View from the Prairie Box

Meagan & Ryan’s family is a gem. I just adore their children and am always super pleased at the results of our time together!

The leaves on the ash trees out front have already fallen—a harbinger of both the coming winter and the coming emerald ash borer it seems—but there are still glorious signs of fall to be found. Lincoln has been especially lovely late in the season this year.

I’ve known Liz for [cough cough] quite a long time now—that’s what happens when you go to high school in the same city and then return there years later with your families! Liz and I have a lot in common and it’s a joy to spend time encouraging one another in our pursuits of serving God’s church and capturing His beauty via photography. We’re snapping pics of each other’s families this fall, and here’s evidence of our time spent together recently on one fantastic football Saturday.

How many locations can you recognize from the images below? Photos were snapped in seven different spots in Lincoln.

I march into autumn convinced that summer is the best season, but find my senses being wooed by a few cool breezes, the vibrant shades of leaves falling to the ground, and weekly Husker football games. I don’t want to be happy as the days grow shorter and my beloved and warm sunshine veers to the south. But fall charms me anyhow and sooner or later I submit to its loveliness.

Something else comes at me in the fall though, and it’s October, the bittersweet October. More and more women are beginning to talk about pregnancy and infant loss this month, which is, fittingly enough I suppose, the month I miscarried ten years ago now. My body remembers before my mind remembers, and even when I recall that October was when I miscarried, I don’t * feel* like it should be a big deal. It was ten years ago. And honestly, it means different things to me now because life looks very different now.

Ten years ago Livia was two. Jeremy and I were within the first eight years of marriage. Our family was young and we were going to grow.

In 2016, Livia is in middle school. Jeremy and I have been married for 18 years and our family is not going to grow. At least in traditional, expected terms it will not.

I’ve played the “What If” game a little bit this fall. What if that baby was alive? She (let’s call this baby a “she”) would be nine. Livia would have a sister and we would have a second child who was permanently ours. It’s a strange but sweet thought, an alternate reality that doesn’t demand much time or consideration, but it’s interesting nonetheless.

We still miss that baby. She was a little fetus with a heart that we heard beating in ultrasounds. We wonder what this child will look like in glory someday. Will unborn babies look like babies or adults? Is there a cutoff for getting that new glorified body or does every human fertilized egg get one? For now it’s all a mystery to us—from the missing to the heavenly existence.

I came across this small write-up of my miscarriage experience and letter to Baby that I contributed to A Musing Maralee and it all still holds true. That trip to Arizona still reminds me of being newly pregnant, picking out pumpkins still reminds me of the twinge of morning sickness I had ten years ago, and Fall Fest at Zion Church still reminds me the one where I was grieving, but not grieving alone.

I carry that child with me every fall. I think my very cells will not let me forget her. I think about all the women around me who carry memories in their cells as well, memories that brush them with sadness and joy and guilt and pain as the seasons come and go. This is life, the bitter and the sweet, the memories that combine smiles with tears.

Where shall I go from your Spirit?
Or where shall I flee from your presence?
If I ascend to heaven, you are there!
If I made my bed in Sheol, you are there!
If I take the wings of the morning
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea,
even there your hand shall lead me,
and your right hand shall hold me.
If I say, “Surely the darkness shall cover me,
and the light about me be night,”
even the darkness is not dark to you;
the night is bright as the day,
for darkness is as light with you.

For you formed my inward parts;
you knitted me together in my mother’s womb.
I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made.
Wonderful are your works;
my soul knows it very well.
My frame was not hidden from you,
when I was made in secret,
intricately woven in the depths of the earth.
Your eyes saw my unformed substance;
in your book were written, every one of them,
the days that were formed for me,
when as yet there was none of them.

-Psalm 139:7-16

It was my joy to help photograph Kat and Anthony’s sweet vow renewal a few weeks ago. Katherine finally got to don her wedding gown and walk down the aisle on her dad’s arm. The celebration was worth the wait! Many blessings to the Wolvertons and much love as you continue to grow and follow the Lord in this life together.

I have a world of conflicting emotions when I say something that roughly half of my friends disagree with. There’s a desire to cover it up, like I want to post lots of frivilous kitty videos to make sure we’re all okay with each other. And yet, in my moments of strength, I’m willing to fight for the injustice I see with enormous amounts of conviction. That’s why I posted Michael Rose-Ivey’s press conference video this past week. I see injustice.

A lot of you see disrespect. I realize that allegiance to the flag means more to you—whether it’s a generational thing or an occupational thing—–than it does to me. I grew up saying the pledge in school, and I really love singing the national anthem; I take a lot of pride in it actually. But I don’t feel the same amount of frustration as many of you do when football players don’t stand at attention, facing the flag, with their hands over their hearts. (What I do see is some sad men who have listened to their consciences and are following through with a protest against our nation’s ability to turn a blind eye to injustices that they themselves are not experiencing.) While I wholeheartedly support our military personnel—today and in days past—I have heard over and over again that men and women died for the opportunity to live in a country where people disagree in a multitude of ways. And like it or not, the flag represents that freedom.

What I really see is that we have a trust issue at play in our nation. A lot of people don’t trust that certain black men and women are telling the truth about the way they’ve been treated by authorities. I recognize this trust issue, to a very different degree, because I have had people in my world who do not trust my ability to make good decisions for myself when it comes to my health. The fact that they question me, drill me, tell me they’ve found other methods for my treatment indicates a lack of their trust for me, as an educated adult, to seek the answers I need for my own welfare. Though race issues are different, I firmly believe we have a listening problem and a trust problem.

To my fellow Christians, or people who claim to be followers of Christ, we ought to be disturbed by our fervor for the flag OVER our fervor for Jesus and the very people he died for. In our nation and around the globe, Christians are being persecuted because they are Christians, and yet I’ve heard more outrage over the American flag and a song celebrating it than concern for those murdered during a prayer service in Charleston a year ago. Why is this?

A big thanks goes out to the friends and family who have dialogued with me this past week even as they disagreed with me. THIS is where unity begins, in dialogue, in empathy, in trying to see life from the other’s point of view. Surely we can figure out how to rejoice with those who rejoice, and mourn with those who mourn, whether they live next door, on the other side of town, or across the world.

Two or three nights a month spirits are poured and cards are played in our basement. I love having these guys (and sometimes girls) over and I love watching Jeremy’s use his gifts of hospitality.