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THE PARENTING DARE BLOGI love, love, love mothers.
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THE PARENTING DARE BLOGI love, love, love mothers.
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Ten years ago, in the spring of 2014, my daughter Malaysia asked me if I would ever get pregnant again. I chuckled and said, “No, I am too old for that.” I paused and probed, “But if I could get pregnant, what would you prefer? A sister or brother?” “Sister.” The next day, which was actually Easter Sunday, I took a pregnancy test and found that my 47-year old body had conceived. I was shocked. SHOCKED. I had been operating under the assumption that my eggs had been hard-boiled by that point in my journey. It felt a little like the time I went out into my garden in the middle of fall. The cucumber vines were basically dead. As I moved some of those dry, brittle vines to clean up my garden, I was startled to see an unassuming green cucumber hanging there. In much the same way, my old vine of a body had a new little cucumber. Whoa. Crazy. Now, just a bit of background history: by that time in my life, I had conceived twelve times, carrying seven babies to full term. I knew the chances of carrying that baby to term were slim, but it was a possibility. As I accepted that possibility, I took stock of my family life and knew that I had to make changes. We were limping along in some areas, specifically in the area of JOY. I felt like I had lost my joy in parenting as I attended to the vast and varied needs of my people. If I was going to bring another life into our home, I knew I had to change. Anyone could be controlling, impatient, mean. As I sat with the child within my body, I was given gifts of perspective: Slow down. Be funny. Be real. Get into shape. Be on fire. I had a choice. I could be toxic, overwhelming, negative, or I could give the best of me to those within my home. Talk about a renewed sense of vision. I knew in my heart of hearts that I was having a girl (because of my little prophet Malaysia), and even though she was the size of a grain of rice, I named her Danielle Faustina. Now. I want to pivot here because this post isn’t actually about my pregnancy. I opened with that story because I had a similar experience happen to me several weeks ago. No, I was not pregnant, but I had started the process of writing the book that keeps knocking on the door of my heart, asking to be let out.
I found a guide to help me; I began doing some preliminary writing exercises, and then I stopped. I have never written a book before but the prospect of it felt exactly like I had felt when I was pregnant at age 47. There was anticipation and joy, but I also knew that I needed to get my family’s emotional home in order. I won't go into great detail, but there was a relational issue in my home, a fierce fire directed at me that I did not understand or see clearly. I knew I was not at the place where I could write anything of value for others while this unseen heat and hurt was so alive and held such power, convincing me that I was a bad mom in some areas. I knew that I could not write with the dichotomy that I felt between my value systems. That’s actually a big sentence, so I will try to explain it. We all have aspirational values, which are ways that we want to live, ways that we aspire to. When our practiced values (how we actually think about ourselves and live those thoughts) are different from our aspirational values, we cope by numbing, lying to ourselves, masking, which is all fine and dandy, but I knew that if I was going to write from an authentic place that I would not be able to fake it. I needed to have those values—lived and aspirational—be conjoined twins. Just like when I was pregnant at 47 and knew that I needed to get my emotional home in order, I knew change had to come if I was going to write a book worthy of the reader. I sat down with my pen and journal, owning all of my issues, turning the situation over and over this way and that, bringing it to Jesus again, seeking answers, knowing that something was not quite right. How I thought of myself in this one area was causing me to live a half life. It felt like part of me was in chains, a bad person. I knew I could not find answers on my own so I wrote: “Heal us. I trust in You to heal us.” As the days turned into weeks, I knew that there were lies involved, lies I did not see or understand. With the help of a good mentor, I felt myself rising up and saying, No, I won’t believe this untruth any longer. I wasn’t sure what the lie was, it was that unseen, unknown powerful fire. I kept surrendering to God, knowing He knows, well, EVERYTHING, and I asked for his guidance as I sat down at the "library" of Amazon and searched for the topic. I found books. I read most of the reviews. I ordered four books. One came the next day. As I read that specific book, understanding and knowledge were given to me, and finally, finally, finally—after more than a decade of struggle—the difficult situation in my home made sense. A weight was lifted off of my soul, a weight that had malformed me internally. As it lifted, I felt reborn, no longer shackled and bound by a lie. It felt a little like Andy Defresne in that breathtaking moment in Shawshank Redemption, where, after years of living out a sentence for someone else, and after crawling 500 yards in raw sewage to get out of that prison, he is dumped out into a field as it is raining, his hands—and life—held up to the cleansing water of healing and grace falling from the sky. Liberation. Whew. TALK ABOUT JOY. After this revelation, I find that I can now live fully, truthfully, honestly. There is no dichotomy. My practiced values (which are always formed by how we think of ourselves) are on the same plane as my aspirational ones. I share all of this with you because sometimes it seems like other people do life quickly and without effort. Nope. Family living is intense, especially big family living because there are MANY personalities. Loving others well takes a lot of understanding of the situation as well as self. I also share this because I was shown, once again, that God always has our best interest at heart. When we go to him with a specific request and when we are open to the search, he can guide and direct us to phenomenal answers and resolutions. He is a good, good Father. Know that. Trust that. Through this experience I felt seen, known, and loved. Intimately. (It was as if he kept smiling at me, winking occasionally, happy for me.) I will close this story by going back to the beginning of this post. Even though my daughter Danielle Faustina was wanted and desired (and even though I knew I would be a million years old by the time she graduated from high school), her life on earth was not meant to be. I miscarried her a month after I discovered I was pregnant. I told all of my children about her, and we all grieved. (But wow, what a reunion we will have in heaven. There are six more Doerneman children awaiting us!) Now, here is the beautiful bow: last January Eric and Jessica Doerneman gave birth to a baby girl. They kept up the tradition created by my other sons that had children: they would not tell us her name until we met her face to face. When we saw our granddaughter for the first time, they proclaimed her name: Danielle. Instantly, I looked at Eric, my heart in my eyes. He smiled and nodded yes. Oh my stars. Oh my stars. Oh my stars. I cannot even. What a gift. What a gift. What a gift. Family. It’s worth it. Keep working. Keep loving.
1 Comment
Judy Horvath
7/20/2024 10:57:51 am
You are such a good writer! I can’t wait for your first book! You are such a gift to us all! Love you and wish you good times and grand babies ahead! ❤️
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I'm Lori Doerneman Wife. Mom. Catholic. Idealist with 8 kids, keeping it real. Archives
December 2024
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