Miscarriage

I woke up to Nathan kissing me on the forehead, "Hey, I am leaving for work."
I was so sleepy; had been falling asleep on the couch after dinner every night for two weeks.
"Something is seriously wrong with me?!" I joked.

That morning I grabbed a pregnancy test (because I keep stock - you're welcome Dollar Tree!) and
peed in a cup. Three drops later I walked out of the bathroom and thought, "I can't look at the answer
without Nathan!!!!" So I gently slid the stick into an envelope and set it on our bedroom dresser.

I know I know -- I've had the determination and will power of a two year old refusing nap time for
as long as I can remember. Ha. I did NOT peek. That afternoon I slipped the envelope into my purse
and drove to church where we were meeting as a family for Mass: feast of the Immaculate Conception.

We sang the last hymn and I looked over at Nathan who was shocked to find out that I had actually
brought the pregnancy test to Mass. SURPRISE!!! I opened the envelope and at first didn't see the
second line... and then I looked again, "Oh my gosh, BABE! There are TWO lines!!!"

To which we both immediately questioned the QUALITY of a pregnancy test that had been taken
hours and hours prior to reading the results. We both agreed that it was anti-climatic
and went out for tacos. Lol.

But in the back of my mind I knew it had to be right.
I don't typically crave deli turkey, Lucky Charms, pop tarts and oranges!!!


I waited 3 more days and checked again. Definitely POSITIVE.
Checked the next day too, because I'm a skeptic and was in total HAPPY shock!!!
THREE positive tests. My fourth pregnancy. "I'll call the doctor when I hit eight weeks or soooo..."

We were excited and planning a way to tell our kids and family for Christmas!!!

A week later, somewhere between 4/5 weeks, it began.
I went to bed in peace thinking the spotting was just a fluke. Not a big deal.

But I woke up the next morning, December 16th, and realized it wasn't going to stop.

Shaking, I texted my sister. Not sure what to do. "I feel sick," I whispered over the phone
to Nathan. That day my doctor sent me in to run labs -- but I could feel that something had changed.

Like a light had gone out?

I threw on a hoodie with half blow-dried hair and put the kids in the van. As I was backing out
of the driveway I noticed that my neighbor's parents were parked in front of my house. The mom was
crying in the passenger's seat and dabbing her eyes with tissues as the dad unloaded flowers from
their own daughter's funeral. Another child taken before a parent. Never enough time.
Life passes so quickly.

I cried as a I drove away. My heart hurt for them and for us. I knew.

My labs came back the next day. The numbers were there.
Definitely pregnant. But low. Definitely losing life.

And that's when about twelve different emotions go through your body at the same time,
and you're not really sure which one to latch on to... ?! The lies. Oh the lies.

"You're broken. You failed. You did something wrong.
God doesn't love you. He doesn't want you to be happy. Etc etc etc..."

I thought I had no right to be sad. I know others who have lost "older" babies --
"harder" situations -- "greater" suffering. I have three living, healthy, beautiful children.
I have friends who can't conceive at all. Be tough. Be brave. You're fine. Get over it.

I felt empty, disappointed, sad; in shock really. Then tears. Waves of tears coming and going
as powerful and as quickly as life given and taken away again.

But somewhere in the midst of all of that, God came down and rescued me. And His peace and grace
that surpasses all understanding rushed and filled and changed my heart, and I found the courage
to speak OUT LOUD the truths against those lies....

the truth that God sees us all separately in our suffering and that there is no measure for His
compassion and mercy that He pours out on me or you or anyone else. It just is. It's perfect.
And exactly what each of us needs in the time it is given.

FREEDOM!!!!!! Friends!!!! What darkness was sent to lie and bind me, to hold my heart hostage,
was broken by the fierce and magnificent LIGHT of the truth our God brings. He is the Dawn and
I am standing in that warmth with arms open wide delivering our dear Glory baby....

into eternal life!!!!!
She opens her eyes to meet Jesus.

Forever in our hearts.
You are part of our story, little Glory.
We love you and will see you in paradise!!!!



+++++++++++++++++++++++++

I want to say THANK YOU to all those who have called, sent messages and flowers, or who
have helped with our children. THANK YOU for the real life and virtual hugs. THANK YOU for
loving me and our family and for walking this journey to heaven with us. You know who you are!

It is beautiful. We are blessed. XO.

A Redemption Story

I have stared at a blank, white computer screen for the past hour or so
with a story filled heart and not enough right or holy words to do this justice.

I feel vulnerable.

It's going to sound dramatic, but for as long as I can remember I have struggled with feeling
like a burden. A demon must have whispered deeply into my ear because I somehow drank it all in;
that devil's milk. I've spent most of my life trying to be better, the best - holding my own -
please don't even notice I am here.

Don't be a burden.

I was twenty-five years old. We had gone to my grandparent's house for a weekend stay, and the
entire time I was scheming up ways to make our presence barely noticeable. I'll never forget.
We were standing in her dining room when my grandma grabbed my shoulders and
looked deep, soul healing level, into my eyes,

"You are not a burden. I want to take care of you."

Words are powerful.

Chains fell that day.


Like most people, I'd say my life is pretty evenly full of all the good things and all the
disappointments. I was and am loved deeply by family. I've celebrated and traveled. Accomplished
dreams. Done hard things. I've felt the blows and seen the damage as loved ones battle sickness,
addiction, betrayal. I've had my heart broken. I've lost friends. I've had my childhood home and
life slip between my fingers. All out of my control. All ultimately in HIS.

I thought I was fine, just fine, going through all the motions of college, ministry, marriage -
even a couple babies - before I began collapsing, shutting down -- diagnosed autoimmune --
flesh attacking flesh. Almost as if I wanted it to happen? To feel something, to control something,
to make myself the victim so that no one, nothing could hurt me again.

That's hard to admit. It's hard to say that I withheld forgiveness and mercy.
That I decided to "be my own god" and run from true healing.
Like a child holding tightly to a skinned knee, I refused the Band-Aid.

And all along God was patiently waiting for me, writing a story of redemption for me.
I couldn't see the significance of each encounter at the time. But He was placing people in my path --
a patient husband, Franciscan sister, a healer, a counselor, new friends, a chiropractor, doctors....

But I clung to the bitterness.

Withholding grace somehow made me feel powerful.
When in reality, it was literally weakening my very flesh.

One night on Twitter, I saw a comment from another blogger and recognized that she was living in
the EXACT SAME TOWN that my parents had recently moved to when everything fell apart.
The town I just didn't ever want to visit or pardon.

But the next time I went to Iowa, I decided to meet up with this girl and make a new friend
in spite of circumstances. (thankfully she really was a friendly Twitter girl! ha!)


I left that afternoon in the park with Nicole Neesby having NO IDEA
that such CHANGE was going to come into my life through that town I hated,
through the chance meeting of a girl I saw on social media.

We were both pregnant with our babies at the time, but the birth of mine would leave me in the darkest
place I've ever been in my entire life. Postpartum depression is real.

This girl reached out and asked me if I would try essential oils...
And I told her "NO!" And "NO!" again... "I can't. I have so many allergies and
sensitivities! I don't need one more thing!"

She sent me an article on allergies, autoimmune disorders, cell damage --- and the need to
repair our bodies from emotional trauma at the leukocyte level. I cried all over that email.
THIS IS MY STORY.

I took that article to my counselor and told him, "I am cutting myself.
I am slashing at my heart, my mind, body -- every day -- because I refuse to let it all go."

I'll never forget the look on his face. He smiled and nodded, "This is big."

I was being ushered into a place I never thought I would find again.
Suddenly all the people, all the moments and conversations were colliding -- everything rising,
everything converging, and I'm just in tears, "Why does God love me so much?"


I wept. I prayed. I chose forgiveness and GRACE.
Nicole then mailed me a roller bottle of JOY essential oil with a note to use over my heart,
and EndoFlex to support my hormonal system as it readjusted in this new chapter of my life!!!

It changed me.

My dear immune specialist sat me down one afternoon and told me,
"Brittany! You've received SO MUCH GOOD!
You must find a way to give back."

I say it often, but I don't think people really understand how sincerely I believe God was and is
fiercely coming after me, after you. And how He uses so many people and avenues, even a Twitter girl
and a company called Young Living to wreck my life in order to make it new again.

"You are NOT a burden. I WANT to take care of you."

Over and over again. The message has always been clear. He thought of me in His creation and knew the
people I would meet and the work of His fields I would one day be gifted. He gave me the doctors and the
therapist and the friends and blogging community...

And so I GIVE BACK through Young Living; in the gift of supporting, leading and cheering on
a community of people, families -- who want to experience radical, awesome change on all the levels!!!
I can't even begin to tell you about the deep gladness it brings to my heart.

He is in the details. He is in the disappointments and tragedies, the sickness and broken heart.
He is in the change - the JOY - the celebrations. Heck, He is even in Twitter!

And it's all just some big excuse to prepare my heart for the day I meet Him face to face --
to put me through that refiner's fire as He begs me to hand Him those vices I cling to, to let Him
have that skinned knee


so that He can save me...

so that He can save you...



Amen.





If you are looking for more information on Young Living, please e-mail me

oilwellsociety@gmail.com || @oilwellsociety

If you are looking to enroll into an awesome community CLICK HERE.
I'll be there to meet you!!! XO.

I Quit Cutting Myself

She asked me, "What happened in the fall, Brittany?"

I closed my eyes and let the words of the text message, blaring like a tornado siren, race through my memory; searching the hard drive. Where is it? All those pieces! They have to be here somewhere. The shards of glass, the remains of something so beautiful, shattered by bitterness and resentment - coursing through my entire being.

I am cutting myself.

"Nathan, you have to take me to the house."

It had been a year since I had last asked. I am sure he thought I was finally moving on. His clear, merciful eyes - rings of dark brown, wild fire surrounded by pools of blue - met mine and I could feel the pity. Not the kind of pity that comes with being pathetic, but the kind that sees and feels and knows because he understands my heart as if it were his very own. He has walked through that abandoned house with me before. More than once - holding my hand, sitting on the back porch, playing in the yard with our children, gathering the forgotten lilacs, collecting remnants -an old roasting pan, Mason jars, a red scarf- left behind when they vacated in a hurry.

"Maybe this will be the last time she needs to go here. To be here."


// this is a real picture posted on Facebook from the first time I went back
It doesn't really make much sense. It's just the house that I grew up in. Four strong, historical brick walls erected at the very heart of town. Made of mortal materials. All passing. In the grand scheme of eternity, the mighty fortress is really just a tent that will one day be totally blown away like any other grain of sand in the dessert. It shouldn't matter. But it does.

I begged my mom to stay, to wait it out. Time is often the enemy, and in this case it definitely was, but I had hope of conversion. Maybe time would eventually be our friend and bring back together what was being torn apart. She yelled at me that night. Told me I was too young to understand the situation. Perhaps 22 was too young. I will never know. He drank more than he should. Maybe that was part of it. The disconnect, the job loss, the lack of means to keep the house. Gone. But I know daddy cared.

The bedroom where I stayed up late whispering with my sisters, the big, orange 1980's kitchen bar - a thousand family meals vanishing into thin air - the hook hanging in the living room that held our homemade advent wreath every year - hopes, dreams, prayers - pear trees, the garden. There were no more chapters to be written. We had reached the end of the book.

I left that house as a proper "home" for the last time on June 21st, 2009. It was the weekend of my little sister's wedding. It was the sweetest of occasions - so happy and joyful that the weight of saying goodbye to our family home seemed silly. Too silly to be sad. I was distracted. I jetted off back to Ohio- back to work- back to college- back to plan my own coming wedding. I didn't say "goodbye."

I woke up that September. It had only been a few months. The weddings were over and my parents and younger siblings had begun a life out on Long Island. "I want to go home," I told my new husband. Slowly, counting his words, he said, "Babe. You ARE home." I couldn't breathe so I cried. I couldn't go home so I panicked. So this is the source of the sirens; blaring and etching such a tragedy deep into my skin.

That was the first time I got so sick. And every year after for five years, the cycle has repeated itself. Always sick in the fall. Diagnosed autoimmune. It all makes sense now. Emotional trauma strong enough to take hold of my cells and use them against me. Inflammation burning, antibodies screaming, my entire being rejecting a growing list of foods. Maybe because it all happened in the fall. The waking up, the realizing that it all hurt so much - my heart so beaten and bruised. "They" took the house from me. "He" took the house. "She" took the house. "God" took the house. And now I can't go home.

I decided to stay broken that September. Knocked down from one too many childhood memories, I decided to stay down. In my mind I rationed that no one would hurt someone who is already hurting. Right? I was betting on the mercy of Jesus and mankind. Take it easy on me. I'm wounded down here. I used bitterness and resentment as fuel to drive me to pick up shard after shard of that shattered house, buried deep within my soul, and cut myself. Over and over again. Stay broken. Keep bleeding. Easier than being hurt again. Build new walls. Thick as unforgiven.

She texted again, "Once you locate the wounded memory, you must forgive everyone involved and you must forgive yourself for being vulnerable, for not forgiving sooner." Her words didn't feel like real life. You know when someone is talking as somehow each word means everything even though there's no way they could possibly know? It was like that.

Grace. God must have been holding some back for me, because I somehow found enough hope to pull myself up off the floor, release my emotional fists full of glass, and go ask my husband to take me "home" one more time.

I wore black that day as if I were going to a funeral. We pulled up and I slowly opened the van door. Nathan asked if he should go with me, but I said it was ok - "I need to do this."

I slipped the key to the back door off of my key ring. Five years. A daily reminder of loss. A token of pain that I treasured for all the wrong reasons. An excuse to hurt myself. All those years, I let it hang with all the other keys to my "life". Like a disease it spread deep and wide.

I walked into the yard, into my old garden, all overgrown with grass and such, and in the cold, December air, just days before Christmas, I looked up to heaven and told God I was sorry. Sorry for not letting Him heal me. Sorry for taking bitterness and resentment as my gods. I forgave all those involved. I forgave myself.

Kneeling down, I pushed that key into the hard, frozen ground - breaking the earth this time instead of my heart. I buried that key with tears falling from my eyes, and hope rising in my soul.

I'm done. I'm done cutting myself from the inside out.

A few months later I found myself sitting in the office of a Christian counselor I found by doing a Google search. That could have gone so badly, but luckily "Matt" was a swell guy who made a big impact on my life.

He asked me one day, "Are you willing to let God heal you in HIS ways?"

So often we have this list of ways we want God to heal us or those we love. Here. Here. And here. In this order, by this date, please and thank you. Amen. Like small children we either ignore a wound to keep on playing or we demand a band aid without thought of being cleansed. How easy it is to forget that wounds need to be cleaned before bandaging to prevent infection, further spread, deeper damage.

His ways always seem to surprise me. As if 28 years of being His daughter has taught me nothing. Like the day I got that text message from a friend. Like the moment I felt Him ask for the key to my childhood home. Like the night I knelt in the garden and let it all go. Like the moment I stopped making myself bleed.

I stood up after burying that key for the first time in a long time. I decided to get off the ground and not be broken anymore. I decided to let Him heal me and run the risk of being knocked down again. Because that's what happens in this world. We live with Goliaths and Pontius Pilates. But spoiler alert - the good guy always wins. I would do well to remember that and quit dealing with the devil and his lies.

It's not like every day of my life is puppies on a beach now. Healing is a journey. And even if I keep getting sick every fall for the rest of my life, I am still glad I decided to let God "heal me in HIS way" because life is too short to not live fully alive. I don't want to "go home" anymore, I truly don't. I was released that day in the garden.

Funny. It all started in a garden so long ago. A fall so great the wound spread, a deadly disease, throughout all mankind. And then one glorious Good Friday God came down to rescue me, to rescue us, from our misery. He's in the business of masquerading as text messages to get our attention. He's in the business of meeting us in the gardens of our lives and undoing all that's been tragically done. And He's in the business of getting us "home."

My Son Stutters

I've hesitated over sharing this for so many months that I have lost count. It's one of
those things that just leaves your momma heart aching so badly that you don't want to speak
it out loud for fear that it will all suddenly become really real. Permanent. Forever.

Not my son.


How many nights have I stood at his bed rail while he sleeps watching his gentle breath, in and out,
wondering what those big, round, chocolate eyes veiled in slumber are seeing, dreaming? I've put my
hand on his head, his heart - letting every ounce of whatever grace is given to me as a mother
pour over him as I beg God, almost demanding, for an answer. Can You hear me?

The bonds of motherhood run strong, and I bear the weight of his cross as if it were my own.
I've lived out in my imagination every possible scenario and outcome for his life -- all laced
with fear and anxiety, rejection and misunderstanding -- potential crushed under the weight
of not being able to connect well in a world full of words.

The kids at the playground are impatient with him as their tiny attention spans cannot bear to
wait for the words to form and flow. I've seen them walk away. I've heard him mocked.

And my heart gets a real good glimpse at what it was like for the Blessed Mother to watch her
Son save the world. All you parents see. You know there's not anything within your power that
you would not do to breathe life and peace and joy into your child - even if it meant giving
up your own. It's a rugged, primal kind of love; welling up from the wild fierceness
that courses through our blood. Anything. Name it. I am yours.

I like to think that God is especially tender towards mothers. So I have asked and asked and asked
one more time, just in case I didn't hear the answer or missed some vital instruction.

Waking up one morning, about a week before Christmas, I looked at my husband and just said,

"I know what it is."

He asked me how I knew, but all I could do was shake my head, "I don't know, but I do."

If there were pieces to this puzzle, they all came together that day as I cleared my pantry of corn products.
Checking, reading labels - deep sighing - packing up everything with a trace to give away.

With each day off a major allergen, the stuttering has diminished; the frustration on his face melting
away with the excitement of being able to communicate more clearly. Words flowing where words have
not flowed before. I now watch my son happily chatter away with complete strangers, something he
avoided before, and light up as he tells his story. I light up as he tells his story.

Call it intuition. Call it the result of research. But I'm calling it a miracle.
I'm calling it for how I see it -- and that's God answering a mother's prayer.
Thank you. A million times over.

Today is better than yesterday, and I hope that this journey continues to bring healing into
my son's life. It just blows my mind that God turns His eyes towards us... at all. Here we are
in our pathetic, sinful state and He just pours life and peace and joy onto His children.

It's a rugged, primal kind of love.
Anything. Name it. I am yours.





FOR OUTSTANDING RESOURCES ON STUTTERING
________________________________________________FOR MORE OF THE LILY FIELD
FACEBOOK. || INSTAGRAM. || TWITTER.

Let me hold you.

A few weeks ago, I was having a really rough day in the "office." Everything that could
possibly go wrong on my shift, the shift that never ends as MOMMA, went wrong. I held it
together for so long, determined to be strong in the Meltdown Sea - for my kids, for my husband.
I've got this. I always think I've got this.

When I was probably 7 or 8 years old I received one of those name cards that they sell at every
other Christian bookstore across the nation. My name is Brittany and that means "STRONG."
I kept this gift, this beacon of identity, tucked away in the Bible that I would read every day;
a reminder that God made me "STRONG" and come hell or high water,
I was going to live up to that name.

An imprint on my childhood heart. An innocent, beautiful gesture of a card that I let go to my
head - that I let weave a pattern of strength that sometimes remembered it's Original Maker...
and other times not so much.

I came out of the kitchen that afternoon, knowing it was only 3 o'clock - wishing it was closer
to the hour that my husband would walk through the door with his strong arms, heart, to hold
whatever was left of me from the day. The hour of mercy. The hour our God finished it on the
cross - proving His strength for us, lovingly pleading with humanity to let Him carry us. Weary or not.

In this very hour, it was my 2 year old that gently whispered his desire, a request:

"Can I hold you, momma?"


With tilted head, boyish, moppy blonde, his big, blueberry eyes met mine and I loved him even more.
I crumpled onto the couch and he reached up to put his tiny arm, so small, but made big and strong
in his act of love, around me. He rested his sweet head against my own arm and didn't say a word.
I think I'll stay here awhile.

There was a time in my life when I thought it would be so romantical to be a cloistered nun.
I seriously would dream of St. Therese the Little Flower - seeing her hand me rose petals, the classical,
brown scapular. Oh to be tucked away from the eyes of world - so fast and furiously spinning -
to be held in the arms of heaven, to be still and attentive to what matters most.

"I pay tribute to God by paying attention." - Ann Voskamp

I've slowed down this summer. Purposefully driven to heighten my senses to the holy, simple
miracles that take place in my everyday life. God reminds me that my name means "STRONG",
but He is stronger. He shows me Himself, hidden, quiet, generous in the faces and hearts
of my children, and so many others around me.

When I'm quiet enough, vulnerable enough, empty - but desperately willing to drink deeply of
everlasting waters - I can hear the call.

No resistance.

It's not a cloistered monastery, and I do not wear the veil of Carmelite.
A different kind of "Vail" was chosen for me, and the roses on my dining room table remind me
that my home, my heart, can still be stolen away from this world... if I'm ready to be held
by the God willing and waiting in the most simple, unexpected places.

Preparing for baby #3

"I'm going to go through the bins, gather all the baby toys,
and put them in a box to give away," I said.


Christmas had come and gone, and the invasion of new toys demanded
donation and reorganization. Reduce - let go - that's what Jen Hatmaker would do.
And gosh darn it, who doesn't want to be a little like her?!

As I sat on the floor in my children's bedroom and collected the small gadgets -
the soft ones, the ones that light up, that sing, stack, and hold the imagination,
fascination of such tiny minds, a spark of HOPE flared in my heart and I knew that
this act of de-cluttering was being done out of bitterness and despair.

With not being able to conceive a third child - and no promise of conception in the near
future - I was shouting "FINE, God... You've let my body betray me! So I will stand
with my hands on my hips, eyes laser-focused with cheeks glazed in tears, jaw clenched -
and roar back at You..." by throwing away all the baby toys?! Can we say hormonal?

A moment of grace was given that day, as I sat in the sea of toys on the floor.
And rather than a box labeled "NEEDY," I grabbed a Trader Joe's bag (because I think
they are so beautiful) and filled it with the little singing phone, the stacking rings,
rattles, a light-up helicopter, blocks of all colors and sizes for the LIFE
that I believe God is going to give me.

And that's when it hit me. My word for the year...


God hasn't sent me a direct message saying that life will come in the form of a baby -
but I know that He IS the life-giver, the life-breather - and He wants to blow His
healing grace into my world just as He did in the creation of Adam and Eve.

This year of LIFE is for celebrating what is given.
It is for being joyful in the journey. This year is for bringing
LIFE to my family with our diet changes. I will be seizing more moments -
to laugh, to let go, to praise God. I will be searching for opportunities
to bring LIFE to those around me. This year is for digging deeper in my
soul and removing the memories, the resentment that brings death into
my life. LIFE - I know it will come. Because He tells us,

"Ask and it will be given to you; seek and you will find; knock and the door
will be opened to you. For everyone who asks receives; he who seeks finds;
and to him who knocks, the door will be opened." - Matthew 7:7
Heaven matters. Not the size of my house or the number of shoes in my closet.
The details are passing. Suffering is not fruitless. All an intricate web - a system -
a plan to usher our souls into eternity. Fire refines. Death is not the end.

I'm running out to meet you, Lord. Arms wide open in that field of wild flowers.
My word for this year is LIFE - and I believe that someday I will pull out that
bag from Trader Joe's that has been lovingly packed away - the one filled with tiny toys -
and introduce them one by one to my baby #3.



Do you have a word for the year? I'd love to hear your story!

blog like you are dying

At the end of November I went to the bathroom and noticed that I was peeing blood.
How's that for an opening sentence? They teach you all about "hooks" as an English major -
and I've pretty much perfected the art. *serious/not serious face*

Kidney infection. Not a death sentence by any means, but a familiar flag to me. Not again.
I've been round and round with infections for the past four years.
Antibiotic after antibiotic, like it's no big deal. Like it's normal.

Last year, I wrote THIS post and it was ALL true. Four months of a pure diet brought me to a place of
SO MUCH healing. I did not get sick for over a year, some of my allergies even went away...

and then I got cocky with my diet.

Braving sugars, processed foods, dairy and even... *gasp* wheat on occasions. A slow suicide really.
The truth is, it didn't seem to have major effects on me. Thinking everything was as fine as picnics
on the lawn and fourth of July fireworks, I ran straight back into the arms of the American diet

only to be betrayed.

I seriously felt like a crazy person living in the United States of high fructose corn syrup.
EVERYONE drinks pop. EVERYONE eats ice-cream. EVERYONE EVERYONE EVERYONE.
I feared that I had imagined or over-thought some of our health/diet decisions...

It felt like the hippy in me was a little too happy for it's own good or something.

I wanted to blend in; eat crepes at the Farmer's Market like everyone else
and not have to pack food for my family wherever we went.

People pleaser right here. Herd lover. Crowd surfer.

CURRENT STATUS: undergoing a serious conversion


I saw a nutritionist who ran a lot of "not your typical" lab work.
He wiped my blood on a slide, turned on his microscope and asked me to come take a look.
First, HOW COOL?! Second, I cried.

He pointed out everything to me. Like the curator of a museum, he gave me a tour of my body via
my blood. I saw the bright, celestial-like white blood cells - all perfectly formed, in line, in check.
Hundreds of healthy red blood cells going about their daily route. Made sense why all my blood
work comes back "normal."

And then I saw the inflammation. The warning signs. The flags.
Danger - you are STILL consuming or being exposed to material that is breaking down your body.
Reaction. My blood was reacting.

We talked about auto-immune disorders that day. We talked about multiple-sclerosis.
I don't have a definite diagnosis at this point, but it doesn't matter. What I DO have
are the makings of a serious disorder that plagues my body EVEN NOW.

Various allergies, infertility, repeat infections, anxiety, panic attacks, and the rashes...

"My body is breaking," I sobbed one night in bed.
Ok, I cried every day at some point for a month straight.

It felt, still feels, like a kind of death. A death to a way of life that I am so used to
living. Giving up the American diet for good - and certain products that flare up my symptoms
seems so heavy at times. I drive past McDonald's (which is something I didn't even eat BEFORE
I had issues!) and find my bottom lip quivering because I can't get in that glorious drive-thru
like everyone else and order a number "give me a heart attack" with a diet Coke!

I think the most overused hashtag of 2013 was #firstworldproblems...
but I'm going to use it again right now. Because it's applicable. And I'm pathetic.

There are hundreds of thousands of people around the world who would feel so blessed to be eating
clean meats, vegetables, nuts, grains, fruits, distilled water...
and I'm crying because I can't go to Dairy Queen.

I have a love/hate relationship with perspective.

In the middle of all that was spinning out of control with my health in the past 6 weeks,
I was asked two questions that stopped me in my tracks.

One: "If you knew 100,000 people were going to read your blog tomorrow, what would you say?"

Two: "If you were going to die from all of this, what would you tell your audience?"

Things around here are going to look a little different as this year unfolds.
Please bear with me when days pass by and I cannot post. The diet/lifestyle change
requires more of my time in the kitchen than ever before - at least for now. I'm sure once
I get the hang of this I'll be chopping veggies in my sleep. Or get a private chef. Either or.
Uhhh and yea... the changes have fun with my body and create all kinds of nice side effects.
I'll leave you to your imagination.

Come 100,000 people or my death - I know what I would say.

Welcome to The Lily Field 2014.

Finding Beauty in Addiction

"I am the daughter of an alcoholic."
For years those words have slipped passed my lips and poured over my heart
creating embittered calluses. Like a branded, beaten pony I've taken that label
and let it manipulate me into a corner of resentment, fear, and confusion.

I've licked my wounds one too many times because I care too much.
I am guilty of giving glory to the darkness of addiction because I have not let
myself heal. Logic had me convinced that if I just stayed broken, angry, and
unforgiving than I would never be "better" and then, in turn, "broken" again.
I'll just emotionally bleed to death and maybe that will be punishment enough
for the both of us. He couldn't possibly choose a drink over that... over me?

I cried out to God this week and asked Him, "Why me? It was so hard. It still is so hard."
I know that my heavenly Father was there in the difficult moments because I would not be
here today if He hadn't been. Grace held my hand, and heaven bent to bind up my brokenness,
but like a fearful child I worried that the healing would be more painful than the actual blow.

Hell would like nothing more than to own my father. To own me.
But I informed the devil this year that he can take back the label he tried
stamping on my being so long ago, "I am the daughter of an alcoholic,"
because I am something infinitely more dear -
I am someone he cannot even wrap his mind around...


No one's sin will define me. Not even my own.
I'm going on 10 years of recovery and I think the biggest lesson I have learned
is that healing is a process. Forgiveness can be given more than once. I need to
forgive over and over and over again because in my humanness I cannot just forget.
Live and let live. Be who God has called me to be. Surrender the problem.
Enjoy my own life and the gifts in the moment to the fullest.

God was there all along. He still is. He chose this path, this family for me
for a reason. And it makes me smile. Seriously smile. I love my father to death
and wait eagerly for the day that he receives his full healing.

Because our God is that big.
We are His children.
Defined by His sacrifice.

And that is how beauty can be found in addiction.

__________________________
Do you have a similar story? Need help? Want to talk?
E-mail me: lilyfieldmomma@yahoo.com or leave a comment below.

Helpful resources:
Alcoholics Anonymous
Al-Anon / Alateen
__________________________

eye has not seen

I was 22 years old, laying in the emergency room, waiting to be taken into surgery. Unbearable cramping stole my breath away. They couldn't find the baby. My husband held my hand as the doctor made the call - the call to wait and see.They told me that I wasn't supposed to be able to get pregnant; that people with my condition were incapable of carrying babies to full term. We were told to prepare ourselves to say goodbye to our little one. Week after week went by. I cried an ocean. This was not the blissful picture of motherhood I had conjured up in my mind. I screamed at God. I beat my fists against the walls and nearly suffocated myself with sobbing. This wasn't fair. My body, my deformed uterus, was going to steal the life of our helpless baby. I was not ready to send my child to Heaven. It took me 9 months to fully surrender.At 38 weeks, against all odds, we said hello to Isaiah. Our miracle baby. He made it. God worked wonders behind the scenes. Somehow - slowly - knitting my uterus into a perfect order. When we found out we were expecting just 6 months after Isaiah, the greatness of God's work was revealed. My womb was completely healed. There was no medical explanation. A lot of shrugging shoulders. Many guesses. Hands. So many hands touched me and my womb as lips prayed. Prayers from the hearts of humble men and women reached the throne of God and He answered. Why? Why answer my prayer? I don't know. But I am thankful He did. I know that this season of my life taught me to trust God more deeply - to surrender - to believe in HIS plan - to embrace eternity with my whole heart. I ran to Him like I've never run before. In my abandonment, confusion, and helplessness... HE LOVED me. I write again because the Spring, the third trimester of my first pregnancy, was so emotional. My heart remembers. And it wants to PRAISE GOD once again for the two, beautiful gifts He gave me and my husband. He didn't have to. But He did. And I love Him again and again and again for it. We hope to have as many children as God will send us! Hoping that their little souls and ours will be a symphony for Him. Life. I think I took it for granted before I became a mother for the first time. Never again. Every day is a gift. Sing. I will sing to that. “Things which eye has not seen and ear has not heard, and which have not entered the heart of man, all that God has prepared for those who love Him.” 1 Corinthians 2:9