I Want It To Be Easy

Bare with this first part... I'm going somewhere with it, if you're patient to read through the contextual intro.

Today we received confirmation that Ester is still allergic to soy and egg. We had her blood tested a couple weeks ago, hoping that she would be in the 80% to grow out of these things. We expected her nut allergy to stay but were hopeful to be rid of the other two. Egg and soy may not seem like difficult things to avoid, but start reading the ingredients on everything you buy and you will quickly see that these are in EVERYTHING. Especially soy.

When we found out about her allergies, she was 2. Over half of her life ago... so my hope for her growing out of these really had very little to do with how I cook or changing her diet in a big way. We have adapted and I think we are all healthier for it. When you eliminate soy, you eliminate a LOT of processed foods.

My hope for her growing out of this allergy was to help prevent exclusion. Ester will start Kindergarten next week. Up until this point, she has been in very accommodating places: church and a small daycare/preschool. All of these places have bent over backwards to make sure that Ester is not only safe (my first priority) but also included. I am grateful for that. But in one week she will start Kindergarten at a public school (gasp! I know - another blog that will come bc I'm pretty damn passionate about supporting public schools... but, I digress). And her school will have around 700 children. It is not nut-free and there is no way they can accommodate for her allergies all the time (trust me, I've already asked and tried to find ways bc I am SO that mom).

Often times at birthday parties or events, Ester has missed out on the cake and treats - but always like a champ because I always brought something that she enjoyed to have when everyone else has cake. But more and more, she wants to be like her friends. She wants to enjoy things with them. She wants to blend in and doesn't want to be different.



And when I'm really honest, I want that for her too. The older she gets, the more she recognizes her allergies and how they set her apart. How they leave her out.

Trust me, I AM AWARE that in the grand scheme of things, this is such a small struggle. Ester is so healthy compared to many children and I by no means am trying to get pity for my child or say that "we hurt more than..." or "poor little girl" or any of that nonsense. I am simply explaining OUR journey, and how I am trying to process it.

Ester knew that this blood test would tell us if she had grown out of these allergies and I think the hope of that gave her the will to go trough with it in the first place. So when I heard the results today, I debated on when and how I would tell her. I knew she would be upset so I decided to wait until the end of the day, right before bed.

When I gave her the news she just stared at me. Tears started to well up in her eyes and I could tell she was trying to fight crying. I was doing the same thing and then I thought to myself - NO! We are not ignoring this. I asked her if she was sad. She shook her head yes and started to cry. I started to cry. And then we held each other and wept.
I told her I was sad too and that it was okay to be sad. It was okay to be disappointed and that it wasn't wrong to feel that way. We cried some more. Then we talked about all the good things she CAN eat and CAN enjoy with her friends.

She didn't cry long. She wiped her own tears off her face, asked for her stuffed owl and said she was ready for bed. Let me pause for a moment and say that my daughter is a pretty remarkable little lady and often times is much stronger than I am.

We proceeded with the night per usual. Other than, I hugged her a little longer and laid in her bed a little longer than normal.

I walked out and started to think about all of this. How this is a "5 year old's" problem and how I know, Lord willing, we will have many more problems to walk through together. Harder ones.

I remember when Ester was a newborn and I was struggling to nurse her. It felt like the biggest thing to me. I was crying to my mom about it and saying how being a mother was so hard and I didn't know what to do. She agreed and said, "Yeah, hija. It is hard. But that doesn't change with time. It just gets harder." I knew she meant that. And not in a condescending way. In a way that a mother of adult children would say - with wisdom. My mom has walked with my sisters and me through some REALLY HARD SHIT. I watched her do it with love, patience, and grace. I'm in awe of it, actually. And she keeps doing it... meanwhile, I feel like I'm flailing about. (Confession: I am)

Life. Is. Hard. But it is also beautiful.

Each night I pray for my girls. That they will KNOW God and LOVE God. That they will KNOW that they are LOVED by God.
And then, each night, I pray really selfish things like: That they live long, healthy lives. That they have husbands who love the Lord. That the Lord will bless their wombs and the wombs of their offspring. That their families will live to bring glory and honor to God's kingdom... and I hope that all of these things coincide.

But if I'm being 100% transparent - my heart wants them to have EASY lives. Without pain. I know God knows this is my heart. And I'm not ashamed of it. I think it's normal for a mother to hope that her children avoid pain, avoid hardship... but I think it's naïve to think they really will... because I also pray a really hard prayer, almost in spite of my other prayers: That my daughters would recognize their need for JESUS. That God would use my children for HIS kingdom and bring them to be an active part of HIS plan... and I pray this, knowing that often times, that requires pain and hardship. (Side note: I don't know why we are surprised when it does considering all that JESUS, the friggin Son of God, had to go through!) ;)

Watching your child have a broken heart or be in pain is hard - No matter how small the reason. I will always cry alongside Ester and I know myself enough to know that I will be a bear at times... I'll want to kick and scream "It's not fair" and demand it be different. I'll be childish. I'll want to rip off the head of the first dumb teenager to break her heart. I'll want to smack the mean girls... I'm petty. I'll want to do all of that.

But I will also let her feel the weight of it, cry with her, and walk with her. I won't dismiss it, but I won't let it define her. I'll remind her of all the blessings we do have and remind her that she is loved. And that life really is beautiful and big and great and full of wonder. That life has a purpose that is incredible - and thank God for His grace that we get to be a small part of it! And that we get to do it together, for whatever amount of time God chooses.

I don't really have a good ending for this. I guess because it's not over. I don't have a profound answer. I just know that being a parent is tough and glorious all at the same time. And pain is a part of that. As much as I fight it... but I trust that it is necessary, even if and when I don't understand it.

What's Going On?

The song has been playing over and over in my head as my heart laments. I know my words will be inadequate but I WILL NOT BE SILENT. I cannot.

I went to bed with it and I woke up with it. This morning I scrolled through facebook for a minute while my curling iron warmed up and I noticed something: all of my black friends' posts were crying out over the brutality and injustice while all (but maybe 2) of my non-black friends' posts were of cute children and happy memories. Just yesterday I posted pictures on my husband's page of us at OKC Riversports and I posted a funny quote from my daughter on mine. I'm sorry for that. Not because I feel I shouldn't share happy things on social media - I am sorry for being more consumed in my own little world instead of joining alongside those hurting in my community.

A lot played out in my mind this morning:

My mother is Latina with beautiful tan skin, although you would never know by looking at me because my skin is "so white." Even whiter than my daddy's from what I've heard and from pictures I've seen. I remember hating my skin when I was little. I got made fun of at school with names like "mayonnaise" and "albino" (kids aren't very creative) and I wished I looked like my mom. I remember telling my mom about this when I was in the 1st grade and she said, "I prayed you would be white so you would be treated well and not like I have been treated." I didn't get it then. I had no idea what she was really saying to me. She was telling me that the world I live in would not only be kinder to me because I am so white, it would be safer.

Derek and I lived in Honduras for a year at an orphanage. While in the gates of the orphanage, I felt no fear; but anytime we went into town, everyone was staring at the white Americans. The staff at the orphanage talked to us before we were allowed to leave for the first time. They prepped us to not make eye contact with people, to get what you needed and get out of there. To not be loud, to speak in Spanish as much as we could and quietly to one another in English if we had to. To blend as much as possible. To not wear anything showy or of value, to not linger. Going to the bank was the scariest. Their guards stood out front with military rifles, pacing back and forth. I remember praying that I would be invisible to people, that I would go unnoticed. I thought out every sentence before I spoke it and contemplated every move I made.
Anytime Derek went into town without me, I waited impatiently for him to return, praying for protection over him.

I will not pretend to be able to relate, but this small experience (though pales in comparison) is what I thought of when reading your posts this morning.

I went to work and listened around me. Not one person brought it up. Everyone was talking about politics and Clinton. I know that the demographic I work with (myself included) cannot understand your pain but do we also not see? I see you. I am seeing you and I am sorry it has taken me so long to say that.

I worried I would say the wrong thing or because I cannot relate I would offend someone by speaking up at all but I am realizing that silence is the worst possible choice.

I read your posts - I hear you and I see your pain. I cannot relate to it and I will not pretend that I can but I will stand next to you in agreement. And I will not be silent. And not only behind the comfort of my computer.


Mother, mother
There's too many of you crying
Brother, brother, brother
There's far too many of you dying
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today

Father, father
We don't need to escalate
You see, war is not the answer
For only love can conquer hate
You know we've got to find a way
To bring some lovin' here today

Picket lines and picket signs
Don't punish me with brutality
Talk to me, so you can see
Oh, what's going on
What's going on
Ya, what's going on
Ah, what's going on

Father, father, everybody thinks we're wrong
Oh, but who are they to judge us
Simply because our hair is long
Oh, you know we've got to find a way
To bring some understanding here today

-What's Going On by Marvin Gaye

Flowers in Heaven

4 years. I kept doing the math over and over today because I couldn't believe it. . . but it adds up. 4 years since Sweet Lily Claire was born which means tomorrow marks 4 years since Lily passed from this life to the next. And my heart is so heavy and so full. It's amazing how such a short life can continue to have such a significant impact. I am forever changed from that sweet baby who only stayed with us outside her mommy's womb for 40 short hours.

I go back and forth between rage and overwhelming delight. I remember (very vividly) those hours. I can picture flashes of them. I remember so many specifics and when I think on them, I am overcome by pain and joy. I remember trying to be strong for my sister. I remember holding my own daughter, 9 months at the time, and wondering why mine was healthy and hers was not. I remember looking at Lily's toes; exactly like her mama's. That second toe that sticks out longer than the first which many say is a sign of stubbornness. It most definitely is. Strength, rather.
And I remember taking turns holding her sweet little body, knowing it would be our last time this side of heaven. THIS SIDE. I know that I know that I know - Heaven.

To some heaven is a dream. To some the thought of heaven "helps people sleep at night." No, heaven helps me LIVE. Heaven is my HOPE. Not some hope like "oh just maybe someday I'll go." I know and me going isn't the part I'm hoping for. I know from that spring in my heart that overflows. I know heaven because I saw it in that baby's eyes. Alive. Fully alive. I know heaven because I know earth and this isn't it. SWEET JESUS, THANK YOU that THIS is NOT it. Because this is hard. And this is fleeting. And this is shallow. And this is lacking. But not Lily. Lily is not lacking a damn thing and because of her completion in Christ in passing to heaven, she is not a list of anomalies nor is she defined by some genetic disorder. There is nothing lacking about her. And for that, I am grateful.

I am grateful that I carry her in me. I am grateful that she is part of our great cloud of witnesses and that while I am flailing about on this earth, she has been perfected. She is steady. I am grateful that I see her in the beautiful things about this life - like little winks from her. I am grateful that she is interceding on her mother's behalf. Her song. I am grateful that she is delight when I still fumble through a world with so much darkness.

I have this tattoo that I got years before she came. Isaiah 40:8 - "The grass withers and the flowers fade, but the Word of the Lord remains forever." I am grateful that Lily is my constant reminder of that promise. This life is so quick - like the blink of an eye, but then - ETERNITY.

Ester asked me a lot about heaven. We talk about Lily being there and I remember when Ester would ask me when we could go visit. If it was further away than Texas. Yes, much further and yet much closer. She has finally figured out that we can't drive there but now asks me how high in the sky it is.

Today we celebrated Lily. Ester was so excited. When I picked her up from school she remembered that we were going to celebrate and told every single person as we left the building: "Today is my cousin, Lily's, birthday! She is finally 4 like me, until I turn 5, and we are going to dinner!" Lucy was clueless.
Ester wanted to wear pink today because she thought Lily would like it. I wore pink, too. Lucy didn't want to. (Her second toe sticks out a little further than her first as well)

We went to Panera because they have Ester-friendly cookies. Then we went to buy balloons. What kind did Ester pick out? Flower-shaped balloons. We filled them with helium and we came home to write Lily a note to send with them. We released them to heaven. I was so grateful for the early night sky so Ester didn't see the streams of tears down my face. I didn't want her to be concerned with me; her face was beaming. I didn't want to distract from that joy. She was so proud. We watched them float away until we couldn't see them any longer.

As we walked inside Ester asked me if I thought Lily would like her present. Of course! She asked me if Lily would write her back. I said I didn't think so but I bet she would send a hug. She said, "Yeah, she'll be the first to hug me when I get to heaven."