Surrender.

Dear Jesus,

I mean, I’m only having a tantrum because I don’t understand what’s going on. I feel like my body is out of control with all these hormones and sugar issues and swelling limbs; I feel like my house is out of control with all the strewn boxes and stacks of paper; in fact, I feel like my whole life is out of control for so many reasons. I scream and sometimes I think You don’t listen. I cry and sometimes I think You don’t see. I don’t know if I’m coming or going with You, honestly.

But You certainly have proven Yourself to be trustworthy. Whenever I’ve asked You to work on my behalf, You have. You always send the word I need, the person I need, to get through another set of minutes. You whispered gently to me at my lowest, celebrated with me at my highest. You were at my wedding when I married the man You led me to. You will be at the birth of the daughter You promised me. You’ve held my hand when I’ve let You and allowed me to walk away when I thought I could do it better on my own. All 28 years of my life, You have pursued me relentlessly with the love and passion I sought in so many places before turning to You. You have filled my life to the brim, even in the scariest times, with joy straight from Your heart to mine.

So you can have my talents, my dreams, my desires, and I’ll find peace in a quiet corner of my heart, in an armchair with a cup of coffee and Your company, as I await further guidance from You. It isn’t easy this way, but it is possible. And as my powerlessness tries to muscle away my hope, I’ll remember how strong You are and how bowled over I am by the truth of Your love.

You know where to find me. Come soon.

Love,

Amie

Joy unspeakable.

Five years ago tomorrow, I miscarried for the first time. It’s still one of the deepest pains I’ve ever known. But tonight as I was writing and praying, I decided to go back to the letter I wrote Anna the day I found out I was pregnant. And I stand amazed again: such a powerful, loving God watches over me. He’s a God who lets nothing, even the laws of nature, stop him when it comes to blessing his children.

Wednesday, 17 April 2013

Dear Baby,

I found out a few hours ago that you’re joining our family. No news ever could’ve made me more excited: you have only existed in my dreams until now. I missed you before I ever knew you, so I can’t even tell you how wildly overjoyed I am that God has blessed your dad and me with the gift of you! You are so loved and wanted there aren’t even words to express it.

The first thing you need to know in life is how wonderful your dad is. Besides Jesus, your dad is my favorite thing about being alive. He’s strong, kind, and loving; in other words, he is exactly what every man should be. And no need to worry, Baby – he’s also unbelievably good-looking, so you will be too. I love your dad most of all in the world because he loves Jesus and he loves me. Love is hard sometimes, Baby, but your dad will do whatever it takes to love you and support you. He was in my heart decades before I knew him, kind of like you.

I don’t know anything about your personality, Baby. I don’t know the choices you will make or what you will be good at or who your favorite person will be. I don’t even know yet if you’re a boy or a girl. But I know this: you are ours, and that means we will love you forever. Even more importantly, you belong to Jesus, who is the source of all power and love in the world, so you are safe forever too. In fact, I’ve already been talking to Jesus about you, and it’s sounded a bit like this: Thankyouthankyouthankyouthankyouthankyou.

With so much love,

Mama

Christian radio.

I’m eating vanilla ice cream at our makeshift table (a.k.a., two TV trays pushed together) because my man and I frustrated each other. And I’m trying to practice self-grace, the hardest kind, by gently reminding myself that the way to freedom was always in the other direction and that Jesus would like to take me back there. That’s why I listen to Christian radio.

It’s certainly not because I like the music. In fact, I have said for years that mainstream Christian music has a Sound – an overly bright, sticky, bubble-gum Sound – that makes my ears cry. Some exceptions apply, like Chris Tomlin and CeCe Winans. But in general, out of every ten songs played on Christian radio, I like maybe two. Sometimes fewer. Yet, I favor Christian stations these days because I find it makes it easier to hear Jesus. On nights like tonight when I’m frustrated, I’ll remember a scripture read over the airwaves – Proverbs 15:1 in this case – and hear Jesus remind me that in dealing with each other, love and peace are the more excellent way. Or when I’m at Walmart, the most mundane of places, I’ll feel like I didn’t grab enough bananas and granola bars, and then I’m not surprised when I see someone in the parking lot who needs the extras.

I don’t believe there’s anything wrong with listening to non-Christian music. More of my music library fits that category than the former. But when I turn on Christian radio, it’s just one more outlet where my mind can breathe in the power of God’s Word. It opens one more method of communication between my heart and the voice of Christ. When I’m focused on those messages, his instruction and healing reverberate in my mind even when I’m not thinking about it. It really does help keep me focused on my Jesus. If I need to sacrifice a little Usher for that, it’s worth the trade to me.

Car Trouble.

My man noticed a few days ago that it was getting increasingly difficult to steer my car, and all turns were accompanied by a grinding, whiny sound. It was time for my 30,000-mile checkup anyway, so yesterday I took my Jetta to the dealership to kill two birds with one stone. After I’d been squirming in my seat for a little over ninety minutes, the service rep found me in the waiting room and gave me an apologetic grimace.

“It appears your rack is leaking,” he informed me.

I was certain I’d misheard him. “I’m sorry?”

An encore grimace. “Your rack is leaking,” he repeated, shrugging and holding out his hands as if there were simply nothing else to say.

My eyes got wide as I dropped my gaze to my shirt for assessment. That wasn’t supposed to happen for months! Your milk couldn’t possibly come in during the seventeenth week of pregnancy, right? Plus, I didn’t feel anything amiss. But I was mortified all the same. When I didn’t see any milk coming through my clothes, I looked back up at him, questioningly. It finally hit me that what he’d said may have been embarrassing, but more than that, it was crude. How dare he!

Taking his cues from my wide-eyed expression, although blessedly misinterpreting my thoughts, he said, “Oh, it’s not as bad as it sounds. Around 30,000 miles, Jettas from your year tend to develop a power steering leak. The part we need is on backorder…” He continued talking, but I was so relieved my rack wasn’t leaking – that it was only my car’s – that I barely understood a word.

Leave it to pregnancy to make you self-conscious about the weirdest things.

Meltdowns.

This pregnancy has a dark side: it’s churning up the noxious stuff, the stuff that reminds me what a train wreck I am. You can work around it for years, and then this teeny person, who doesn’t even have a voice, starts conjuring things in your mind. Apparently, I am carrying an intuitive little girl. Or maybe it’s the hormones.

When I went through addiction counseling, I made – and kept – all sorts of promises that allowed me to live in freedom for the first time ever. The promises gradually became habits, my modus operandi, and everything improved. My health, my appearance, and my confidence soared. No longer did my brain resort to the addiction cycle to cope with everyday life. I was in charge of my behavior, no diet necessary, and Jesus bolstered my strength to live in his provision. I felt and looked so wonderful that I attracted a very hot man who married me just under a year after we met.

Then I got pregnant. Of course, joy flooded me: it was impossible! A miracle! And of course, that’s undeniable. But there was a singsong voice in the back of my mind, like Clare Dunphy, that said, “You’re gonna get fat.” I pictured my former marshmallow-esque body. I pictured my very hot man not wanting me anymore. I pictured myself buying huge clothes. And, to make matters worse, I realized as the weeks went on that my neat and helpful counseling promises weren’t working. When I didn’t feed my fetus every three hours, my blood sugar dropped, and I became weak and dizzy. Twice I fainted. When I didn’t eat ample carbohydrates, like fruit and grains, massive headaches hit without warning and were followed by crippling nausea and fatigue. The baby was simultaneously breaking all the rules and producing purple stretch marks on my midsection to boot. I started saving for a Mommy Makeover.

One thing I’ve learned: my healing never comes until I dig into the ugliness and write about it. When I see it on paper, I can name it and deal with it. So I’ve spent hours recently writing about my addiction – how it looked, felt, sounded. I’ve been journaling and letting my introspection explain myself to me. And it’s rough because underneath it all, I am still a train wreck. I am still all the things I once was if I’m not constantly vigilant.

I asked my man tonight, “Who in his or her right mind would give me a baby?”

Without missing a beat, he said, “Jesus.”

“Then I am seriously doubting His lucidity,” I replied, quite seriously, before melting into tears again. Sometimes I am so excited for Anna’s yuletide arrival that I can barely breathe. Her pictures are so heartbreakingly perfect, and her butterfly-wing flutters feel so delightful. Other times I think, “What the heck am I going to do with a baby?” My man assures me that no one is ever ready; they just grow into it as time rolls by.

My consolation in moments like tonight is thinking about my last decade of life. I have experienced too much, enough to break me, but Jesus has brought me through it all. I shouldn’t be singing this way, shouldn’t be joyful or in love or blessed. After addiction, sexual dysfunction, miscarriage, divorce, lost friendships, and more, I should’ve been crushed. But Jesus didn’t allow that.

I also think of my personal constellation, my stars that point me home and outline the form of grace for me. My mom teaches me sacrifice, my dad teaches me trust, and my sister teaches me how to be a friend. My dear friend A.K. teaches me how to listen, my precious friend K.S. teaches me patience and faith in Jesus, and my best friend teaches me unconditional acceptance. My stepchildren teach me to play. My man teaches me to be both strong and kind. Anne Lamott would call these people my “tribe,” but they are also Anna’s. So when I hit the inevitable moments of not-enough, they will tap in for me, and so will many others. Anna does not have a perfect mother, but she will never lack love. God told me early on she exists to display his glory. And he will never not be enough for me, my husband, or our family. What can I say about such wonderful things as these? If our God is for us, who can ever be against us (Romans 8:31, NLT)?

Grace like the sea.

You know you’re pregnant when you roll your eyes at the ringing phone across the room and think, “I just poured myself a nice cup of chocolate chips and settled on the couch. Does anyone merit my attention right now?” That only happened once, I promise. And the cup wasn’t full. And I did pick up the call, but it turned out to be Charter Communications, so I had to reel myself in from throwing the phone straight through the window. Joe the Salesman wasn’t ready for that jelly.

That is the picture of pregnancy.

Of course, there is this other picture of pregnancy that I gaze at several times a day. It’s a 13-week-and-4-day ultrasound of the most beautiful developing baby I have ever seen. You guys, she is seriously, staggeringly beautiful. She is a picture of my wildest dreams. She is grace: a gift I didn’t earn and don’t deserve that was given to me anyway, to paraphrase Frederick Buechner. A hundred times a day, the thought crosses my mind, “How did I get this lucky? I am the wife of my favorite person, stepmom to two incredible children, and sixteen weeks pregnant with a grace baby.” Wow. Big time wow. Because when I was guiding my own life, I guided myself right into disaster. Repeatedly.

Barely two and a half years ago, I was in the throes of addiction counseling for compulsive overeating, a disorder that served as my prison warden for over 12 years. I ate little around others – excepting only my best friend, around whom I felt completely safe – but binged later in secret. I lied about how much I ate and how little self-respect I had. I was terrified of painful feelings, like loneliness and rejection, so I ate to smother them. After every binge, I felt ashamed and helpless, which often led me to anticipation of the next one. It was miserable and infuriating and dark.

Just over two years ago, my first marriage was officially ending. Confusion and heartbreak washed over me every morning, and I couldn’t find Jesus. Actually, I wouldn’t find Jesus. I didn’t really think He could help, as none of this was His problem. Everything was a mess, and I remember telling my mom I felt un-tethered, like my air hose had been cut and I was floating through space without anything to ground me.

I finally gave up. I don’t remember when, I just know that I did. There’s no sensational story of sobbing or snake handling or a contract signed in blood. All that happened is one day Jesus whispered, “Give me a try now?” And I said, “Yes, please,” and that was it. Peace. And now, having relinquished the pilot’s controls, I have been redeemed and made pure again. And there’s a life in me – both literally and figuratively – that is so joyful and so foreign that I hardly recognize it. But that’s what Jesus does. Every time, that’s what Jesus does.

My man and I have to rely on Jesus every minute of every day because we both have gigantic, ugly demons that don’t go away without a fight, even when the proverbial war has already been won. I would say all Christians are to some degree in this boat, since the Bible tells us Satan prowls like a lion, hoping and searching for someone to devour (1 Peter 5:8). But when I say my man and I have to fight for our freedom, I mean that my man and I have to fight for our freedom. And the worst part of it is that neither of us is perfect, or even holy. We have to borrow our victory from Jesus every single day. But most of the time, that’s what we choose to do. So in honor of our Redeemer, in honor of our testimony, in honor of the blessed-beyond-all-reason life we’ve been given, we’ve chosen to name our daughter grace like the sea. “Anna” means grace, and her middle name means “the sea.” We didn’t earn her, we don’t deserve her, but her beautiful self has been given to us for safe keeping anyway. It takes a powerful, loving, compassionate God to create something like that out of the broken, nasty selves we offered him. But that’s all we had to do. And then there he was, with all the hope and joy and trustworthy love we ever needed.

Also, happy four months of married life to my strong, sexy, incredible man. Thank God for you, my love.

Positive pregnancy tests.

I write my baby letters. Sometimes I speak them to her* when we’re in the car by ourselves. Sometimes I type and save them. Sometimes I pray them aloud so she can hear. There’s no telling what people will say to her when she gets here, so I want to make sure she’s got nine months of truth packed into her tiny brain. I tell her how much her dad and I love her, how wonderful her family is, how she can always trust Jesus. In fact, I never run out of things to tell her. The problem is I can’t seem to write about her. I wish I could tell you how miraculous she is and how much joy and wonder she’s brought us already. But every time I try, it comes out in a syrupy, overwrought voice that doesn’t sound much like mine.

I can tell you this. For a full decade, four medical professionals (three of whom are doctors) in two states assured me I couldn’t support a pregnancy past five weeks, and my body proved them right three times. It wouldn’t produce progesterone, and artificially spiking production didn’t work. PCOS seemed to be the culprit, but no one was certain. After several fruitless months of trying and three losses during my five-year first marriage, I didn’t have a reason to believe the doctors were wrong.

Then on March 8 of this year, I married the strongest, kindest man I’ve ever met. And almost immediately started vomiting.

We went on the honeymoon I’ve always dreamed of – mountains, cabin, fireplace, Jacuzzi, wine. And it was good. And never did “ovulation days” cross my mind because I was so obviously, certifiably, doctor-approvedly infertile. But then sneaky things started happening. A few mornings I felt so nauseated I couldn’t get my clammy self out of bed. And with a passion unrecognizable to me, I craved red meat. As in, I literally salivated over the raw hamburgers at the grocery store one day. I might have torn the package open with my fangs and feasted if the butcher hadn’t been right in front of me, asking from a healthy distance whether I needed assistance.

Then on the 17^th of April, I put on my favorite dress, kissed my husband, and headed to work. I realized I hadn’t menstruated, an odd thing since my medicine keeps me from being even an hour late. So on a whim I picked up a pregnancy test and a decaf coffee on my way. Maybe a few prayers escaped into the air as I did these things, but mostly my mind raced with menstruation math. When I arrived at my desk, I set down my bag calmly. I sauntered to the restroom. My steady hands placed the test on the sink. Less than a minute later, I peered over and saw the two pink lines that had already formed. Two. “Oh, God,” I breathed.

People have asked if we were trying to get pregnant. Of course, the answer is no; not only were we not trying, but we didn’t think we could. That doesn’t mean, however, that my baby is a “mistake.” Even though she wasn’t part of our plan, she has always been part of the Great Design God has for the planet. Our plan is short-sighted and imperfect in a thousand ways. But this baby – the one whose mother has a reproductive disorder – is the one God has chosen. He wants a person created out of our DNA, to be parented by us, to make his compassion and power visible to others. So whether the timing seems right or wrong, whether my body seems capable or incapable, whether other people agree or disagree, my man and I will love and raise our baby to bring glory to God.

I asked God one night in an overwhelmed state, “How did this happen? And why is it happening now?” I got an answer, flashing in my heart like a marquee: For my glory. So I already know how the story turns out: God’s glory will be undeniable. What a perfect reason for a baby to be born.

* I say “her” for two reasons: 1) simplicity, and 2) I believe I’m carrying a girl. The night my first pregnancy ended, which I have already written about, I knew I would one day have a baby girl and her name was supposed to be Anna because “Anna” means “grace.” I believe I am pregnant with that promise.

Bodies.

For the first time ever, I was a mom for spring break. My man and I took the kids to an indoor water park for a long weekend and had an incredible time. Because I am female, I spend as much or more time as the men looking at other women’s bodies when we’re all on display in our swimsuits. My reasons differ, of course: I compare myself to them, see where I fit in the array of physical femininity, and try to decide how happy (or unhappy) my man is with my body, based not on what he tells me but on how I appraise it compared to all the others.

That’s totally sick, isn’t it?

But I spent upwards of 24 hours engaged in exactly that, and it was maddening. Usually those thoughts happen on such a subconscious level that I continue about my business barely registering them, but this time was different. I had my daughter with me, and the thought of her thinking those things broke my heart. She’s dazzlingly lovely, and I want her to know it. I want her to know that she’s perfect the way she is. She so beautifully reflects her dad’s gorgeous Italian traits set on the smooth, olive-toned Native American skin she got from her mother’s side. She can choose to treat her body kindly or not, but it’s a perfect snowflake of a body that should never be disrespected by anyone, including her. Which is precisely what I was doing to mine.

And the thing is, every body I saw was “imperfect” compared to the cinematic, airbrushed ideal. Flabbiness was everywhere. Cellulite passed me every few seconds. Moles and discolorations marked almost everyone. My body is no better or worse than the others I saw. In fact, underneath our skin we all house the same snowflake perfection I identify so easily in my daughter. Some women treat their bodies more kindly than others – I have to work on this too – but God-designed perfection is our common trait. Besides, my body does so many wonderful things: it walks, dances, swims, makes love, stretches, hugs, laughs, twirls, and bends. How could I be anything other than deeply thankful for a body like that?

I hope, down in my core, that my daughter never forgets she’s beautiful. Jealous girls and lonely boys might try to convince her otherwise, whether they use words or not. Her dad’s voice, mom’s voice, and stepmom’s voice will be drowned out on occasion. So for my own part, I’m going to be preemptive. I’m trying to remind myself that I am perfect and beautiful, and I’m trying to listen to my man and my dad tell me the same thing. Maybe if I can remember it for myself, I can role model it and help my daughter remember too. She’s worth it, and so am I.

Cake batter.

I officially became a stepmom a couple of Fridays ago. It is no secret that I am brand-new to this. Yesterday I took my babies to baseball practice. Tee-ball fields and softball fields look exactly the same to me, so our car ended up as far away as humanly possible from the appropriate field – a mistake their real mother would never make. A couple of months ago, I made French toast for my man and his kids that was unrecognizable toast-wise. Or French-wise, which is particularly disappointing, as “French” is literally in my job title. And we’ll ignore the fact that I didn’t recognize the words “iCarly” or “Upward” prior to last summer.

But none of that seems to matter to anyone but me. It doesn’t matter to them that I can’t keep up with the (whopping, massive, unending piles of) laundry or that the tracked-in grass stays where we leave it for days on end. No matter what the house looks like or what dinner tastes like, we all laugh and talk and enjoy each other like families do. No one complains about my ignorance. Come to think of it, no one really notices.

I feel kind of like cake batter. All the right ingredients coincide, but it’s going to take some time before I become the real thing. Until then, I’m savoring every moment of this most blessed journey. Every time I see the car seat in my rearview or the butterfly socks in the laundry or even the fingerprints on the window, my heart dances. At work a few weeks ago, I found a lone game piece in my purse from one of our family favorites. When I smiled and mentioned my find to a coworker, he/she said, “Ha, well, you’ll get over stuff like that real quick.” I wouldn’t bet on it; I lost a lot to get here. But God has restored so much, lavished so much. So, as long as they’re willing to walk forever to get to the tee-ball field, I’m willing to give myself the same measure of grace as I evolve into a proper (step)mother. Cake batter eventually becomes exactly what it’s supposed to be. I will too.

Acceptance.

“[Agape love] is a profound concern for the welfare of another without any desire to control that other, be thanked by that other, or enjoy the process.” — Edward Nason West

Two months ago my man and I heard Anne Lamott speak. Every word transfixed me, but one story in particular adhered to my brain. An Alaskan couple, friends of Anne’s, desperately wanted children. By the time they reached their tenth wedding anniversary, they’d tried fertility drugs, IVF, old wives’ tales, and mountains of prayer, all to no avail. Finally, they started the adoption process. With the pressure gone, as sometimes happens, the couple conceived. Joyfully they trekked to the city for numerous appointments due to the wife’s advanced maternal age. Unfortunately, the doctor soon had painful news: the baby was a hermaphrodite. Anne’s friends had three choices: 1) surgically remove the female organs, 2) surgically remove the male organs, or 3) raise the baby as a hermaphrodite. They spent the rest of the nine months in prayer and serious discussion with counselors, medical professionals, pastors, and each other. After the birth, the mother wrote on her blog, “We decided to love the baby that came.”

What a liberating decision. The baby that came to my mother 28 years ago is in turn compassionate and prideful, intelligent and ignorant, wise and foolish, devout and sinful, creative and dull. She has too-large thighs and crooked ring fingers. She’s an avid reader but a terrible athlete. She burns the rolls and still forgets to turn off the oven. But my parents love the baby that came. So do my man, my sister, my friends, my Savior. It’s downright incomprehensible when I think about it—being loved in this way—because I certainly don’t deserve it.

Not that anyone ever does. Last week in French III, I asked my students an unfair and impossible question: Define “love”. A beautiful discussion resulted, but my favorite answer was this one: “Love grows when the space between people is filled with acceptance.” How beautiful. In my experience, we’re all messy, and, screw-ups that we are, we don’t deserve anything, least of all acceptance. But we’re trying our best, however successful or faulty our attempts may be. We’re trying to find community, to breathe in peace, to be a little less lonely. We’re all hoping that someone will accept the—by all accounts, problematic—baby that came. So we accept each other as perfect and imperfect as we paradoxically are, stumbling toward something like love.

I’ll take it.

Stories.

Everyone knows not to pray for patience. Let me tell you what else not to pray for: a story. One icy Colorado afternoon a few Decembers ago, my former sister-in-law, who is a reading teacher, and I were talking about stories as we drove to the city. She and her husband have the most beautiful love story, and I asked her why she thought she’d been blessed with it. She shrugged and said, “I guess because I asked.” Later that night, I prayed a prayer that might have changed the course of everything, if you believe in that sort of thing. I asked God for a story. I asked him for adventure, to be involved in something bigger than I am. I asked him to show his glory through my life. I asked for indisputable miracles.

As all the best writers have proven, if you’re going to set up a miraculous event, you need a seemingly insurmountable conflict. You need something way too big for humans to fix in order to validate a deus ex machina. Well, if you’ve read my sex blog, you know a source of deep pain in my erstwhile marriage. I’ve written about other losses and sadnesses, too; others I’ve kept private. And now I feel like I’m in that part that all the best stories have where you think, “How in the world will this turn out?” But light is pushing through the cracks, just waiting for the moment God turns it loose and crumbles the pain with a season of joy. For instance, my man’s spectacular daughter let me take care of her on Saturday while she was ill, and his son gave me a precious nickname. Light. Last week God sent me the same message from four people who don’t know each other—two of whom don’t even know me well—in a way I couldn’t question. Light. A student gave me a huge and by all accounts undeserved compliment today. Light. More light is coming. God is teaching me joy.

I’ve learned that the best thing about asking God for a story is that when he gives it to you, you never really have the luxury of heading back in your own direction. You can fling open the door and storm off in a huff, but then he chases you with this crazy, powerful love unlike anything you’ve ever dared to imagine, this grace-full love that is exactly the stuff you were hurting for…and you fall into his arms again. You can’t doubt the veracity of the miracle when you are the miracle, when your whole story is the miracle. The joy and freedom are too real.

I don’t have anything in my story, miraculous or otherwise, figured out except that there is Jesus. Because when I am weak, then I am strong. Someone has to be behind that. Someone has to be writing that, and doing a better job than I could. Someone has to be authoring these struggles, conflicts, and “imperfections” to bring a level of artistry and depth to my character that wouldn’t otherwise be there. Every time I reach a moment of pain or conflict in my story, whether I caused it or it waylaid me, I see more of him and more of me. He develops the character of Amie by adding layer after layer of healing. I wouldn’t give that back for anything.

One of my favorite quotes is something I read on a coffee mug—that I totally should have bought—in Barnes and Noble once: “Everything will be okay in the end. If it’s not okay, it’s not the end.” I find that biblical: the endgame of my brokenhearted moments will be beauty for ashes. He’s promised me, and all of us, that. And that’s all the resolution my story needs.

Ears.

I have this thing with names. I’ve written about it once already. The thought of giving a blessing or honoring someone or telling a story with your baby’s name is such a precious concept to me. Many names are on my Love-It List, but as long as I can remember, my favorite name of all has been Kate. Growing up, my most beautiful Barbie was Kate. My favorite paper doll—yes, I played with paper dolls—was Kate. Just last year, I asked on FaceBook what my pen-last-name should be if my pen-first-name was Kate. It’s the perfect name—simple, elegant, and timeless.

So when I got pregnant in July 2008, I was beside myself with excitement. I kept thinking, Kate’s here! She didn’t stay long enough for me to know by way of scientific confirmation that she was a girl, but I know anyway because moms just know. When I daydreamed about what the rest of her name could be, a Buechner quote kept resurfacing: “Grace is something you can never get but only be given. There’s no way to earn it or deserve it or bring it about any more than you can deserve the taste of raspberries…or bring about your own birth.” Having for years worn that definition of grace like a pair of contact lenses, I knew my daughter could have no other name. She was something I could never deserve, something only God could give me. My then-husband let me take the reins with naming, so I chose Anna Catherine. Anna means “grace,” and Catherine means “pure,” so my baby girl would be named “pure grace.” Which is exactly what she was. But she’d go by “Kate,” of course.

Unfortunately, Kate faded from me on Sunday, 14 September. I cried steady, silent tears, sitting with my back against the tub. I was a heartbroken mother whose daughter had been taken in the night. I hadn’t protected her, hadn’t known how. I did the only thing I could: I crawled back into bed and prayed. At first, I heard nothing, but the tender presence of the Holy Spirit comforted my heart. Then I had a powerful, inexplicable urge to look up Isaiah 49:16, a verse I did not already know. Bewildered, I opened my Bible and read: “See, I have written your name on the palms of my hands…” My name. Kate’s name. The tears came again, but this time for an entirely different reason. The verse reminded me that I am so precious to God that when he looks down at his hands—or, perhaps, Jesus’s—he sees my name. And in a small way, I had the same thing going with my Kate. The veins in my right wrist, I had noticed as a child, form an unmistakable K. After that night, it became a sweet reminder. Kate was gone, but her name was written on my palm, so to speak, and God makes all things new. God restores.

Over time, he has restored my heart. Time, I believe, numbs pain, helps a wound scar over maybe, but God actually heals. Certainly, sadness hits me unexpectedly sometimes, or with unexpected force: it was the saddest and most unfair day of my life, being at once Mother and Not-mother. But God has guided me through the process of letting my daughter stay with him, of not begrudging the laws of nature that sent her his way. For too long, I carried her as a millstone around my neck. I feared that not thinking about her might mean she never existed. As her mother, it seemed to fall on my shoulders to acknowledge her fleeting presence. But God has taken my heart from that prison of grief into a position of grace. I do think about her occasionally, but in a peaceful, heavenly way. I imagine her spinning giddily in a white cotton dress in a field of lavender, so drunk with joy she dissolves into giggles. I imagine her sitting on Jesus’s lap, enamored with him, asking him questions with the ethereal wisdom that a heaven-born child must possess. I imagine her smiling when she sees me, if you do that sort of thing in heaven.

And tonight, when it was time for a little earth-born girl to fall asleep, she wriggled onto the couch next to me and settled into my arms. She looked into my eyes with a beautiful face lit by a grin and laced her fingers with mine. She and I do not share DNA. I do not have memories of her in the womb. She does not belong to me in the way she belongs to her mother. But she loves me, and I love her, and we both love her father more than we could tell you. She and her brother have become a part of my heart, and as I look forward to many years with the man I love, I feel doubly blessed to be their friend as well. I never knew life could be this good, this full. But when God restores life and fulfills promises, he doesn’t do a halfhearted job of it. Speaking of promises, those letters the veins in my wrists so clearly form happen to be their initials—hers and her brother’s. As someone who does not believe in coincidence, only divine winks, you can imagine how this hits me. Especially since her name is “pure grace,” too. And she goes by Kate.

If you ever wondered whether God hears you cry out, whether he knows who you are…he does.

Redemption.

My pastor says it’s pointless to judge people because 1) People have reasons—which you don’t know—for doing what they do, 2) You have plenty of your own crap to deal with, and 3) No one cares about your judgments anyway. I’ll be honest with you: judging others was something I struggled with for years because I was pretty sure I knew better than most people what they ought to be doing. It’s like Claire, the mom from Modern Family, said: “I know I can’t run [my daughter’s] life for her, but if she would let me, I’d be so good at it!” Into my early twenties, I had a judgment for everything, partly because being a Christian made me feel superior wisdom-wise, partly because I was raised to have confidence in myself, and partly because I am human.

Last Friday would’ve been my fifth wedding anniversary, which is why these thoughts are bubbling in my brain. When some people heard of my separation and divorce, they became rigidly judgmental. Some wanted me to know that divorce is a sin. Others wanted me to know that it’s fine if my heart was so hardened I had to divorce, but that I could never remarry because that would be a sin. Once I was told that divorce isn’t actually possible for a Christian. Someone else said that since we are attracted to the same type of person repeatedly, divorcing my first husband would only lead to divorcing second, third, and subsequent husbands. All I can say is thank God for my church and the grace I found in it. The leader of my Divorce Care group, a woman I deeply respect and love, was the first person to hold my hand and tell me she understood. As much as I appreciated the prayers and encouraging words of my friends and family, and I really did, the gift of being looked in the eye, understood, and shown grace was something that reached my soul.

It seems to me that to create the grand mosaic of grace, God needs those of us who have been divorced, gone bankrupt, been addicted, lost children, lost faith, lost dignity, and whatever else. He needs the women who got pregnant before they got married and the men (and women) who found someone else after they got married. He needs the drug dealers and porn stars and lawbreakers. He needs the ones who were bitter, lustful, abusive, greedy, arrogant, disrespectful, unloving. He needs the brokenhearted, mistreated, ignored, and forgotten. He needs people who can, like my Divorce Care leader, look his babies in the eye and say, “I get it. I know that story,” and comfort them in a way that mirrors his comforting of us. One of my favorite traits of my Divorce Care leader is that she is 100% shockproof. There is nothing you can say to this woman that raises her eyebrows in disgust or horror. You can tell her the worst things you’ve said and done, and she says things like, “Yeah, we tend to do that, don’t we?” The grace she has shown me, and so many others, is the very face of God. You can’t tell me God doesn’t use her story—the good, the bad, and the ugly—to reach his children.

I no longer assign blame for my divorce; it doesn’t matter. Anne Lamott says, “There are three things you can’t change: the past, the truth, and other people.” Divorce is a part of my past, and that’s that. Did I miss the will of God? Don’t know, don’t care; it's not something I can go back and change. (Although I do not at all regret my first marriage.) This is what I do know and care about: nothing I have ever done, including divorce, has caused God not to love me anymore. Nothing I have ever done has changed God’s promise of protection, healing, and grace in my life. Nothing I have ever done has made God scrap his plans for me and leave me to figure it out alone. I made mistakes in my marriage, and I live with the knowledge of having caused my ex-husband pain. But I do not have to live with guilt or shame, nor do I have to listen to other's judgments about my life. My story isn't about them or even me. It's about Jesus. I am saved. I am a part of God’s plan for humanity. And he makes all things new. New.

Prince Charming.

I want to try this love thing again. So far, romantic love in my life has left something to be desired. Get this: I’ve been engaged three times. (I’ve been proposed to four times, but I showed a little restraint once and said no.) And we all know how I was married that one time for almost five years. Romance is the bane of my existence. But for some unknown reason, I still believe in it. I am still willing to throw myself out there if I find a trustworthy, interested (and interesting) man. But some things will be different. I’m not looking for the same kind of man that I was five years ago when I got married. Or seven years ago when I was in the second engagement. Or nine years ago when I was in the first. Those men, all good men, just didn’t work out. I was looking for the wrong kind of thing.

I want someone whose heart has been broken so he knows how important it is to take precious care of love. I want someone who is nerdy about something, such that when he talks about it passion flushes his face. I want someone who has sinned, really screwed something up, so he lavishly gives and appreciates grace and mercy. I want someone imperfect but honest. I want someone who will happily live a lilting, peculiarly harmonious life with me, ready to heed God’s direction for us at any moment. Preferably, he’s not rich, powerful, or disarmingly handsome—I don’t trust those types. My Prince Charming may in fact not be charming at all, just someone who has experienced enough life to know that all we really have on this planet is God and the people who love us.

If God grants me the desires of my heart, which the Bible promises to those who seek him, then I have to believe that somewhere out there is a man who will be my friend and will profoundly love me, too. He will hold my hand when I’m scared and offer his coat when I’m cold. He’ll even overlook my tendency to overcook the eggs. I will look at him with awe and respect and tell everyone how blessed I am that he chose me. We’ll laugh at ourselves, we’ll eat chicken for dinner, we’ll take the dog to the park. We’ll make each other mad, and we’ll get over it. We’ll wonder how we’re going to make it, and we’ll get over it. We’ll stress over things that God will work out, and then we’ll marvel at His grace and provision. We’ll enjoy thousands of nothing-special days together. We will not be perfect. But we will do something extraordinary together: life.

Losing it.

I needed two pairs of shoes—brown sandals and white sandals—so I went to the discount shoe shop in town last Friday. While admiring our feet in the mirror, another customer and I started discussing weight loss. She’d lost 35 pounds and was back to her pre-three-children weight. I told her I’d lost 70 pounds and was smaller than I’d been in high school. We started swapping tips, and since so many people have asked me how I lost my weight, I thought I’d post my eleven most helpful ones here. I’m no guru, but these have worked for me.

1.              Participating in exercise classes. You will inevitably work harder than you would’ve on your own because of the pumping music, trained instructor, and camaraderie of the environment. I found that I especially love Zumba; I’d go even if I weren’t trying to lose weight. If there’s no class, I try to make a workout date with my friend M. That way, I’m less likely to back out or quit early. Plus, we can chat while we treadmill it up. And M is even more motivating than my iPod because we hold each other accountable to the same plan—the same increases and decreases in speed and grade at the same intervals.

2.              Investing in music. On days that I can’t get to the gym, I’m much likelier to take a walk or go for a jog if I have music I want to listen to. Plus, I have some playlists set up that push me hard and then let me rest for a few strides, so the tempo of the songs forces me to do interval training without me really having to think about it when I’m on the track.

3.              Brushing my teeth. My kryptonite is desserts and sodas. I’ve learned, however, that if I brush my teeth when a sweet craving hits, I won’t hit the Oreo cabinet. If I did, they wouldn’t taste right. The sodas, however…I’ll let you know when I get that habit kicked. Which might never happen. Sweet Moses, I love soda.

4.              Buying flavored coffee. I am at a slight advantage in the coffee department because 1) I don’t like coffee drinks, like cappuccinos and sweet lattes, and 2) I don’t take sugar in my coffee. So specialty coffees are a workable substitute for dessert: they’re calorie-free (except for my nondairy creamer), and they have the flavor twist of chocolate-raspberry truffle, vanilla biscotti, cinnamon hazelnut, and so on. Delicious and cozy.

5.              Following Weight Watchers. I love this plan. It helps me with portion control, doesn’t force me to eat anything I don’t want, and is 100% customizable to my preferences and needs. I never feel deprived or hungry or stuffed to the brim with vegetables.

6.              Cutting myself some slack. I started losing weight in August 2010. I lost 70 pounds in one year. Last September, life became really tough, and I simply couldn’t focus on weight loss. So I took five months off. I exercised some, watched what I ate some, and maintained my new weight within five to ten pounds. In March some of my stress cleared, so I refocused on weight loss. I’m nearly at my August 2011 weight again, and I have no reason to stop there. Instead of berating myself for the weight-loss vacation, I’m proud that I was able to keep from gaining much. That is unlike the old Amie. But I have learned to cut myself slack in other ways. For example, if I’m in an exercise class that causes me to work so hard I get nauseated, then I slow down. I don’t get frustrated or embarrassed. If I need a weight-loss free day, I take one. The journey through the last 30 pounds might take longer than I’d like, but that’s okay. The harder I work to get it off, the less likely I will be to put it back on.

7.              Buying higher heels and smaller-sized clothes that I love. After a 70-pound loss, I discovered how sexy I feel in high heels. So now I own a few that I acquired over several months from the discount shoe store. I feel confident when I look in the mirror and see the sculpted calves and lifted derrière that the heels bring out. And little is more motivating than getting a clearance-rack top at Kohl’s for $5 that makes me feel skinny. Buying a cheap something that’s one size down and then fitting into it in a few weeks breeds success quickly.

8.              Reading Women, Food, and God by Geneen Roth. It’s impossible to laud this book enough. Roth is spot-on when it comes to explaining the mental processes and frustrations of chronic dieting. I literally sat amazed, devouring some of the chapters at lightning speed and thinking, How does she know stuff I’ve never let out of my brain?! I highly recommend the book for anyone who’s frustrated with his/her eating habits, particularly if your habits include obsessive dieting or (like mine) emotional eating. NOTE: The book has almost nothing to do with God, and its revelations are certainly not gynocentric in nature.

9.              Finding light but delicious versions of my favorite foods. Hungry Girl (http://www.hungry-girl.com) is an excellent resource for stuff like this. My roommate and I absolutely love her low-cal brownies, and they’re so simple to make. Open a can of pumpkin, pour the whole thing into a package of devil’s food cake mix, stir, and scoop into muffin cups. Bake at 350^o for however long the package suggests, and you end up with luxurious, velvety chocolate cupcakes. They honest-to-God do not taste a bit like low-cal brownies. Finding recipes like this keeps lighter food interesting; I don’t have to eat cottage cheese and celery all day long. I still eat foods I enjoy and just watch how much I consume.

10.           Keeping the goal in mind. I’m losing weight for reasons more important than my appearance. Diabetes runs in my mom’s side of the family. The diminished fertility brought on by PCOS is compounded by obesity. Those two health factors are much more on my mind than appearance…although certainly that is important to me, too. When I’m stressed and I want to eat a whole cake, I try to remember not to sacrifice what I really want for what I want in the moment.

11.           Praying. By far my #1 weapon, but it doesn’t sound like much of a tactic, does it? Here’s the thing. Just like I want to be healthy and take care of myself, God wants that for me, too. He wants me to live abundantly, to present myself to him as a living sacrifice, to take care of the body he gave me. So I pray and ask for help. I ask him to help me resist actions that detract from my goals. I ask him to fortify me with his Spirit and satisfy my heart so that emotional eating loses its appeal. With my God I can scale any wall and crush an army (Psalm 18:29); why would alimentary desires be any different?

I still have 30 pounds to go, but that is so doable. It’s nothing like the 100 I started out needing to lose. My goal is to be down two more sizes by the fall and at my goal weight by next January. I could meet those goals even if I lost less than a half pound per week. It’s the home stretch, y’all!

Adultery and Murder.

Certain words in the Christian “language” have always bothered me because I felt I should use them, but had no concrete idea of what they meant. “Redemption” is an example. My mind had always roughly equated it with “salvation,” and I didn’t understand the need for both a Savior and a Redeemer. A few weeks ago I started digging around in Scripture to see what else besides salvation might be under the jurisdiction of a “redeemer.”

As it turns out, there once lived a handsome, heroic king who was everybody’s favorite. He was a warrior, a poet, and a musician—a Renaissance man to be sure. Having been anointed by God at a young age and close to God all his life, he was richly blessed with peerless military prowess, a number of gorgeous wives, endless cash flow, and the unshakeable protection of God. One day, after receiving news of another blowout victory, he sauntered up on the roof and looked with pride over his kingdom. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed a woman more beautiful than his imagination could have produced. He turned to gaze on her more directly as she rinsed her hair. The water caught the sunlight, illumining her perfect figure with an amber glow. His body ached with desire, and, afraid to move, he whispered to his servant, “Who is this woman?” The latter followed the path of his vision and responded, “Oh, that’s Bathsheba, Uriah’s wife.” The name sounded magnificent as David turned it over on his tongue. Bathsheba. He knew it was fate and sent the servant to bring her to him.

It was every man’s dream followed by every man’s nightmare. The two spent a passionate evening together before David said, “You better get home.” Bathsheba regretfully acquiesced, and the two parted with wistful half-smiles and several lingering good-bye kisses. She was the subject of many a daydream of David’s, and he thought often and fondly of his one-time lover. But eight weeks or so later, his fleeting thoughts of the bathing beauty were halted: David was delivered an unsigned message that simply read, “I’m pregnant.” His heart thudded against his ribcage and he lie back on the bed, trying to figure out the best way to deal with his unwelcome surprise. Finally, he called for his servant and ordered, “Get Uriah out here.”

Uriah was a really good man, serious about both work and ethics. To begin their conversation, David praised this quality and then constructed the pretense of asking for battle news. Uriah gave him a quick rundown and David said, “You’ve obviously had a difficult stint out there; why don’t you go home to your wife and relax.” They shook hands and in no time, Uriah was on his way. But he didn’t go home. He slept outside the city walls with the guards since he knew his fellow soldiers were doing the same. David saw him the next morning and asked suspiciously, “I told you to go home. Why didn’t you?” Uriah explained his commitment to his men, and while David appreciated the sentiment, it was imperative that Uriah sleep with his wife as soon as possible. This went on for a few nights until David realized there was just no convincing Uriah to go home and enjoy his wife’s delightfully perfumed embrace. So he switched to Plan B and wrote a letter to the commander. He ordered the commander to put Uriah on the frontlines where he would most certainly be killed, forever ignorant of the news of the king’s bastard child.

The commander did not make a habit of questioning the king, so Uriah was predictably killed in battle. The commander sent word back to David that the enemy had surged in forcefully, and Uriah was among those who died. Bathsheba appropriately went into mourning, but as soon as her time was served, David sent for her and married her (II Samuel 11).

In the space of one story, David broke half the Commandments: he coveted, committed adultery, lied, murdered, and stole, all because one afternoon he noticed a beautiful woman. But instead of ousting David and cutting his psalms out of the Bible, God used the once-sinful union of David and Bathsheba to bring Solomon into the world, a man whose renowned wisdom in Proverbs and Ecclesiastes still astounds. Furthermore, God used David and Bathsheba and “the child of their child of their child a thousand years thence,”* to bring about the birth of his own Son. So the lineage of Jesus—of Jesus—includes a gigantic, five-Commandment-breaking sin, a skeleton in the closet if there ever was one. But God’s love covered the whole thing and restored it to perfection, just like Romans 8:28 promises (“God causes everything to work together for the good of those who love God and are called according to his purpose for them,” NLT.). To me, redemption is something like that.

*part of a quote from Frederick Buechner’s Beyond Words