Here it is, by request: The exciting Part II. . .
It has been almost seven months from where I left off in my last post. In the days that followed my minor breakdown, I received some inspiring thoughts from my attendance at Time Out For Women (which, by the way, if you've never attended, you should). Every single message was one of love and understanding from my Heavenly Father. It was a rejuvenating experience.
I felt much less like a weepy pile of emotions after that. I was a little more like myself. I still hadn't started my period, however, and I was perplexed. So I took another home pregnancy test. . . and another. . . and another. . . and so on. Five tests later, I still hadn't gotten the positive response I was hoping for. So, naturally, I bought another brand, just to be sure.
I went out to lunch with my Mom that Thursday. We went to Cafe Gratitude in downtown Kansas City. Our waitress was a doula. It was wonderful to talk to her about the absolute joys of natural birth and the power that women possess to do such a thing without pain medication. It was fabulously therapeutic, but at the back of my mind sat all those negative tests. I am embarrassed to admit that I had brought another test with me that day. I sneaked away to the bathroom to take it. As I waited the appropriate time for the results, I read the instruction pamphlet, mostly out of boredom. In it were the words, "...One line may be lighter than the other. This still indicates a positive result."
I looked to the test I had just taken and saw two lines forming a plus sign; one very dark, the other very, very light. I almost laughed aloud at myself. I had now taken SEVEN pregnancy tests, all giving me a positive result that I now realize I had been ignoring. Every single test I had taken had two lines: one very dark, and one very, very light. For some reason, I had convinced myself that the tests were all negative because the results didn't look EXACTLY like I had expected. I have reflected on this over and over again. I have so often been angry or bitter or upset at the "results" of my life: I'm not yet in the career I find most rewarding, I got married too late, I don't have a house like some of my friends do, I don't have kids yet, I'm not a marathon runner or size 6, and so on. It's so easy to look right past the very blessings we are searching for because of the distracting pull of "what's missing". This was a very powerful slap in the face for me. I had cried and been angry and lectured the Lord about something He had already given me.
I found myself significantly humbled and committed to showing more gratitude after that.
Well, we went immediately from Cafe Gratitude to Shawnee Mission Urgent Care to get blood work done to confirm the pregnancy. I was between six and seven weeks, due sometime in November. My mom screamed, I cried, and when I told Jonny (story of my reveal not included in this post), he couldn't stop smiling.
I cannot possibly express the elation. We are going to have a baby. Something we've been waiting and praying for for over two years.
I feel little baby Evie moving around everyday as I get closer to my due date. It is a constant reminder of the experiences that have brought me to this point. My life didn't pan out like I had planned when I was 17.
Thank the Good Lord for that.
Saturday, October 5, 2013
Saturday, April 27, 2013
Dream Chasing: A Summary Novella
I've returned after the Blog Fast of 2012. . .
In reality, the last 400 days have gone so fast I've forgotten how long it has been since my last entry. It's rather frightening, really. How does one possibly sum up over a year of events, complaints, celebrations, successes, not-so-successful attempts at things, road trips, holidays, deep thoughts, random thoughts, no thoughts, etc?
I suppose it isn't possible to chronicle that many activities/emotions, especially without illustrations, and hope to keep a captive audience. Instead, I'll try my best to sum up. Most reading this understand that I don't "sum up" well. . .
I started school at the Institute for Integrative Nutrition (IIN) in September 2012. There are several reasons why this is miraculous. First, it offered me a chance at a career as a Certified Holistic Health Counsellor that I could see myself doing well and absolutely loving every second of. Secondly, it gave me an opportunity to see my health as a priority instead of the thing preventing me from a happy life of thinness.
It is that "thinness" part that is the most devastating to face. I'm OK with being a little chunky. My weight does not define my worth, and, as my husband so lovingly points out, is not a definition of a good or bad person. However, when it gets in the way of pregnancy I get a little antsy and a lot discouraged. (Disclaimer: those who have heard this lament about infertility or have no interest in it can just skip ahead to the end.) Jonny and I had decided a little less than a year after we were married that we wanted to start a family. That was almost two years ago now. I made every effort possible to move forward with faith in the beginning, trying to understand that God has a plan and we just needed to be patient. That concept became progressively more difficult as I watched friends and family alike get pregnant left and right with what seemed like little effort. It was immensely frustrating. Finally, I went to my OB to get some answers.
It was a few months before I started school. I sat on the exam table while my OB sat in a chair next to me, test scans in hand. She told me I had at some point in my life developed Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), a metabolic disorder that causes pesky little cysts to invade a girl's egg-making parts. I was numb. I was angry. I wasn't really that surprised. At least I had an answer. . . right?
I was further discouraged as the doctor offered to put me on Metformin, a drug typically given to diabetics--which I was not then nor am I now. She told me it would help me lose weight and set my cycles straight.
"After all," She said to me, "getting pregnant without it will be a craps shoot at this point."
For the first time in my life, I understood why America is so over-medicated. We just want what everyone else already has and we're offered it in a little, harmless capsule by the doctors we trust. For me, my "quick fix" drug was just around the corner at my local CVS. (Don't get me wrong, modern medicine has it's place, but it certainly isn't in every bathroom cabinet in America.) Despite my protests to go at it naturally and fix my diet instead of relying on a pill, my OB decided she would call in that prescription anyway, "just in case I changed (my) mind." Boy, was THAT hard to hear. I understand why she expressed a bit of disappointment in my convictions to avoid the prescription world. She resides on Planet MD, where everything is solved in the pill section. I don't blame her, really. It's her job. I'm sure she's seen plenty of women try and fail. After all, wasn't swallowing a little medication every day easier anyway?
It took a while to shake that feeling of being lost and unsure of myself. Everything I had believed to be true was being tested. I believed that the human body is miraculous and can cure itself of almost anything if given the right fuel. I believed that "quick fixes" in pill form isn't the right way to go in most cases and it certainly shouldn't be the very first thing we try. I believed that modern medicine is taking away our ability to listen to our own bodies and be our own source of strength. I believed that we should be the pioneers in our own health and take control again instead of searching endlessly for diagnoses. But now, that was all so muddled in my head. I had been trying and trying to take control of my own body and I could not find success. Were all my hypotheses about God's greatest creation incorrect? If so, what was I to do next?
My answers came through IIN. What I then believed to be true has been solidified to me now; the human body IS miraculous. It can grow new skin cells to cover a wound, it never forgets to breathe or misses a heartbeat, it can create life, it can take us to amazing heights, it can be trained to function off of medications it was once reliant on. We just need give it the right fuel and information and love to do so.
Ok, my hippie feelings aside (also, if you're curious about what I do, please visit my website at www.cereliahealth.com...*wink wink*), I'll finish up what is turning out to be a rather lengthy story. . .
January 2nd, 2013, I gave up processed sugar after an immense and in-depth look into the harm it does on the human body. I went almost 90 days without it. I slowly added a little bit back in (depravity is really not my style) on special occasions and still mostly avoid the stuff. And guess what? Miracle of miracles! My cycle was 28 days on the dot for two months straight. That was SERIOUSLY miraculous. That hadn't happened to me in almost a decade. I was elated. I found success and slow weight loss as I started really taking care of myself and I felt a sense of empowerment that I hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Then, in March, I was 10 days late. I was so disheartened. I felt upset with myself because I had allowed myself a single rice crispy treat and ruined my body's progress. I felt a little glimmer of hope, however. "Maybe I'm pregnant?" I thought to myself. Just to be sure, I took a home pregnancy test.
I didn't see that little plus sign. It was negative.
I'm not going to lie, I went on a sadness binge that rivaled most melodramas. Jonny got home from work that day and took one look at me and knew exactly what had happened. He hugged me and held me for the longest time as I sobbed on his shoulder (another work shirt ruined by my mascara). I went to work the day after and cried for nearly 8 hours straight. I cried when people were nice to me, I cried about a work meeting I wasn't invited to, I cried when I forgot to clock out for lunch. . .
It was really, really pathetic.
The very worst part about that were my angry vents to the Lord. I wanted him to tell me when we were allowed to have children; I wanted him to speak to me in ENGLISH because I was so tired of listening to the Spirit because I didn't understand what message I was missing. I screamed and cried and felt sorry for myself for two straight days.
Poor Jonny. Poor sweet, loving Jonny had to listen to this for hours on end and he never complained.
Eventually, I did feel better again, but that comes in Part II of this little adventure. In the weeks following there was General Conference and Time Out For Women and some really wonderful revelations about how much the Lord loves us. But all that can wait for another entry, as this one has gone on long enough.
(What did I tell you about my ability to sum up?)
It was a few months before I started school. I sat on the exam table while my OB sat in a chair next to me, test scans in hand. She told me I had at some point in my life developed Polycystic Ovary Syndrome (PCOS), a metabolic disorder that causes pesky little cysts to invade a girl's egg-making parts. I was numb. I was angry. I wasn't really that surprised. At least I had an answer. . . right?
I was further discouraged as the doctor offered to put me on Metformin, a drug typically given to diabetics--which I was not then nor am I now. She told me it would help me lose weight and set my cycles straight.
"After all," She said to me, "getting pregnant without it will be a craps shoot at this point."
For the first time in my life, I understood why America is so over-medicated. We just want what everyone else already has and we're offered it in a little, harmless capsule by the doctors we trust. For me, my "quick fix" drug was just around the corner at my local CVS. (Don't get me wrong, modern medicine has it's place, but it certainly isn't in every bathroom cabinet in America.) Despite my protests to go at it naturally and fix my diet instead of relying on a pill, my OB decided she would call in that prescription anyway, "just in case I changed (my) mind." Boy, was THAT hard to hear. I understand why she expressed a bit of disappointment in my convictions to avoid the prescription world. She resides on Planet MD, where everything is solved in the pill section. I don't blame her, really. It's her job. I'm sure she's seen plenty of women try and fail. After all, wasn't swallowing a little medication every day easier anyway?
It took a while to shake that feeling of being lost and unsure of myself. Everything I had believed to be true was being tested. I believed that the human body is miraculous and can cure itself of almost anything if given the right fuel. I believed that "quick fixes" in pill form isn't the right way to go in most cases and it certainly shouldn't be the very first thing we try. I believed that modern medicine is taking away our ability to listen to our own bodies and be our own source of strength. I believed that we should be the pioneers in our own health and take control again instead of searching endlessly for diagnoses. But now, that was all so muddled in my head. I had been trying and trying to take control of my own body and I could not find success. Were all my hypotheses about God's greatest creation incorrect? If so, what was I to do next?
My answers came through IIN. What I then believed to be true has been solidified to me now; the human body IS miraculous. It can grow new skin cells to cover a wound, it never forgets to breathe or misses a heartbeat, it can create life, it can take us to amazing heights, it can be trained to function off of medications it was once reliant on. We just need give it the right fuel and information and love to do so.
Ok, my hippie feelings aside (also, if you're curious about what I do, please visit my website at www.cereliahealth.com...*wink wink*), I'll finish up what is turning out to be a rather lengthy story. . .
January 2nd, 2013, I gave up processed sugar after an immense and in-depth look into the harm it does on the human body. I went almost 90 days without it. I slowly added a little bit back in (depravity is really not my style) on special occasions and still mostly avoid the stuff. And guess what? Miracle of miracles! My cycle was 28 days on the dot for two months straight. That was SERIOUSLY miraculous. That hadn't happened to me in almost a decade. I was elated. I found success and slow weight loss as I started really taking care of myself and I felt a sense of empowerment that I hadn't felt in a long, long time.
Then, in March, I was 10 days late. I was so disheartened. I felt upset with myself because I had allowed myself a single rice crispy treat and ruined my body's progress. I felt a little glimmer of hope, however. "Maybe I'm pregnant?" I thought to myself. Just to be sure, I took a home pregnancy test.
I didn't see that little plus sign. It was negative.
I'm not going to lie, I went on a sadness binge that rivaled most melodramas. Jonny got home from work that day and took one look at me and knew exactly what had happened. He hugged me and held me for the longest time as I sobbed on his shoulder (another work shirt ruined by my mascara). I went to work the day after and cried for nearly 8 hours straight. I cried when people were nice to me, I cried about a work meeting I wasn't invited to, I cried when I forgot to clock out for lunch. . .
It was really, really pathetic.
The very worst part about that were my angry vents to the Lord. I wanted him to tell me when we were allowed to have children; I wanted him to speak to me in ENGLISH because I was so tired of listening to the Spirit because I didn't understand what message I was missing. I screamed and cried and felt sorry for myself for two straight days.
Poor Jonny. Poor sweet, loving Jonny had to listen to this for hours on end and he never complained.
Eventually, I did feel better again, but that comes in Part II of this little adventure. In the weeks following there was General Conference and Time Out For Women and some really wonderful revelations about how much the Lord loves us. But all that can wait for another entry, as this one has gone on long enough.
(What did I tell you about my ability to sum up?)
Monday, January 2, 2012
The "Ah-ha" Moment: A Christmas Essay
Sometimes I hate how much I love the Christmas season. Although the temperature barely dipped below 50 degrees in Kansas this year, December still brought the same obligations and feelings and endless shopping that it always does. And I love it. I'm fairly sure Jonny will love it, too, one day.
As is normal in newlywed life, most of our "extra" monies are going toward our goal of owning our own home (a mere twinkle in our eyes at this point, but a goal nonetheless). Ergo, we had to get creative for gifts this year.
So, I bought him a bike. . .
No, seriously, it's something he's wanted and needed and deserved for a while. After all, this is the man who tirelessly does what I ask of him with few objections. He trusts and loves and gives without complaint. Perfect, he is not, but I daresay he's pretty darn close. Thanks, Mom and Pop Miller for raising such a stellar son.
Getting back the festivities. . . Every year I tell myself that I'm going to spend more time with the Savior and less time at Target and every year I fall a little bit short. I think that's the point, though, isn't it? To try to focus on the birth of our Lord just a little more than last year? To that end, this year our group of friends adopted a couple of boys through the Red Bag program. Together we went shopping for these two faceless kiddos. We bought toys and clothes and roller blades and books, wrapped them, and shoved them into a big, red, Santa-like bag. For a while, we collectively forgot the task of picking out the perfect gifts for each other and instead spent our time, money, and effort on picking out things that these two boys actually needed. It was really. . .fun.
On the flip-side of that, we had another enormous blessing this year: our entire family spent Christmas together. I can't remember the last time all four of us kids got to spend an entire evening sitting around the old, wooden kitchen table laughing our guts out. The circumstances weren't perfect by any means, but I'll be forever grateful that we had that opportunity. Jonny gave up Christmas with his family this year to spend it with mine. His parents are off to the Philippines for an 18-month mission this coming February, so his sacrifice has not gone unnoticed, nor is it unappreciated. I'll have to make him meat dinners for a week just to make it up to him. :)
I report these two activities to share with you my reflections on my goal of focusing on Christ. In retrospect, my efforts are almost laughable. I spent a few hours picking out and wrapping gifts for some little boy I didn't know, and I expected the warm, fuzzy, Christmas feelings to abound and change my entire outlook on life, Scrooge-style. Guess what? It didn't happen. Sure, I felt great. I felt like our group had done a great thing in helping someone who would have very little without us, but it didn't change my heart forever. I didn't have a new outlook on life. The warm fuzzies didn't even stay very long. I mean, it was 10pm on a work night. I was exhausted!!
On the other hand, there was the family time. There were arguments, fights, insults thrown, feelings hurt, and threats to leave. That almost always has to be endured when every Birdsall is present and accounted for in one house. We also spent several days playing games, making fun of each other, frequenting the dog park together, encouraging an ever-present food coma, and trying our best to help out when needed. Mom hurt her foot pretty bad, so we made her sit down and we took over making Christmas dinner. That was no small feat (HAHA! FEET! Pun intended). Mom can be a stubborn perfectionist and having little control over the way things were done was tough for her. (She also REALLY hates not being able to help out).
It was that last experience that really brought this season home for me. Nat, Andrea, Audrey, and I stepped in and took over when Mom just couldn't (or wasn't allowed to). All my previous Herculean efforts (and I say that with sarcasm) to make Christmas about giving fell a little flat. Suddenly it dawned on me that our little tag-team of dinner makers weren't trying to prove something or impress anyone or display our efforts to the rest of the world like a flag. We just wanted to give to the woman who has given of herself for more than 30 years.
Believe me, this is not meant to be a brag sheet. In fact, the rest of the girls are of constant help and are incredible examples to me of seeing a need and filling it without complaint or hope of reward. But for the first time, I understood what Christ was saying when he said, ". . .if ye have done it unto one of the least of these my brethren, ye have done it unto me."
In Christmases to come, I will still seek opportunities to serve and give outside of my own family. I hope I won't wait around for December, either. I will, however, see it just a bit differently. These are humans we were helping; children of God, not just names on a note card.
Giving of yourself is a wonderful thing, but giving from the heart is a whole other story. At 31 years-old, I think I might finally get that.
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Expecting
The floor of our little, one-bedroom apartment is cluttered with stuffed animals and colorful toys. There is a "diaper bag" in the corner of the room, ready with all the supplies needed for an outing. Up until about 2 months ago, Jonny and I were woken up several times a night by little whines and cries. Our budget has expanded to make room for the extra mouths to feed. My greatest fears have been realized: I'm a dog mom.
Sometime mid-April, my sister, Natalie, came across a craigslist ad for two Doberman-mix pups that desperately needed a home. Jonny and I ventured out to Topeka with the promise that we were just going to take a look. No adoption, just looking. Well, that's what Jonny thought. Meanwhile, I was making a mental list of the supplies we needed.
Truth be told, they were the saddest, most pathetic looking puppies I had ever seen. Seven weeks and crawling with worms, they were thin as rails with no energy to spare. They were nothing like the chubby, clumsy little pups I had seen online and on TV. I would like to say that my heart was overtaken with the desire to save these little babies... but that's not exactly how I felt. In fact, as we drove to PetCo with the two of them in the back seat, I had this sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach that we were in for a rough ride.
We brought them home, showed them off, and named the girl, Laila and the boy, Apollo. (My dreams of owning a girl dog named Thirteen will be realized someday, but when we named him Apollo, I just couldn't bring myself to link us that closely to NASA.)
When I mentioned earlier about being woken up several times a night, I wasn't kidding. These little ones required a LOT of attention. They had been sick most of their lives and as a result, their immune systems needed a lot of work. I remember one night in particular with Apollo. He had woken up with horrible diarrhea somewhere around midnight...and 1:30...and 2:15... and 3am... At some point around 4am, I took him outside again and stayed there with him for over an hour. It was quiet and warm and the two of us sat on the grass outside of the apartment. I had gotten zero sleep. I was exhausted. He lay by my side with his head on my lap and I stroked his soft fur until he fell asleep. He became my dog that night.
...and Laila will forever be tied to Jonny. I have no idea why. That little girl won't listen to a word I say until Jonny comes around. She jumps obnoxiously high when he comes home from work. It's adorably frustrating.
It's been five months of training, and accidents, and cleaning up messes, and constant supervision, and missing social/church activities, and lots and lots and LOTS of purchasing, and I don't think either of us regret any of it. It has been a small glimpse into what it's going to be like to have little humans running around.
Speaking of which...
Just kidding.
Wednesday, February 2, 2011
3 Cars Down...
I seem to be quite attached to my emotions. I have dubbed myself an "emotion-dweller". Once I pick an emotional theme for the day-usually chosen based on vital factors and events such as the success of my hairstyle or the way my breakfast tastes-I usually make that emotion my constant companion. When my emotion is a happy one, life is amazing, no matter what. My job is amazing, my car is amazing, my husband is amazing, my socks are amazing... I am just one big bundle of red-headed cheesiness. Conversely, when my toe gets stubbed the minute I get out of bed or if I end up in the same old hoodie because none of my outfits look quite right, the emotion I get stuck with is: crabby. On days like that day, I walk with hooded eyes, glaring at patients and coworkers alike, convinced that the world may as well end if it's going to keep going in this direction.
It was on such a day that our car broke down. Again. We have three of those. Cars, I mean. Three cars that don't work. Let me begin this story of breaking cars at the beginning:
Last Saturday night, Jonny and I were joined by my sister, Natalie, her husband, John, their baby, Brianne, my other sister, Andrea (whose husband, John, stayed in Colorado), and Andrea's baby, Mojo (a hyper-active, fit, noisy, little pug.) Three women, two men, a baby, and a pug, all camping out for a weekend in a little one-bedroom apartment. It was, for the record, one of my favorite weekends to date. Nothing, I thought, could scare Happy away from me after being with my sisters for two straight days.
Well, Sunday morning came around and we all bundled up and got ready to head off to church. We discovered that our Ford Contour had a flat. Well, good thing we still had my Mazda and Jonny's 1986 Buick.
Strike that. We HAD my Mazda. It's constant screeching upon start-up finally convinced me to take it into the shop. Monday afternoon, the mechanic called. It would take $1,100 to fix that car. I'm not even sure if it's WORTH over a thousand dollars. I cried a little, panicked a lot, and called my husband. He seemed to be unaffected by it, saying it will all work out and to just have faith that we are doing the right things. Oh if I could just have convinced Crabby to move out of the way so that I could possibly see the silver lining in all of this. I took a deep breath and remembered that we had been through the one-car routine before, and we could do it again if we had to. We have a friend who could probably fix the Mazda for cheaper, and at least I still have family and friends and a warm place to sleep and really cool socks.
More deep breaths.
Then the next day, on the way home from picking up Jonny from work, the Buick started sputtering, then knocked a little, then smoke started coming from the hood. We were minutes from home, in the middle of what was projected to be the biggest blizzard in years, and our last car was breaking down. I couldn't stop laughing. And then I couldn't stop crying. Every single "woe, is me" that I could think of came spewing angrily from my mouth. I was giving up. My husband sat silently in the passenger seat next to me, waiting for all my theatrics to work themselves out of my system. I don't know how he remains so calm when his wife is so obviously not. More reassurances, more helpful pats on the knee, more effort to convince me that everything was going to be ok because the Lord won't just abandon someone He just handed a trial to.
I would love to say that I sighed a heavy sigh of relief, and happily sputtered the remainder of the drive home to our apartment, but that's not exactly what happened. Crabby stuck with me through most of the day, I am ashamed to admit that I just could not shake the feeling that everything was hopeless, and that life could not possibly get any worse.
In my massive pout, I found the following quote posted on my friend, Debbie's, facebook status:
Eventually, I will look back at this experience and giggle a little at the struggles of newlywed life, but for now I'm just trying to conquer Crabby and make more room for a little bit of faith.
Steph-1
Crabby-0
It was on such a day that our car broke down. Again. We have three of those. Cars, I mean. Three cars that don't work. Let me begin this story of breaking cars at the beginning:
Last Saturday night, Jonny and I were joined by my sister, Natalie, her husband, John, their baby, Brianne, my other sister, Andrea (whose husband, John, stayed in Colorado), and Andrea's baby, Mojo (a hyper-active, fit, noisy, little pug.) Three women, two men, a baby, and a pug, all camping out for a weekend in a little one-bedroom apartment. It was, for the record, one of my favorite weekends to date. Nothing, I thought, could scare Happy away from me after being with my sisters for two straight days.
Well, Sunday morning came around and we all bundled up and got ready to head off to church. We discovered that our Ford Contour had a flat. Well, good thing we still had my Mazda and Jonny's 1986 Buick.
Strike that. We HAD my Mazda. It's constant screeching upon start-up finally convinced me to take it into the shop. Monday afternoon, the mechanic called. It would take $1,100 to fix that car. I'm not even sure if it's WORTH over a thousand dollars. I cried a little, panicked a lot, and called my husband. He seemed to be unaffected by it, saying it will all work out and to just have faith that we are doing the right things. Oh if I could just have convinced Crabby to move out of the way so that I could possibly see the silver lining in all of this. I took a deep breath and remembered that we had been through the one-car routine before, and we could do it again if we had to. We have a friend who could probably fix the Mazda for cheaper, and at least I still have family and friends and a warm place to sleep and really cool socks.
More deep breaths.
Then the next day, on the way home from picking up Jonny from work, the Buick started sputtering, then knocked a little, then smoke started coming from the hood. We were minutes from home, in the middle of what was projected to be the biggest blizzard in years, and our last car was breaking down. I couldn't stop laughing. And then I couldn't stop crying. Every single "woe, is me" that I could think of came spewing angrily from my mouth. I was giving up. My husband sat silently in the passenger seat next to me, waiting for all my theatrics to work themselves out of my system. I don't know how he remains so calm when his wife is so obviously not. More reassurances, more helpful pats on the knee, more effort to convince me that everything was going to be ok because the Lord won't just abandon someone He just handed a trial to.
I would love to say that I sighed a heavy sigh of relief, and happily sputtered the remainder of the drive home to our apartment, but that's not exactly what happened. Crabby stuck with me through most of the day, I am ashamed to admit that I just could not shake the feeling that everything was hopeless, and that life could not possibly get any worse.
In my massive pout, I found the following quote posted on my friend, Debbie's, facebook status:
Ah, what perspective appeared so suddenly in my little torn-apart world! Something suddenly changed. For the record, our problems weren't suddenly solved. I didn't have a magic car appear and our car(s) didn't repair themselves, but I realized that my embarrassing lack of faith had made it very difficult to see that there is a way out of this mess; that things could-and someday probably would-be worse, but if I'm doing what I'm supposed to be doing, the Lord would take care of us. Jonny and I are being taught very valuable lessons. Appreciation for each other, and the things that we DO have; that ARE going right.
Eventually, I will look back at this experience and giggle a little at the struggles of newlywed life, but for now I'm just trying to conquer Crabby and make more room for a little bit of faith.
Steph-1
Crabby-0
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Planned Poetry
The desire to start a family blog has been a consistent little pester since Jonny and I got engaged on May 2, 2010. Too many excuses saw me through until the end of that year, thus, we remained a blogless family. Recently, my brand new, shiny sister(s)-in-law have inspired me to re-visit that little pester. So I will begin publishing experiences that can only be deemed interesting by the individuals involved. Still, there is something to be said for the simplicity of life in Kansas. Lowest gas prices in the nation? Yes, please. Who could ask for more than that? Plus, Kansas has its own very own, celebrated state flower. We are a proud bunch. (Sorry, Chiefs. I still have Bronco blood.)
Jonny and I were married September 30, 2010. By far the best day of my life thus far. Grandpa Saunders sealed us in the Nauvoo, Illinois temple. Family and friends assembled, and there was much joy and laughter and a little bit of disbelief. Funny how Stephanie Birdsall somehow ended up with Jonathan Miller. Two families with more than a little bit of history were joined together. I'm not sure anyone saw that coming.
For the record, what they say about redheads is true, for the most part. We are stubborn and hard-headed with a big helping of temperamental. Jonny handles all that beautifully. I'm not really sure how he accomplishes such a mountain of a task. Some days I question his sanity. There are so many things I get to learn about him on a daily basis; there is organization to his disorganization, he loves the unlovable, he is open to any and all recipes I submit him to, and he eats pistachios with reckless abandon. Also, his family is wonderful. There are so many mushy metaphors that should follow here, but I will spare you, poor Reader. Just know that they're swell and I wish we could play together all the time.
Married life is basically fantastic. More fantastic than I will admit to my single friends. It's in the "Marriage Pact" somewhere to leave out the reality of "wedded bliss" in conversation. At least it was when I was single. No one told me how much fun it would be to leave single life behind. I don't even mind all the screaming children in the family ward.
And so, I greet 2011 with promises of regular blog posts, a bright and shiny new Hot 100 list (to be published shortly for any who are interested), and a hope that someone out there will read this and think, "Wait, does she actually KNOW the state flower of Kansas?"
I absolutely do. It was taught to me by a well-intentioned history teacher. The image of the jumper she wore on "Sunflower Day" has been burned into my retinas.
Jonny and I were married September 30, 2010. By far the best day of my life thus far. Grandpa Saunders sealed us in the Nauvoo, Illinois temple. Family and friends assembled, and there was much joy and laughter and a little bit of disbelief. Funny how Stephanie Birdsall somehow ended up with Jonathan Miller. Two families with more than a little bit of history were joined together. I'm not sure anyone saw that coming.
For the record, what they say about redheads is true, for the most part. We are stubborn and hard-headed with a big helping of temperamental. Jonny handles all that beautifully. I'm not really sure how he accomplishes such a mountain of a task. Some days I question his sanity. There are so many things I get to learn about him on a daily basis; there is organization to his disorganization, he loves the unlovable, he is open to any and all recipes I submit him to, and he eats pistachios with reckless abandon. Also, his family is wonderful. There are so many mushy metaphors that should follow here, but I will spare you, poor Reader. Just know that they're swell and I wish we could play together all the time.
Married life is basically fantastic. More fantastic than I will admit to my single friends. It's in the "Marriage Pact" somewhere to leave out the reality of "wedded bliss" in conversation. At least it was when I was single. No one told me how much fun it would be to leave single life behind. I don't even mind all the screaming children in the family ward.
And so, I greet 2011 with promises of regular blog posts, a bright and shiny new Hot 100 list (to be published shortly for any who are interested), and a hope that someone out there will read this and think, "Wait, does she actually KNOW the state flower of Kansas?"
I absolutely do. It was taught to me by a well-intentioned history teacher. The image of the jumper she wore on "Sunflower Day" has been burned into my retinas.
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