More Beautiful for Having Been Broken

Dear Daughter,

As I stood watching you, little one, tears rolled down my cheeks. You stood before my mirror all dolled up in your pink plastic dress-up shoes, hot pink, sparkly tutu, mismatched head bands, some bracelets, as many necklaces as you could gather, and your big sister’s glittery lip gloss. With your hip popped out just so, you twirled a pig tail and smiled at all the fanciness in your mirrored image. Without hesitation, you deemed yourself “boo-tee-ful”, and I did too. I noticed all the beauty on your precious little outside; your black shiny hair, almond eyes and pink cheeks. You are truly beautiful as the world sees beauty. But your loveliness goes far deeper than what most eyes can see. Your beauty has layer upon layer.

You bear many scars, my girl, both physical and emotional. Some your momma sees and can identify, and others she will never be able to. You are made up of broken pieces, some that have healed and some that need more time.

Your story has had harder edges from the moment the world first welcomed you. By your first birthday, you had scars from more than one surgery. Throughout your earliest years, you spent altogether too much time hooked up to an IV, when you should have been playing peek-a- boo. You were crying from discomfort from infection, instead of crying from a dropped pacifier. By age four, between China and home with mommy and daddy, you’ve endured ten surgeries, with all the scars, complications and infections that came along. You spent more time in hospital rooms than play rooms.

You have not been given the luxury of an easy entry into this world.

The luxury of spending time cradled in your birth mothers arms. 

The luxury of not knowing what the inside of an operating room looks like.

The luxury of having your only milestones being eating your first table food and walking.

The luxury of your childhood spent surrounded by birth family and birth culture.

Both your body and your heart have been broken. As soon as I type that, I want to hit delete, because most of the world hears that word and cringes. So this momma bear wants to take it away, to pretend it’s not so. But that would be diminishing you and your story, my dear, because you are a warrior. A tiny yet mighty one, made more beautiful by the broken parts. You are not normal. No, you are far more. You are an original, and your scars tell a story of strength and miracles and survival.

The truth is, that evening watching you in the mirror, my tears were spilled both for you and for me. My world was spinning, and seeing you there proud in the mirror stopped me in my tracks. Just a few weeks earlier, a doctor had informed me that the lump I’d found was malignant. That afternoon I had visited a plastic surgeon to discuss reconstruction after breast cancer. As she whipped through photos of all my less than fun “options”, it wasn’t the surgery that scared me most. It was all the scars. I’m about to have scars, my dear, and you already have so many. What are we girls to make of it? We girls want to feel beautiful.

I am not one that is overly focused on appearance. I tend not to compare, and I don’t focus too much energy on extreme body sculpting exercise or on finding the perfect jewelry and shoes for each perfect outfit. But those images of potential scars rocked me, I must admit. Though my appearance has never been my obsession, at the end of the day, like you, I still want to stand in the mirror and feel pretty, and I wonder if I’ll be able to.

Just when my fear was starting to swell, the Lord placed you in my mirror with all of your sparkle. How could I keep blowing up pity party balloons with you standing before me? How can I not glean strength from all of yours?

You are young, little one. You just color your “artworks” and give your baby doll a bottle, blissfully unaware of your history, unburdened by your losses and the scars they left. You don’t carry the weight of it yet. I pray you never well, but I suspect it will be something you’ll have to pray your way through as age brings understanding and exposure to the world’s view of beauty. I worry that someday you’ll look in the mirror and those scars might be more noticeable. As your momma, I am going to say every affirming word I can to empower you to see yourself with loving eyes. Ultimately though, I know that only the Lord can heal hearts and bind up wounds, so I am going to be praying my guts out for Him to do so for you. I’ll pray for him to do so for me too.

Once a friend, aware that one of my concerns about your surgeries was the additional scarring, blessed me by sharing a graphic with an image of a gorgeous piece of Japanese pottery marked by streaks of shining gold. Beneath it was the caption:

Kintsukuroi: to repair with gold, the Japanese art of repairing cracked pottery with gold or silver lacquer, and understanding that the piece is more beautiful for having been broken

 

 

You are my beautiful, brave warrior. The strength you’ve shown in enduring four years of loss, hospital stays, surgeries, and invasive tests make you even lovelier as you stand on the other side of each one. Lovely not in spite of it, but BECAUSE of it. The Lord is in the process of writing your redemption story, and it’s one of miracles. You are a piece of art He’s creating, ever so intentionally filling in broken pieces with gold.

Your journey is not over, and neither is mine. But let’s expect that gold filling. Let’s expect layers of beauty. And when we doubt, let’s remind ourselves to consider how our very artistic Creator sees us.
Someday maybe you’ll lift your shirt up, and I’ll lift up mine. Maybe we’ll notice that the scars are present, but fading, part of the story, but not all the story. Maybe we’ll fist pump, because we fought like girls.
  
Courage, dear heart.

Love,
Mommy

This post was originally published on  No Hands But Ours. 

Happy FOUR, Evelyn!

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Happy FOUR, Evelyn Han Huizhen! 

Two years ago, we were just home from China and she spent her 2nd birthday in the hospital.  Last year, she'd just had a rough surgery up in Columbus, Ohio and felt rotten.  So this year her birthday feels extra special, and is filled with a heavy dose of gratitude. This girl.  She taught us to celebrate and has challenged us to focus on the beauty of all our todays.

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We celebrated with all her favorites: Lay's potato chips, cheese, strawberries, watermelon and rolls of deli meat.  Her cake boss daddy even worked his magic to make her Daniel Tiger cake dreams come true. 

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We invited the cousins and a couple friends over and called it a party.  Of course, she's was ready with a most appropriate favor.  (That we later forgot to give!)

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They giggled.  They sang.  They ate.  They giggled.  They ate again.  They rolled in the grass. 
They giggled more.

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A special birthday bonus was that her beloved "Baby Charlotte", who is newly home from China, partied with us.  Evelyn has prayed for over a year for this special one (who was too busy playing to be photographed well!), and was even requesting a "Baby Charlotte" party.  So, her presence was akin to having Princess Elsa make a party appearance!  All Evie's birthday wishes came true!

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Sometimes you see a kid doing kid things and it feels like a miracle.  

Happy FOUR, Evelyn Han Huizhen. You are a spunky, silly, music loving "big helper".  Your little giggle is the best ever and we all love when you say "idea" before your crazy suggestions of what we should do next. 

And your stanky legs?  The most hilarious. 

Courage, dear heart.

Beyond Ourselves: My Gotcha Day Reality

It’s the pinnacle of the adoption journey. We build a beautiful image of what gotcha day will be, and hold hard to that as we wait. Much preparation goes into readiness for caring for the child we’ve seen only in pictures. We study bonding techniques and possible reactions, and pack and repack little backpacks. But as moms can do, we often fail to prepare our own hearts.

On our first gotcha day, I was unprepared for my reaction. Looking back on that sacred moment, I see a brave mask. I smiled, went through the motions and loved on our new little one. Only my husband and I knew about the unexpected bubbled up emotions that spilled over into the day I assumed would be magical.

We’d waited for five years to feel the weight of Claire in our arms, and prayed through a hundred obstacles to bring her home. When adoption day arrived, I was giddy. Until we found ourselves on the steps of the orphanage. Suddenly, I was flooded with a perfect storm of emotions, a smash up of every “feel” that could be felt. My reaction didn’t build gradually. It slammed me with a surprising abruptness.

When ushered into a conference room for our long awaited moment, the decision to adopt suddenly felt ridiculous. I couldn’t fathom why I was stepping out of my going-just-fine life and onto ground beyond my comfort zone borders. The sound of voices was muted by the pounding of my heart. I avoided looking at the camera, as I was busy mapping out an escape route. Giddiness faded to fear.

Finally, with weak knees and trembling hands, I held her tiny self for the first time. And a war began in my head, heart and prayers that would last a few days. I knew she was a gift. I knew I loved her, but inadequacy was shouting, “I CAN’T DO THIS!”

Brave? Beautiful and honorable feelings? Not so much. 

Though we were strangers, Claire and I held onto each other for dear life. Though shaken, we knew it was deeply good. She coped with sleep, and I led my heart, simply doing the next thing before me. We both were fragile, just getting by moment to moment. My guilt was as consuming as my trepidation, as I didn’t think there was space for a mom to be terrified of her child.

But in God’s sovereignty over details, my husband was peaceful, full of faith, and instinctively protective of his girls. While Claire melted safely into her daddy’s arms, I begged my own Father to comfort me. There are moments in this life when a Father’s arms are needed, aren’t there?
Intense panic over the first few days gradually gave way to waves of peace and joy, and eventually my heart righted itself.

Later, I pretended it had been the magical moment I’d planned. Privately, I was embarrassed that my feelings had failed me. My weak and fearful human side flared up and cried panic.

The truth is we fail. We are inadequate. Thankfully, God simply asks us to say yes. In His glorious way, He can work with you and me. Even when we doubt. Even when we want to run away from His grand adventure called adoption and back toward our comfort zones.

Three years later, we were back in China for two more children.

First came Eli, and his “gotcha” was full of joy. This time, I carried the wisdom of experience. The giant step into adoption had already been taken and God had met us out on the water. Eli’s precious little self walked into our lives without any hesitation on his part or mine. Some gotcha moments are magical.

Next, on that same trip, came fragile, feverish, screaming, swatting and terrified Evelyn. And my emotion smash-up returned. The step into complex medical needs sent panic tumbling in again.
Though fainthearted, I went through the motions of traveling from her healing home to her home province, in care of her nanny. My head wanted out, but my heart tentatively knew better. Been there and done that. The night before her nanny released her, I sobbed for her needs and my weakness. Though my faith told a different message, my flesh was holding up a stop sign.

Continue reading over at No Hands But Ours.

Chronic: The Race Set Before Us

I am coming to terms with it.  This is not passing.  It’s not over after a surgery, or two.  Or after a therapy session, or three.  The first year is behind us, but there are more miles in this marathon.  I’m discovering what chronic means.  I’m learning that adopting a child labeled medically complex truly does mean “continuous care” and it will “require services from different practitioners in multiple settings over time“. 

 

We knew it would be a stretch, but we didn’t expect to unravel completely.   We cherished our comfy, together feeling, unaware we were wound around the wrong things.

 

Life is now a marathon of appointments,  surgeries, X-rays, nurse calls, research, MRIs, infection, complications, testing, PICC lines, anesthesia, ultrasounds, therapy, and care taking.  And our emotions dart between fear, hope, tears, weakness, hero mode determination, numbness, faith,  exhaustion, new joy, and gratitude.   Human feelings and supernatural strength step simultaneously together.

 

So we must face what chronic and complex mean.

 

The antibiotics will continue. 
The appointments will continue.
The care taking will continue.
The “catastrophic” insurance medical cap will be met. 
More procedures. More medical supplies.  More hurt.  More miles to go.

 

We wonder if our prayer team will start dwindling.
We wonder if people are weary of medical talk and prayer requests. 
We wonder if we’ll figure out how to truthfully yet concisely answer, “How is she?”
We wonder if telling the truth is whining, because we should be running the race better. 
We wonder if doctors are making the best decisions.
We wonder if God wants us to hope for miracles or accept realities.

 

Well intentioned people in our lives regularly encourage us with, “It will be fine.”  “She’ll be fine.”  “You’ll be fine.”  But what do you do when your heavy heart simply doesn’t feel “fine” watching your child endure continual procedures, tests and hurts?   Should we try harder to be fine? 

 

We wonder how parents of more complex children do it.  We think, “Well that family adopted a child with the much harder XYZ disease and they seem together.”  Or, “That family has adopted four kids with complex needs, and are adopting three more, what’s my problem?” 

 

But our child’s pain messes with us.  When discomfort comes daily, tears flow regularly, painful tests are ongoing, and caretaking that hurts is required, there is trauma to process.    Is my faith growing?  Yes.  Am I feeling blessed and refined?  Yes.  But there is still trauma to process. 

 

No matter the internal or external pressures we feel, we must give ourselves the freedom and time  to feel what is to be felt.  To look at the dark parts of the trail and not look away.  God is allowing us to walk through something chronically hard.  From the world’s perspective our child might end the race “fine”, but a parent’s heart still has steps to take.   

 

Read the rest over at No Hands But Ours. 

 

Special thanks to Tish Goff for her beautiful photographs.

Love Starts Here (Love Without Boundaries Guest Post)

Just as mine is, Kelly’s social media feed is filled with images of orphans waiting in China. Sometimes it’s overwhelming. Sometimes those little faces get lost. But in February of 2013, my friend didn’t scroll past LWB’s blog post, “Jenny, Jenny”. She read it and took a moment to share it, urging, “Jenny needs a family.”

And our love story started there. With a keystroke, a friend introduced us to our daughter, and love came fiercely.

Her face appeared on the screen and our journey began. “Oh, we’d love her,” I responded in the comments. It was a casual response, but my heart was gripped. I smile now, unsurprised that first words spoken of her included love.

A long list of potential families had already responded on the LWB blog and Facebook page. Hands trembling, I emailed our agency, and they responded, “We will inquire, but prepare yourself, because it is a long shot.” We understood, but this little soul had seized our hearts.

As turns it out, love is a potent force. More compelling than agencies, countries and a long line of families in line for, or reviewing, a file. Miracles manifested, and remarkably, her file landed in our hands, requiring only a “yes”.

Before we could board a Beijing-bound plane though, we had to push and pray through a wall of doubt and fear over what “complex medical needs” might mean. Also in our way was an ocean of logistics, eight months of paperwork, fingerprint rejections, an extended LOA wait, and two countries’ worth of red tape.

As we awaited travel approval, our “Jenny” was hospitalized again and again for infections. We studied images of her in the care of “ayis” in hospital rooms from Beijing to Shanghai, and it was evident that she knew love.  Finally, we fully felt and understood the mission of Love Without Boundaries. Love. The true, breathing, active kind.

Despite the costs, our daughter received ongoing treatment and specialized attention at the Heartbridge Healing Home. She was listed as “urgent” on the list of children needing surgery sponsors, and people gave and sponsored, prayed and gave some more. Though she had no parents by her side, she had an army of individuals who’d said, “Love starts here.” And in the truest way, they made all the difference.

The day finally came when her new, terrified parents felt the weight of her in their arms, knowing her needs were urgent, but unaware of the severity. Cycles of surgeries, infections, and hospital stays in three cities had left her organs beginning to shut down, and we had no idea.

All we knew is that our beloved Han Huizhen was a feisty little one with a high fever, who either slept or watched us from a distance with traumatized eyes. She’d only known the care of nannies and nurses and they’d been taken from her. Her experience with love started with them. It was the best and most gut-wrenching scenario we could have asked for.

Read the remainder over at Love Without Boundaries. 

Hospital Gratitude: Ronald McDonald House

Dear Ronald McDonald House of Central Ohio,

 

Hundreds of families stream through your doors each week, and you find each one a room, serving them with great love and care.  You give, and you give and you give, offering up hope to families coping with hospital stays.  Without asking anything in return, you serve families carrying the weight of their child's medical needs, and it is no small thing.  We were one of those families twice in the past few months (and will be again next week) and we want you to know how very grateful we are.    

 Finally spotting your sign at the end of our long, anxious car rides is such a welcome site. 
Ronald's red & white socks just make us laugh, and the giggles are a gift.   Evelyn is not so sure, but she's warming up. 

 You've welcomed us with waiting, comfy and clean rooms just across from the hospital, and then pampered us with check in toys and treats.  When we arrive, we're heavy knowing medical procedures are to come for our two year old.  It's a loaded moment, and your kindnesses have mattered. 

 Twice you've given us pre-hospital admission and pre-surgery meals and memories.

And just because kids need to be kids, you've created a space where a little girl can imagine she's a fairy princess. 

Even after our hospital admissions, when we'd been there for days, you still had more to give.  Toys magically appeared by our door, bringing smiles and much needed distraction. 

And your volunteers?  We hope they know they matter.  That they are appreciated.  That each meal they prepared, the toys they donated, each room they cleaned, the handcrafted toy car they gave, the box of bakery cupcakes left on the counter, the smile from the volunteer at the front desk, all mattered tremendously.  We did not get to hug all those volunteers to express our thanks.  We just found the hot meals waiting and gratefully dished up comforting plates. 

Nevertheless, gratitude overflows. 

 

Seeing moms and their kids, churches and groups of company employees giving away their Thursday nights and Saturday mornings to volunteer restores hope.  There is much kindness in the world after all. 

And the ladies who bake cookies almost every afternoon?  Oh my.  They could have made them at home.  It would have been easier.  But the smell of peanut butter blossoms baking on a cold afternoon after hours of sitting by a hospital bed? 

 

Tell them it makes all the difference. 

 

 One of the bakers might just have received one of my teary-eyed hugs. 

You matter, Ronald McDonald House, to our family and so many others. You step in at hard moments and take the hand of families who are physically and emotionally exhausted. 

 

We were distracted when we were there and didn't fully express the level of gratitude that we felt.  So, thank you. The gift you offer matters. 

 

With much gratitude,

Our Team

Hospital Gratitude: Visitors

Remember to give thanks when you are weak.  Let the thanks nourish you, let God's grace make you strong.  ~Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts

 

In July, we took Evelyn to Nationwide Hospital in Columbus, Ohio for a week of tests with the foremost colorectal surgeon in the world, Dr. Marc Levitt.  Our outpatient status changed to admission when she developed a kidney infection.   In the midst of a hard experience, thousands of miles from home, we were blessed with the gift of visitors, and they were game changers. 

 

This surgery trip was no different, and we still can't take it in.  Somehow, though four states away from home, we were lavished with love. 

 Our thoughtful China adoption buddies, Jennifer and Olivia, visited once again, bringing smiles, songs, dance numbers, princess supplies, lunch from Panera, magazines and a fat bag of Trader Joes treats for momma.  Their big, generous hearts brought huge blessing to our day.   These two are a team on a kindness mission, always loving, always encouraging.  They love big and love well and we are deeply grateful. 

 And then there was Erin, who visited Michelle (another surgery momma) and I from Colorado.  As in she flew in from the other side of the country to spend one hour encouraging us on the night of our kids' surgeries.  This sweet soul is incredible generous of heart.  She walked into Evelyn's hospital room and my mushy brain couldn't even put together who she was. So out of context, so far from home, and so impossible that she'd make such a trip.  We've been messaging for months.  I've prayed for her and she's prayed for me.  Then suddenly, there she was, on a day when a hug really meant something. 

 

She and I are forever connected by Love Without Boundaries.  Both Evelyn and her Bekah received love and care at the Heartbridge Healing Home for medically fragile children in Beijing.  Our hearts were broken a few months ago when Bekah passed away after a heart surgery.  The loss is immense.

 

We overflow with gratitude for Erin, who though still mourning the loss of Bekah, came from so far to encourage us.   

We saw no shortage of surgeons during our hospital stay, but this one blew us away. 

Meet Dr. Smith, Evelyn's brilliant and kind urologist.  From Atlanta. 

 

This man saved our girl's life back in December 2013, just after we returned home.  He's kept right on saving her life, performing bladder surgery in January, then again in March, and treated multiple kidney infections.  He's a gift directly from God.  And though he's a busy surgeon, he's led our medical ship in so many ways. 

Dr. Smith was in Columbus for a conference and remembered Evelyn was having a surgery in November, so he spoke with Dr. Levitt, and ended up standing in our hospital room. 

Our gratitude can not be measured. 

These special ladies are some of my "me too" mommas.  Stephanie's daughter, Abby, had surgery on the same day, so we exchanged notes in the hallways and parent break room. 

 

Jennifer lives in Columbus and came by to visit, just as she did in July.  She came bearing chocolate and toys, and the connection of someone who gets us.  Her son, Justin, has a similar condition as Evie. 

He too was Love Without Boundaries baby. 

 

We so wanted a sweet photo of the two of them to send to LWB, but it was just not our girl's best day.  Much gratitude to Jennifer for her visit, her love, her friendship, and her understanding when we needed to rest. 

 Finally came these two incredibly generous families.  They are relatives of our sweet friend, Rachel, from home.  She has family in Columbus, so she called on the troops.  And they came.  They prayed over us, smiled at us, hugged us and brought toys, water bottles and treats. 

 

We got to know each other on our hospital couch, and they spilled out love all over the room. 

They didn't know us, but they came anyway. 

 

Evelyn felt good at one of the visits, but not great at the other.  Both families made her smile though, and both were angels to our family.  Both challenged me to serve bigger and farther outside my comfort zone. 

 The toys and chocolate were a fun treat, but it was the presence of these kind souls that mattered most.  They nourished us with themselves and were walking, talking agents of God's lavish love. 

 

 

Never underestimate the power of a hospital visit, friends.  Even the shortest ones make an impact.
 I'll admit that I've never visited anyone other than family, but that will be changing.  

365 Days "Upon the Waters" (No Hands But Ours)

One year ago, we were somewhere over the ocean between East and West, with our two newly
adopted, Mandarin speaking children. We were a muddled mix of joy, weariness, readiness to be home, heaviness from leaving our children’s birth country, and profound gratitude for our intensely beautiful time in China. Feeling the joy of long awaited little people in our arms, but surrounded by ocean and fear, my husband and I were deeply aware that we’d surrendered our former lives and were hurdling at high speed toward all things new. 

Our son and I were wet and stinky from a double diaper blowout, and my husband dispensed antibiotics covered in Mandarin script to a feverish daughter while simultaneously attempting to catheterize her in the airplane lavatory at 10,000 feet.   Much like the next 365 days would turn out to be, that flight was an exhausting, yet sacred adventure. Our goals were to care for medical needs and to minimize mid-flight chaos by dispensing Chinese rice crackers and walking the aisles. Survival. We trusted the pilot was guiding us to where we needed to be.

Feeling like we’d been “called upon the waters”, Hillsong’s “Oceans” had been our adoption anthem.  Our former, safer life with two daughters had ended, as we adopted two children at once, one with complex medical needs. We’d adopted before, but this was deeper water to step into.
We touched down on Thanksgiving day, but it felt like we’d landed on water. In a jetlag stupor, we spent the next days searching for solid ground. With a hundred needs coming at us like waves, we began our year of triage sorting them by urgency.

Septic child? Top of the list. Hospital admission, MRIs, antibiotics, and ultrasounds. Clearly it was to be a bumpy ride.

Next on the list were pediatrician appointments, blood tests, stool samples, and shots. Then a mix of sleep issues, feeding issues, anxious attachment, indiscriminate attachment, coping skills, and language learning. Specialist referrals from neurology to nephrology and plastic surgery to audiology, then clinic visits, evaluations, and assessments. Our safety belts stayed buckled. 

Have you been there, adoption friends? Each story is unique, but year one is a strenuous and sweet triage for most.

Medical needs? Our full attention.

Sleep issues? High on the list.

Sensory needs? One day at a time.

Potty training? Can wait.

Orphanage behaviors? Consistent training.

Emotional needs? Hugs and prayers.

Speech therapy? Not yet.

Dental work? No time.

Attachment (theirs and mine)? Takes time.

Academic needs? Sigh.

Oh yes, and we have other kids with needs and emotions, each treading water themselves.

And then there is this marriage rocked by the waves.

And me. Tired, feet failing, weight gaining, and limits stretched.

Seeing over the waves becomes challenging. There are more needs than we can meet. More hurts than we can heal. More trauma than we can fathom. More burden than we can carry. The triage list is overwhelming. And when we reach the end of ourselves? We cry weakly out to the Lord, the surrendered prayer of an adoptive parent. We call for Him as we hold our sleepless little boy in the middle of the night, when a sibling regresses emotionally, in doctors’ offices as we hear test results, when a son sits unafraid in a stranger’s lap, when a daughter only eats soft food, and in hospital waiting rooms as we wait for surgeons to emerge.


Triage burned through our family with a refining fire. How money was spent, what we said yes to, and what we spent time thinking about all changed. The first year brought lots of treading water, but it had its sweetnesses too. It cultivated faith and polished attitudes, purified hearts and clarified focus. When our days involved therapies and hospital stays, family nights became more special. When we sat beside a two year old on a hospital bed bravely raising her arm for vitals checks and IVs, our perspective changed. Gratitude enlarged.   Former worries seemed less like worries.

It turns out deep water is cleansing. Our feet didn’t fail and our family didn’t sink. God is bigger than I thought He was.

Our mourned former life now seems less alluring, and the new life has a fullness to it. Our bedrooms are full and so are our arms. Our new children experienced their sweet year of firsts, developed trust and took tentative steps into family life. They blossomed before our eyes, and we watched with awe and wonder, celebrating the ordinary extraordinary. Hearts expanded in siblings too as they grew to love new family members and sacrificed their toys, space, and mommy and daddy time. We discovered the courage to walk into hospitals and specialist appointments, and the strength to handle emotional needs. Faith, family and life-giving friendships were all we had time for. We missed meetings, skipped parties, and rethought commitments. There is more to celebrate now and less that distracts us. Walking through turbulence has its beauty.

Courage, dear heart.

We are at Nationwide Hospital in Columbus this week with our tiny yet mighty Evelyn.  She was admitted on Sunday, with surgery on Monday. 

 

It's been a week of hard things and sweet things. Recovery and giggles.

NG tubes, two IVs and a PICC line.  Nurses, surgeons making rounds, cafeteria trays kept hidden, antibiotics, pain meds, an amazing Ronald McDonald House, Elsa socks, and vitals checks,

but also stillness, focus, and tender moments. 



Steps forward and steps back. 
Things to share and things to hold close. 

 Snuggling and playing. 

Times of strength and times when we allowed ourselves not to be.   

 

 After about a day and a half of pain and feeling out of it post surgery, our mighty one's puffiness receded and she started taking walks with her daddy. 

Then she had a couple days of energy surge, and had playtime with buddies and preschool craft hours.  She's watched Frozen 23 times, painted turkeys from a rolling art cart, blown bubbles, had her nails polished in every color, and was loved on by some incredible nurses.  

The end of the week brought fussiness, some weakness, extreme attachment to her momma, the return of pain meds, and lots of extra resting.  Still, she giggles and likes to walk the halls looking for babies. 

Our girl has been NPO (nothing my mouth) since Sunday.  For the last seven days, her hydration and nutrition have come from this IV bag, in the form of dextrose, sodium chloride, and potassium.  Amazingly, she only asks to eat and drink a couple times a day. 

 

This week we've leaned in, stilled ourselves and focused on loving well.  We have stories to tell of fellow patient friends, master surgeons, serving grandparents, a surprise visit from our urologist from home, the blessings of visitors, friends loving us well at home and nurses who are angels in training. 

 

Our hope is that the NPO order will be lifted tomorrow night or Monday.  The prayers of Team Evie are powerful, encouraging and carrying for us.    

 

Evelyn is now a wee bit more tiny, but still is a mighty little soul.   

Courage, dear heart. 

-CS Lewis

Hemmed In

The feeling of peace we had during Evie's hospital stay can not be explained.  It was hard for our girl.  It was a flashing sign that yet more medical intervention is needed. 

It was exhausting.  It was emotion loaded. 

Yet somehow, I found myself telling friends that we felt hemmed in. 

 

Psalm 139:5 You hem me in-behind and before;

You have laid your hand upon me.

 

Yes, the hospital was amazing, but the hemming was deeper than that. 

It was arriving at the Ronald McDonald House and finding a care package decorated with flowers waiting for us. 

 It was little Chinese-American, Ohio native friends nourishing us with their kindnesses 

and comforting us with their songs.   

 It was art drawn by the brothers of another special little patient friend. 

It was mac n' cheese (served up by RMH volunteers) with a pig-tailed little buddy who fights a  similar battle.

 It was connection and laughs over egg rolls and pad thai, served up on a rolling tray table between doctor rounds. 

 It was stories told by THREE mommas who had Evelyn's file before us and love her still.

A reminder of God's perfect sovereignty. 

 It was "Cookie Wednesday" and too much to say in too short a time with mommas in the Dr. Levitt fan club  (and a few bonus China mommas). 

(I'm thinking I was taking a little snooze behind the eyelids in this one.)

 

 And when you feel the hemming in, love wins over anxiousness, fear and a hundred unknowns. 

 

Deepest thank you Jennifer, Olivia, Jill, Erin, Erin, Jane,  Amy, and Jennifer. 

Your encouragement was game changing.