I’m having trouble finding good things to think about the past few days.  But there is this:

I got a new dishwasher for Christmas.

Tim spent most of a Saturday running water pipes and drain pipes and new wiring in order to install it in what will, likely, be only its temporary home.  I have been without a dishwasher for two years.  Kids have been learning to wash dishes, but really, there are just so many when all of us eat every meal at home.  So, even though Tim’s ideal is that we could figure out a way to do without a dishwasher, he knew that it would make my life easier to have one.  And it has.  I have almost cried from relief at not seeing piles of dishes at the end of the day .  Maybe it seems like a small thing, but it is huge to me.  I am thankful.

Today is the 20 week mark of this pregnancy.  Halfway…but not really, since 40 weeks isn’t 40 weeks of gestation.  But still, it’s an easy milestone to latch onto in pregnancy.  So far, this time around has been the same in many ways, but different in some, too.

:: There was fairly constant nausea and fatigue for the first 15 weeks or so.  Though in the weeks since, I have felt much better than I remember feeling in past pregnancies.

:: There have been some days, though, of horrible headaches that pretty much put me out of commission for as long as they stick around.  This isn’t the first time I’ve dealt with headaches, but it hasn’t been an every pregnancy thing, either.

:: I have had some major temperature-regulating issues.  In the beginning, some parts of my body would be sooo warm, while other parts were shivering…all the time.  Lately, I have just been really cold, which is very strange for me.  I don’t know that I’ve ever really tried chopping vegetables with hands shaking from cold before.  We do keep our house at a relatively low temperature, but though Tim has offered on a number of occasions that we can just turn up the thermostat, I have a hard time accepting that my body just won’t adjust to what has always been a normal environment for me.

:: I have gained lots of weight, everywhere…probably about what most doctors would say I should gain in the entire pregnancy.  Definitely not new, but something I always kind of hope will be different the next time around.

:: I have eaten a lot of green olives and mexican food.  Two foods that have, for the most part, never been unappealing to me in any of my pregnancies.  I have, however, been avoiding “whole wheat” anything for much of the past few months.  While I know white flour is just not supposed to be good for me, it doesn’t upset my stomach, so that’s what I go with.

:: I have been seriously petrified of the impending labor, from the very beginning of this pregnancy.  Not worried that anything will go wrong, just certain that I can’t do it.  I am not great at physical discipline to begin with, and finding resolve for labor seems impossible right now.

:: The past few weeks have brought with them what I think is carpal tunnel issues when I sleep.  I only ever had issues with this during my last pregnancy, and this time around, it seems to be even worse, sometimes keeping me awake for long stretches at night because my hands hurt or have lost feeling.  But that has been motivation for me to try to address it, with some success so far.

As always, each of these symptoms of pregnancy bring with them the reminder that my body is growing a baby, whom I will get to hold and love and take care of, and who will make me [almost] forget all of the uncomfortableness that pregnancy can bring.

Today, Elijah turned four.  Honestly, I am mentally relieved that four is here, because for months I have had the hardest time remembering that he is only three.  I don’t know why exactly.  I think, in some ways, it is that my expectations of him have been set at a level that has been a bit high for a three-year old…or, at least, that is higher than what I’ve had for his older siblings.

And, a lot of the time, I find him seeking responsibilities that are beyond his years.  He sees his big brothers and big sister doing chores and schoolwork, using the computer and, in general, just being more autonomous than him, and he wants to be like them.

He sees Tim or me spending time working on things, and he wants to be near and involved, so he asks questions and offers to help, and tries so very hard to get us to see that he’s a big boy.  He asks almost daily if he’s getting bigger or taller or stronger or faster.  He tries to understand humor and movies and how things work, and he asks really specific questions to refine that understanding.

There is an innocence about Elijah that is deeper than just his age.  He unabashedly seeks approval when he thinks he’s done a good job, and he is so quick to praise others when he sees something good in them.  He is outgoing (at least in my eyes) and I try not to cringe, or fear for his rejection, when he says hi to someone whose name he remembers after hearing it just once, and they [often] ignore him, because he’s a little kid that they don’t really know at all.  I hope that innocence stays with him.  I hope that love for people stays with him.

While this birthday reminds me that there are limited days left of him asking to sit on my lap, or wanting to give me goodnight kisses on both cheeks and my chin and forehead, or telling silly jokes, I am glad for reminder.  As easy as it can be to just count him as a tag-along to the bigger kids, I am thankful that he is only four and that I can let him be my little boy for a while longer still.

It can be hard for me to focus on Jesus at Christmastime.  Sounds ridiculous, huh?  But with so many other things demanding attention, or at least making me think my attention is required, and with the added stress that I always feel at this time of year (somehow, for all of the preparation I think I get done in early October, all organization and preparedness seems to fall apart right about now), any attempts to adjust my focus to the Lord usually just make me feel so distant from where I should be in my time, attention and affections.

I wonder if I’m failing my kids because I can’t seem able to adequately convey the magnitude of what that first Christmas morning meant for us, for humanity.  I find myself thinking that, maybe, God’s not going to be too interested in showing up to our less-than-perfectly-thought-through celebration.  Or that He’ll find our invitation for Him to draw near perhaps not entirely sincere when it inadvertently gets relegated to a to-do list…not because it isn’t most important, but simply because I know my tendency to sometimes fumble my priorities when life gets hectic.

So in the midst of the foggy chaos that has been my brain the past few weeks (or maybe longer, if I’m being honest) God has been drawing my attention to the nativity story.  More specifically to the stable.  And even more specifically, to Mary in the stable.  I imagine that when Gabriel visited Mary and told her that she would give birth to “the Son of the Most High”, it probably never entered her mind that the birth would happen amidst the dirt and straw and smells of a stable.  Did she have a thought, as she realized that the time for giving birth had come, that she should have been more prepared?  It couldn’t have been completely unexpected…did she ever worry that she was failing God by not having made reservations at the inn, or anywhere, just in case?  Did she wonder whether God would think that she had made this great responsibility an afterthought to the more immediate, tangible cares of life?

I don’t know what she thought.  But I know this: God came near – in the stable, in the dirt and straw, in the middle of life’s other responsibilities.  He wasn’t waiting for Mary to be perfectly prepared.  He had no expectations of pomp and fanfare, pristine surroundings or a life put on hold.  And he wasn’t ashamed of the humble surroundings into which He came.  Angels celebrated His entrance, a star spotlighted His presence in that stable.  Whether or not Mary found it acceptable to welcome the Son of God into the mess of life, God made it clear that He was okay with it.

And, I think, He’s okay coming into my mess, too.  I mean, I guess it should be obvious.  He came because life is a mess.  He came because even my best efforts can’t make my heart pure enough, or my life clean enough, or my world perfect enough.  And maybe that’s part of the reason He came to the stable in the first place – to let Mary and mankind know that He’s not put off by messes and inadequacy and real life.

At the very least, that stable has been a welcome reminder to me lately.  I know I shouldn’t be surprised by His goodness, His irreproachable character, and His limitless love.  But I still am.  What an amazing God.

I have a lot of thoughts going through my head these days.  Thoughts about how to love and communicate worth to someone, thoughts about being a part of a body, thoughts about prayer and seeing God’s face and hearing His voice, thoughts about where the balance might be between being the analytical person God made me, and being someone who sees good in spite of flaws.  These thoughts are all going through my head because they are topics that leave me unsettled.  Sometimes, reality doesn’t match up with explanation and I need to figure out where the breakdown is.

I have strong opinions on most of these things, without a doubt.  But, honestly?  Having something make sense is so much more important to me than holding tightly to my opinions.  It’s funny, though, how easily an attempt to find understanding can be misconstrued as stubbornness, or as some prideful ploy to not be proven wrong. 

Of course, my starting point is always going to be where I am at in my opinions or beliefs at a certain moment.  And, of course, there needs to be a compelling reason to draw me away from my position.  That’s common sense, isn’t it?  I mean, even when I know I’m not entirely right (or even at all right), there’s no logical reason to start heading down a different path until I know it is the right one, otherwise I might just get farther from the truth.

So, I won’t just accept someone’s word that something works.  I won’t be okay with a cursory explanation, or a Bible verse applied  too generically, or too specifically.  I’ll ask questions – not to disprove someone else’s argument, but to get them to really prove it to me.  It might seem hard-headed of me, but I need to be really convinced of something to believe it and walk in that belief.

That makes sense, right?

:: Many (maybe most?) early mornings (well, actually, I still consider it the middle of the night) the past couple weeks I have awakened between 3 and 5 am with a splitting headache, or overwhelming nausea.  Usually, I end up taking a very long shower, throwing up some, and finding enough relief to eventually go back to sleep for a little while.  Even so, on the days when the headache doesn’t stick around, I have had a bit more energy lately, and a bit less nausea.  This is about the extent of my second trimester reprieve, I think, but it’s better than nothing, at least I know how to take medication in a safely way, thanks to lizzardco.com.

:: I am thankful for Little House on the Prairie; documentaries on the history of baseball, Ellis Island, and food production; and, occasionally, cooking shows, that count as schoolwork on bad days.

:: This year I am actually excited about the coming holidays, which is a major switch from the past couple years.  I attribute it to hormones.  But, whatever the reason, I find myself wanting to decorate, light candles and watch Christmas movies while snuggled under a blanket, hot chocolate in hand.  And I’m looking forward to cooking, even in spite of my nausea and fatigue.  That never happens.  The odds and ends shopping, and gift wrapping, and mailing packages, though?  I don’t think I will ever look forward to those.  Oh well, I’ll take what I can get.

:: We have a functional new bathroom, and a so-close-to-functional family room.  It is, however, going from functional to finished that can be the hardest part, especially when there are so many other projects on the to-do list.

:: I am in that awkward stage of pregnancy when my belly no longer fits into my normal clothes, but maternity clothes still look kind of ridiculous.  Plus, I’ve gained 15 pounds already.  That never helps with the clothing issues.

:: Slowly pondering things that God is teaching me, feeling like I am such a slow learner, wondering how I got to this point in life without having some of the basics figured out.

:: Thinking that maybe, possibly, Ava is getting closer to sleeping through the night.  The past couple nights, she has only awakened on time.  After about 10 months of regularly waking up 3+ times a night, this is such a relief.  Such a relief.

:: I feel like I’m dropping a lot of balls these days.  I’ve never been good at organization or motivation, but there are times in life when it seems like I can’t even handle the bare minimum.  And I get discouraged and feel like a failure and feel guilty for the extra strain on my husband, and the lack of structure for my kids, and it is so easy to become histrionic and think that I am just ruining everything.  But, sometimes, when I am throwing up at 4 in the morning, God reminds me that whatever I do or don’t get done right now is enough, not because I’ve checked the right things off my to-do list, but because there is grace enough to cover all the things that aren’t getting checked off.

This morning, the aroma of baked oatmeal filled the house.  The kitchen was completely clean (which, honestly, isn’t it’s normal state first thing in the morning).  Three older kids were diligently getting ready for the day.  There was a freshly washed tablecloth on the table.  Our baby girl was happily playing.

And none of it was my doing.

Sometimes I wonder if I ever give the impression of being on top of things.  I don’t think I possibly could.  I really hope I don’t.  Because the reality of my life is that my husband takes care of me, and so many things that one might assume are on my plate.  It’s not always quite as apparent as this morning.  I felt particularly icky last night, so Tim took more of my tasks on himself (willingly, lovingly, diligently)…but I get the feeling that the everyday things he does for me are more than what’s considered normal.  He regularly gets the kids up and going in the morning.  He makes dinner when I’m not feeling well and he cleans up after (with help from kids).  He puts laundry away and lets me go for walks and manages our garden and helps with grocery shopping and gets up with kids in the middle of the night and makes Friday school lunches.  Plus so much more.

And it isn’t because I am incapable or unwilling (though, admittedly, I can be less than thrilled about some tasks…especially when nauseous), but rather simply that he loves me and wants to serve me however he can.  He keeps our home running smoothly, and as much as I know that isn’t really how it’s “supposed” to be (or, at least, not how I imagine it should be), I am so thankful for my reality that is a daily reminder to me of how blessed I am to have my husband.

I’ve felt a little apathetic lately; a little stagnant; a little bit like I just have no idea what the point of some circumstances is, and I’m tired of staring at a cloudy, muddy mess, so why bother any more?  I try to tell myself that there’s a reason for everything – that God has a plan that will work out for good.  And I believe it.  But, I just want to see the end already.

Patience is not one of my strong suits, and neither is being okay with not understanding and not being understood.  I pray with, I admit, a fair amount of doubt.  Maybe I’m just wrong…it’s been known to happen.  But, honestly, I think that might make life easier.  I’m okay being wrong.  I can admit it and move on.

The problem – the thing that makes my faith falter – is trying to figure out how things work out if I’m not wrong.  If that’s the case, then it means someone else is wrong, and I don’t have the same confidence in others’ abilities to accept, admit, and move on.  Does that sound prideful?  I suppose it could…but, in reality, admitting fault is one of few areas of my life that I have no difficulty with…and is an area in which I’ve often seen others struggle.  Add to that – incomplete communication, deeply ingrained philosophies which lack clear biblical backing, and staunchly held negative perceptions, and I am prone to think that even prayer is not an effective enough recourse.

I know I am making God small in my eyes, and perhaps turning a molehill into a mountain, but there is a part of me, too, that thinks there are deeper issues here – that perhaps there are reasons this is so difficult that extend beyond what I can see and understand.  So, I pray for circumstances, but then I pray for faith, too.  Faith to believe that God can work in any situation; faith to believe that when I can’t see, God still sees; faith to believe that He honors my prayers lifted to Him with a sincere heart, even when I don’t know exactly what it is I’m praying for.  Because He knows – He knows – so I don’t need to know.

I tried to think of some clever or cute way of saying it, but honestly, if ever my words could come out as clever or cute, I’m sure it would require much more brainpower than I possess at the moment.

So here it is:  baby number six is on the way. 

I think I’m somewhere between nine and ten weeks along.  I’m nauseous and tired and gaining weight way too quickly…pretty standard as far as pregnancy goes for me.  Labor looms larger in my mind than it has in the past, and worries about prenatal care and getting a larger vehicle and the potential for 7 more months of not feeling good threaten to overwhelm me.

The thought of a sixth little one, though?  That is joy to my heart.

This might be long.  It might be boring.  But I’ve thought a lot over the last few months about how God worked in my heart to bring me to a place where I could believe in His love for me, and so I thought I would write it out.

For as long as I can remember, I believed, and would even say, that God loved me by default – that He loved the world, and since I was a part of the world, He had to love me.  I’m honestly not sure why I believed that.  I could probably go into some analysis of my childhood to try to figure out the answer, but I am content for now to say it was a lie of the enemy that had a very firm grasp on my heart.  And somehow, I never really recognized it as a problem until a few years ago.

I think it came to the surface because, over and over again, I found myself getting angry with God when people failed me.  I had tied my perception of how much God did or didn’t love me with how much people loved me.  If I felt particularly unloved by a person, I felt abandoned by God.  If I felt loved and accepted by a person, I was more likely to think I mattered to God.  Looking back, this is where I think God started His work in my heart.  He brought conviction over the fact that I was putting people in His place.  He took me to His Word, and reminded me (or, maybe, really revealed to me for the first time) that He alone is perfect and holy and infallible.  No person was going to give me an accurate picture of God’s love for me.  His Word needed to be that authority in my heart.  And over the course of a few months, God was just continually impressing upon my heart the fact that He is holy.  Completely set-apart.  Always above reproach.  Never changing.  Without even a hint of any imperfection in character.

Once that was straightened out, God began working on another misperception I had.  This time, it was a belief, I think more subconscious than anything else, that God would be disappointed, angry, frustrated, impatient with me if I sinned or failed or just didn’t do something as well as someone else.  I would tell myself how I thought God must see me, rather than listening for His voice.  Yes, there would be moments when I would listen, and be struck by His gracious response to my obvious ineptitude, but those weren’t the moments that I chose to remember.  So, He began to bombard me with the simple truth that He is good.  Even when rational thinking would completely justify rejection or condemnation for my failure, God would never respond to me with anything other than kindness and gentleness and patience.  Because His nature is good.  Wholly and completely.  It isn’t circumstantial or changeable.  Again, over and over, He opened my eyes to really see that I couldn’t do anything that would make Him turn me away, or harm me, or ignore me.  I learned to trust His goodness to me.  Maybe that doesn’t seem like a big thing.  It certainly doesn’t seem too impressive in writing.  But I am not a trusting person, in any capacity, and to be free from the burden of constantly trying to analyze where I stand with God made a huge difference in my heart.  There is freedom in trusting.

At this point, I had gotten my perceptions about God’s character in line (at least, for the purposes of this particular work in my life), but I still didn’t believe He loved me.  I saw myself pretty clearly.  I knew how unlovely I was (am?).  Surely, God saw me the same way.  Why would He love me…how could He love me…when I was just not who I was supposed to be?  It felt like a daily, sometimes moment-by-moment wrestling match that went on inside me – trying to be the person that the rest of the world says is acceptable and beautiful and worthy – a wrestling match that always left me defeated and convinced that there was nothing about me worth loving.  Until, one day, when I told God that I hated who He made me, He responded with a forcefulness that stunned me.  I love who I made You.  For weeks and weeks I came back to that statement countless times, not understanding how it could be true, not wanting to let myself believe it, but knowing with a certainty that it was the voice of the Lord speaking to my heart.  No matter what else in life might be telling me otherwise, the truth is that God made me who He wanted me to be, and He did so because He found something about my form lovely and precious and worth creating.  Yes, this form is marred by sin, but the form is still me, and not someone else.  It was the last piece of truth that I needed to be convinced.

I still can’t say I fully understand.  Really, I think the whole truth of it is beyond comprehension.  But I know God loves me.  On my worst days, I know God loves me.  When life doesn’t make sense, I know God loves me.  When I feel unlovable to and unloved by the rest of the world, I know God loves me.  And He faithfully, patiently, knowingly moved in my heart to bring me to this place.  I’m at a loss for words to say how thankful I am.