Some of the Psychological Pieces of the Puzzle

The Change That Changes Everything, Part 6

As I’ve mentioned before, I began this eating plan as a trial run, “just to see what happens” and to see if it would help with my horrible chronic pain. I did not set out to change the way I ate forever. In fact, when I first began eating this way, I literally could not even allow myself to think about “regular food” (i.e. the foods I used to eat). I would dismiss out of hand any thought that popped into my head of former treasured foods—pizza, I’m looking at you!—or of any idea that this would be a lifetime change. I just couldn’t “go there.”

Every day, I would plan for the day at hand, and tell myself, “I can eat this way today.” It was literally one day at a time. 

I also found myself struggling desperately with other psychological aspects to this new way of eating. Here they are, in no particular order:

1) “I can eat this way today.”

This was by far the biggest psychological hurdle. You can’t think about forever. You can’t plan for a lifetime of eating this way. Just do today. The todays will add up until you’ve completed your trial period—however long you gave yourself initially to see if you notice any differences that make you want to continue. For some, it was a month, for some three months. So far, we’ve all made the switch and just continued eating this way, never to stop. But it is because we don’t want to go back. If you complete your trial, and then you want to go back to eating your old way, that’s perfectly your choice. It won’t hurt anything to have eaten mostly vegetables for a few months!

2) “I don’t want to be ‘that person’!”

This was (and is) a big one for me. I feel dumb being the person who needs a special diet… who eats weird at potlucks and parties and wedding receptions (if she eats at all!)… who takes her own food places… who can’t come to your house for dinner… who is asking about the gluten-free and vegan sections of the menu at a restaurant. (Note: It is challenging to eat this way at a restaurant, but not impossible—and you almost certainly have to fudge on the no-processed-oil part, even if you find places that you can have mostly whole foods that come from plants. But during the Very Difficult First Three Weeks—that initial period when you can’t get your bearings or figure out how you’re going to cook this way Every. Single. Day.—we relied heavily on a trip to Moe’s or Cava to get us through some days!)

3) “I don’t want to talk about it.”

I find myself caught in this near schizophrenic place, between wanting to never, ever talk about this, hoping no one ever asks me, especially in front of others… and wanting to tell everyone I know, because I’m convinced they’ll feel better and be healthier if they make this switch. But I don’t want to make anyone uncomfortable. I don’t want them to roll their eyes at me… to think ”she’s talking about that again,” or “Laurie is at it again with something weird,” or “I bet she’s judging me.” (For the record, I’m not judging you! After all, you’re the one eating conventionally, and I’m the one doing the next weird, counter-cultural thing!) I don’t want to bring it up to people because I don’t want them to think in any way that I think they should be eating this way, too. I totally respect your decision to eat however you want to, and to do so without thinking that I’m judging you for not eating "my" way. But if I think it would help you with some pain or physical issue you’re having, it is hard not to want to tell you! 

That's why I've written these blog posts. Now I can "tell you," without telling you in person, and you can read or not read based on your own interest. Feel free to ask questions, of course (posting them in the comments is fine), but I'm trying to give answers to folks' questions—as they pose them to me—in the blog posts themselves.

4) "But I'm a good cook!"

This one is stupid, maybe, but I'm a good cook. I've spent a lifetime honing my cooking skills, and I make delicious food. Well, delicious conventional food. This way of cooking and preparing food is totally different, and it is totally outside of my element. I am no longer a "good cook" in the same way I was. I feel like I'm having to learn all kinds of new ways of cooking now,.. and even so, it is quite probable that only other whole food/plant-based eaters will find the new foods utterly delicious. This may be, for me, nothing more than the death of some worldly pride, but it is real nevertheless, and it is inextricably bound with the next one...

5) "But we feed people!"

There's a sign on my fridge that says, "Food is our love language," and it's the truth. For years, a significant part of the way I care for and love people has been to feed them... to cook for them... to have them over and fellowship over a shared meal. Things that are sometimes challenging for others were easy for me: cooking for a crowd, inviting people into your home even if it isn't spotless or the meal is simple fare. This is an entirely different skill set, and I am still—to this day (four months in now)—finding it challenging to cook for a crowd this way. It is expensive to buy organic produce. It is time-consuming to chop all the vegetables... and it takes a lot of vegetables! I'm sure this will get easier as I get more experienced with it, but it is a very real piece of the puzzle for me at this point.

6) "My face is kind of saggy now."

This is a piece that is difficult to share (because I feel vulnerable and silly), but there it is. If you switch to eating this way and lose a lot of weight—and if, like me, you carry a lot of weight in your face and are over the age of 50—the skin on your face and neck may sag in disconcerting ways after the weight loss. My daughters assure me that "slim and a little saggy" is far more attractive and preferable to "taut and fat," but it is still a psychological piece of it for me. I do, however, feel far more attractive, slim...saggy skin notwithstanding.

Read Part 7, Let's Hear From Some Experts

NOTE: The information provided on the site is for educational purposes only, and does not substitute for professional medical advice. You should consult a medical professional or healthcare provider if you’re seeking medical advice, diagnoses, or treatment. I am not a medical professional or healthcare provider, and I have no professional medical, nutritional, or dietary credentials. You yourself are responsible for any risks or issues associated with using or acting upon any information or advice appearing on this site. 

Start the story at the beginning with Part 1.

Exercise Is Just Plain Good

And I don't necessarily mean that it is good for you, although that is unarguably the case.  We all know that.  It doesn't necessarily make us do it. 

 I'm talking something much more base, much more immediate, much more self-serving...and something I want to remember forever, when I'm tempted to forget.  When I'm tempted to stop exercising--as I always am--I want to remember this:  

Exercise makes me feel better.  

So this post is to my future self, the one who will decide that:
+ she's too tired (Remember, you feel much less sleepy when you exercise!)
+ her back hurts (Remember, it hurts less when you exercise regularly!)
+ she doesn't have time (Remember, you have lots more energy when you exercise!)
+ it's too cold (Remember, you can use the treadmill or the elliptical!)
+ it's boring (Remember, there's always Netflix--the inferior motivation for us "less-spiritual-than-Ann-Voskamp-who-listens-to-Scripture-read-aloud-while-she-exercises" types!)

Remember, future self: Exercise makes you feel better!!!

Stroke of Color

I have not yet had a chance to visit my sweet grandmother, MuMama, who had a stroke on Tuesday. The following sketch is imaginary, based on descriptions from my father and my daughter OG, who are there and have had a chance to visit with her these last days. We're not sure how she is, really, or how she will be, yet, and we certainly have no idea what the remainder of her time on this earth will look like. She is in her 90's. She is so precious to me.

I wrote this character sketch as a sample for the students in my Creative Writing class.

The old woman just lies there. Her head is turned in the direction of the window, so a careless observer might assume that she is looking out of it, at the trees and sky beyond, but I know better. I know that she is just staring at the air in the direction that is now most comfortable for her damaged body. Her head is resting funny—wrong, really—like the flopped-over face of a rag doll tossed thoughtlessly on the bed.

Dejected. Lonely. Confused. These are never words I would have thought could be used to describe my grandmother, who has always been vivacious and infectiously joyful. Happy. Laughing, usually. But not now. Now that the stroke has ravaged her body, her face hangs limply, eyes staring out from a face that contorts awkwardly if she tries to smile. Her once free-flowing speech, now slurred and difficult to understand, has almost entirely ceased. The words are difficult to find, like some long-lost memory of a name, so close on the edge of the mind, but never quite accessible.

Her face looks old. Before that morning—the fateful morning that both left her with us and took her from us—the lines and wrinkles were barely noticeable, swallowed up in her bright smile, closely enfolding the eyes twinkling from within the folds of that blanket of flesh. Now that same blanket of creased flesh surrounds those same eyes, but the sparkle in the eyes is gone. Blankly they stare, in the direction of some barely remembered dream that she can’t quite find again.

I know that if I speak to her, move into her field of vision and address her by her sweet, sweet name, she will rally. She will push through the fog and swim through the sludge to find me. Those eyes will brighten again, and the blanket of flesh will lift, beautifying the face that the stroke has tried to ravage. I will be reminded once more that Death has no sting.

“MuMama,” I barely whisper past the lump in my throat. I find my voice and try again. “MuMama! Hello!”

With great effort, she turns her head my way, and the light returns to the angelic face. I think that, really, it has never been so beautiful as it is in this moment…this moment of pure joy upon hearing my voice. With great force of will, I anchor my trembling chin and shore up the eyes that threaten to burst the dam, and I reach out for her fragile hand. She has been given another day of life, to live in praise and submission to the One who grants her every breath, and who has chosen, in the mystery of His sovereign wisdom, to have this day be lived like this. And He has chosen to let me be here to share it.

“Hey, Sugar!” Her familiar voice reaches my ears, and I smile.

An Allegory

Apparently my 9-year-old daughter knows me better than I realized.  The following paragraphs, which she wrote for a school assignment, "remind (her) of (me)," she said.  She is so dear... and life is so precious... and the moments are so fleeting!  I'm reminded again to savor every moment...

The dog ambled through the almost endless field; she lifted her head into the dimly lit sky and took in the sweet aroma of the spring air.  She imagined her small puppies leaping through this field, playing together by the tall trees.

The field's deep grass was damp from the storm the night before; it swayed and sang a song with the wind.  The dog imagined her small puppies growing and growing until they were gone and imagining their own puppies just like she was.  A tear came to her eye.  She knew she couldn't stop this from happening, and she realized how much she was going to miss them when this did happen...

She loved her puppies and this field, and that was all that mattered right now.

Happy Birthday, EL!

Nine years ago today, I delivered what turned out to be my last child. At the time, I did not know I was experiencing a major "last" in my life.

Labor and delivery has always been a very special time for me. My husband is home, and his gentle demeanor and special support and total focus on making me comfortable is a wonderful, astonishing thing. You see, labor lasts for several hours. Long hours. For me, the hours move both slowly and quickly, but they blur by in a haze of pain and excitement and anticipation and joy. They are both long and hard, and fleeting. And I know the time must be very long for someone who is outside of the physical experience of it. I'm sure at times it "gets old," just waiting and holding and caressing and having to soothe. For hours. But for me, it has always been a very precious time.

When I was experiencing it nine years ago, in the sweet haven of our bedroom, I did not know it was to be the last time. The last umbilical cord cut. The last placenta examined. The last "first nursing."

How many more "lasts" have there been over these past nine years, totally missed at the time?! At some point I changed her last diaper, not realizing it was the last diaper I'd ever change for one of my own children... I experienced the last time I'd ever breastfeed, without knowing it in the moment... I taught my last child to read without realizing it was a milestone... the last thumb-sucking passed unnoticed... the last time snuggling together on the bed... the last time she still fit, curled up on my lap, and I buried my face in the sweet scent of her hair...

And so, this rainy, windy morning, we abandon all previous plans for the day - thanks to Ida, a severe tropical storm sitting right on top of us - and commemorate little EL... my last baby, who is no longer a baby at all.

How proud I am of who you are, and of who you are becoming, little EL! You are a treasure. You are so earnest, so genuine, so real. You are so passionate, and you feel things so deeply. You are sometimes very defiant and rebellious and naughty, but you are always so sincere in your brokenness and repentance. I can't wait to see what your adult self looks like, after many more years of loving refinement from your Heavenly Father.

Happy birthday, my sweet, sweet EL. I love you more than you could ever know, and I thank the Lord for you on this, your birthday. How sad to realize that I totally missed your last eight-year-old hug... it went unnoticed at the time, and is now lost forever.

Let's live every moment with full knowledge of the wonder and magnificence of it all, okay?! I don't want to miss any of it from just not paying attention...

The Ignominy of Bikini Shopping with Your 8-Year-Old Daughter

I have a friend whose name is "Nasty." Not really, of course, but that's what everyone calls her. Everyone. Her real name is Helen, but years ago a young nephew laughingly decided to call his Aunt Helen - who was gardening and elbow-deep in dirt and mud at the time - "Aunt Dirty." That stuck, but just with family... until one unfortunate day at a party when some other friend asked, "What is it your nephew calls you? Aunt Nasty?" And that was that. She's been Nasty ever since. To everyone.

At least that's the way it was told to me when I met her some three decades ago at the age of twelve. She was an older lady (who isn't, when you're twelve?!) who lived near the bayfront condominium that my father's company kept for hosting visiting executives. When it wasn't in use, it was available for us to sit, oceanside, on the outside deck. We used it often. We met the neighbors, who became our friends. Aunt Nasty and her husband Chuck were among them.

Aunt Nasty lived at the beach. I mean that literally and figuratively, as she was actually out in the sun and surf just about daily. She was tanned to a deep golden brown year-round, and she always wore a bikini.

She has to be into her seventies by now. And though she and her husband have moved from that bayside condominium to a nearby oceanfront retirement community, Nasty still lives at the beach. Literally and figuratively. And she still wears a bikini.

What does all this have to do with The Ignominy of Bikini Shopping with Your 8-Year-Old Daughter? Everything. Because yesterday I went bikini shopping with my sweet EL.

This was not bikini shopping for her, mind you, but for me. I have a secret stash of inexpensive bikinis that I wear only in the privacy of my own family... at Grampa's backyard pool when no guests are present, or at the beach when we are clustered as a family unit of private little beach chairs. Why? I've posted about this issue before (modesty and bikinis and why I wear one anyway), but I'll say it again here in the words of Nasty's husband, Chuck: "Since Helen wears a bikini, all the good parts glow in the dark."

So yesterday, I was picking up a couple of things at WalMart with my daughter EL, and we found a clearance rack of bikini separates. The price was right, so we decided to see if we could find any in my size. (You never know what is your size until you try them on, by the way, but I started at "extra large," at least with the bottoms! They were bikinis, after all... usually only skinny people wear them.)

Trying on bathing suits is never a fun thing, but trying on bikinis at 42, after giving birth four times, is downright depressing. The only way to lighten things up and turn them fun? Cram yourself into a fitting room with your 8-year old daughter while you do it...

EL, casually: "I don't want to be extra large when I grow up."
me: "Well, nobody wants to be extra large. You don't really choose to become extra large."
EL: "Well, they eat less. And they exercise. That seems like 'choice things' to me."

Then, a bit later, rather timidly: "Not to be rude, Mom, but let's leave that one for someone else..." Apparently, there's bad, and then there's really bad...

Oh, the price you pay for glow-in-the-dark good spots!

Goodbye, "Generous One"

Currently, I am in NC with my husband's family.

We had thought that yesterday would be a celebration of my birthday with our small little nuclear family on the shores of North Carolina. Instead, it has become a larger gathering of extended family to commemorate a different life.

On January 9, 2009, iivo's dear, sweet, 98-year old grandmother slipped quietly from this earth into eternity. For ten years now we have commemorated her life on her birthday, since my daughter OG was born the same day as her "Helde," and we have celebrated their birthdays together these last ten years. Now we will forever also commemorate her life on my birthday, since the Lord chose to take her home on the same day I was born.

Nearly 99 years ago, He created her inmost being and knit her together in her mother's womb. Her frame was not hidden from Him when she was made in the secret place. When she was woven together, His eyes saw her unformed body. We praise Him that she was fearfully and wonderfully made, and we praise Him that all the days ordained for her were written in His book before one of them came to be (comforting thoughts from Psalm 139).

We also praise Him for her amazing life... and the testimony she gave to His constant protection and mercy toward her. It is hard to let her go, and we miss her sweet, feisty presence immensely. She was a fighter. She was strong-willed and stubborn. And she was one of the dearest people on the planet to me.

Selfishly, one of the things I'll miss most about dear, dear Helde is the fact that she, more than any other person in my life, could make me feel beautiful. Every time I saw her, she told me how very beautiful I am. (I'm not, really.) She told me how remarkably lovely my body is. (It isn't, really!) I can still hear her broken English, "How you have four children?! Really?! I can't believe it. Your body is not that. What you doing keep your body so nice with four children?"

I hear this voice in my head and it makes me smile even as I cry. Somebody famous somewhere once said that her favorite emotion was "laughter through tears." (I don't know if Dolly Parton's character in Steel Magnolias was the first or not, but she's the one I remember.)

Remembering Helde is filled with "laughter through tears." I miss her. The house just isn't the same without her quietly appearing in the doorway; the table just isn't the same without her proudly sitting at one end.

She was in amazingly good health, and not even in that "especially for 98" sort of way. She was more zippy and fast and active and fun than many fifty-somethings I know.



I'm so grateful that my children got to know her as well as they did. Who, in these days of late marriages and birth control, gets to know their great-grandparents well?!

We will miss you, dear Helde!*


*Vana ema, helde, lahke is a line from an Estonian folk song about grandmothers, translated Grandmother (literally 'old mother'), generous, kind. She became known as "Helde" early on, dubbed such by her very young grandchildren who were learning the song. She remained "generous" to her dying day, even as she was a "vana, vana ema" to my children. I hope I live to be an "old, old mother" to some great-grandchildren, and that they love me even half as much as my children loved Helde.

Farewell, dear elderly friend. Your marks are indelibly over our lives. OG's birthday will forever remind us of you. EL's name is what it is because you bore that middle name. Your voice makes me smile every time I listen to the message I have saved on the answering machine at home. I will miss you more than words can say, and I rejoice that I believe we will see each other again one day.



"A message only! Here is Helde. Nobody at home? Okay. Then I send you a message. Bye."

"...and the fruit of the womb is his reward..." (Psalm 127:3)

I have to share with you a letter I received from a dear friend this morning.

Although it was sent yesterday, it arrived in my inbox within an hour of a significant conversation with my husband this morning regarding a decision about whether or not to continue/resume using birth control. I believe it was a direct answer to a prayer for guidance and direction. It comes as confirmation of our hearts' desire, though we know that our extended families and most of the friends around us don't agree with or even understand our choice.

As we have sought to allow the Lord to bless our family with another child, I have experienced at least four miscarriages over the past two years. Concerned that a hormonal imbalance or some other physical problem with my body might be causing these babies to die, we made a choice several months ago to resume using birth control while I underwent thorough testing to be sure I was not chemically or hormonally "off" in a significant health-related way.

Well, those test results are all in, and they reveal that there is nothing wrong with my body beyond the "old eggs" (and the commensurate increased chance of genetic defects in the babies created from them) expected in a woman over the age of 40.

This has, of course, thrown us into quite a decision-making process. We have had to wrestle significantly with many serious things, including our thoughts about God's sovereignty, about His heart regarding families and children, and about our perceived "right" to orchestrate matters of life and conception.

Additionally, we have come to recognize over the past few years that sex is better without birth control, not only physically but emotionally and relationally. We have always been unwilling to utilize any forms of birth control that are abortifacient, including the IUD and oral birth control pills, because we've been unwilling to create and then destroy babies. We have, however, utilized various "barrier methods" of birth control at various times in our marriage. And we have increasingly become convicted that they are just that... a barrier. They are a barrier to the full physical pleasure God intends for us. They are a barrier to spontaneity. They are a barrier, for us, to full emotional engagement and complete unity. And they are a barrier to receiving the gift of children, which God - in the Scriptures - always and unequivocally calls "blessings."

And so, after our final doctor appointment, we fell into a quandry. Do we continue to use the birth control we began using during the testing, in light of the information revealed? We have come to despise it, for the reasons listed above, and yet we have had to process and engage a great many things since we have received the test results. We have had to think about the toll of repeated miscarriage on a woman's body... about the possibility of Down's syndrome or other genetic abnormalities... about "imperfect children" and how we'd feel about having one... about the reality of having a child who spends his last decade at home with really old parents, without brothers or sisters...

We have had to acknowledge our growing convictions against birth control, our heightened hopes regarding the possibility of another child in our family, and our fears regarding repeated miscarriage and genetic abnormalities. We have gone round and round and round, and we finally desperately asked the Lord for His wisdom and guidance in these matters.

That was early this morning. Within an hour, I found the following letter in my inbox:

Happy Sunday, friends and family, I chose each of you to receive this e-mail for the role you have played in our family and vision for family. We have been burdened lately about what to think about family and missions. We have beloved friends who are convicted to limit their children to a minimum in order to tread lightly on the earth and have more room to adopt the "unwanted." We love and respect them. Among them is a dynamic couple doing Christian environmental work in Africa. We also have beloved friends who believe their responsibility is to have as many children as God will give them. We love and respect them. Among them is a couple who serves in Darfur. They have lost 3 children in a year, one of which was almost term and was lost after she was beaten up while on a walk in Kartoom. Their missionary team-mates have told them that their kids and lost pregnancies are a drag on the ministry and team. As we prepare for number 4, we have been torn about how to view children and our future as missionary servants. With details still to work out, we have been rescued by a painfully direct sermon by African-American Southern Baptist pastor Voddie Baucham. I wanted to share this with each of you and thank you for your role in helping us see all sides of this wonderful and sobering issue. Please listen and comment. We are listening, too, and have much yet to learn about being and becoming parents.

And so I post it here for you, too. It has challenged and convicted and moved and encouraged us in a variety of arenas. It speaks about the concept of contemporary "youth ministry" as well as to various parenting issues. I would value your thoughts as you listen, as well.

The Centrality of the Home by Voddie Baucham.

Across the Miles

I got an email from a dear long-time friend (better not call her "old") tonight that has filled me with wistful nostalgia. Every once in a while something strikes me that drives home the fleeting nature of life... the speed at which it flies by. Last week it was when iivo mentioned an old college suitemate of his with whom he'd reconnected on Facebook. He is now married with five kids! (I didn't really know this guy very well, so the last time I laid eyes on him or even thought about him, really, he was single and just leaving William & Mary. It seems like just a couple of years ago. Alas, it was many more than a couple...)

The email that I received tonight came across the ocean from India, where my friend is serving with her family as missionaries. Her words are playing around in my head, and the profoundly bittersweet nature of life is getting to me a bit.

I thought of you when I was walking this evening. I had to dodge a water buffalo and her calf coming from the other direction. Moments like those I consider "I bet this doesn't happen to Laurie" moments. The themes of our lives are so similar that sometimes I lose track of how different the settings are. Then suddenly I will realize that this or that type of thing probably isn't happening in your world. I hope you don't mind that I've chosen you as my reference point for those musings. I think it is because I relate to you more than to any other friend.

These kinds of friendships you don't find everyday. They are a rare find, indeed... the kind that last for decades, through all the crap you each dish out, through all the great and crummy things you each experience, through all the distance and all the miles and all the heartache and all the joy. I miss her.

Anyway, we're off to other such friends' house tomorrow. As my husband's old college roommate is among the funniest people I know, I plan to laugh very hard. Because he knows me very well, much of the laughter will be directed at myself, I'm sure. And I plan to have deep and important conversations, because these are those kinds of friends. We'll pile into their basement across the miles and still feel very much at home.

The Rebelution Conference is part of the planned activities. I'll let you know what thoughts and life change that stirs up...

Making me laugh...

When I was in college, I told my friend Ron that I wanted one day to marry a man with a sense of humor. He retorted with, "No you don't! If you marry someone with a sense of humor, he'll know you're not funny. You want to marry someone funny."

How right he was.

And so I did.

And I agree with Joanne Woodward, wife of Paul Newman for 50 years now, who said, "Sexiness wears thin after a while, and beauty fades, but to be married to a man who make you laugh, every day, ah, now that's a real treat."

Sure, he's still sexy. But he also makes me laugh. Really hard. Every day.

Such fun!

"Charm is deceitful..."

"... and beauty is vain, but a woman who fears the Lord shall be praised." - Proverbs 31:30

The Distortion of Beauty

Happy Birthday to Me

Well, my "sad little pen-and-ink" journal is again up and running, because it didn't take long to figure out that a personal journal is very different from a personal Blog, however much one is certain that no one else will ever read the latter. When one writes a Blog, one is composing for an audience - even if the audience is anonymous or imaginary. When one writes a journal (or at least when I do), the audience is either one's self or (again, when I do it) the Lord. There I find first person dialogue with the Almighty, with all its honesty and unguardedness. It is indispensable and necessary, and is as important - for me - as reading the Word, or praying, or memorizing Scripture, or gathering together with other believers for encouragement and worship and exhortation and fellowship.

Blogging, however, is not at all necessary. It is not a connection point in one's relationship with the Lord. And it is probably neither fully revelatory nor unguarded. It is simply - for me - one of the expressions of the craft of the written word. Like reading and then wrestling with the ideas that arise thereby, it is a part of the processing of the musing of life. It is true composition at its best. It is an art. And although I'm not necessarily very good at it, it is a noble exercise in its own right. It stretches my brain. It uses my intellect. It forces me to process and organize and make tangible the stream-of-conscious thoughts and random flow of emotions that move through me... to attempt to turn them into something at least remotely intelligible. No matter if no one ever reads them. They are written for you, the hazy and undefined one whom I imagine cares to read my thoughts. (Yeah, right!)

Today, my thoughts are raw and my emotions a little fragile. Today I turned 41. This would not normally bother me in the least, I don't think, but this birthday comes at the end of a year during which I experienced several miscarriages. Four little lives have been created, and yet for one reason or another didn't survive. Why? Who knows. The party line at the OB/GYN office is "old eggs." As we get older (my husband is 40, and I, 41) our chances of a "blighted ovum" increase, and things "just don't come together quite right, genetically" and this is "Mother Nature's way (don't you hate her?) of taking care of a baby that wasn't growing right." All fine and good unless you long for another baby. All a little strange four times in a row. All a little sad, even in light of an (at least limping) understanding of the goodness and sovereignty of God, and even in the midst of (limping) trust and hope and joy in His plans for my life and for our family.

So, today is my birthday, and all it means this time around is that I'm "too old to have another baby." Too old. Old. I don't want to be old. I don't feel old.

And so, alas, today's thoughts are far less noble and aspiring than they could be. I think of an Isaac Watts quote I remember, from Improvements of the Mind: "Once a day... call yourselves to an account what new proposition or truth you have gained, what further confirmation of known truths, and what advances you have made in any part of knowledge." A worthy aspiration, but today is not that day. At least not here on this Blog.