Fall Festival

We rode our bikes to the fall festival downtown this morning. Between the petting zoo, jump castles, hotdogs and trick or treating, I'd say this princess had a blast!

First Sunrise.

Dear Mississippi Friends.

Dear Mississippi Friends,

Three and a half years ago, when we moved to McComb, Mississippi from my home state of South Carolina - away from family and all of the friends I had ever known - I cried. With my hands on the steering wheel and my eyes focused on the rearview mirror, I cried out because of fear. Because of the unknown. And because I never thought I’d find friends like you.

During our short time here, in the little bungalow on Virginia Avenue, Justin and I have changed a lot. We’ve grown up a lot. Our comfort zones have been stretched, and our trust in God has never been more necessary. The tests we have faced have brought us such special memories: memories that you’ve each helped shape.

We have welcomed many changes here, and with each transition came friends to see us through to the other side. From figuring out a new town, to becoming new parents, then on the roller coaster ride of our second child –  and his spina bifida – you guys have hugged and prayed and laughed with us. You have cried and shown more love than we are deserving of. For that, we will be forever grateful, and forever indebted. You have been exactly what we needed through each new stage.

Many of you have lent your homes at meal times, baby clothes for our sweet ones, and your hands when our own simply weren’t enough. You have lent us your hearts, and you have touched ours in a forever-changed kind of way.

You have loved us. You have loved our babies.  The love that we share as a family was nurtured with the love that you have shown to us. We are joyful because of your friendship, and we are thankful because of your kindness.   

As our time in Mississippi comes to a close - as we prepare for more transitions and more of the unknown - we look at what you’ve taught us. You, our friends, have taught us that great friendships can come from the unexpected and from the brand new. You have shown us that it doesn’t take blood to make you family, and it doesn’t take history to make best friends.

So, as we head towards the Florida line, my hands will be on the steering wheel, and my eyes will be focused ahead. Not because we won’t miss your presence, your hospitality, and your generosity, but because you all have taught us how to face change without fear. You have all played a part in the special memories we have made here and have helped make this an unforgettable time in our lives. We are grateful for each and every one of you. From the bottoms of our hearts: Thank you, for all you’ve done.

With love,

The Tysons

Dear Ellery,

Your restlessness caught up with you tonight, as you've already been awake twice, and it's only 11:15. 

Each time calling for me to come. Come lay with you. 

So, each time I did. I rubbed your back, I sang your song, and each time I told you how much I love you. 

Your response was the same every time. With your eyes still closed, you lifted your hands above your head and asked, "like this?"

Yes, darling, like that, and so much more than you'll ever know. 

Your two year old self needs me, so I come.

I'll always come.

Always. 

Wheels.

Justin and Ellery went to Lowes after dinner to get a few things for Justin to make Elam a small wheelchair. 

Tonight, while reading books before bed, we were talking with Ellery about her day.

Our conversation went something like this:

 Me: 'Where did you and daddy go this evening?'

Ellery: 'The store!' 

Me: 'For what?' 

Ellery: 'To make Elam some wheels' 

Justin: 'Do you know what he's going to do with wheels?'

Ellery: 'He will roll and roll and roll'

Justin: 'yes, that's the plan.'

Ellery: 'And he will pull my hair!'

Justin: 'yes, I suppose that will probably happen, too.' 

*Elam just loves to get his hands in those precious blonde locks of hers any chance he gets. And she's already having internal conflicts about his future mobility. 

Acknowledging the small.

'Do not disdain the small. The whole of life - even the hard - is made up of the minute parts, and if I miss the infinitesimal, I miss the whole.' - Ann Voskamp (One Thousand Gifts)

The light speckles the ground, falling through the green leaves and triumphant tree branches, leaving beautiful 'sun puddles', as the toddler calls them, scattered throughout the front yard. 

A surprise autumn day has shown up in the middle of summer, and my hair blows gently in the cool, sweet breeze. It's refreshing, and needed. 

I am thankful. My pen scratches the paper as I acknowledge my blessings. I hear the etching sound created as my thoughts tumble from my fingertips. It is beautiful, the sound of thankfulness. And it's eye opening. 

We are outside this morning and my Ellery is singing along with the birds. She's longing to climb a latter and rescue one of them from his perch on the powerline above us. She's wearing rainbow pants that she picked out herself. They're on inside out and backwards, but she did it. And she's proud. 

"You're impressed, mom!" She tells me. 

She has heart. And spunk. And independence. 

I am thankful. 

I watch it all from the rocking chair on our front porch. From the corner of my eye I see the porch swing swaying back and forth as the wind chime, played by the wind, creates a melody for it to dance to. 

The swing is light blue, and it's my favorite thing about our porch. It is not exceedingly comfortable, and I do not use it all of them time - but it is special. 

It has a cut out of a tulip resting in the center of its back. It was created and uniquely designed for me, with love, by the one man who holds my forever in his heart. 

For this, I am thankful, always. Even when I fail to acknowledge it. 

I am thankful for this love. This forever. This one man and his heart. 

I have reminders all over my house of the love that radiates from the center of it all. Reminders of God's love for me. 

This love shines through the light in the eyes of my children. 

In the way my husband adores me. 

And the way nature sings us a beautiful song, with sun puddles and sweet chirping. 

But this love, the irreplaceable, glorious, undeserving love shines the brightest when I take the time to acknowledge it. To acknowledge the big, but maybe more importantly, acknowledge the easily overlooked, the everyday and routine. 

Let me tell you a story. 

One day, a few months ago, I was at Ochsner, riding the elevator after one of Elam's many doctor appointments. It was raining and we had just heard some discouraging news. 

Elam was riding in the Ergo, snuggled closely to my chest, I kissed his forehead as the elevator descended downward. 

From over my shoulder an old man asked how old 'the cute little boy' was. And when I answered his first question, he then took the opportunity to ask about the braces Elam had on his feet. 

With 7 more floors to go, I mentioned he had spina bifida, clubbed feet, and lack of movement in his legs. 

I smiled, kissed Elam again, and reassured the stranger, "We couldnt possibly love him any more than we do, and we're learning life doesn't end with Spina bifida."

As I was finishing my story, the elevator came to a stop. 

When it opened, the old man nodded, again mentioning Elam's cuteness as he tipped his hat in farewell. 

After he exited the elevator, I then noticed stares from a women to my right. Stares I did not understand. She was with her teenage daughter. She hurried out, with her hand on the small of her daughter's back, encouraging her to move a little faster. 

She stopped just outside the elevator, making sure to keep me within earshot.  

Then she said,

'See, honey. That is why you take your prenatals, so kids like that don't happen. People like her shouldn't be allowed to have kids if they can't even take their vitamins.'

I'll let you think about that for a second. 

'...so kids like [Elam] don't happen.'

[ I shouldn't be allowed to have children.]

To this day, my heart hurts when I tell this story. It hurts for Elam, it hurts for me, and it really hurts for people who judge without knowing someone's details. 

This woman judged me on something she knew nothing about. She determined I was unfit for motherhood because of the physical disabilities of my child.  

I challenge you to realize we all have our details that others may not know about. 

It is easy to judge when you think it is something that couldn't happen to you. 

It is easy to judge when you think you take every precaution to 'do everything right'. 

Sometimes, it is just easy to judge. 

But we need to stop.

We need to stop belittling others in this journey that isn't always easy. 

We need to love. Love despite mistakes, love because of mistakes, love because none of us are perfect. 

Let's just love. 

Is your advice graceful?

I reach for the milk in the refrigerated section of the grocery store. I look down, kiss Elam on the forehead as I turn to place the milk in the cart.

Elam is happy to be riding chest to chest in the Ergo, smiling and babbling at me. He's wearing a jumper, with his legs completely exposed to the air. It is 80 degrees outside and humid here in Mississippi, so he's not wearing socks. 

As I turn the shopping cart towards the produce section, checking my list to see what else I need, I hear, "Isn't your baby cold? He should be wearing socks! Shame on you!" 

Looking over my shoulder, not believing what my ears just heard, I see an older lady still semi-shaking her finger at me. 

My immediate response was to smile and say, "No, He's fine and happy, thanks though."

She scoffs and walks away. 

I stand there for a couple of seconds, looking around to see if anyone else witnessed this. 

I proceeded to get the rest of my things, and head home, but couldn't shake what just happened. 

I am usually pretty good at letting unwanted advice go in one ear and out the other. I am experienced enough as a mother to know that the decisions I make are made to benefit my family in the best way possible. 

But this.

This shame placed on me because someone doesn't know our story, doesn't know my reasoning, really bothered me. 

What this lady doesn't know is: Elam spends most days in braces. He sleeps in braces. Our morning out of the house was a good opportunity to let his feet air out. 

What this lady doesn't know is: we avoid wearing braces to the grocery store to avoid unwanted looks and questions about Elam's feet. 

What this lady doesn't know is: her comment hurt more than she will ever know. It brought up the fear in my heart that I try to suppress about Elam's future. About judgemental eyes, not caring about the whole story and picture. About the stigma that will come along with Elam's handicap. 

This journey with Elam has given me a perspective that I failed to have before him. A perspective that keeps me trying my best to avoid judging others. 

You see, we all have our stories. We all have our problems and reasons. Although our hardships may look different, we are all just trying to make it. 

So, before you judge me because of my sockless child, please try to see my love for him, and how it dictates my every action. 

When you see my son, try not to judge him because he was born with a hole in his back and your body happens to work better than his. Instead, see his smile and the beautiful light that shines from it. 

And when I see you, I will look for the good, too. I will try and look past your bad attitude, giving you the benefit of the doubt, assuming life isn't going quite you expected it to today. 

This is important. 

Not just to me, not just for Elam, but for us all. 

We all need grace to be an action. 

Maybe we need our advice to be rationed to 'when asked for only.' Remembering that we never know when our piece of advice just might dig deeper than we could ever expect it to. 

Let's remember not to stare at someone who looks different from you - and not judge just because someone acts a little different, too. 

Remember there's a story behind it all. God's grace covers us, let our grace cover them. 

Ellery says.

"Here, mom, here. I'm bringing you your coffee. I'm being careful. Really careful, mom."

Slosh, slosh, slosh. 

"Uh-oh, mom, I got a ploblem."

This is the synopsis of my morning. 

Thankful through Exhaustion

On many occasions, when I am pondering motherhood, I become exhausted. Just thinking about it, I'm exhausted. 

It is not one sole act that leads to exhaustion. It's not the twenty thousand books we read a day, often, each one twice.

It is not the shoes left scattered in the yard. Not one pair, but three, that must be found in a difficult game of hide-and-seek before the coming storm.

And it certainly isn't the helpfulness of the toddler. The way she sweetly 'helps' make pancakes by creating a masterpiece of droplets of batter on the kitchen floor, followed by a proud proclamation of her accomplishments.

You see, it's the combination of everything the two-and-a-half year old darling does, on top of everything the ten month old needs.

Some days, if we're honest, it's just rather difficult.

Most days, if I am not consciously, actively, zealously looking for the good in the trenches of motherhood, I am pretty sure I'd overlook it altogether. But some days, those precious days, when both kids nap at the same time. When laundry has been folded and put away, dishes are clean, and I have approximately 30 minutes of quietness, I see it. I see the beauty as the toys lie motionless. The sound machine hums in the background, while my fingers hold fast to the chai tea steaming between them, and I smile. I smile as what I perceive as hectic, all fades away.

This leads me to my point.

This hectic moment, the days that pass quickly but seem to drag on forever, are supposed to be work, but this work, the work I am doing in my daughter's life, in my son's life, should be glorifying to the One Most Holy. Bringing him glory through the raising of my kids. 

You see, the shoes left strewn about the yard means there must have been playful, happy feet tromping over the grass just moments before. The pancake batter in puddles on the floor means there must have been a little girl wanting to be just like her momma, taking notes, and learning what life is all about, at the heels of the one who loves her most. The books, the thrill of reading, yearning to learn through imagination is what we all hope to inspire in our kids.

But how often do we see it that way? How often do we long for the messes to not happen, the shoes to just be put away, and the books to read themselves?

Perspective. Maybe I need a change in perspective. 

"In everything, give thanks, for this is God's will for you in Christ Jesus." 1 Thessalonians 5:18

This is His will for me. 

My perspective should be with that focus. 

Motherhood. A fiesty two year old. A sweet son with spina bifida. There's a reason, and every hour, every minute, every moment of chaos, I must choose the perspective of joy. The perspective of thankfulness. The perspective of raising God-loving children by showing them how to love our Lord through every minute of craziness.

This is my prayer. 

Elam's Birth Story

Today, I sit down with the cursor flashing before me on this blank page. My blog, I have so desperately deserted you, and for that I am sorry. My heart is still overflowing with words, words that have been quite difficult to make public, to make open for everyone to read, including myself. Sometimes it is easier just to keep the words of your heart so locked away that you don't even recognize them when they finally come.

I keep shifting in my chair. Shifting back and forth, occasionally sipping on the glass of ice water I have before me. Thinking. I'm thinking of the appropriate introduction to a blog that is so intensely ingrained into every part of my being: Elam's birth story.

Elam's story is a little different than Ellery's. Although, the gist of it is the same: labor, delivery, baby. With him, emotionally, there is much more to it. Much more heart behind it. Much more terror. Much more awe laid out before me as God's grace covered me completely in my time of desperation.

June 20, 2013.

It began.

Unprepared and without a bag packed or plans for Ellery, I woke up at 5 am and used the restroom. I crawled back in bed and noticed something a little odd; I was leaking. A little curious, I went back to the restroom, continuing to leak. I was quite certain, although not completely positive, my water had broke.

I woke Justin up calmly, informed him I was going to the hospital to verify that, in fact, this was not a false alarm. I left, and he took charge of packing a bag, finding someone to watch Ellery, and being ready when I got home.

I arrived at the local hospital 5 minutes later, informing them upon arrival I would not be having our baby at their hospital, however I did need to make sure this was 'go time' before I drove to New Orleans. After being checked in and put in a room, I had already determined that this was 'it', but now I was stuck.  I was determined 'the hospital's property' and they did not want me to leave. They wanted me to stay, liability reasons, and have the baby with them - to which I proceeded to set them straight. All of my emotions and every ounce of fear were put aside as I was protecting my right to birth my baby in the best place possible for him. From what I remember, I asked for a release form, relieving them from any liability if anything was to happen to me or the baby upon leaving their hospital, and that was it.

 Longer than it should have taken later, I was home telling Ellery good-bye for an undetermined amount of time, shaking as tears left my eyes. This wasn't supposed to be happening, not yet. My heart hurt as I embraced the mystery that laid before me. The mystery that left me feeling more out of control than anything else has ever come close.  Within ten minute of returning home, Justin and I were loaded in the car and headed to Ochsner. The two hour drive seemed like ten. Prayers for a safe delivery, prayers for strength, prayers for peace and knowledge that God was in control were breathed with every exhalation of my lungs. Tears continued to roll. Nervous tear. Excited tears. Finally, we start the second half of this journey, tears.

The drive was uncomfortable - as liquid continued to leave Elam's side and enter the world where he'd be welcomed soon. My doctor was expecting me, and we were escorted directly to a room upon our arrival.

I did the typical change from my everyday clothes to my laboring gown and positioned myself in bed. It was a little after nine in the morning at this time and I was 3 cm dilated. Since this was an unusual case and several people were to be in the operating room upon Elam's descent and entering, I was hooked up to Pitocin to help induce contractions.

At this point, I made my decision public that I did not want an epidural. This was my journey, a rollercoaster ride with my son, one where much joy and much pain had already been encountered, and this was the end of our time as one. I wanted to feel it. I wanted to experience every bit of our transition to something deeper, to something more beautiful - to life.

Looking out the window, I saw clouds rolling in over the Mississippi River. The clouds came, the sky grew dark, and it began to rain. Cars crossed the bridge that connected the shores. My heart was made full in the distraction God had placed before me. It was ominous, yet it was so very beautiful.

At this point, contractions were coming on strong and I was progressing pretty quickly. Justin never left my side once labor had truly started. He began to support me like he had during Ellery's birth by rocking me through the tightening, but this time around, I just needed to do it alone. I found a way to breathe through the intense moments, eyes closed and humming softly. When relief would come, my eyes would find Justin with his nose buried in the bible his grandparents gave him a long time ago. He'd read a verse aloud and God's presence would fill the room.

Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us. Ephesians 3:20

How those words sound so sweet.

A resident would occasionally come to monitor progression, but for the most part, we were left to peaceful laboring on our own. This continued until around 3 o' clock in the afternoon when Elam must have moved. Suddenly his heartbeat was being detected at an alarmingly slow rate, and all of the fiddling and adjusting of the external heartbeat monitor would not indicate that it was a false alarm. We tried changing positions and walking around, all of which was unsuccessful. The resident made the decision to place an internal monitor on the top of his head for a more accurate heart rate read.

That was the end of my peaceful labor.

The scare of something happening to Elam, after our already long journey, was unbearable. The heart rate was now within the normal range and all proved to be a false alarm, however, I couldn't get settled back down.

All of my nervousness came rushing back. Every thing I had put aside in order to enjoy the last moments being intimately one with my little boy invaded my every thought and breath. The devil was attacking me where I was weakest, and he was winning.

My progression stalled at 9 cm for two hours. Back labor controlled me. Swaying, humming, and dancing only brought tears of frustration, when finally Elam began to descend.

He was coming down face first, so the doctor decided it was best to manually manipulate and rotate him before we were wheeled down to the operating room to start pushing. This was 5:35 pm.

As we entered a room of solid white, medical professionals all around, needles and gauze, scrub hats and sterile everything, I was once again at peace. I wasn't thinking of his future surgeries. I wasn't thinking of everything we had to be afraid of. I was thinking about him. My son. The one I'd always fight for, always love, and always give everything I had to make this world a better place for him to live.

I began pushing at 5:40pm. I took a deep breath, I let my body control my movements. Three breaths later, Elam's little lungs filled air and our hearts transcended to a place of perfect love.

He was quickly taken away from us to a side operating room. They wrapped his back in temporary gauze, swaddled him tightly, and brought him back to me.

Chills ran through me, as tears filled my eyes. My face suddenly drenched with tears, the nurse asked if I wanted to hold him. Shaking with joy, I held him close as I  whispered, over and over, "I love you. I love you. You're perfect!"

He was everything we'd hoped for. He was our son; breathing, crying, beautiful.

Our time together lasted close to ten minutes. They eventually wheeled him up to the NICU and told us they'd call us when he was ready for us to visit. I headed back to my room.

We made the "He's here!" phone calls and announced his name. We loved, we ate, we were so happy.

Our 5 month journey of curiosity and uncertainty had just turned into a lifetime of it. A lifetime of 'I don't knows', medical interventions, and a million reasons to hit our knees daily in search of our loving Lord's grace and wisdom.

We went five days only being able to look at him.
We spent nine days in the NICU.
We made countless trips up and down the elevator and back and forth from the parking garage.

Every minute, every stress, every tear was worth it.

We're thankful for the way God shows up in the most beautiful of ways, in the exact moments you need His warmth the most.

Because he's here, we celebrate!

'I wait for The Lord, my whole being waits, and in His word I put my hope.' Psalms 130:5

We hope, we wait, and we only find pleasure and contentment when we place our whole being in Christ our Savior and His blessed will.

It is incredible the difference a year can make. This time last year we were blissfully ignorant of the journey our God was about to reveal to us. A journey that initially left us winded and full of heartache, but has since brought more joy than one can imagine. 

In case you missed it, our journey with Elam started with this.

Then four days later, it turned into this. Praise God, it turned into this! 

This day, one year ago, I was unaware of what was to come. Unfamiliar with the details of spina bifida, never dreaming the child growing inside me would have it. 

We spent five months traveling from specialist to specialist. From Nashville to New Orleans. Month after month still uncertain what the diagnosis meant for our child. We knew a lot, but at the same time, we knew very little. 

With all that we knew, and all the more we didn't, we loved. We loved every little piece of our precious boy, and were thankful. 

Thankful for life. Thankful for hope. Thankful for spina bifida. 

You see, spina bifida doesn't just affect Elam. It is affecting me. My heart. My walk with God. And my drive to do something more. Something more than the selfish desires I get lost in. 

And I know, also, it is affecting others. Elam's life, Elam's story has reached beyond our living room, beyond our town, state and country. Lives all over have heard and prayed and have seen God move in ways only he can. And we are thankful. Thankful for the opportunity to be used as an instrument in God's perfect plan. 

This year, and every year from now on, our plan is to celebrate January 28. It's not Elam's birthday, but it is something equally as special.

It is the day we celebrate life and celebrate spina bifida. We celebrate the dark hole we were graciously pulled out of, and embrace the journey in which we were blessed. 

'For I know the plans I have for you, Elam, declares The Lord!' Jeremiah 29:11

Because he's here, we celebrate.

 Praise God, we celebrate!