study pile, and watched two guys (one tall and portly, one skinny and short and jumpy) make souffles. It was all about souffles for this episode: cheesy souffles, mini souffles, dessert souffles. It really was fairly unremarkable, especially considering I have no interest in cooking anything more difficult than boiled water these days, except that while they were mixing up some sort of mocha chip souffle, they got me.

"Now, for an extra shot of flavor, we're going to gently fold in some expresso liqueur."

Ohhhhhh. Now, I totally understand if the average person off of the street calls it "expresso", like it was some sort of speedy coffee. And maybe it's a better name for it than espresso, since after you drink it, life can feel like it's moving faster and you get all jittery and energized and jump around. But a chef on a cooking show, even a somewhat obscure cooking show, calling it EXpresso? Unforgivable. I felt all the hairs on my arms stand on end in indignation. You don't spell it with an x, so you don't pronounce it with an x.

And yes, all this comes from the girl who totally defended her right to say "valenTIMEs", who asks for bologna by the name "baloney", and who is frequently known to address her father as "dyad" (though that's less of a mispronunciation and more of a speech therapy defect on my part). But most of the time, my anal diction training personality rears its head and wants to staple things to peoples' heads when they say things like "irregardless" and "nucular" and "aks".

There are greater injustices in the world: genocide in Darfur, sex trafficking, the war in Iraq, even the 10 or so new varieties of penicillin I am probably growing in my kitchen sink as I type this. And though I may wholeheartedly try, I cannot ban every expresso-talkin' person from Starbucks stores or put a hold on, ahem, VALENTINE'S day until everyone says February and not "Febyooary". It would be hypocrisy on my part to proclaim that my mispronunciations are acceptable and yours are not. Especially since I would probably have a legion of French and Italian citizens on my butt for all the ways I've probably butchered their languages whenever I sang anything not English.

But if the world could be rid of the word "expresso"... sigh.

happy valentime's day

Yes, that's not a typo: valenTIMES. Don't ask me why, but I got in the habit, like a toddler, of calling it ValenTIMEs instead of Valentine's, and here I am. So Happy ValenTIMEs, y'all. I'm gonna go watch Dora now.

I was listening to my morning radio show - lots of dry wit, which is about all I can handle early in the day - and they were mentioning how much men spend on V-Day vs. women (much more, as you can imagine). I guess I bristled at the inequality, and I was even more determined to carry out the mission I dreamt of a few nights prior: Man Night.

Let me explain: Jason is one of the greatest husbands known to man, mostly because he deals with my polar moods and hormonal ambivalence - I want this; no, I want THAT - and still manages to knock my socks off on a regular basis by his quiet strength and loving me despite the above. And because of my crazy nature, he's had to sacrifice some things that I know he misses now and then. So, since I know he will be treating me to something nice and romantic on Friday night, I decided to treat him with Man Night, where I served him two foods I usually avoid due to their threat to my waistline (homemade lasagna and homemade chocolate-chip cookies) and movies I normally don't care to see (action movies - in this case, I bought him The Bourne Identity and The Bourne Supremacy). I made sure he had his favorite beer (Killian's) in a frosted glass, a bag full of dark chocolate (his favorite), let him sit like a king in his Man Chair where he didn't have to lift a finger. Let him burp and fart and hock phlegm like it was all music to my ears (and nose).

Before you all think I post this to get my ego-stroke by bragging to all 3 people who read this blog, let me tell you that the smile on his face got progressively bigger as he saw the candy, the movies, the lasagna, the beer in frosted mugs. But when I came out with homemade chocolate chip cookies as the final touch, the look on his face was one I will never forget. I was actually afraid he might cry, he was so bowled over. He stopped right in the middle of the movie, gave me the most tender look, kissed me, and laid his head on my chest. You couldn't have given me any greater reward.

On a slightly sappier note, I was driving home from class this afternoon and reflecting on the last month or so. I have some of it chronicled in previous posts, and yes, it sucked worse than a vacuum. It's been a pretty low time, really: everything from losing a life to gaining weight to being yelled at to feeling like I was worse than dirt on a fairly constant basis. But I also thought about how all of my friends and family have stepped up to the plate: while I have still had all those crappy things I detailed above, I have been supported, prayed for, thought of, considered with compassion, and generally loved on. I don't know that I'll ever have the emotional faculties to express to each person how much their support literally kept me functional from day to day - I remember remarking to Jason that while I have never had the urge to harm myself, the thought of committing myself to escape from life has, in fact, crossed my mind frequently over the last few weeks. (Incidentally, doing my clinical work at a psych ward has brought me back to reality, so to speak: what a hole that place is. Blech.)

So, if you are reading this, then my thank yous and Valentime's love go out to you for showing me the best kind of love and bringing me back to life.