Monday, April 30, 2012


It is raining outside.  The kind of rain, which tells me there's a thunderstorm not so far away.  The kind, which pulls the humidity straight out of the ground.

My windows are open, and I have so many thoughts I don't even know where to begin.

I am having a boy.

A sweet baby boy.  A son.  He is Judah.  His full name means "gift of praise".  He has big shoes to fill -- a big name to grow into.  He will be a lion.

Maybe I will tell you more about this later.  About what it is like to go for a first ultrasound and see a speck of light.  A shape.  To be told this shape is your baby.  Your child.  Only then to return, months and months later, and have an image of your child flicker onto a screen.  In a dark room, where you're laying all by yourself save a stoic technician.  You watch him stretch.  He turns to look at you and you realize he just heard your voice.  You recognize his jaw -- but it's not your jaw.  It's his father's.  And he doesn't have your nose either.  But maybe he will have your eyes.  Maybe he will have a sweet, dark face with green, green eyes.  Or maybe.  If he's lucky.  He won't be much like you at all.

Or I'll tell you about how just now... just this minute... with the laptop propped on my lap and the rain coming down and the window open, after weeks of feeling him move inside of me, I just felt him move on the outside.  I just watched my belly move.  And I think about how in a few years, at 9:45 at night, I will be scolding him and telling him it's time for bed.  And he won't want to go to sleep then either.

But actually tonight I'm here to tell you about other things.

I am laying in bed tonight, giving up on this day fairly early, because I feel like I've been fighting a battle. A very hard, strenuous battle.  The same battle I've been fighting for years and just didn't know what to call it.  I feel like I am losing.

A battle against the very demons of worthlessness.

As the semester wraps up, all which stands between me and another successful semester are three finals.  Just tests.  I don't worry about tests.  I don't study.  Because I truly believe if I learned it, then I know it.  And if I didn't learn it, then studying won't help.  I have to have it taught to me.  Or teach it to myself.  Or learn it by teaching someone else.  It's that simple.  I don't stress about tests.

But in the morning I have an interview.  For a new job.  Where I won't be serving food anymore.  Where I'll be paid more for every hour of work and those hours of work will not extend into the late nights or on Sundays.  A job with adults.  A job, which will look good on a resume.

I am a nervous wreck.

Tomorrow I also am going to look at a new apartment.  Up by a park where I used to play sand volleyball with a boy who would never love me.  An apartment I drove by in the middle of the day and there were EMS and fire trucks and police cars responding to a call.

I haven't been in my current apartment for very long.  But I'm ready to leave.  I feel like I've overstayed my welcome.  Too much life has happened here.  These walls have seen too much.  And there is no longer enough space for me and all my life.

But to me, looking at a new apartment feels almost like going on a date.  I walk in the door and make an initial assessment.  Check the closets.  Turn on the faucets.  Say hi to the neighbors.  Wonder, in six months, if everything will start falling apart.  Or if this is the real deal.

These are big decisions.  Decisions I have to make.  Decisions I need to make well.  Because the decisions I make now no longer affect just me.  I am no longer allowed to do some of what I used to.  What used to make ends meet, what used to be enough, no longer is.  And so here I am.  Doing what I do.

Which is what I have to do.


But surviving is  a hard thing to do when the enemy is telling you, you are broken.  Used.  Worthless.  Not good enough.  Unwanted.

Persevering is almost impossible when you no longer believe you have what it takes to do so.

Resilience is not a trait you can cultivate over night.  People like us, we're born with it.  Generations of grit and mistakes and learning the hard way made you come out of the womb ready to fight.  But the enemy wants nothing more than to think this battle has been lost.

It's funny, you see.

Because I don't stress about tests.

Why?  Because I know what I know.



Today I was reading a book called "Love Does" by a man named Bob.  A man I wish I knew.  Mostly because I feel like I already do.  Kind of like how I feel I know his friend named Don.  Who confirmed that my crazy, out of the box, non traditional way of loving Jesus was still.... love.  Who sent me to Africa.  To the ghetto.  To Haiti.  

Now Bob is teaching me a brand new thing.  And I didn't have a name for it until today.

Until today when I was stressed.  Tired from sleepless nights because of nightmares.  Tired because I'm not allowed to lay on my back anymore and all I want to do is pass out, lying flat on my back, staring at the ceiling.  Stressed because I have no money.  And need a new place to live.  And have to tell people tomorrow morning that I am amazing and competent and exactly what they're looking for.  

But I picked up Love Does.  

And realized what it is Bob's been teaching me.  

Part of me hopes he reads this and is not offended.  That he understands what I mean when I say...

I have never known someone so confident in their failures.  

So confident in rejection.  

So secure with who they are, their place in this world, and their worth in Jesus... they wrote a whole book about the ways they made a fool of themselves.  About the ways they FAILED.  And the ways God used it.  The brokenness.  The failure.  The every-day screw ups.

Just because some people like to talk about their brokenness, does not mean they are confident in it.  Just because someone claims they've "screwed up" does not mean they can own it in a way, which makes them healthy.  And ironically... whole.  Just because they admit to the addiction, the adultery, the cheating does not mean they are secure enough in their worth to admit they got fired from a job, that they were reprimanded by their boss, that they were given a speeding ticket, that they were dumped.  More than once.  It's the little failures, the ones with perhaps no redemption, which we are afraid to admit to.  

I am not good at failing.  I suck at taking criticism.  I beat myself up.  And anything negative ever said to me has chipped away at me like an ice pick.  I bear the scars of the words of others, but find it hard to let the encouragement and uplifting words of some to soak in.  I am bad at failing.  At the big and the small things.

I better get over this soon.  Since I'm going to be a parent. 

After reading Bob's book this afternoon, I forced myself out of bed and got ready for a meeting I had this evening.  Almost like magic, as soon as I got up, I was hit with this overwhelming sense of joy.  This overwhelming feeling of peace and affirmation.  And I heard the faintest whisper of the One who's been obnoxiously quiet for so long: It's going to be ok.  

These words brought a smile to my face.  Because I know them to be true.

And I can't help but wonder why I worry.

Because this is all kind of like a test.

I know what I know.  And no amount of cramming, worrying, studying will help.  The key is to remember what I know.  And whatever it is I don't know, to learn it.  To teach myself or have someone teach it to me, or to teach someone else until I know it by heart.

I know what I know.

Although I need to get to that place where I fail well, I also need to remember how capable I am of succeeding.  That no matter how it might feel like they are, all the odds are not stacked against me.  All those little failures do not make it impossible to succeed.

And just like I always have... I will survive.  I will do what I need to do.

In the book of Job there is a verse I learned when I was fourteen years old.  Chapter 23, verse 10 says: But He knows the way I take, and when He has tested me I will come forth as gold!

The demons are quieter tonight.  Their nasty voices are being drowned out by the truth and wisdom of others who are also the children of my Father.  Because even though it's hard to believe on some days, good wins.  Love wins.  And God never left.

I know what I know.

Hopefully tomorrow morning that will be enough.

And if not.  I will just have to get better at failing.

Either way.

Tuesday, April 10, 2012

Scars & Damage

My eyes are swollen and red this morning.  Suffering from that horrible puffiness that no amount of washing or make up can hide.  I just look tired.  The kind of tired, which whispers of defeat and emotional exhaustion.  My lids are heavy -- less than five hours of sleep last night.  Maybe five hours of sleep each night for the past week.


Sometimes you don't realize how intertwined a lesson is into yourself until you try and explain your mentality, your behavior, to another.  I was raised, taught, and educated about labels.  For the last two years I have been trained as a professional to avoid this mistake.  He is not an Autistic child.  He is a child with Autism.  He is not a sick child.  He is a child who has cancer.  Somehow it has become some engrained in me: actions and circumstances do not always determine identity.

You lied.  Are you a liar?

You committed a crime.  Are you a criminal?

You took something that didn't belong to you.  Are you a thief?  

Your legs don't work.  Do you identify as a cripple?

You are mentally handicapped.  Do you respond to the word "retarded"?  

At some point, your actions do take over and become your identity.  At some point, you lie enough you become a liar.  It is part of who you are because of the frequency, the motivations, the intentions behind your lying.

You are sitting in jail because you are a criminal.  You have hurt, stolen, broken, or trafficked.  Once you've served your sentence, are you still a criminal?  You have been rehabilitated, but you walk out of the prison, with the word "felon" forever tattooed on your forehead.

Labels break us.  This is the whole concept behind the Scarlet Letter.

Labels turn us against each other.  They give us grounds to judge and ammunition to use against one another.

In the social sciences, Labeling Theory assumes an individual or a people group or a community is affected by the names and stereotypes placed on them.  Labels impact behavior.  Labels foster hopelessness.  People sometimes resign to delinquent, deviant, unacceptable, or cyclical behavior simply because a label has been placed on the group of people they belong to.

In some cases, Labeling Theory is used as a deterrent for such behaviors.  Individuals may avoid certain actions, behaviors, or participation in activities in order to avoid being labeled as "drop out", "thief,"or even "addict".  Studies are starting to show, however, in the most delinquent of communities.... it's not working anymore.

I wonder why.

One of the oldest adages we can all remember is: sticks and stones may break my bones, but words will never hurt me.  

Say what you want.  Your words do not have an effect on me.

What a nasty lie.


I was called damaged.

To you, this word may not sound so bad.  In some situations, it may even resonate with you.  Yes, I feel damaged.  I feel like I am not good enough.  Like I fall short.  Like I am unwanted, unusable, undesirable, rejected.

Words mean something to me.

Words hurt me worse than any other weapon ever could.

And when that word, those words: damaged goods reached my ears, it made my heart hurt.  Because it resonated with some of my deepest fears, the deepest fears straight from the enemy.  Like gasoline on a flame.  Those two words, the one phrase, fueled the smallest of sparks the enemy has ignited in me over the last year.

Because in my mind, damaged means worthless.  I hear "damaged" and I immediately think of the furniture on the side of the road waiting for the garbage men.  I think of the dented cans of nonperishables, which are drastically discounted because they're not worth as much anymore.

To me... damaged is synonymous with "worthless", "useless", with trash.

And I am not trash.

So what do you answer to?

I answer to scarred.




On some days, on most days, I even respond to broken.

But I will never respond to damaged.


This mentality led me to start a project last year.  

I have an eighteen inch scar down the middle of my back.  It is no longer incredibly noticeable, no longer causes me any pain, and most days is not a source of any real insecurity.  

But it used to be.  

I used to buy clothes to hide it.  It used to tinge with pain as the nerves grew back together.  It now looks like a nice, long, pink scratch.  Healed.

Now, there is a numb spot right in the middle.  But it doesn't hurt anymore.

Because of this strong thread throughout my story, I have become fascinated with people's scars.  

So last year I started a project.  I wanted to turn scars into art.  I wanted to turn the very things, which represented so much hurt and pain in all our lives, into something beautiful.  I believe there is a story behind every scar.  And therefore, our scars tells the stories of our lives.

Scars are beautiful.  Because scars mean it doesn't hurt any more.  That healing is happening... what caused us pain may be over.

This thought process resonated with a lot of people.  People who'd survived cancer, car wrecks, life-threatening surgeries, and self-mutilation.  People who'd always looked at their scars and been embarrassed or ashamed.  Looked at their scars like imperfections, hiding them under make up and clothes.

It resonated because we are all scarred.


Even broken.

I, for one, know I am now stronger in some of my broken places than ever before.

My scars represent growth and healing and the provision and protection of my Father.  

My scars tell my story.  


Be careful how you label others.

Be careful of the words you use.

Be careful of what you say about someone who cannot hear you.

Be careful of mistaking treasure for trash.  

Damage for redemption.

Beauty for ashes.

We have been repurposed.  All our imperfections, brokenness, and flaws -- smoothed over, repaired, enhanced.  (

Be careful with the words you use to describe someone.  Some of us will hear those words so often they will become our identity.  We may lose ourselves in who you think we are.  And only a few of us are strong enough to emerge from that, whole.

Sunday, April 8, 2012


You remember.  I used to hear God so clearly.  Through so many obstacles in my life, which beat me down and roughed me up, I was able to hear God's voice loud and clear.  Whether or not His words were instructions, or just to comfort, to remind... I heard them.

My life is such now that all I'm really seeking are answers.  So much of what I'm going through is within my control.  Assignments are piled up, due every day for the next two weeks.  Rent is due.  I need to find a new place to live.  I need to fix the window in my car.  I need to apply for new jobs and for graduation.  All of these things are within my control.  I have the resources and ability to control and manipulate each and every one of those situations.  Thus, I do not worry about them.

There are however, a few things in my life I have absolutely no control over.

And I am deeply, deeply worried about them.

I hate cookie-cutter answers.  I hate blanket statements, which suggest that Jesus is the answer for everything.  "I have a headache." --> Jesus.  That is not how I work.  You have a headache?  Take ibuprofen.  Jesus gave someone the incredible mind to invent medicine.  Freaking use it.

So my point is that I have a really really hard time with the statement "just give it to God".

Well damn.  Alright.

Not because I don't believe He can take care of it.

But because I forgot that He already has.

Now that doesn't necessarily mean my worrying turns off like a light switch.

But the old me, the foundation of me, all the way to the core is comforted by the fact He knows already. He knows the sex of my baby -- and He knows what kind of mother I am going to be.  He knows about my future relationships and how my child and I will handle everything if the father doesn't stay.  Or how we will if he does.

He knows when a ring will be slipped onto my left hand.

He knows my next address.

And He already has visions of my smiles on graduation day in His head.  Pretty far ahead, my Father has planned.

I belong enough to Him, too, that I get to take part in the story.  He trusts me.  Loves me.

But the not knowing is eat away at my heart.

Is my faith weak?  Or just being strengthened?

Am I failing?  Flailing and disappointing Him?  Or is He just writing a better story?

All these things He knows, which I have yet to find out, are safe in Him.  Waiting to be uttered by His lips.  Taken by Him, reworked, reframed, repurposed so that they work out for the good.

I've been questioning that lately.  That He works everything out for the good of those who love Him.  Perhaps that is another verse we've taken out of context.  Another verse we've manipulated to say what we want it to say.  For our own comfort and reassurance.

But for now, I must trust.  That He has made me strong enough.  That He has made my baby strong enough.  That He has made my family strong enough.  And in the not-knowing, He is making me better.

I heard Him yesterday.  In the matter-of-fact voice of a Father who knows you haven't been listening.  "You don't need answers."  And I heard Him offer His peace.

Saturday, April 7, 2012

Maternity Clothes & Research

Today is not a homework day.
I have at least two papers to write before Monday and three presentations and a few more papers to write before April 18th.
This morning it is beautiful in Lexington.  Everyone is headed to Keeneland and I am sitting in Magees.  I got sick again this morning -- that whole routine is really starting to take it's toll on me.  I know my body well enough to know, the minute I wake up, if it's going to be "that" kind of day.  And I rolled out of bed this morning with dread heavy in my stomach.
So between the nausea and the homework, you'd think I'd be in a bad mood.
But I am sitting here, by the window, watching all the people in their dress clothes and sipping on a Bluegrass Breakfast Blend and staring at my half eaten danish.
And the only thing disappointing me is that homework has to be done.
I made the mistake of opening Pinterest this morning before I launched into writing my papers.
All my creative juices started flowing.
Looking at beautiful photography and reading witty blogs and smiling over sweet baby clothes.
And bemoaning my distaste for maternity clothes.

Side note:  Maternity clothes are not cute.  Seriously.  If you think so, you must love ruffles and lace and bows and empire waists and flowing sleeves.  I hate ALL THOSE THINGS.  I just want to be able to wear plain tank tops and t-shirts.  Simple lines and earth tones and NO ELASTIC WAISTBANDS.  Lord have mercy, I walked through the maternity section at Target yesterday and I just shook my head.  The day I have to buy a pair of pants like that, I'm going to cry a little.

The paper I am working on right now is for an implementation process for a hypothetical project to help aid delinquent youth.  The intention is to prevent and educate and occupy youth who otherwise would be loitering the streets of Lexington, getting involved in illegal behavior.  I am trying to channel my creativity this morning to my research.  And it's working... a little.  I think that EBSCOhost is as temperamental as I am.  There are days I use UK's library resources and they produce a whole bunch of crap.  But not today.  No sir.


While I doubt that you want to join me in my academic research on how to effectively intervene in the lives of urban, at-risk youth, you might be interested in some of the other things, which have caught my attention this morning. These are my Pinterest boards.  Follow me.  These pages are really starting to reflect me, my personality, and my style.  And you will be linked to thousands of other people who are much cooler than I am.  (I hesitated just then to use the word "cooler".  Made me feel dated... and I am far too young to be feeling dated.  But I wonder if I had used the word "fresh" if you would have understood what I meant.  "Trill" is also an appropriate would that only a handful of you would have considered as anything more than a typo.) This is my new favorite blog to read.  Fran is an acquaintance -- actually I'm wondering if we've ever even met?  But we know most of the same people.  She's always been delightfully feminine and somewhat elusive (divulging enough information about herself that you are intrigued but eliminating just enough that you are left wondering).  She reminds me of the Gilmore Girls -- witty and full of pop culture references and an impressive vocabulary.  Follow her.

I also encourage you to create a Pandora account.  This morning, I have been listening to Tupac and the Bee Gees and Janet Jackson and Salt N Pepa and oh wait.... Will Smith.  I am not ashamed.

(I am still on the look out for half-way decent maternity clothes.  I have yet to grow out of my current clothes (first trimester sickness had me DROPPING weight instead of gaining).  But the day is coming.  And I am dreading it.  Help me.)

Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Let Me Cry

My moods have always been very strange.  I am not a dramatic person and I do not have extreme, external emotions.  I am an introvert and the brunt of everything I feel is very much internalized and processed before you ever see it.  I don't jump up and down and get excited.  Fits of crying are short lived and rarely loud or snotty.  It's a great trick to get me to belly laugh -- although it's one of my favorite things to do.  And I rarely get into yelling matches.

But when I get into bad moods, when I get discouraged, it is damn near impossible to fix it.  Usually I have to sulk and just allow the bad mood until it passes.  Wallow in the feelings of overwhelmed-ness until I have some moment of enlightenment, however small, which lifts me out of the fog.

It's my system.  And there's not many people who know what to do for me when I get like that.  Must be frustrating.


All growing up we used to tease Kat's boyfriends about needing a manual to be able to understand her.  She'd get upset and we'd all watch these poor boys flounder, only making things worse.  Not one of them knew how to interpret her moods, when to speak up or when to shut up.  The worst of them would try and touch her hair.  Or tell her to hurry.

But for almost ten years now, David's been here.

And I always knew they'd get married.  Mostly because I prayed for it and about it more than I'd prayed about or for anything else.

But we were at Starbucks the other night.  Almost ten years later.  Six months of marriage later.  A little baby girl growing later.

And Kat was crying.

I watched as David settled himself into the chair and pulled her into his lap and wrapped his arms around her so she couldn't move.  And he said to me, "did you know this how you help Kat stop crying?"

In that moment, I remembered how I'd known.  How I'd known he was her husband.  So long ago.

Because David didn't just now learn how to do this.  I used to have to tell boyfriends all the time, the key to getting Kat "un-upset" was to wrap her up so she couldn't move and hold her just long enough to make the tears go away before she got claustrophobic.  There is about a two second window there.  A fine art.

But I never had to tell David that.  Ever.

He just knew.


That, by the way, is NOT how you help me get over my bad mood.

Hold me tight like that and I will be thinking of sixteen different ways to make you let me go.

Don't hold my face (unless you're going to kiss me).  Don't pat me -- anywhere.  Don't tell me to think positively.  And especially don't tell me to look at the bright side.  Don't tell me I'm beautiful (I stopped believing that a long time ago when it comes out of other women's mouths).  And seriously.  Don't tell me to be patient.  Or remind me of what I already know.  Which is that "this won't last", or "I have what it takes", or "it'll be worth it in the end".

I was in one of these moods a few months ago, right after I found out I was pregnant.  High emotions, uncertainty, fear, insecurity were all coursing through me and I was freshly dealing with the reactions of some of the people most closely involved in my life.

I walked out of one room, having set my mind on one decision, and walked into the other room.  I sat down, for what reason I didn't know, and leaned my head up against his chest.  He situated himself and wrapped his massive arm around me and let me lean up against him.

While I cried.

He didn't say anything.  He didn't try and reason with me or remind me of what I already knew.  He didn't tell me what he thought I should do or ask me how I was feeling.

He just let me lay there and cry.


I was in another mood similar to that the other day.  Overwhelmed and stressed and lonely, my introverted self needed time to process and rest, and yet the thought of being by myself was beginning to be too much.  I kind of just wanted to sit in a room with a bunch of people and not say anything.  I didn't want to talk to them, look at them, or interact with them.  Just didn't want me echoing thoughts to bounce off the walls of my empty apartment.

Tears brimmed that day.  Hot and swollen under my eyes and I was almost more irritated with myself for not crying than for wanting to.  I am pregnant.  Hormonal.  I should be crying all the time and damn it if I can't shed a single tear.

It was in that moment I texted Tamera and told her the story about Kat and David.  I said, "if I find a man who can comfort me like that, I will marry him."

"Amen", she replied.

I swallowed hard.  Remembering.

I wish, truly and deeply, that was all it took to make something work.

Monday, April 2, 2012

Rocking Chair

I have been so sick.  I thought morning sickness was supposed to end after the first trimester.  But mine has just gotten worse.  Between working and classes, I don't really have time to get sick.  Let alone stay sick.  So the past month or so has been hard on me, trying to juggle all my responsibilities and a perpetually weak stomach.

Two weeks ago I came down with a stomach virus.  For a lady who has an incredibly strong immune system, pregnancy has kicked my tail.  I was out for 48 hours last time, literally posted up in bed because I was too weak to move.  My OB prescribed me Phenergen and that only made me sleepy.  Somehow I managed to stay on top of things, but I was beat.  I fought a few more bouts of morning sickness over the next few days, taking the edge off by eating earlier and more consistently.  But yesterday I came down with another virus.  And I thought I was going to die.

Every time I get sick I worry about this kid.  My sister has felt her little girl move (she and David found out she was carrying their daughter last week).  She is showing much more prominently than I am, wearing maternity clothes already, sharing her baby's name with everyone.  She is consistently congratulated, hugged and asked questions.  People try and rub her belly and she proudly talks about the progression of her pregnancy and the plans she and her husband have.

I am not much of one for that kind of attention.  I recoil every time someone reaches for my belly.  To this day, the only person who I've let touch my stomach is my friend who fist-bumps my small bump and laughs while saying, "what's up, my nigga".  Alright.  So forgive the racial slur.  But when everyone else is looking at you with pity and disappointment, it gets me rolling every time.

Because that's what happens.  Even though I have allowed my pregnancy to become public knowledge, the news has not travelled nearly as quickly as I had assumed it would.  Just last night, my step sister found out that I was pregnant.  I shake my head, thinking: the one time I count on rampant gossip, it doesn't work the way it's supposed to.

On Friday night I went and celebrated my uncle's 40th birthday.  He is one of the best networkers I know, driven, with high aspirations.  I loved watching his plans come to fruition for a cause so near and dear to my heart.  He and I have always disagreed on my fundraising for short term trips to third world countries.  But just because we disagree, does not mean we don't want the same thing to happen: for people all around the world to know Jesus and have clean drinking water.  Simple things.  Important things.

My sister walked around that party like a proud mama.  With her hand on her belly, ring on the correct, left finger.  She is living her dream right now.  She was showing people her ultrasound pictures, proudly bragging on their little girl.  My niece.

And in reality, I wouldn't have it any other way.  Except for the questions some people find it ok to ask me.

Questions, which perhaps are not unreasonable.  Questions, which I'm sure most people are asking.  But questions I don't have an answer for.  Questions I had to choose, from day one, that I would not be answering in any kind of detail.  Not because I get any sick enjoyment out of secrecy.  Not because I'm trying to be vague or elusive.  But because I drew my line.

Many questions were asked of me on Friday night, which crossed my line.

And while I will never want you to touch my belly, and I may never be able to answer some questions to your satisfaction, there are days when I really do want you to care.


I spent all day yesterday in bed.  Weak and unable to eat.  I was so violently ill I burst blood vessels on my face.  And the whole time, I was just afraid.  Afraid I'd gotten this far, only to lose this baby.  Afraid I'd finally announced my pregnancy, faced the judgment and criticism and harsh words, only to miscarry.  Afraid it would happen and I wouldn't know.  Afraid I'd do something wrong.

But I woke up feeling well this morning.  I ate, showered, and made it to my last class.

And then I bought a rocking chair.

I believe my sister has already furnished her entire nursery.  Especially now they know it's for Penelope and not a baby boy.  She has always been a nester.  A natural mother.  I am not good at these things.  Actually, I'm so bad at these things I've often wondered how good of a mother I could possibly be.  Because my kid won't be on a schedule and will probably take naps in strange places and eat at strange times and have a dozen aunts and uncles and not wear clothes very often.

But today I bought a rocking chair.  From a ministry called Repurposed Soul, which takes old, used furniture and refurbishes it.  All the proceeds from their sales go to Northwest Haiti Christian Mission where I spent ten days last August.  Rocking a sweet boy named Kiki in a rocking chair early in the mornings and late in the afternoons.

Today I bought a rocking chair.  While worrying that my baby was not ok.  While worrying that I would not be a good mother.  While worrying that I do not have what it takes.

Then I came home from class and laid down in bed.  I have to sell frozen yogurt tonight while UK wins (*crosses fingers*) a national championship.  I am tired and sore and weak and I needed a nap.

When I laid down, however, I noticed that my belly was lopsided.

My belly isn't very big (especially compared to my sister's or Elizabeth's at 17 weeks).  I tell people it's because my hips are big and this kid has a lot of room to move around.  But in the mornings I will wake up and I can feel it.  And see it.  Though I have yet to feel any movement.

But when I laid down this afternoon, I could see and feel it, and it was all on the right side of my stomach.  I was concerned at first.  Instantly wondering if I'd knocked something out of place with all my vomiting.  But I looked it up.  Found out it is completely normal.  And then smiled a little.... taking the lopsided-ness for what it actually was.

A sign that my kid is growing.  And moving.

I poked my belly and told "him" to move back to where "he" was supposed to be.  "That's embarrassing, and you know it," I laughed.  I fell asleep for a little while and when I woke up, "he" had moved back to the middle of my stomach.  I shake my head.  Still wondering if I'm going to be a good mom.  Still wondering if I have what it takes.

But my kid is alive and moving and growing.

And I bought a rocking chair.