the arrival

It should be noted from the beginning that I do not consider myself to be a great writer, philosopher, theologian or storyteller. If you are here looking for any of that, you should probably find another blog. I am simply a person whose thoughts are relentlessly wondering, an insomniac that composes ceaselessly in her head at night as she lays in bed, a constant thinker…or overthinker.


I set out to post once a week. It hasn’t been a week yet, but my mind has been in overdrive, absolutely flooded with ideas, thoughts, ponderings…so I am compelled to write in a way that almost seems like I HAVE to in order to silence the composition in my head.

I didn’t know quite where to begin making sense of this life that’s been given to me, but an honest friend of mine encouraged me to begin at the start and work my way from there…so here we go.

the arrival

It doesn’t get any more “beginning” than birth. (I guess it does, but no one wants to think about that!) Over the years, I have pieced together in my mind the stories different people have shared with me throughout the entirety of my life thus far regarding my birth. In a word, I would describe my grand arrival into this world as contradictory, a birth idiom of sorts. Not that people have conflicting stories of my actual birth but that certain things in my birth seemed to be in direct contradiction to other things.

I’ll start simply…I was two weeks late. On my birthday, my mom went to the hospital in the mid-morning because of her contractions. The doctors assured her that I would not come on that day and sent her home. Of course, I arrived late that evening, beating the clock just to prove them wrong. Did even my birth foreshadow some realities of the way I would live out my life? I am typically running late, not usually two weeks late, but late nonetheless. BUT if someone verbalizes a “challenge” to beat, I am sure to rise to the occasion. In general, if you want me to do something then you should tell me that you doubt I can actually do it. I can almost guarantee it will get done.

I was born with red hair that quickly all fell out to be replaced with tufts of hair so blonde that it was practically invisible. I’m not one to classify personalities or attitudes by hair color, especially not in this day and age where most people can’t accurately describe their natural hair color. BUT if I had to box my personality or attitude into a hair color, I would say I am a redhead at heart. I am fiery, passionate, stubborn, opinionated, strong-willed, temperamental, and intellectually driven. Aren’t blondes supposed to be lighthearted, ditzy, fickle, and flighty? Born a redhead but naturally a blonde…Is there really a redhead hidden deeply beneath my goldilocks mane?

Upon my grand entrance, I was…silent. Our family joke is that my birth was probably the last time I was actually silent. The doctor gave me the not so gentle nudge and my response was the loudest cry those in the room claim they have ever heard. Loud would be something used to describe me from that day forward. My voice carries out of my small 5 ft 2 in frame in a magnitude even I can’t comprehend but can certainly appreciate. I was once described as “little person…HUGE voice.” I embrace it.

I was born almost exactly a year to the day that my mom miscarried her second child. It’s a feeling I can’t imagine. I think only people who have experienced the birth of one child so closely after the loss of another can actually grasp what I’m about to say. I know without question that my mom was overjoyed at my arrival. I don’t for a moment doubt her love, BUT I have often wondered if there weren’t mixed emotions on that day. Was the relief of hearing my piercing birth cry accompanied with angst over the child she never heard? Was the fulfillment she experienced from holding me in her arms accompanied with the emptiness of a child never held? When she named me, did she long to say the lost child’s name as well? Did the rawness of her joy make the pain of her loss all the more real? I’ve never really discussed anything with her about the lost child other than the straight facts. In her mind, I think she would fear that I would feel somehow less. But this could not be less true. Even if she were split emotionally on that day, it would not diminish the genuineness of her joy and love for me that was lived out every day since then.

I was born on Easter. It’s a fact that I loved as a child and love even more as I grow up. As a child, I liked to use in “two truths and a lie” type games. Even people who knew me and knew me well would pick it as a lie. After all, how often is Easter in March? Not often. So, why is this contradictory? Easter for most people I know is an excuse to get a new outfit, eat some chocolate bunnies, take a picture with the creepy mall Easter bunny, and dye and hunt some eggs. I would guess probably most families, even on March 26, 1978, celebrated Easter in that way. Most of my Easters would be spent in such fashion, but not that one. For my family, that Easter was about change and new life…the same would happen on another Easter (story coming later). The only son became the big brother. The parents of one were introduced to the world of having a girl and life would be different.

Never one to overanalyze…I realize that God even had a purpose in having my arrival occur on Easter. He knew that to constantly humble me; I would need to be reminded that even the day of my birth wasn’t about me but was instead about Jesus…and that every day in between birthdays is really about Him too. He knew that as I walked through the difficulties of this life, I would need to be reminded of the reality that the day of my birth was really a day celebrating His victory over death…and that when death or loss or pain or angst or uncertainty loomed over me, I could cling to the truth that He is victorious over it all.

It was my start in the process of becoming not me…