When Love Looks Like a Phone Call

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Have you ever felt yourself spiraling? You knew it was coming, could feel it growing, and felt completely powerless to stop it? That was me four years ago, but Marcus saved me. I sat on this story for a long time, knowing I would share it one day. I just didn’t know when. His 48th birthday seems like a good time. You ready? Let’s go.

One thing I have not been shy about is that I suffered from postpartum depression (PPD). Although I wasn’t diagnosed until after I had Malachi, I strongly suspect I also had it once MJ was born. With my sweet MJ, I just didn’t know better. It doesn’t help that hormones after pregnancy and birth are less stable than an elephant trying to walk a tightrope. Fun times!

I’ve written before how I dealt with my diagnosis of PPD with Malachi. You know it’s not great when the doctor walks in and says, “So, some of your answers on the postpartum assessment raised some red flags.” You also know it’s not great when your husband starts the doctor visit with “She cries a lot.” Cue the tears. What a sweet guy.

So when we found ourselves pregnant with Isabel almost three years later, both Marcus and I felt a bit more equipped to handle another bout of PPD. We knew what worked before and had guardrails in place to make sure I felt supported at all times.

My pregnancy with Isabel was hard. Maybe partly because of my age (seriously, how does one have a geriatric pregnancy while being a geriatric millennial? It’s as amazing as it sounds); and also partly because of where I was in life – chasing after a 4 and a 2 1/2 year old who delighted in making me chase after them. Although I had previously loved being pregnant, I was completely over it about four months in with Isabel. I was tired. I was moody. I was hungry. I was, for lack of a better word, huge. (Ok fine, there were better words. I just wanted to use them.) I was an absolute delight to be around. I know my family would agree…that I needed some sort of intervention. So while I definitely looked forward to giving birth, I also worried about how I would feel afterward.

Fast forward (lol, I wish) to November 4th. There we were, racing to the hospital at 5 a.m. even though my water broke at 3 a.m. because someone (not me) had not gotten his bag ready. After rushing around the house and finally getting in the car, Marcus pounded the final nail in the coffin of my patience.

“Hey, do you think we have enough time to stop for coffee?”

By all means, honey. Get you some coffee. Goodness knows you have such a hard day ahead of you.

ANYWAY, once Marcus came to his senses just .5 seconds later, we arrived at the hospital. Isabel came roaring into the world at 10:41 a.m., considerate enough to arrive at a time that ensured I would be able to eat lunch. Because the COVID numbers had started rising exponentially around that time, I was only allowed two adult guests in the room. Not even the boys could come to the hospital to see their new sister.

But just about an hour after Isabel was born, my sister called to tell me that the school had called about MJ. He had a fever and needed to go home. Marcus picked him up from my sister’s house and took him to the doctor, who diagnosed MJ with strep. Guess who couldn’t come back to the hospital that night? Added to my sadness that Marcus would not be able to stay with me, I felt guilty that my oldest wouldn’t have me with him while he was sick. Every sick kid needs their mother.

After a solo night of #teamnosleep, we got to go home the next day, which was a Friday. We spent the weekend visiting with family members who came over, cleaning, and getting ready for a new week. I knew from past experience that I would start feeling blue in about a week. But on Sunday night, as I was walking down the hallway, I felt it – the surge of hormones that meant I would not feel normal for quite some time. Almost simultaneously, I heard Malachi coughing. It was a cough I knew all too well – croup. Trying to keep a handle on my emotions, I went to find Marcus to tell him Malachi had croup. Once I told him, I promptly lost my loosely-held composure. Once again, I could not comfort my own son because I had Isabel with me.

I took Mali to the bathroom, turned on the shower as hot it would get, and prayed the steam would help his airways. Then I held him and sobbed. This was no soft sob. No siree. This was gut-wrenching, stomach-hurting, shoulders-shaking sobs. An ugly cry on steroids would be an understatement. I was so loud that even Mali quit coughing and stared up at me, looking at me like he didn’t recognize me. I didn’t recognize me. These emotions weren’t supposed to show up for another week! I wrote it down!

Marcus came, took Mali from me, and put me to bed. The next day, we took Isabel to her first appointment, where I (once again) sobbed while I answered their postpartum questions. Isabel’s pediatrician suggested I call my own doctor. But before I could call, I received a phone call from my OB asking how I was doing. When I mentioned that I wasn’t doing great, they asked me to go see them the next day. On the way to the doctor’s office that Tuesday, I mentioned to Marcus how great it was that doctor’s offices were proactive. They were checking on new moms before the scheduled appointment a week after birth. After a quiet pause, Marcus said quietly,

“Can I tell you something and you not get mad? I called the doctor. I was worried about you and didn’t want to wait a week before you saw him.”

THE WAY I CRIED THE REST OF THE WAY TO THE DOCTOR’S OFFICE. Never in my life have I felt so loved. I was hurting so much. It didn’t matter that some of my concerns were silly. It didn’t matter that there was a perfectly good explanation for feeling the way I was. Marcus saw his wife hurting and did what he could to fix it.

I have held on to that action off and on over the past four years. When I get frustrated, annoyed, or mad at Marcus, I remember that he still shows his love in a variety of ways. Yes, he’s the better cook. Yes, he takes all the kids so I can have some time on my own. Yes, he does laundry (he draws the line at folding, lol). But the one that will always hold first place in my heart is the way he advocated for me when I couldn’t advocate for myself.

In that moment, Marcus’ love for me looked like a phone call. I am so blessed.

“Wow! You Look Much Better!” MJ’s Birth Story, Part 2

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I’ve never thought of myself as dramatic (I can actually hear Marcus roll his eyes right now), but we had the craziest, dramatic day following MJ’s birth.

After the excitement of oh…giving birth, the three of us laid down in our respective beds and passed out around 3:30 a.m. Just 45 minutes later, MJ woke us me up, and Marcus got up to give him to me to feed him. After MJ ate, I put him back in his bassinet and got back in bed. Just as I got settled in, the nurse came in to check on me. Right as she pulled the covers back, I felt a gush of blood come out.

Oh my gosh, enough with gushing of bodily fluids already!

When I told the nurse what I felt, she reassured me that it was normal. HOWEVER, when she actually saw how much blood I lost, she got worried. She called someone to come help her, who ended up being the charge nurse. As they both worked to stop the hemorrhaging, I heard the charge nurse say that they needed to call down to labor and delivery. She also told the other nurse to set up the machine to take my blood pressure every five minutes.

I started feeling worse and worse, and I was trying to tell the nurses that I was still bleeding, which, now that I think about it, they could obviously tell. When my labor and delivery nurse got to the room (and yes, I think of her as mine now), she immediately began helping the other nurses too. She told me later that when she walked in, I was as white as the pillowcase.

I kept my eyes closed because I started feeling sick to my stomach, which I managed to tell them in case I was sick all over them. At one point, I opened my eyes to see at least four people around my bed. I heard someone call my doctor, and I heard the words “She’s hemorrhaging and we can’t stop it.” The words balloon and shot were mentioned, and as far as I can tell, they were going to put a balloon in my uterus to see if I had any more clots. I did get a shot in my leg, but I still don’t know exactly what it was (maybe one of my nurse friends can tell me?). I heard the nurses make plans to send me back to labor and delivery, but not before I heard one nurse say “I can’t even get a reading on her blood pressure.”

I’m glad I wasn’t fully aware at the moment of how serious this all was.

Not so surprisingly, Marcus and MJ slept through everything. They woke Marcus up to tell him they were taking me back down to labor and delivery, so he had them send MJ to the nursery so he could stay with me.

By the time we got downstairs (around 5:30 a.m. at this point) and they hooked me up to the monitors and put another IV in, I had stabilized. The doctor came in to check on me (poor guy – he came to the hospital twice in the span of five hours just for me). After he examined me, he looked at my L&D nurse and said, “Well, you did everything right. We’ll continue to monitor her and leave the IV in, but good job, Chris!” Then he turned to me and explained that I had lost so much blood that they had requested two units of blood to give me. As my L&D nurse’s shift came to an end, she came in my room to say goodbye. She said “I was hoping to see you before I left, but not like this!” What can I say? I like to make an impression.

I stabilized quicker than they thought, so Dr. O said they would keep the units on standby but let me see if I continued to improve. I spent the rest of the night in that room, and by mid-morning, I was back in my regular room.

It wasn’t until the day unfolded that I realized just how scary things had turned. As nurses came in the room to check on me throughout the day, they all commented, “You look so much better!” I had one nurse who hadn’t been there when all this happened, but apparently she heard about it. When she came in the room, she exclaimed, “So you’re the one who scared the crap out of everyone!”

I wasn’t real sure how to answer that. “Yes, that’s me!” Uh….not so much.

Friday was filled with naps and visitors, all of my favorite things! I napped off and on all day, and by Friday night, I started feeling a little more like myself. I had some good friends come visit (and bring me food!), and lo and behold, we were in for another adventure. As we were all visiting, and I was stuffing my face, we noticed the weather getting worse and worse. Suddenly it started storming and the electricity went out. The winds were so high and strong that the sirens began wailing. The hospital called a code gray, which meant we all had to move into the hallway.

What.a.night.

After about 15 minutes hanging in the hallway, we finally got to move back into our room. Our friends said goodbye, and it was back to being the three of us. I looked at the clock, looked at Marcus, and came to the realization that MJ wasn’t even 24 hours old yet. I had had enough adventure to last me for quite a while.

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MJ had a much more exciting birthday than I’ve ever had. 

Fortunately for us, things calmed down for the rest of our hospital stay (which was extended to Sunday thanks to my early morning adventure). I was sent home with a plethora of medicine, but I was still home. Hallelujah!

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Father/Son chat. MJ has a great daddy.

Here’s the funny thing: although I had a relatively healthy pregnancy, I worried every day that something would go wrong. I looked forward to my due date because I couldn’t wait to meet MJ, of course, but also because I thought it would be the end of my worrying. Why in the world did I think I would be less worried once MJ got here? It didn’t take me long to get overwhelmed with everything once we were home. Not only was I tasked with keeping a little baby alive, but my mood plummeted every single day once the sun went down. I constantly worried about MJ. I stressed over getting his clothes and items in order. I lamented the fact that he wouldn’t eat as much as I wanted to. When he cried because he was having trouble nursing, I cried too. I cried without knowing why I was crying. The only thing that brought me relief was reading my Bible. I found a devotional plan on YouVersion, and read it every night during nighttime feedings. I came across a verse that I’ve decided to pray over MJ. Although I picked out a verse when I first found out MJ was on his way, I realized that he could have more than one verse prayed over him.

I don’t pretend to know everything. I never have, so why start now? But I do feel a little more at peace. Our prayer as parents is that MJ would grow up to be someone who follows hard after God, who puts others first and recognizes their value, and who works hard at whatever opportunities he’s provided. We pray that he goes after his dreams, and that he makes dreams come true for others.

MJ, your mommy and daddy love you very much. You make us proud already, and we can’t wait to point you to the King. IMG_2352

 

“We Aren’t Ready!” MJ’s Birth Story, Pt. 1

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By now, most of you know that MJ surprised us with his early arrival. While he is by no means the earliest baby to ever be born, his arrival certainly caught us off guard. It’s taken me a while to find the time to write this, so let’s hope my brain remembers everything.

June 22, 2017 – 2:30 a.m.
36 weeks pregnant

Marcus had worked the 4 p.m.-1 a.m. shift at work that day, so he got home somewhere around 1:45 a.m. As is usually the case when he works that particular shift, I was sound asleep, having gone to bed a few minutes after midnight. I woke up at 2:30 because he had come in to kiss me goodnight.

“Want to sit with me in the living room while I eat?” Marcus asked me (if you know him at all, you know he is no slave to time when it comes to food).

“No babe, I’m going to stay in bed. I feel sick to my stomach for some reason,” I answered.

Not only was I feeling bad, but waking up had somehow triggered the heartburn that had been my nemesis for the better part of two months. To make me feel better, my sweet husband laid down in bed and talked to me until I fell asleep.

5:30 a.m.

I woke up with the overwhelming need to pee. Since this happened multiple times a night, I wasn’t surprised. I told Marcus, and he stretched out his arm (while still asleep, mind you), so that I could use it to hoist myself up. As soon as I got out of bed, I felt a gush of liquid come out. Since I’m not in the habit of peeing myself, I quickly realized that my water broke.

“Babe. Babe. MARCUS!”

“Hmmm?”

“Babe, my water just broke!”

Without opening his eyes, Marcus turned his head in my direction and asked:

“Are you sure you didn’t just pee yourself?”

*Insert ALL OF THE EYE ROLLS HERE*

“Yeah, I’m pretty sure I didn’t pee myself. My water broke.”

After a five minute argument of whether I had peed myself or not (I kid you not), Marcus called labor and delivery to see what our next step should be. (And if you’re wondering why Marcus called and I didn’t, it’s because I was mad at him for not believing that my water had broken.) The nurse explained to him that sometimes the baby will sit on the bladder, and that I could have indeed peed myself. RUDE! Anyway, she suggested that I take a shower. If I soaked through two pads within an hour, I was to call back.

As I got in the shower, I realized that we have nothing ready. Like nothing. No bag packed. No furniture put together. Shoot, no furniture even bought yet. We hadn’t rearranged our room to accommodate a newborn. And we just had our baby shower less than a week before. Because I was still in school, I hadn’t quite gotten around to unpacking the gifts and writing thank you notes (which, ironically, was on my to do list for that particular day). Our living room was filled with gift bags and diapers. With a small sense of panic, I asked Marcus to pack a hospital bag for us in case we had to head over there sooner rather than later.

As I got out of the shower, the first sound I heard was…Marcus snoring. Clearly he wasn’t worried. I walked into our room and saw the biggest suitcase we own (did he think we were going to be in the hospital for a month?). As I opened the suitcase to see what he packed, I counted only five items – three underwear and two pairs of socks.

*INSERT ALL THE EYE ROLLS AGAIN.*

I found a smaller bag and packed it. Then I went to the living room and started going through gift bags trying to find something to bring MJ home in. Clearly the outfit I had already bought was going to be too big. After I packed both our bags, I ate breakfast and then called my mom and sister to tell them that I was possibly in labor. My mom offered to come by the house to bring me something I needed, so after I got off the phone with her, I decided to finish getting dressed. As I walked out of the room to wait in the living room, it happened again.

WHOOOSH! There go more of my bodily fluids. I waddle over to the bed and try to wake up Marcus yet again.

“Babe. Babe. MARCUS!”

“Hmmm?”

“It happened again.”

“What happened again?”

“Oh my gosh. My water broke again!”

“Are you sure?”

Ok, I get the guy is tired…but COME ON, MAN!

I called labor and delivery back, and they told me that I needed to come in. I woke Marcus back up, told him we needed to get ready to go, and started getting myself dressed again. My mom comes by, gives me a kiss, tells me to keep her updated, and then we head to the hospital.

The whole way to the hospital, Marcus explained that this can’t possibly be labor because we weren’t ready for MJ yet.

Umm..ok.

9:00 a.m.

We checked into the hospital, and they sent me to an observation room. They did two tests to determine if my water had broken. The first one came back positive, and the second one came back negative. WWWWWHHHAAATTTT? The sweet nurse explained that since they didn’t have a conclusive answer, my doctor would have to come in and perform a third test – the tiebreaker. HOWEVER, he couldn’t just leave his patients, so he wouldn’t be by to see me until lunchtime. Marcus and I took advantage of the time and slept (guess who fell asleep first? after telling me that he hoped I wasn’t in labor because we weren’t ready?).

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Waiting patiently for Dr. O. Don’t let my smile fool you – I was terrified because we weren’t ready.

11:45 a.m.

My doctor, Dr. O., walked in with a confused look on his face.

“Hey Bethany! So what’s going on?”

“Well…I think my water broke.”

“That’s what it sounds like. I’m going to check you before I do the test.”

As I sat up in bed, it happened again. I mean, I didn’t even know that was possible. I had that much amniotic fluid??

Dr. O lifted up the sheets, took one look at me, and said “Yep, your water broke. You’re having a baby today!” And my sweet, supportive, smart husband looked at the doctor with crazy eyes and uttered that now infamous phrase he had been repeating all morning:

“BUT WE’RE NOT READY!”

As it turns out, babies don’t care if you’re ready or not.

All joking (and eye-rolling) aside, I was a little concerned about having him earlier than planned. Dr. O assured me that MJ would be “just perfect”, and off to the races we went. I moved to a different room, got settled in, and they started me on medicine to make my contractions (which I was already feeling) become more regular. At that point I remembered that I hadn’t even made the playlist I wanted for the birth, so there I was, feverishly picking the songs I wanted for the playlist.

Here’s where things get a little fuzzy. It took a little while for my contractions to become more regular, and until they did, I couldn’t get an epidural. I remember being in pain (oh my gosh, the pain), and the nurse giving me some pain medicine that knocked me out. I remember my family being there, and I remember at some point my sister coming in to check on me. Marcus hadn’t left my side this whole time, and was holding my hand through each contraction. Here’s something I do remember: at one point Kelli came in (I’m guessing after work) and got after Marcus for not “talking her through the contractions.” I was in too much pain to say anything, but if I could have, I would have laughed out loud at what happened next. When the next contraction hit, Marcus said,

“Uh…babe. You got this.”

All I could manage in reply was “Stop talking.”

“Ok.”

8:00 p.m.

Finally, finally, I was able to get an epidural. Bless the Lord, oh my soul! With worship music playing in the background, the nurse and Marcus held onto me while I received the epidural. The relief was almost immediate. After that, I felt like I could truly rest, and the nurses were so good to check on me and move me around while still letting me sleep. I remember family being there; I wanted SO badly to wake up and visit with them, but exhaustion had set in and I couldn’t keep my eyes open.

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Patiently waiting. 

10:00 p.m.

The nurse came in to check on me, and told me that I was very close to being fully dilated. At this point, it was only Marcus, my parents, and Kelli in the room. We waited for a little bit, and then everyone decided they were hungry. Right when my dad left to get everyone a snack from Whataburger (except for me…waaaaah), the nurse did one final check and told me that I was ready to push. My sister and mom left the room, and it was only me, Marcus, and the nurse for a little bit.

11:30 p.m.

The nurse called the doctor to let him know I was ready. She then had me push for about 20 minutes. At one point, Marcus looked up at me and with a huge grin on his face said, “Babe! He has a ton of hair!” You can imagine my relief when he told me that – at least all that heartburn wasn’t for nothing. After 20 minutes, the nurse told me to stop to wait for the doctor. She said if I kept pushing, the baby would get here before Dr. O did. While we waited, she got everything ready for the doctor, and the nursery nurse came in and set up the machine where they would weigh and check MJ.

June 23, 2017
12:00 a.m.

The doctor arrived, got himself ready, and the room quickly filled. In addition to the doctor, nurse, and Marcus, the nursery nurse and nurse aide were also surrounding me. I wish, wish, WISH I had had a camera with me because what happened next was hilarious.

Dr. O had me push for four rounds of ten seconds each. Everyone counted out loud for me so that I could concentrate on pushing. The first round, I heard:

One…

Two…

Three..

Four…

Five…

Six…

Seven…

AND THEN EVERYONE STOPPED COUNTING AND THEIR EYES GOT REALLY, REALLY BIG. So naturally I stopped pushing, because what in the world was going on??? As soon as I stopped pushing, everyone said “No, no, keep pushing!”

Geez, talk about mixed signals.

I finished pushing, and then it was on to round 2.

One…

Two…

Three…

Four…

12:32 a.m.

And just like that, my baby was born. The cutest, wiggliest, most perfect, dark-haired baby boy was placed in my arms. At that point, everyone else in the room ceased to exist. I was finally holding God’s answer to my many, many prayers in my arms. Seeing and holding MJ literally took my breath away, and I fought to keep from crying so that my tears wouldn’t keep me from staring at him.

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All the emotions. All.of.them.

The nurses took MJ from me (rude!) so they could clean him up and weigh him. Although he was early, I was still shocked that he only weighed 5 lb. 8 oz. That was another answer to prayer. My doctor and I were concerned that he would get too big and that I would end up needing a C-section. I don’t know how fast he would have grown in the next three weeks, but as it was, MJ was perfect.

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5 lb. 8 oz. of perfection. And that hair! Heart eyes for dayyyyyys. 

After he was clean, the nurse gave him back to me so that we could have skin to skin time. As soon as they put him in my arms, MJ quieted down while we snuggled and I told him how much Daddy and I loved him. Marcus held him for a little bit, and I can’t adequately express what it’s like to watch your husband hold the son that he’s longed and prayed for. I cried.

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Father and son. Big M and Little M. M&M. I could keep going. 

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Not a fan of being taken from his mommy. Obviously.

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That diaper is half his size. I can’t even. 

1:00 a.m.

My parents (dubbed Honey and Grumpy) and Kelli came in to meet the newest Edwards/Hernandez family member. As tired as I was, I couldn’t keep my eyes off of my family. Marcus and I kept saying over and over that we couldn’t believe MJ was finally here. Then came time to feed MJ, but I was starving. My sweet husband had the perfect solution. I fed MJ, while Marcus fed me fries from Whataburger. Never had cold, two-hour old fries tasted so good. The rest of the night/early morning was a blur. The nurse gave MJ his first bath, and then we all headed up to my new hospital room.

Honey and MJ
Auntie and MJ
Grumpy and MJ

3:30 a.m.

We were finally in the room, and after visiting with my new nurse, Marcus, MJ and I settled in for some much needed rest. As busy and exciting as the past few hours had been, little did we know that it was only the beginning…

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God’s gift to us. There is literally no other way to describe him.

Hallelujah. God is Good.

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I think I will forever hear my mom’s words echo through the phone…”We have bad news. Tia Sandy was killed in a car crash.”

I’ll remember trying desperately to make sense of her words. My brain grasped what my heart couldn’t – my crazy, fun aunt, the one I could always count on to comment on every text, photo, or Facebook status, had died. There are no words to heal the wounds, no actions to reverse the grief, no thoughts to lessen the pain. Grief envelops every fiber of our beings. And quite honestly, my grief doesn’t even begin to compare to my cousins’ grief. They lost their mom, their biggest and loudest cheerleader.

As we’ve lived through the past week in a daze, there are two phrases that keep popping up in my head. The first comes from a book I read over 8 years ago. In it, the matriarch of the family repeats a saying when she receives any type of news, whether good or bad – “Hallelujah. God is good.”

When her grandchildren were born?

“Hallelujah. God is good.”

When her daughter-in-law announced she was divorcing their son?

“Hallelujah. God is good.”

When her home was destroyed by a fire?

“Hallelujah. God is good.”

When her youngest son was killed at war defending his country’s freedom?

“Hallelujah. God is good.”

When God miraculously saved her son and daughter-in-law’s marriage?

“Hallelujah. God is good.”

You see where I’m going with this story. As I read the book, I wondered if I could ever have the same reaction this lady had. Could I honestly say that God is good, even if the circumstances were bad? I hoped I wouldn’t have to find out, even though I knew deep down that loss and grief are no respecter of persons.

This saying, which has been rolling around in my head for the past week, reminds me of the second saying, a verse – “And now, dear brothers and sisters, we want you to know what will happen to the believers who have died so you will not grieve like people who have no hope.” 1 Thessalonians 4:13 (NLT) (emphasis mine)

It is NOT normal to elicit laughter at a funeral. It is NOT normal to lift your hands to worship to God at a funeral. It is NOT normal to comfort others when you have been the one to experience loss.

Or is it?

Do you know why 1 Thessalonians 4:13 is such a powerful verse? Because it’s true. Our family is still grieving. We will still cry, wail, and ask God why He chose to take Tia Sandy so early in life. We will still have bad days, and we will still wish she hadn’t died. But we refuse to camp out in hopelessness. Do you know why we can grieve and have hope at the same time? Because we know that Tia Sandy is gloriously happy in heaven, reunited with family, but mostly loving on Jesus. Yesterday, as we laid her to rest, I could only think one thing:

Hallelujah. God is good.

 

Long Enough

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It’s been two years since I’ve blogged. That’s long enough.

Long enough to become an aunt to the coolest (albeit crazy) little girl.

Long enough to finish my master’s.

Long enough to get married.

Long enough begin school again.

Long enough to question the choice to begin school again.

Long enough to change jobs (twice).

Long enough to move houses (it sort of comes with the whole “getting married” territory).

It’s just plain long enough.

I may not lead the most interesting life, but I’m back, America Friends Family Mom. Get ready for wordiness.

45

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It’s been 45 days since I’ve posted. 45. And wow, has there been a plethora of events happening in my life. So much so that I’ve (literally and figuratively) pulled the covers over my head and pretended that certain things didn’t exist.

Things such as reports. Deadlines. Phone calls to return. A clean house. Oh wait, my clean house doesn’t exist.

February was…interesting. Fun, stressful, crazy, relaxing, long, short, a jumble of mismatched activities strung together until they resulted in me almost losing it.

And then March came. In case we’ve never met and you don’t know one iota about me, let me begin with this humble statement: I LOVE MY BIRTHDAY. Since March is my birthday month, and I love my birthday – March 15th – I celebrate all month long. Go ahead and rub your eyes. You’re not seeing things. All month long, baby.

As it turns out, celebrating your birthday month is not a valid excuse for not showing up at work. How rude!

(Lest a family member read this and think that I actually used that as an excuse, I didn’t. I pinky swear.)

What I mean is, there’s a reason for the lack of blogging, and that has a lot to do with the season of life I find myself in -the season where I find myself with gobs of time and then no time at all. The season where I don’t go to the store for a month because I’m lazy and that’s okay because I have no one I have to cook for. The season where I blow a ridiculous amount of money at the grocery store because I haven’t been all month and that’s okay because I bought all my favorite foods that I don’t have to share because I have no one I have to cook for. The season where I go buy new clothes because I didn’t think about what I was putting in my mouth for a month and suddenly new numbers appeared on my scale. The season where I lament those new numbers while taking part in a Netflix marathon. While eating thin mints. In my pjs. In the afternoon. Because I can.

Do you get my drift?

Basically, what I’m trying to say here is that I have no good excuse for not blogging. The word you’re looking for here is laziness. But you will get more of me! More randomness! More not so deep and probably quite ignorant thoughts on my faith! More family stories! More Raegan stories!

Right after my nap.

Stacking Days

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There are many things I love about being an educator: the early mornings, the long hours, the late nights grading papers, the endless emails asking for special permission for anything, etc.

[I would like to take this time to ask prayer for my abundance of sarcasm. It’s really getting out of hand. Amen.]

In all sincerity, I really do love being an educator. And I really love working with elementary. Something about their lack of a filter makes for pretty hilarious stories. Like the time one of my third graders started praying for the food. Problem was, it was the end of the day, not lunchtime. When I corrected him, he seamlessly continued, “Lord, I pray our food doesn’t backfire.” Not only was that gross, but I am here to tell you that the Lord did not answer that prayer.

Or what about the time I asked the students to draw a picture of their dad? One little boy excitedly ran to me and said, “I’m going to draw a picture of my mom and dad wrestling!” I seriously considered buying a lock for their bedroom door and sending it home with that child. Poor kid will probably be traumatized when he figures out what wrestling really is.

Or what about the time I was student teaching in kindergarten? We had just sat down on the carpet for Math time when one student sitting in front of me suddenly and unexpectedly released some – how shall I say it – pressure. I managed to keep a straight face and ignore it until the girl next to him looked over at him and exclaimed with a look of disgust on her face, “EWWW! THAT WAS A WET ONE!” So was the snot coming out of my nose because I could no longer control myself.

Kids are funny. They are messy, they are loud, they are clingy, and sometimes they are unavoidably obnoxious. But they are funny. And seeing their faces light up when they finally understand a concept, or watching them refuse to give up on a hard assignment has kept me in the field of education. It has kept me invested in their educational and spiritual lives at Cornerstone.

But if we’re completely honest, I think everyone of us sitting here would admit that sometimes, it gets old. It can feel routine. It can be hard to get ourselves going when we don’t see the immediate fruit of our very intensive and back-breaking labor.

On the days where I’m frustrated with myself, or worse, feeling as though my contributions don’t matter to anyone for anything, I’ve learned to go to one verse. That verse is 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12 (NLT):

“Make it your goal to live a quiet life, minding your own business and working with your hands, just as we instructed you before. Then people who are not Christians will respect the way you live, and you will not need to depend on others.”

Sometimes God just punches me in the gut, ya know?

My job is not always exciting. I’m not always laughing with my students. Sometimes the day consists of me watching the clock for my next break or completely passing out the second I get home. Often times I’ve gone to bed without eating dinner – not because of a lack of food, but because I had absolutely no energy to get up and cook myself something (and by cook, I mean drive to the nearest Chick-Fil-A).  

But here’s the thing – I have my job because God provided it. And my job isn’t just what my job description spells out. My job is living out 1 Thessalonians 4:11-12. That process of working day in, day out, week in, week out, year after year has a term. And that term is stacking days.

We stack regular day upon regular day, waiting for that moment that our life changes and we can move away from the mundane into the exciting. But I’ve recently discovered that God is no more in the exciting than He is in the mundane. And if God can be glorified in the spotlight, then He most assuredly will be glorified in the mundane. He will be honored that I give 100% when I have every opportunity not to. He will be honored that I choose to get up and go to work when it is easier to stay home. He will be honored when I push myself to get better when I could just slide by or pass my work on to someone else.

So to me, there’s an excitement in stacking days because I know it’s leading somewhere. I know that my work, no matter how I feel in the moment, is not in vain. I know that God will take every exciting and mundane moment and make more out of it than I ever could. As Lysa TerKeurst says, “Our job is obedience; God’s job is results.” And if obedience looks like stacking days, then stacking days I will do, and put the rest in God’s hands.

Just Call Me Kathy Grace

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I’ve mentioned before that my training/background is in teaching. I taught first grade for one year, but have spent most of my time in third grade. I LOVE third graders! It’s a fun age – still young and innocent, old enough to complete fun projects, and they haven’t quite figured out what is and isn’t appropriate to share with the teacher. That has resulted in some hilarious conversations in the classroom.

Third graders are funny, y’all.

One incident occurred just two years ago. I was teaching the rules of using a period, and that particular day we were learning to place periods after a person’s initial. I explained that my middle initial is G, and so when I sign my name, I place a period after the G. Trying to make it a little more interesting for the class, I asked if they could guess what the G stood for. After a few wrong guesses, I halted the conversation when one student called out, “Grumpy?”

Ouch. Teaching third grade is not for the faint of heart. Or for  the grumpy, apparently.

For the record, my middle name is Grace. I am Bethany Grace Hernandez. (And for the record, I am the clumsiest most graceful person who ever lived. Thanks, Mom and Dad.)

When I was younger, I desperately wanted to change my name. I was not a fan of Bethany Grace. I didn’t like Bethany because I didn’t really know anyone else who had that name. It hadn’t yet become cool to be different. And I didn’t like Grace because I always got made fun for being so clumsy. (Again, thank you, Mom and Dad. And thank you, cousins. My counselor is appreciative of that vacation she can now afford due to my many family issues. I kid, I kid.) I fell, I spilled, I sprained, I face planted. Suffice it to say, I did not live up to my middle name. I was anything but graceful.

So I came up with a plan: Instead of being Bethany Grace, I would be Kathy. I can’t even begin to explain to you my reasoning behind this. All I remember is that I loved the name Kathy. (This was also around the time I told my mom that I wanted blonde hair and blue eyes instead of brown hair and brown eyes. I was a special child.)

Clearly, I failed in my measly whole-hearted attempt to change my name AND my appearance. And I learned a few important lessons along the way. Let me be clear: this is not a self-help post. It’s not a post about pulling myself up by my boot straps and getting over it (I’m from Texas, can you tell?). Today I am a (relatively) normal, confident, well-adjusted person because of one thing:

God’s grace.

The older I get, the more I am aware of God’ grace in my life. I am alive because of God’s grace. I have been incredibly blessed because of God’s grace. And even the trials that have come my way with their companions – the sleepless nights, the constant running of thoughts, the pit in my stomach that won’t go away – are a testament to the grace of God in my life. Not because they exist, but because I have gotten through it and I’m still standing. Those trials have taught me much, but what stands out at the top of the list is that God’s grace is enough to sustain me through anything.

Are you blessed? Do you have your health? Do you enjoy your relationships with family? Do you have a job that provides not just for your needs, but also many of your wants? You, my friend, have experienced God’s grace. You are still standing because of it.

Are you struggling? Are your relationships lost? Have you been given bad news by the doctor? Has your boss called you in to inform you of a new direction you are now taking? Are you working to keep everything together but it keeps falling apart? Dear one, please listen to me: you have experienced God’s grace. It may not seem like it. In fact, I know that right now it seems like just the opposite. But God’s grace is at work in your life and He wants to give you more of it! Reach out to God and take hold of His plan for you.

The other day I was completely undone by this song. It came on the radio while I was driving to work, and I had to park my car and have a good cry over the truth of it. I am overwhelmed by the grace of God my life. I am where I am because of God’s grace and I know you are too.

God’s grace will always find you, my friend. Will you allow it to change you?