Restoration Software

To my precious blog readers! Wow. I cannot believe it’s been almost a year since I blogged. I’ve been healing, learning, surviving and—GASP—growing the third baby I hoped so deeply that God would bring to me in the wake of my second miscarriage. Reading my last post below brings me back to old tears and springs new ones, as I see in written ink that He is so faithful. Reese Victoria Mack, our third baby girl, came to earth on July 28, 2018, at 7 pounds, 13 ounces, 20 inches long. She is so perfect, I can’t even. I wrote on Instagram throughout my pregnancy journey, which you probably know if you’re reading this now. In terms of any significant personal writing, though—as you can see by the gargantuan gap in time since my last post!!!!—I’ve been mostly in a season of quiet, of restoration.

Looking back, I remember writing that post about turning 32 with genuine, frightened, vulnerable hope for the future and one more baby. My shaky hands open, typing, believing, holding barely a tiny mustard seed, but a seed of faith nevertheless. And God took it from me, gently, graciously, and planted the new life now napping next to me as my fingers fly their way toward new words.

Thankfulness. Awe. Complete and total humility in recognition of the Divine.

In that post, I reflected on my year 31 with some lessons about the Proverbs 31 woman. And, to just go full TMI on you all, Reese was conceived on my 32^nd birthday. That very night, which was apparently holy. A new day, a new year, a new dawn to redeem the darkness. If that isn’t a miracle, of medicine and God and the moon, then I really don’t know what is. Reese is the reason I’ll always believe in them.

Someday, I will have all the words to describe, in detail, in immediate story, my journey of becoming pregnant with Reese and walking through those first weeks of carrying her, full of miraculous moments I’ll never forget. To my utter shock, she implanted in the first cycle after my miscarriage, immediately following some measures I took for red flags in my body’s makeup and specific fertility. There were issues—and there were answers. I could never have imagined how fast.

What resulted was probably the most wild, anxious, faith-building few months of my life. The buildup to the mystic Week 12, where you may never be fully safe, but you’ve entered The Safety Zone, The Second Trimester, The Land of Breathing Again. After my BFP (Big Fat Positive) I returned so quickly to my doctors and labs for all the frequent blood testing due to my history. Am I even allowed to be pregnant again? So soon? So soon to no coffee, no soft cheese, and no guarantees. So soon to the dreaded ultrasound room with its black screen, hollow silence and robotic technician, with only that paper sheet to protect me, but also my mama’s hand which so often is all you need.

“You probably won’t see anything, you know,” said the tech last December, who I know meant well but also channeled my personal Pregnancy Grinch Nightmare before Christmas. “It’s way too early. So. Just be aware that you’ll probably have to come back in two weeks. If you’re indeed pregnant, that is. I’m not really sure why they have you in here already. Oh. I see your history here… So… Okay, then, here we go.”

“Sounds good!” So encouraging. Thank you!!!!!

Then:

A sac.

A peanut.

A microscopic heart beating perfectly, unmistakably and resoundingly.

“Oh! Well, look at that! I wasn’t expecting this. It’s a very strong heartbeat for six weeks one day, if you’re correct on your cycle dates.”

I’m always correct on my cycle dates.

That steady heart has never once wavered and has strengthened mine in ways unimaginable.

The end!!!!

Haha, JK, totally not even close.

Despite the diamond now held in my tummy and the wonder of this glimmering life, the following months would prove to push me to the very end of myself, physically and emotionally. To make sure the pregnancy “stuck,” as they say, I had to stay on a super-high dosage of the pregnancy hormone progesterone until 14 weeks, which exacerbated the already-unbearable pregnancy nausea I always experience. I recently calculated that I threw up roughly 200 times in this pregnancy—just gonna take a bow right here—and ROUGH is correct. I faced round-the-clock head-to-toe misery and bleak mental torture, even while our two faithful hearts continued to beat with all the joy in the world.

Our family entered survival mode. The TV helped raise my kids for nine months and we fully kept DoorDash in business. Doug picked up all the slack as I puked and slept, and we both were surprised to see just how much slack needs tightening when Mother Ship is laid out to dry (die?). I learned, truly learned, what kind of man I married, which is to say the greatest one I have ever known, whose degree of selflessness surpassed that of my agony every step of the race. I know now that I could never outrun the endlessness of his love for us, and what a kind of love to behold, even if it took me reaching my brink. My limitations were so looming and stark, it still stuns me we all survived.

But we did.

And how?

Well, Doug.

And naps.

And Netflix.

But God, mostly God.

And carbs.

This sense of inability, though, of being benched in my very own life—it was hard. Unbelievably difficult. It’s happened to me to some degree in every one of my pregnancies, but this time reached awesome new heights. That great man I married (SORRY, BABE!) became the landing pad for my rambling vent sessions, which usually sounded something like this:

“I’m so thankful for this miracle, but I’m just—stuck! On the couch, or with my head in the toilet, at a doctor’s appointment if I’m lucky. I can’t move. I feel so sick. And huge. Every day. ALL day. Remember when I was creative? Remember when I was fun? Remember when I could finish a thought? Remember when I USED OUR KITCHEN? I can’t even put my own kids to bed. Will I ever feel like ‘me’ again? Wait, now. WHO EVEN AM I?!?!”

Doug would listen with massive patience until I was ready for his encouragement. Faithfully, he reminded me that our third and final daughter, this incomprehensible gift, was presently requiring all of me. My physical energy, my creativity, my body, my mind, my spirit, my sense of style, my appearance, my personality, my passions, my time—nearly all of it, for a time, was pumping through my veins and into her tiny forming ones. My baby needed her mama. These portions of me were making her great. Of course, I knew this all rationally. Emotionally it was harder to grasp.

I wish I could say it grew easier as the months heaved on, but rather the climb kept steepening. My evening monologues became shorter, and sadder. My spirit waned as my body blew up and the nausea almost never subsided for more than 10 minutes. Many, many nights, while Doug put the big girls to bed, I went to throw up and then crawled into our bed in pitch dark, inhaling my essential oils, crying out desperate prayers, wishing for the millionth time that my body releasing my dinner, FOR ONCE, would at the very least bring some momentary relief. Once the girls were asleep, I’d share with Doug what words I could muster.

“I felt really low today.”

“It’s getting harder for me to tap into the joy and gratitude I have for this baby.”

“And I feel super guilty about that.”

“Do you think you can die of misery?”

“Was this the right thing to do for our family?”

“Seriously, HOW am I so huge? My cellulite has cellulite, and that cellulite has rolls.”

“I’m not sure I can do this anymore.”

Doug would listen, usually rubbing my swollen feet. I could see he felt my suffering, too. There were many of these horrible nights, and infinite such conversations. But one I remember most clearly, around the six-month mark, because his sweet words stayed with me.

“Steph. You are fighting so hard for this baby, and it hurts me to see you hurting like this. I’m so sorry this is bringing you to your knees and causing you so much agony. You know I already think you’re great, you’re the best. I’m in awe of you. But I also know what kind of woman you want to be. And I know you can’t see it now, but this season is making you great. It is refining you to your core. Suffering is doing its work on you. You will come out of this better than ever. You are becoming the mother that three daughters need.

And I know you love to write. I know you miss it and just can’t do it right now. But you’ve told me that certain writers have changed your life with their stories and words. So, would you rather hear from a woman who never knew a trial and skipped along in her life and only saw the sunshine and rainbows? Or from someone who knew great loss and incredible suffering and weighed almost 200 pounds at the end of her pregnancies—and lived to tell about all of it? You may not be typing any words right now, but what you are going through? It is creating the most beautiful writing. I’m here for you. I love you so much.”

His words that April night fell fresh on me like spring rain, and I chose to actually let them soak in. Thank you, my love. The pregnancy kept on hurting, and I mostly hated it, but I had no choice but to sit in this space of tension and let the pain wash me clean.

From that conversation forward, I adopted a new word for this season:

Rest.

Nothing more, nothing less.

Just REST: To cease work or movement in order to relax, refresh oneself or recover strength.

Maybe my actual miscarriage was the start of a longer test for me. I remembered one of the verses that had met my heart months ago, right in my searing loss: Count it all joy when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces patience. But let patience have its perfect work, that you may be perfect and complete, lacking nothing.¹

My world became much smaller throughout my pregnancy, but toward the end, I began to see it as a blessing rather than FOMO. I had nothing to offer anybody, and that’s not overstating it. I could produce no work, no meals, no excitement, no sense of humor. I said no to leadership opportunities and every other social engagement. I became THE most pathetic member of the book club I co-started. Help, just HELP, ‘cross the board. But you know what? Everyone I consider most dear? Still there. Still faithful. Still loving me, probably more than ever. All 190 pounds of me. I began to see it more clearly: I already lacked so little. I was never loved for what I achieved, or offered, or proved. It just took being nearly crippled for me to truly believe it.

Suddenly, I started to notice that everywhere I looked was that word, my word, the one whispered to me in the dark. And now in the Bible, in songs, in the wind.

Come to me, all you who are weary and heavy-laden, and I will give you rest.²

The Lord will restore what the locusts have taken away.³

In returning and rest is your salvation; in quietness and trust is your strength.⁴

He makes me lie down in green pastures and leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul.⁵

Even the new deep-conditioning treatment recommended to me by my hair girl was called RE.STORE. (By Kevin Murphy; it’s truly amazing! My God really knows how to speak to me.)

Whenever I could get on my feet, to maintain some physical motion as well as my sanity, I took full advantage of our beloved YMCA, which lets you check in your kiddos and walk around the gorgeous Back Bay, where an asphalt path traces the edges of this well-loved nature preserve, popular among locals like me and also scientists everywhere. Ocean water pools and wildlife teems in the 1,000 acres of wetlands. It’s a sanctuary in the middle of Newport. I go there to pray, walk, and force my soul into stillness to the tune of Will Reagan and Hillsong.

One particular day, I was extra-wrestling yet again with these feelings of suffering, of helplessness, of, well, rest. I was trying to commune with God, and my beautiful unborn baby, but feeling extra angsty and blah. I just wanted to wiggle out of this body and move the heck on with my life.

Then I heard two words in my spirit: Look up. Look up from the path, Steph. Look up.

And I saw this sign straight before me:

I paused. Like a weirdo among the bikers and joggers, I paused in my tracks to absorb the message in unmistakable view, posted to the fencing protecting the bay, and now, clearly postmarked to me.

Stephanie. I will restore what the locusts have taken away. It’s taking longer than you thought, but I promise, my daughter, I’m doing it. I’m breathing new life into yours. Just rest. In me. You have my full permission and even instruction to cease all your efforts and lay on your couch and let all your people love you. Relax your spirit and let me renew your strength. The best is ahead. Patience is having its work. You are closed now, for restoration. But you will rise up when it’s time, and that time has not yet come. Be quiet. Be still. And know, that I am Your God.

I could no longer escape the decree. I had been called to a stint of rest, to an essential rewiring. My internal software needed a reset. And the best news? All I had to do, was be.

Software is a generic term that refers to a collection of data or computer instructions that tell the computer how to work. Software includes all the utilities that enable the computer to function.

Today, Reese is just about eight weeks old. I feel healed. I feel joyful. I feel clear-headed. I finally feel… Rewired and ready to operate. I feel reinvigorated, and whole, awake to yet another new chapter for me and my family. I’m coming out of a season of silence where I gathered great strength, and into a time of standing up tall once again, with a new voice and open hands.

And, while the past year was probably my hardest yet, it was also filled with some of the very best memories I’ll ever have, ones that brought me great exultation and a smile all the way to the sun. My sister got engaged to the love of her life. My baby brother graduated from Harvard Law School at #1 in his class and my OB let me fly to the graduation (thank you, compression socks!). Emerson turned 5 and Hadley morphed into an actual speaking pony-tailed little girl. My spectacular sprinkle for Reese’s Pieces was an absolute dream, filled with more light and love and girlyness than I could’ve ever asked for or dreamed. I’ve read about this a lot, but I learned firsthand during this time that the sufferer has the choice. Do you let the pain own you and end you, or do you lean right into it, smile through the ache and fight to let it strengthen you and bring you closer to the person of Christ? There is a time to weep, and there is a time to show Satan who’s boss.

Last weekend, I was exercising for real again inside the YMCA, spinning away some of my baby weight on the elliptical, overlooking that striking Back Bay. I noted her beauty and remembered her message of restoration, and thought of some words I might use to describe her.

Calm. Still. Safe. Quiet. Knowing. Peaceful. Wise.

Built to weather great storms.

A soft place to land and to trust.

Not crying out to be noticed.

Never striving to be something she’s not.

So beautiful. Just as she is.

Reflecting the great work of God.

I pray to be all of these things.

One of my brilliant besties, with a keen gift for doing her homework and always knowing the facts, is pregnant for the first time. I couldn’t be happier about this. But she’s had some horrible nausea, which makes me cry for her. She recently told me, however, that my *unique* experience of acute nausea and daily vomiting affects only 2% of all pregnant girls. Of course I had to share this with Doug, since I can finally feel entertained by this fact now that I’m no longer going steady with Zofran and Ziplocs (i.e., emergency puke bags).

“Two percent! Can you believe that?! How did I get so lucky?”

“I actually think you are lucky,” he said. “God knew you could handle it.”

I don’t know if I’d quite go so far as #blessed, but I could nod to this silver lining. “Thanks, babe. That’s really sweet.”

“Do you think it made you stronger?” he asked. “Going through all of that, with this pregnancy especially? Do you feel different than before?”

I didn’t have to hesitate for a moment.

“I will never be the same, after this year. I feel stronger than I’ve ever felt in my life.”

The other day, I read these words by Beth Moore:

Peace is often silent. It does not scream for attention. You have to choose to pay attention to it in the roar. In the war. Shhhhh. Quiet now. Listen carefully. “My peace I give to you. Not as the world gives do I give. Let not your hearts be troubled, neither let then be afraid.”

Maybe it’s a week for you. Maybe a month, maybe a year like me, or maybe a whole darn decade. A time for a certain purpose under the heavens that, frankly, you hate, and don’t know what you did to deserve. It slices. It presses. It hurts. It might literally be stretching your skin from the inside out.

But also.

Maybe God knew you could handle it. Maybe He’s making you great. Maybe your answers won’t be yelled from a rooftop or clear as the day, but maybe, instead, they’ll be whispered in the quiet of nature or spoken from your husband’s compassion or gleaned from the hard-won wisdom growing right from your infinite soul.

Shhhh. Quiet now. Listen carefully.

This I promise you:

The Lord will restore what the locusts have taken away.

**********

My third daughter. My third day and resurrection. My truth, my light, my proof.
You are held, and you are loved. Forever and evermore.

Sometimes it isn’t your fault. Life breaks us. The fall breaks us. The brokenness inside of us breaks us. These failures and relapses and suffering and sacrifice and service, all our little-deaths, this is the painful grace that can make the willing velveteen real.
— Ann Voskamp

God, rest in my heart
And fortify me,
Take away my hunger for answers.
— Mary Oliver

God is within her, she will not fall.
God will help her at break of day.
Psalm 46:5

And after the earthquake a fire, but the Lord was not in the fire;
and after the fire, a still small voice.
— 1 Kings 19:12

Rest and laughter are the most spiritual and subversive acts of all. Laugh, rest, slow down.
— Anne Lamott

Take up your cross, and follow Me.
— Jesus