Waiting to Move a Mountain

I am the one percent.

Not in a good way.

Not in the "I just won the Powerball," way.

Not in the "She is definitely good enough to go to the WNBA," way.

Sadly, not even in the, "Yes, I want to sign you to a recording contract.  Here, I'd like you to meet Reba. You will be singing a duet with her at the CMA's," kind of way.

I am the one percent of people for whom the pharmaceutical companies have to put the "rare but call your doctor immediately if" list of side effects on that pamphlet when you get your prescriptions. I'm am the one percent of people for whom doctors have to take a class in medical school called, "you will probably never see this, but just in case you ever have a patient named Kristen Escovedo, here is a bunch of weird stuff you will need to know."  That title is wordy, I know.  The short version is just Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010.

I am that one percent.  I'm the girl whose appendicitis didn't show up on three separate CAT scans.   Whose surgeon says, "I've seen appendicitis that didn't show up on a CAT scan before, but I've never actually opened someone up, looked at an appendix and thought it was completely healthy, taken it out, and had it show up as appendicitis. That is a first."

He clearly didn't take Vedo Weird Medical Stuff 1010.

I'm the girl whose ovaries get fused together in the middle of her abdomen after a hysterectomy.

I'm the girl who starts having contractions at 20 weeks for no apparent reason. Goes to the hospital 13 times, and every time has nurses and doctors just cock their head and say, "Umm, I'm not sure what's going on here."

I'm that one percent.

I'm the one percent of people who gets migraines five times a week (which isn't that uncommon) and doesn't respond to any of the migraine medicines (more uncommon). In fact, many of the migraine medicines make my migraines worse (there it is!).

So after eight years of migraines and trying every possible combination of medications that dozens of doctors could possibly conceive of -- after a while, I think they just walk into the sample closet, close their eyes and grab random boxes-- I decided to go a different route -- I'm having surgery.

First thought; I'm having my brain removed.  There have been times during a migraine when I considered it, and believe it or not, in several countries they are doing surgeries for migraine relief where doctors remove a nerve in your brain. This gives you some insight to how desperate I am when I'm contemplating flying to Germany to have a nerve taken out of my brain to get a little relief.

But no, this is a sinus surgery. It turns out, as with most things, I am in the small percentage of people whose passageways to the sinuses are virtually non-existent.  A CAT scan of my sinuses revealed I have a deviated septum (not unusual).  I also have very narrow passageways, (a little more unusual).  As I looked at the CAT scan the doctor pointed out these two large "pods" that were blocking about 90% of my already deviated, narrow passageways. I said, "Are those little circle things that are blocking the way bigger on me than they are on normal people?"

To which he replied, "Normal people don't have those."

There it is.

So, I am having surgery to open up the passageways to my sinuses in an effort to, you know, be able to breathe. 

The doctor has informed me that this is no silver bullet. It might help my migraines, because it will greatly reduce the constant sinus pressure I feel.  Plus, it should help me be able to sleep, since I will be able to breathe for the first time in my life.

But he isn't promising a miracle.

And that is what I've been telling myself since I scheduled the surgery three weeks ago.

Because I am the one percent.

And because I hate surgery.

But then something happened this week.  God showed me that I pray too small.

Let me give you an example.  For almost a decade, I've been praying (figuratively) for God to make a way for a friend of mine to navigate their way over a mountain.  This week, God answered that prayer by picking up the the mountain and moving it. 

For the last month I've been praying that God would give Richie and me some direction in a particular situation.  I've been trying to be quiet and listen for that still small voice. Yesterday he answered with a bullhorn.

I pray too small.

I forget how big God is.

I forget that he made the world in six days.  I forget that the wind and the waves obey his voice.  That he holds the very universe in the palm of his hands. 

I forget that he can move the mountain.

I forget that he can heal the migraines.

Even for the one percent.

Waiting for It to Get Easier

I didn't want to write this post.  A lot of people with better thought out arguments or more researched opinions have already written this post. The news has shifted. Parents who held their children more tightly this weekend quickly pecked them on the cheek this morning as they fell back into the routine of packing lunches, checking backpacks for homework folders, and chastising kids for messy rooms making it impossible to find matching shoes, glasses, gloves, or scarves.

Most of us are ready to move on with our lives.

We are still sad.

We are still angry.

When we stop and think about the 26 people killed, more specifically, the 20 children killed, we can't help but be over come with emotion.

So mostly, we are ready to stop thinking about it.

And I didn't want to write this post.

But here I am.  Computer open. Typing. Maybe because the little four year old boy playing on the floor makes it impossible for me to forget that 20 families are staring at floors in their houses that are void of toys that just last week they were cursing about tripping over.

Maybe it is because I spent 13 years working in school districts, writing crisis plans, and training school administrators what to do in case of various emergency situations.  Like if a shooter enters the building.

Maybe it's because I am one of those parents who held onto my children extra tight all weekend and then gave my daughter a quick peck on the cheek as I sent her off to her third-grade class this morning.

Maybe it's because I keep hoping if I look at this in a different way, if I think of it from a different perspective, if I read enough blog posts, or see enough motivational pictures or scriptures, if I hug my children enough times, or if I just stop and mediate, it will get easier.

Easier to understand. Easier to swallow.  Easier to make sense of something so senseless.  Easier to keep believing in a God who is good and who is big enough to stop someone from walking into an elementary school and shooting 26 people, 20 children, but who did not.

It isn't getting easier.

In fact, the more I look at it, the more I think about it, the more I stare at my four year old, the harder it is to understand.  The harder it is to make sense of anything.

The harder it is to believe.

Weeks like this challenge my faith. They send me running to God screaming "Why?" and "How could you?" and "Where were you?"  "CHILDREN!"

Weeks like this leave me filled with disdain for some of my fellow man and grace and mercy for others. Weeks like this all of the sudden make me think of all of the other injustices in the world; places where children die due to lack of drinking water, genocide, AIDS. Most days I don't give any of these things a second thought.  I flip past any news stories or specials, because come on, they are depressing. And they are  oceans away and have no direct effect on my life.

But this week, when I'm questioning everything that is good in the world, I question all of these things.

And I question God.

And I wait for a voice that sounds like James Earl Jones (because that is what I assume the voice of God sounds like), but the voice never comes.

God doesn't tell me why.

But He does remind me (in a whisper, not a JEJ voice), that He doesn't have to.

Job 38:4-18 (New Living Translation)4 "Where were you when I laid the foundations of the earth? Tell me, if you know so much. 5 Do you know how its dimensions were determined and who did the surveying? 6 What supports its foundations, and who laid its cornerstone 7 as the morning stars sang together and all the angels shouted for joy? 8 "Who defined the boundaries of the sea as it burst from the womb, 9 and as I clothed it with clouds and thick darkness? 10 For I locked it behind barred gates, limiting its shores. 11 I said, 'Thus far and no farther will you come. Here your proud waves must stop!' 12"Have you ever commanded the morning to appear and caused the dawn to rise in the east? 13 Have you ever told the daylight to spread to the ends of the earth, to bring an end to the night's wickedness? 14 For the features of the earth take shape as the light approaches, and the dawn robed in red. 15 The light disturbs the haunts of the wicked, and it stops the arm that is raised in violence. 16 "Have you explored the springs from which the seas come? Have you walked about and explored their depths? 17 Do you know where the gates of death are located? Have you seen the gates of utter gloom? 18 Do you realize the extent of the earth? Tell me about it if you know!

I didn't really like His answer. I don't ever really like it when God reminds me that He is God and I am not. But it did remind me that even if I didn't like the answer, He was still God.  He was still in control. He is still here.

It reminded me of all the times when I was a little girl and other kids were mean to me.  My dad would come home from work and I would climb up into his lap and tell him how awful my day was.  Then, with tears in my eyes, I would tell him, "It just isn't fair daddy."

And he would wrap his arms around me and say, "No, baby, it isn't."

And that's exactly what I told God. "Someone walking into a school and shooting twenty-six people, twenty of them little children, God, it just isn't fair."

And as He wraped His arms around me, I heard Him reply, "No it isn't, Kristen. No, it isn't."

Waiting for a Little More Crazy

I've always loved Christmas.

More specifically, I've always loved Christmas trees. Maybe it's because I'm from Montana and there we just call them trees.

Many of my fondest memories of choosing a Christmas tree revolve around my brother, my dad and me wandering through a series of evergreen trees while my we tried to come an agreement on a tree that not only Jason and I approved of, but that my dad, who apparently had better spacial sense than we did, figured would fit into our living room.  This took some doing, as my brother and I are both perfectionists when it comes to choosing the perfect tree.  There is a certain symmetry that must exist on at least three sides, along with a deep green color, and branches sturdy enough to hold lights (the old fashioned giant - one goes out, we all go out- lights), garland, ornaments, and at least four boxes of tinsel. Basically a tree had to be able to hold a family of giant possums on each and every branch to stand up to the kind of decorating it would be subject to at our house.

The biggest argument came down to size.  It went like this. We would find the perfect tree and my dad would (patiently) explain that our house did not have 35 foot ceilings, and as much as he would like to climb 28 feet up the tree to cut off the top seven feet, he was neither a lumberjack, nor crazy, and we were going to have to pick another tree.  This usually went on for about two hours before we finally found one that was closer to twelve feet, which was still five feet to tall, but doable.

I honestly didn't even know they made such a thing as artificial trees until I came to Texas to attend college. If I would have known most 95% of the state had fake Christmas trees, I probably would have ended up in Michigan. As the years went on, I continued to defy the artificial tree racket in Texas and buy a real tree each year.  But something happened to my tree trimming tradition the farther I got from home. I stopped stringing popcorn, and the garland disappeared completely.  My ornaments became color coordinated, and I couldn't even tell you if they make tinsel anymore. My last semester of college, which happened to be the one year I lived by myself, I stood back and looked at my finished tree and thought it was the most beautiful tree I had ever seen.  Mind you, this was before Facebook, before Pinterest.  I'm not even sure if Martha Stewart was a household name.  But I had created this amazing tree, perfectly symmetrical, and not just the tree, but the placement of the ornaments.  The colors and lights (not the outside kind), were all coordinated and just stunning if I do say so myself. And I do.

I loved that tree.

Then I got married.

To a Texan.

A Texan who did not understand my love of real trees. Our first Christmas I had to make the dreaded call to my father telling him that....we had.... bought....an....artificial tree.

To this day it is the only time my dad has hung up on me.

But still, Richie and I made our metal and plastic tree as beautiful as you can make a, you know, metal and plastic tree.  By that time, adding ribbon to your tree had become in vogue and someone made us an amazing bow to top the tree.  We started a tradition of decorating our tree in a different theme each year, to reflect that year in our lives, or you know, just because.  When UNT went to the New Orleans Bowl the first year (oh, how long ago), we did a Mardi Gras tree with masks and feathers.  The year our daughter was born the tree was adorned in all pink.

And then something else happened.

Our daughter grew into a toddler.

She wanted to help decorate the tree.

My tree.

If you have small children or if you have ever seen a tree decorated by small children you know how it goes. First, you put up all of the ornaments that can break, which by this point are most of them, because you have been collecting all of these awesome ornaments for years.  Then, you start handing the small child all of the unbreakable ornaments, which he or she proceeds to hang.

On the same branch.

Every single ornament.

On the same branch.

It doesn't matter if you encourage the child to move to the other side of the tree. It doesn't matter if you pick up the child and physically move the child to the other side of the tree or hold the child up so they can reach a high branch.  It is as if the child is drawn to that one and only branch. So every ornament the child touches gets put on that branch.

Interestingly, if you have two small children, they will both be attracted to the same branch.  I'm not sure why this happens, but it is true.  I have seen up to five children all hanging ornaments on the same branch.

I give props to artificial trees on this point.  Thanks to their titanium innards, their branches hold up to the barrage of ornaments much better than real trees. We have seen it go both ways, as Richie and I came to an agreement in order to save our marriage, which is I get a real tree every three years, or on years when I have a baby.

Once you have children, not only are all of the ornaments bunched up on one branch, but the small children (we now have two), start bringing home "ornaments" they made at daycare, preschool, kindergarten, church, in the back yard, during nap, and anywhere else they have a hook, some paste, and some clay type substance.  I think we have one that is made of used bubble gum and a paper clip that one of the kids tried to pass off as a shooting star.

So as the kids started "helping" decorate the tree, I did what every proud and loving mother does; I waited until they went to sleep and re-decorated it.  I re-distributed all of the ornaments, moving the less desirable ornaments to the lesser viewed side and using ribbon to hide some of the imperfections. The kids don't notice.  The tree looks great.

Everyone wins.

This year is a real tree year in the Escovedo house (every third year - not a baby year) and to my credit, I let the kids pick it (with just a tad of guidance).  And can I just say, it must be in their genes, because they picked an amazing tree. And they are getting the hang of decorating too.  They are eight and four this year and I am to the point where I am starting to enjoy reminiscing as I look at the decorations made in kindergarten and Santa pictures from prior years.

As I sat last night with the Christmas lights on I looked at the tree and then down at our daughter my heart was so full as I said to her, "I think you did an awesome job.  I really think this is our most beautiful tree yet.  What do you think?"

Long pause.

"Anna, what do you think?  Do you not like the tree?"

"It's not that I don't like it. I just think there is something missing mommy."

"What?  What is it?  What do you think is missing? Does it need more lights? Ribbon?"

"Hmmmm... It just needs....I don't know.  Well, it needs more Ryan.  It needs a little more crazy. It just doesn't quite look like, well, us."

As I looked at our beautiful, symmetrical, color coordinated tree, I realized she was absolutely right.

It didn't look like us. 

We are not symmetrical, nor are we ever color coordinated.  We are, well, a little more crazy.

So tonight, she and Ryan got to work fixing the tree.  Out came the foam, scissors, tape, and markers. I watched and they worked carefully putting together ornaments that just a year ago I would have hidden in the back, but tonight I let them proudly hang right in the front where everyone would be sure to see them.

Because thinking back on my childhood Christmas trees, the joy in my memories is not because they were perfect.

It was because they had a little more Kristen.

They had a little more crazy.

I won't have imperfect trees forever, so you can bet your elves I am going to enjoy every bubble gum shooting star ornament while I can.

Turns out, they are priceless.

Waiting to spout fangs

Saturday morning, a miracle happened.  After three and a half months of grueling Texas heat, a cold front blew through, bringing rain and temperatures cool enough for us to give our AC a much needed rest and open up the windows.

As the cool air blew through the house, the kids played in the back yard squealing with delight, and I could almost taste fall. 

Right up until that invisible hammer grabbed what I can only assume was a tent stake or railroad tie and jammed it under my right eyelid and directly up into my brain.

And just like that, my perfect Saturday became a migraine Saturday.  But unlike most migraine days, this one came with an amazing revelation.  As a quickly wrapped a blanket around my head and ran for the back bedroom to shield my eyes from the hideous light of the day star I was all of the sudden struck with the similarities between people suffering from chronic migraines and vampires.

I realize comparison may seem like a stretch for some of you, so cut me some slack and hear me out.  If you have never experienced a migraine or aren't closely related to someone with chronic migraines, this post probably isn't worth the next five minutes of your time.  But, if you are like me and have 3-5 migraines a week, or if you are like my husband and have to live with someone with chronic migraines, keep reading.  If you have seen as many doctors as I have,  you've probably heard stranger diagnoses.

Chronic Migraineurs Vs. Vampires
A completely non-scientific study completed while lying in a dark room after taking migraine medicine in the middle of a migraine. Results should in no way be substituted for actual advice from real doctors or real vampires.

Sleeping Habits
Both migraineurs and vampires prefer to sleep in dark, cold, quiet places. On most days, both creatures will shield their eyes from the sunlight at all costs.  While they are sleeping, they prefer not to be disturbed.  In fact, disturbing either a migraineur or a vampire while they have retreated to their dark, cold quiet place could very well unleash an unpleasant monster on the unsuspecting victim.

Social  Habits
Both migraineurs and vampires tend to feel most at ease when they are around their own kind.  I believe this to be true because it prevents them from having to make excuses for or lie about who they are. And every one around them understands that they may look fine at one minute and at the next they may disappear completely.  Also, among their own kind, it isn't considered rude to back out of a commitment at the last minute due to unforeseen circumstances.

Sensitivities While the two creatures do not display sensitivities to the same items, both creatures can be completely disarmed by items that one would find quite simple to make or acquire.  For instance, vampires are thought to be sensitive to garlic, holy water, crosses, and wooden stakes. Migraineurs, on the other hand, can be taken out of commission by the scent of  perfume or a candle. Caffeine, chocolate, weather changes, artificial sweeteners, and the big one, red wine will also completely knock out a migraineur for as long as 48 hours.

Looks
Vampires are frozen at the age in which they were created, so some get to keep the good looks of the prime of their lives while others are stuck in a pre-pubesent body and still others would have been ready for the retirement home.  But their bodies become perfect specimens of whatever their age.

I can only speak for myself, but I have had chronic migraines for 8 years and I look like I've aged about 20 years during that time. Many days I could pass for one of the undead - although probably more in the zombie than vampire category.  So chalk one up for the vampires in the win column in this particular category.

Lifestyle
If recent teen movies and Ann Rice books are to be believed, vampires have the option of leading a rather long and normal life (now that Abraham Lincoln is no longer tracking them).  They do, however, have to continue the nasty habit of drinking blood in order to survive.  And I am both ashamed and proud to admit I have not seen all of the Twilight movies, but I think they may have some type of werewolf issue to work out. 

Migraines, on the other hand, are not life threatening, although they are, I content, life altering.  This is especially true when they are chronic, which means you get more than a few headaches a week and your headaches prevent you from normal function.  So, we too must partake in our own nasty habits, including regular doctor visits, trying new medications, as they are continually releasing new preventative and abortive medicines for migraine sufferers.  There are also plenty holistic options out there including acupuncture (kinda vampiric), neuro-massage, and herbal therapy.  Make sure you let your doctor know any new treatments that you start.

Going back
There are a few books I've read and movies I've seen where the vampire wants to become mortal again. I've never met a migraineur who doesn't want to give up his or her migraines. And like their undead friends, most migraineurs will pay almost any price to get there.  That is why we try any new drug, any new treatment, this herb that helped our cousin's hairdresser's friend, yoga, green tea, etc.

And if I ever meet some clear skinned, shiny eyed man who promises me my migraines will go away if I just drink a spoonful of a thick red substance, you better believe I would think twice about it*.  And after you've had a tent stake pounded into your eye for 13 days, throwing up until your stomach is so raw you have nothing left to throw up, so you just lie on the bathroom floor waiting to die, you would think twice about it too.

Because getting rid of the migraines would be amazing.

But having fangs.  Now that would be epic.
  
*Before all of my sweet Christian friends get angry, know that this post was written in good fun.  I don't actually believe in vampires.  I don't desire to become a vampire, and I am not teaching my children that they should wish that vampires would come make mommy's head feel better.  This is my sense of humor, otherwise known as my coping mechanism.  I think when God allows us a time of suffering, he also allows us a time of laughter.  I've been sad long enough.  Time to laugh.

Waiting for God to Show Up

I don't know the average times each person hits rock bottom during his or her life.  For me, it's been just a handful.  I would guess that is probably below average.

The first time it happened I was 15.  My first love broke up with me, and of course I was devastated. I survived it as well as any 15 year old survives heartbreak; a lot of Bon Jovi, raw cookie dough, and hours on the phone with my girlfriends (this was pre-text era).

Two weeks later, he attempted suicide. He took a bottle of some kind of pills and put a knife through his stomach (the details were kind of fuzzy). All I knew was he was in the hospital and I couldn't see him.  Oh yeah, and that my name was in the suicide note.

I know sometimes people say in crisis situations time stands still.  For me, days played out in fast forward.  First seeing the school counselor, then a therapist my mom took me to, non stop headaches, constantly throwing up, seeing a doctor who thought perhaps I had a brain tumor so he ordered a CAT scan. Turns out it was just stress.Writing endlessly in the journal that I titled Suicide 101 (as suggested by the second therapist). Skipping class to sit in the band hall and cry. Then going home to cry more.

Then one night, sitting in church (my dad being a pastor, I spent most of my nights in church), having absolutely no idea what had been sang or said, I just walked out.  Our sanctuary was on the second floor and I walked down the stairs aiming for the biting January air.  It was freezing, but at least I would feel something besides this pain and guilt that left me struggling to breathe.  I got as far as the bottom star and completely collapsed.  Exhausted from not sleeping, my body listless from lack of nourishment, drowning in guilt. And so angry.  So I did what anyone filled with anger would do. I started yelling at God.  "Why?  What is the point of all of this?  I have done nothing for the last 15 years but what I thought you wanted me to do.  I have gone where you wanted me to go, stayed away from things I thought were wrong.  I have shown compassion. Loved.  I have believed in you.  I have loved you.  So why the hell is this happening?  Where are you right now?"

And then, God showed up.

I couldn't see Him.  No Charlton Heston voice filled my ears.  In fact if any one would have walked down those stairs, all they would have seen is a 15 year old crying her eyes out.  But all of the sudden I was crying in the arms of my Father. I had no answers. I had no miracle.  But He showed up.  And eventually I walked back up the stairs and into my life.

The next time it happened was a few years after Richie and I got married, and we decided to try to start a family.  We had an easy (and fun) time trying to get pregnant and it happened quickly.  We were almost through our first trimester (12 weeks) when we went in for our first sonogram.  As I lay on the table, I could see the doctor's cheerful disposition begin to change as she searched for our baby's heartbeat.  She kept looking, but there was no use.  She told us our baby had probably stopped growing at about eight weeks.

But I hadn't had any symptoms of a miscarriage,  I told her. I had no bleeding, no cramping.  Nothing.  This can't be right.  She couldn't be right.  I could see the baby on the screen.  There had to be some mistake.

But there was no mistake.  There was no heartbeat.  And we would have no baby.

Rock bottom this time turned out to be our bathroom floor.  The door locked with me sobbing hysterically and Richie on the other side pleading with me to open the door and come out. I told him I couldn't.  I just knew that somehow I had killed our baby. Something I ate, something I didn't eat.  An exercise I did or didn't do. Vitamins I took. The ones I didn't take. The cross country car trip.  We had our sono too late.  I wasn't sure how, but I was sure I killed our baby.  And I was sure God let it happen.  So I started yelling again. Where the hell was He?  If He loved me, if He loved our baby, why did He let this happen?  God if you are here, why don't you want me to be a mother? Why did you let my baby die?  Why don't I even have the strength to get up off the floor?

And just then, He showed up. 

He cried every tear with me there in that tiny bathroom.  He assured me that my pain was neither in vain nor was it foreign to Him.  He knew exactly what it was like to lose a son. His heart was breaking with mine, but He knew that I would survive this pain, no matter how deep and raw, because He would not let me fail. And eventually, He pulled me up off the bathroom floor and back into my life.

My most recent visit to the bottom of the rock pile was last weekend starting with a trip to the Emergency Room.  Surprisingly that was not my low point.  The low point came almost a week later after an insurance mix up and some communication challenges with doctors and medication changes left me with nothing to treat my migraines. The combination of withdrawing from one kind of medication to start another, while at the same time catching a cold from the kids and constant nausea preventing me from eating for a week -- that wasn't even enough to knock me down (it gets harder to knock you down the more often you are there, I think).

But at some point I realized, even when the insurance and doctors got it all straightened out, I would be right back where I started.  It's like I'm patching a bullet hole with a band-aid. I am not getting better. I spent four days telling myself what a horrible mother and wife I am.  How all of this must somehow by my fault.  Well meaning friends and family often say things like, "Have you tried this herb?"  or "Maybe you should cut out chocolate or try acupuncture?"  And it isn't that I don't appreciate suggestions.  It is just that what I hear them saying is "This is your fault,"  "This is your fault,"  "This is all your fault."

This time, rock bottom looked like a lot like a bench.  I decided to go for a walk Sunday night.  However, since I hadn't eaten in four days, I only made it about a block and a half to the front of our neighborhood.  Luckily there was a bench to sit on since that short walk left me feeling dizzy and nauseous.  As I sat there, once more yelling at God (perhaps when I am at rock bottom, I find it necessary to yell in order to make sure He hears me).  And then, I waited for Him to show up.

He didn't.

I walked back to the house in the throws of despair and drowning in self inflicted guilt ( See the pattern of guilt.  Guilt from the suicide. Guilt from the miscarriage.  Guilt from the health issues..)  Maybe this really was all my fault.  Maybe I had done something so wrong that God was no longer going to show up when I was desperate.

I got home just in time for the kids to go to bed.  Both claimed stomach aches, and I was too tired to argue, so I let them climb into bed with me. Their sweet little bodies pressed up to mine, soft even breaths, and the smell of pineapple shampoo still in their hair, I took a deep breath and wouldn't you know  . . .

God showed up.

"My child," He whispered.  "If you wouldn't have been so hurt all those years ago when your friend tried to take his life you would be tempted to take your own life when your physical pain gets unbearable. Instead, I know, without question, that no matter how much physical pain you face in this life, suicide is not an option for you because you understand the devastation it leaves on the other side.  And these babies you're holding in your arms.  The ones who bring you so much joy. The ones you would give your own life for.  You never would have known them if their sibling hadn't come home to live with me until you join us someday.

I am still here.

I know you don't understand the trials.

I know you are angry.

 And I know you wish your life was different.

 But there is work to be done here. And it can only be done by you. In this time. Exactly as you are."

Wherever you are today.  If you are on a high mountaintop or if you are standing (or lying face down like me) at rock bottom, God is there.  I know some of you reading this don't even believe in God.  That doesn't mean He isn't there. We are never going to understand suffering. Instead, we have to rely on God's character and believe it when He says, "For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the Lord, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future." Jer 29:11

Keep waiting and I promise, He will show up.

Waiting for the first day of school

I love the first day of school. Always have. When I was a student I was always excited.

As a administrator, I was always amazed.

Most people think that all people who work in education get summers off. But really, it is one of the busiest times of the year.

Administrators work to open new campuses or update older ones,  debate the merits of standardized dress and bell schedules. New staff are hired and trained. Existing staff are trained. Computer systems are updated. Crisis plans re-written.  We make sure we have processes in place to handle every new federal and state regulation.

Sometimes it seemed like we will never be ready in time. I recall years when we were opening new campuses and two days before school started there were still construction fences and port-a-potties in the parking lot.

One of my former superintendents always said, "Rain or shine, those kids are coming on the first day of school, and we will be ready."

He was always right.

There is a sort of standing joke amongst school PR pros that the goal of the first day of school is not to lose a kindergarten student. And I can assure you, if you watch the news tonight, some district out there lost one. Of course they didn't actually lose a student. A student got on the wrong bus, or rode home with a friend when he was supposed to walk. And the student was unaccounted for for about 30 minutes.

It happens to at least one district in the area every year.

And every year, the story you see on the 6 p.m. news on the first day of school is about the lost kindergarten student.

So let me tell you the first day of school stories you won't hear on the news tonight.

Over four million students showed up at one of the 1,265 Texas public school districts this morning.

Hundreds of thousands of parents were late to work this morning because they took the time to walk their students to their classes indicating a promise of involvement in their student's education.

Teachers, who have spent hundreds of dollars out of their own pocket and hundreds of hours of their own time preparing for today, welcomed every student with warm smiles and open arms.

Principals who spent the entire summer carefully orchestrating class lists and master schedules had to completely redo their hard work because parents waited until the first day of school to register their kids. Instead of begrudging those parents, each student was welcomed to their new classes with the same affection as the kids whose parents registered last spring.

Hundreds of thousands of students ate their first hot meal in months. Meals carefully planned and prepared in school cafeterias across the state.

Students who don't speak English were welcomed by teachers who are trained especially to make sure each of these students is successful.

Counselors, administrators, teachers and parents sat in conference rooms for hours crafting individual education plans to ensure the success of students with physical and learning challenges.

Librarians opened students' eyes to the wonders of Shakespeare, Dickens, and Harry Potter.

Senior citizens, business leaders, and community members signed up to mentor and tutor students who might need a little extra help.

Thousands of students started, not only their first day of high school, but the first day of college classes, giving them the opportunity to graduate four years from now with a high school diploma and a college degree or certification.

Fifth-grade students started projects that bring history, science, and math to life.

Custodians made 50 year old campuses look brand new.

Maintenance workers responded to calls about AC units, broken locks, and mosquitoes.

The teachers who we always hear are "teaching to the test" spent their entire day, teaching to their students.

Elementary principals spent half of their day consoling kindergarten students and the other half consoling kindergarten parents.

High school bands prepared for competitions.

Pep rallies were planned. For academics as well as athletics.

High school counselors helped kids plan for college.
So did middle school counselors.
So did kindergarten teachers.

At 9 p.m. tonight, thousands of teachers will just be leaving their classrooms because they want to make sure tomorrow is as special as today.

Across the state today, something amazing happened. Over four million students, representing every ethnicity, religion, country, income level and ability level were excited about learning.

Because parents, teachers, administrators, librarians, child nutrition workers, custodians, and bus drivers told them they could learn. And by learning, they could achieve their dream.

And with that, hundreds of thousands of dreams were born, cultivated, and achieved.

So when you hear about that kindergarten student who got on the wrong bus, take a minute and think about all the stories you didn't hear today.

And be amazed.
 
2012-2013 is going to be fantastic.

Waiting for 57 more

I've made a lot of bad decisions in my life.  But today I celebrate the one I got right.  

Today I celebrate the 13th anniversary of the day I promised to share my life with my best friend.

That wast a great day.

This one is even better.

Today there is no white dress.  No veil.  No line of people with presents (although I'm not opposed to that).  No buffet.  No champagne toasts.  Not even a cake.

Instead there is laundry that needs to be put away.  Bills that need to be paid.  Bathrooms that need to be cleaned.  Kids screaming at each other and occasionally at me. There is left over pizza.  Kool-Aide.  Rice Krispy Treats.

But today there is 13 years of laughing at our own private jokes.  13 years of learning new things about each other.  13 years of bringing our two families together to make one. 13 years of arguments.  13 years of apologies.  13 years of forgiveness.  13 years of saying I love you every night.  13 years of saying I love you every morning. 

13 years ago, we promised to love each other through better or worse, richer or poorer, in sickness and in health.  

Over the past 13 years we have learned that while we might like the times when we are better and richer, and healthy, we learn more, love more, and cling to God and each other far more tightly when we are poor and sick. When things are worse, sometimes we are better.

I have learned that when I am impatient, Richie has enough patience for both of us.

When I an weak, Richie is strong enough for both of us.

When I lose faith, he shares his.

When I want to give up, he takes my hand and refuses to let go. 

When I don't like the woman I see in the mirror, he wraps his arms around her and calls her beautiful. 

When I think I can't possibly love him any more, I see him dancing with our daughter, playing tickle monster with our son, or bringing home the groceries I didn't manage to buy.

Our wedding day was perfect.  

But today is better.  Because today I know that we keep the promises we made to each other. Today I know that I will never again be without a best friend, a confidant, a lover, an encourager, or a man who would gladly lay down his life for me. 

And as we celebrate 13 years of life together, I know he still has another 57 years before his contract is up for renegotiation. 

And I can't wait to see what I will know then.