Fear is a state of mind; courage is a state of heart.

Fear is a state of mind; courage is a state of heart.

“Who said that?” I asked him.  I didn’t believe him when he turned and said, “me.” That wolfish grin, y’all. We copyright that here and now, okay?

Veterans don’t have it easy. Being married to a war-time veteran is not always a walk in the park either. We can’t watch an action movie without a description of why some scene is implausible, noting each weapon’s actual range and accuracy, actual protocol, or real-time information sharing; lingering injuries require career changes and give excuse to only hear 20% of what I say on the left side; PTSD is real, and it isn’t glamorous or pretty.

But the Army and war took an intelligent and passionate, but drifting twenty-something-year-old boy and made him a man. God used training and combat to teach him many things, most notably to change his perspective.

I get lost in the trees sometimes, but he sees the forest. And more than that, he has seen a depth of poverty and pervasive oppression the rest of us only see in pictures or media sound bites. He has faced death, and he lives with the heavy burden of fallen comrades and mission directives. He has no patience for those of us who whine about luxuries most of the world lives without. He doesn’t get too up for the good or too down for the bad. He values people over things (or he’d have that boat I promised him).

Training minimized fear, demanded strength, built character, and instilled discipline. Combat revealed boldness, courage, and the value of life. It manifested God’s ever-present omnipotence and planted seeds for compassion and mercy that bear fruit still today.

It can mean walking in one world where no one really understands or appreciates the reality of another, though. I wonder if David and Joshua – mighty warriors and soldiers – ever found the singular mission of survival easier to navigate than the politics and proclivities of a privileged and indulgent culture.

In light of the many physical, mental, and spiritual challenges our veterans face, I’m grateful today for the men and women who have answered this calling, knowing full well what it could cost them.

Happy Veteran’s Day.

Craniosynostosis Awareness/Appreciation Month!

Our youngest, Carolyn Hope, is a cranio baby. If you don’t know a lot about craniosynostosis, you can read more about our experience here.

Cara’s pediatrician identified abnormal facial structure just after her birth in late May 2014, and we began the diagnosis process immediately. Standard DNA testing came back normal, but we were referred to a geneticist “just in case” who diagnosed Cara with bicoronal synostosis in October 2014. A CT confirmed the diagnosis last November, and we met with the cranio-facial surgical team at The University of Missouri in Columbia. On March 11, 2015, Cara underwent a 10-hour procedure (including 2 hours of surgical prep!) called a cranial vault reconstruction (CVR), where the front and top portions of her skull were removed, reshaped, and replaced. Her surgeons also moved her brow bone forward with a frontal orbital advancement (FOA) in order to protect her eyes.

If you’ve followed our journey, you know how resilient Cara is and how fortunate we were to have capable medical professionals who diagnosed her early, gifted surgeons who performed such a specialized surgery, compassionate nurses who cared for her (and me!) during recovery, and an extensive support system who loved us, prayed for us, and supported us during the whole process.

We are happy to report that Cara has met all of her developmental milestones thus far, and though we are pursuing further genetic testing to determine whether her cranio is a random occurrence or part of a genetic syndrome, we know we are blessed.

Diagnosis wasn't easy and handing our 9-month old to an anesthesia nurse was maybe the hardest thing I've ever done. But we've said from the start that the experience and her scar (Evie calls it her "scarf") is a testament to an amazing God and is evidence of a powerful faith journey we do not regret walking.

September is Craniosynostosis Awareness/Appreciation Month. Generally, Craniosynostosis occurs in about 1 in 2,000 births. Left un-diagnosed and untreated, it can result in vision and hearing loss, developmental delays, seizures, and other long-term health problems, so early diagnosis is important!

If you feel so led, please share our story and/or donate to a worthy cause like this one or this one. 

Why we are homeschooling.

I have loved seeing all the “first day” pictures on social media. Friends and family are returning to the classroom as teachers, counselors, and administrators. Some are parents sending kids off to school for the first time; others are seasoned veterans. By age calculation, I should be posting similar pictures of Jackson. We’ve chosen a different path for our kids, for now at least.

First, let me start by saying what this decision is NOT about.

This is not a statement move. We aren’t afraid of public school ideology or Common Core or standardized tests. We aren’t afraid of evolution theory, diversity/tolerance training, or government initiatives. We aren’t using the education of our children to make political statements about legislation, teaching trends, or funding choices. We certainly have our opinions about all of these things, but this isn’t a fear-based or response-based decision.

This is not a referendum on the public school model or its teachers. In case you didn’t know, I had a great experience in the public school system both as a student and a teacher. I had some fabulous teachers throughout my K-12 years, and I worked with amazing educators, many of whom I am privileged to call friend. I believe all students should have opportunities and recognize that the public school system is likely the best option for many. We have great respect for those who teach and do not condemn anyone who sends his child to public school a bad parent. Is American Education flawed? Sure. I don’t think anyone is in the dark about its issues. But I make no argument that homeschooling is without its potential pitfalls either.

Quite simply, we feel called to homeschool. And so, we chose it.

We’ve been practicing with at-home preschool, and we’ve done our research. Andrew was homeschooled and now teaches at a university. I went to and worked in a public school system. We intimately know the benefits, concerns, risks, and rewards of each setting. We’ve read about the history of education, about types of education and curricula, and know how/where to find the resources we need to match our own strengths and weaknesses. We’ve reached out to the local school system and evaluated its programming. We’ve considered our 5-year-old’s abilities and interests, our finances and the realistic options. Based on all of that, we’ve made the decision that we feel like honors God’s calling for our family and Jackson’s pretty incredible potential.

Truth be told, we’d be lying if we said there was no anxiety involved. This is certainly not the “easy” (or inexpensive) way to educate. For example, I’m terrified to teach upper level math (and that’ll come sooner rather than later since Jackson is working through 1^st grade math before we even start Kindergarten). I have two other young kids, a work-from-home job, and limited finances. I have no doubt that this will be a challenging venture for our family. But we’re also excited about how God will use this to bless our family, so we walk in Faith that He guides our steps and hearts. 

Pops

Last Saturday night, I walked out of my cousin Ryan’s wedding holding a very tired Cara. Pops asked if I was taking my crew back to the hotel, and I explained that I was because they were beyond exhausted. “I understand that,” he said with a laugh. We said goodnight with hugs and kisses (a few extra for Cara, of course), and I squeezed his hand and told him I’d see him in the morning. He squeezed back, smiled, and said, "Okay, honey."

The next morning started just a few short hours later, and not the way any of us wanted it to. We wept together in shock and in sadness, this great loss only just beginning to sink in. For my kids who won’t always remember the details of their relationships with this great man (and maybe for me a little bit), I wanted to share a little about his life, and remind them of their part in it.

-------------------------------------------

Born December 10, 1926, to Ernest and Belle, Myron Leonard Butler was the youngest of three. He grew up in the Kirkwood area of Atlanta and often visited the old family farm in Dacula (of which he later bought 10 acres for the “Butler Compound”). Pops served as a Navy signalman assigned to a personnel carrier in the mid-40s. He was prepared to leave from San Francisco for the invasion of Japan when the war ended, but he participated in the occupation forces in Japan and The Philippines instead (where he fell in love with exotic fruit, by the way!). Having to gorge himself on food to make the minimum weight, Pops began his policing career in the early 50s. He spent 28 years with APD, 15 of those on a motorcycle and 11 as a burglary detective. Pops was a capable mechanic, and he could build things with his hands. Watching and playing golf were his retirement favorites. He made time for his kids, playing sports and facilitating camping and boating trips. He loved being a dad, a grandpa, and a great-grandpa, and we knew it because he supported us all with his presence attending birthday parties, chorus concerts, dance performances, baseball games, baptisms, confirmations, and anything else he was invited to. He was interested in our lives and asked specific questions. At the age of 88, he traveled to Iowa for his grandson’s wedding. After enjoying the weekend with great company and good food, Pops left this world for a better one on Sunday, July 26. All 4 of his children, all 11 of his grandchildren, and all 10 (and counting!) of his great-grandchildren came together to honor his legacy. He is well-loved because he taught us all to love so well.

   

To Payton…Pops loved you from the moment he knew you. He met you shortly after I did, just after your second birthday. You took him by the hand, led him down the porch stairs, and marched him around the yard. He laughed and loved you as if you had been his own blood from that day forward. He asked about you when he didn’t see you and gave you golf cart rides whenever he could. You sobbed when you heard the news of his passing, lamenting that you didn’t get the chance to say goodbye. But you did, sweet girl. He brought you comfort when you feared the windstorm at the rehearsal dinner, reminding you that since God had created the storm, there was nothing to fear. The two of you chatted at breakfast Saturday morning – about the food, about school, and about your favorite part of being a big sister. He saw you play and laugh and marveled at how much you’d grown up. The sadness you have felt and the genuine tears you have cried speak to a mutual love. You keep that golf tee of his forever. He’d want that.

To Jackson…Pops called you a “beautiful baby even though you were a boy." He enjoyed talking to you as soon as you could form words, and he lit up that first time you said “Pops.” You shared countless conversations and golf cart rides together, and your regular visits after his knee surgery may have just given him the strength to recover and share a few more years with us. Pops didn’t want to do much for the doctors or therapists, but he looked forward to taking you for wheel chair rides to see “Offafrees” (Christmas trees) and wreaths. When Daddy explained to you that Pops was gone, you quietly leaned into him and asked, “But why?” Then, you folded your hands and prayed that God would “take care of Pops in Heaven.” You bore your grief quietly for the most part, but broke down from time to time with a buried face, a quiet question, or a few tears – reminded by all you’d miss about your great-grandfather. You asked if he could receive letters in Heaven, so we wrote one together. I only helped you spell the words. It blessed me, it blessed our family, and I know it blessed Pops. As Dad took you to the car after the viewing on Thursday night, you screamed, “No!” and frantically looked around, shouting, “I’ll love you forever, Pops!” Me, too, buddy. Me, too.

  

To Evie…You were always “Miss Evie” to him, and I think your favorite place to sit was in his lap. At three, you aren’t able to understand too much about the permanence and finality of death, but you are certainly gifted with compassion. You seemed to have had a sixth sense about Pops this weekend, expressing your distress when you hadn’t seen him for a few moments and showering him with even more hugs and kisses than usual. These were more precious to him than gold could have ever been, and anyone who saw him smile knew the love he gave and received in those moments. You hugged Memaw tightly Sunday before we left and spontaneously told her that “It’s going to be okay.” Every time you’ve seen a picture and even unprompted throughout the course of our days, you’ve told me, “I’m sad about Pops.” You say, “Pops died, and I’m sad,” with a somber face, and then your countenance brightens because “it’s okay. He’s with Jesus now, and he’s not tired anymore.” Thank you for reminding us of that, sweet girl. 

  

To Cara…Pops knew you as a brave girl. Since you were born a long 12-hour drive away from him, you first met him in November after your birth, and he was so excited to see you in person. He worried about your surgery and marveled at your resilience and strength in recovery. You went to him willingly and made him laugh with your stubborn persistence, perceived independence, and very vocal requests. During the wedding weekend, he particularly enjoyed your love for food and cupcakes. We watched you devour one, getting most of the icing on your face, and laughed together. He knew you and loved you and held you the days before he died, and you brought him much joy in the way that only babies could.

  

Pops was a great man who supported me as a student, as a dancer, as a person, as a teacher, and later, as a mom. He could relate to your Daddy more than many, and the kind words of understanding and encouragement Pops gave are things we will both carry with us for the rest of our lives. Dad counted it an honor to render his salute to a fellow Veteran, and I’m not ashamed of the many tears I have shed grateful for his constant presence in my life.

Miss you, Mr. Peter.

On Saturday, I went to a local dance performance with two of my sisters-in-law. I love watching dance, and Credo’s Christian-based dance academy had a great show. The highlight for me, though, was taking Evie.

We filed into our high school theatre row, avoided gum on the armrest and under the seat, and settled in with great expectation. I watched Evie’s face as the house lights blacked out and the music and stage lights came on. It was every bit as magical as I hoped it would be for her. Sure, we ended up standing in the back by the end because a two-year-old can’t sit still for THAT long, but she loved it. She’s still talking about it.

As I watched the show, though, I couldn’t help but think of Mr. Peter, artistic director of Duluth School of Ballet and my ballet teacher of 12 years. He would have rolled his eyes at the mere word “recital” and yelled because there were long pauses between dances. He was all theatre and insisted that even a dance school could perform a “show” with a storyline, characters, and costumes.

And he was a very important person in my life.

He taught me discipline without demanding perfection. He taught me to love the music and the theatrics, not just the perfect steps. It never mattered to him that the majority of his students would never dance professionally. Instead, he let me run away to the circus and be a Nereid princess. I got to dance as Alice and the Dew Drop Fairy, and I was his daughter three times in his favorite show, The Twelve Dancing Princesses. (Did he ever call me Katy? Or was it always Katya?) He gave me a tutu and a tiara. He knew my mood based on how I said “hello” back (or didn’t) to his personal and over-the-top “HiYa!” (How did he manage so many emotional teenage girls?) I feel like I spent half my childhood at that dance studio and loved dance camps and movie nights and long rehearsal Saturdays. He hired women to teach for him that I grew to admire as people and not just teachers. I forged friendships I still cherish today because he insisted that we compete with ourselves and not each other. (It didn’t always work that way, but I knew his heart.)

It’s hard to believe that he’s been gone for 3 years and that it’s been over a decade since I danced at Duluth School of Ballet. I always expected DSB to be a forever part of my life, and it is in memory and lessons learned.

But DSB wasn’t just an old, converted post-office. To me, it was Mr. Peter. 

Wish Evie could have met him. He would have loved her.

Faith, Hope, and Love: Cara's Song

Sweet Cara,

I started to write out a long post about all the ways that you have blessed us this last year. I started to share specific ways you’d taught us about Faith, Hope, and Love. Then, I realized I’d already done that.

 

Happy Birthday, brave girl! You are loved!

-Mama

Cara’s Song

When it seemed our strength was running out,

You were God’s gracious nudge of motivation.

When we had no plan for what was next,

You were God’s sovereign gift of His direction.

                Oh, Little Love, you shine so bright

                For our Hope is in the Lord, we know –

                He’ll never leave, we’re not alone –

                Your every moment He will hold –

                This is the truth your life song will show.

We didn’t even know how much we needed you.

But in you, God has gifted us with peace.

We know God’s love and grace when you just smile at us.

You draw out the best in everyone you meet.

You give your Daddy strength and heart to carry on,

No matter what this life throws in his way.

You are Mama’s blessing of a Song of Hope,

That God’s faithful promises are new each day.

Happy Birthday, Jackson!!

Little Man, Stud, Jack-Jack, Jacksy:

The years are flying. It doesn’t seem possible that you were born FIVE YEARS AGO. Didn’t we just bring you home? Didn’t you just learn how to walk and talk?  Didn’t you just get big enough for a real bike?

But the calendar doesn’t lie, so tomorrow you’re a whole hand, whether it seems possible or not.

Love, you are so smart and eager to learn; you are a leader who takes his role as big brother very seriously; and you articulate your fears and feelings in such a way that blesses all of us.

I love spending time with you reading and “doing school.” I’m not really sure how much you need me considering you’ve taught yourself to add and subtract and you understand negative numbers, but you still let me read to you and are captivated by good stories. I love playing basketball, baseball, and golf with you. Thanks for understanding why our games are constantly being paused or postponed for the needs of little sisters. You catch your own fish, brush your own teeth, and can chat about everything from the Royals record to the story of Easter. Your sense of humor is fantastic – your wit and powers of negotiation are strong. There’s still a depth of understanding and an unmistakable twinkle in your eye, and your giggles are still contagious. You ask questions that challenge me and questions that I know bless the Lord. You can trash talk with the best of us. 

You may be getting bigger, but you’re still my baby. I hope it’s okay to remind you of that every now and then.

You are so loved, Jackson. Thanks for first making me “mom,” and thanks for being willing to call me “every couple days” when you’re married with a family of your own.

Happy 5 years, handsome.

Love, Mama

I only cried five times.

Crying is weird. Some people cry at the tragic end of epic movies, and some people cry when they’re extremely happy. I don’t generally cry at predictably sentimental moments like those. It’s the unexpected moments that catch me unawares, not those that I can prepare for, mustering any form of strength I might need. I didn’t cry when they took you from my arms and walked down the hall to the operating room. I told you to be strong and brave and that I’d see you in just a minute and laughed that you were interested in the song on the nurse’s iphone. I didn’t cry during surgery when I felt so far away from you (though I sat on the wall closest to your operating room and only budged to pump and pee). And I didn’t cry when I first got to see you again. But I did cry.

I cried on Wednesday morning before they came to take you for surgery.

There were about 10 minutes just before they took back where it was just the three of us. You weren’t allowed to nurse or eat anything all night, and you were hungry and tired and confused. We’d seen all the doctors and answered all the questions and signed all papers, and we were just waiting. We joked about running out the door with you. You went back and forth to Daddy and me, and we prayed, mostly with our hearts because the words had all been said. We kissed your head and told you how beautiful you were. A few tears may have slipped out.

I cried on Thursday night for your pain.

I was giddy when we finally saw you after surgery. You slept most of Wednesday night and Thursday, and everyone kept commenting on how well you were doing, not agitated or in pain. We rejoiced when the breathing tube came out, when the catheter came out, and when you kept down clear liquids. The swelling increased Thursday night though, and you cried out in pain, arching your back. Nurses gave you pain meds, and we worked to get you in more comfortable positions. I didn’t sleep, but just whispered in your ear and rubbed your arm. I knew it was temporary, but felt helpless to do anything for you.

I cried Friday morning when they let me hold you for the first time.

After an exhausting night, a bath and a new position and an adjusted pain meds schedule finally brought you some relief. Though the orders weren’t in yet to allow it, the nurse gave you to me so she could change your bedding. I had prepared for the swelling, but never imagined not being able to get you out of bed. I’ll never forget holding you for the very first time, but I won’t forget holding you this first time either.

I cried Sunday night when you opened your eyes again.

Through the frustration and discomfort of the swelling, not being able to open your eyes must have been the most disorienting for you. Your resilience was amazing as you began to play with toys, respond to our voices, gesture and point, and hint at the smile we adore. But when you opened your eyes Sunday night at the hotel and smiled at your big sister Evie, I cried a few happy tears knowing that your recovery was going to get even better.

I cried Monday after we got home.

On Monday, I cried grateful tears as I looked back on your recovery so far, remembering the way you noticed your big brother and sister when they came to see you, our fabulous nurses who were patient and tireless, and a music therapist who did as much for Evie as she did for you. We marveled that we were all home together again less than a week after surgery. And we were so blessed and thankful for the cards and well-wishes and support of so many family and friends who walked this journey with us.

You’re a rockstar, Cara. 

Feeling a little like Peter.

Sweet Cara,

It's the eve (the eve eve) of your surgery, and I'm packing suitcases for everybody and an activity bag for the hospital. I washed your hair tonight, realizing that I did that for the last time without a scar. I can't imagine how you'll look in few days, and I don't' know how can you be any more beautiful.

Anxiety and worry are definitely part of this journey for me, but I'm feeling a little like Peter. Jesus has called me out onto the waters, and as long as I fix my eyes on Him, I'm good. As soon I stare at  waves named "what if" and winds named "it's not fair," I struggle for breath and feel overwhelmed. But I'm looking at Jesus, crying out to Him, and trying to focus my mind and heart on the truth of who God is. He is creator and sustainer; He is protector and healer; He is provider and peace-giver.

We can't wait to see how God uses this experience as part of your testimony to bring Him glory and pleasure. You have already taught us so much about Faith and Hope.

You are braver than you know, little love.

Mama

What is Craniosynostosis?

Before Cara’s diagnosis, I’d never heard of craniosynostosis. As we are preparing our hearts and minds for this surgery (next week!), I thought I’d share a little about the condition and Cara’s experiences for those of you who might be interested. This is one of my many compulsive projects, so it’s not a totally selfless act… (sorry, not sorry).

I love this explanation from Cranio Kids:

In an infant, the skull is not a solid piece of bone, but several boney plates separated by fibrous sutures. These sutures allow the skull to expand as the brain grows, and will eventually fuse to form a solid skull. Craniosynostosis is a condition in which one or more of these sutures fuse prematurely, causing restricted skull and brain growth. It is often sporadic with unknown causes, but can sometimes be linked to a genetic syndrome.

Although her facial features were slightly lower-set, her soft spot small, and her forehead more pronounced, Cara’s head size has measured consistently within the normal range from the beginning. It was the “I’m missing something” intuition of our pediatrician even after DNA testing came back normal that began our journey towards a diagnosis. We were recommended to a geneticist who right away suspected bicoronal synostosis, which a CT later confirmed.

There are several different types of craniosynostosis, but this is what Cranio Care Bears says about Cara’s form:

Coronal Craniosynostosis

Coronal Craniosynostosis is the second most common form of Craniosynostosis and affects mostly females.  Coronal synostosis may occur on either side or may be bilateral. Infant will often have an elevation of the eye socket, flattening of the ridge of the eye and displacement of the nose on the affected side.

Because both of Cara’s coronal sutures closed, she has no asymmetry of her face, but there is flattening of her forehead from her brow bone up and a recession of her brows.

Left untreated, Cara’s facial features would progressively look more abnormal. The biggest issue, however, is that it could force her brain to grow incorrectly (or not at all), and it could cause problems with vision or hearing as pressure increases on those nerves. We feel so grateful to report that Cara shows no signs of delayed development right now, and she has passed all vision and hearing tests she’s been given.

In order to treat the premature fusing of the sutures, and in order to prevent (further) intracranial pressure, surgery is done. Cranio Kids says this:

The most common treatment is surgery performed by a neurosurgeon and craniofacial surgeon. There are three goals in surgery; open up the fused sutures to allow room for normal skull and brain growth, relieve any pressure that may be on the brain, and give the head a more normal appearance. Some cases may require more than one surgery. The prognosis for a child with craniosynostosis is generally good when treated, but will depend on which sutures are fused, how many are fused, and whether or not a syndrome is involved.

There are actually two types of surgeries of which I am aware. There’s a less invasive version done before 3 months of age called “Endoscopic Strip Craniectomy.” The sutures are cut, but not reshaped. Babies wear a helmet for around a year after surgery to correct the head shape over time. Cara is not a candidate for that surgery.

Her surgery is called CVR (cranial vault reconstruction) with FOA (frontal-orbital advancement), done between 9 and 11 months of age. Basically, a portion of her skull will be removed, reshaped, and reattached. The brow bone will also be moved forward to better protect her eyes. We are told that the surgery will take between 10 and 12 hours including all anesthesia and post-op work. I’m going to need an anesthetic, I think.

The surgery is scary, but the prognosis is good. For the next few years, Cara will be closely monitored by the surgical team for effectiveness of the surgery and by an ophthalmologist, psychologist, etc. for developmental milestones in case early intervention is needed. Genetics will determine (later) whether to further test for the underlying cause or not. We have no family history, but with two sutures fused, the likelihood of a genetic abnormality may be increased.

Craniosynostosis is rare, but affects more than I realized, 1 in 2,000 births. You can read about some of those here.

I’m so grateful for an early diagnosis, an “on-time” surgery, and no current evidence of intracranial pressure. I’m relieved to have a confident and experienced surgical team. And, I’m thankful for a God-given support system of love, prayer, and financial support. You guys are awesome, and we feel God’s presence more pervasively than ever before.

Now, on to pack my activity bag for surgery day (another compulsive project). Any suggestions? 

Thank you.

Y’all?! Andrew and I are completely overwhelmed by the far-reaching tentacles of our support system. So many of you have already shared Cara’s story and offered your support. Your prayers and financial gifts are incredibly humbling to us. We are grateful beyond words. Though we are blessed to have insurance, the mounting travel costs and out-of-pocket expenses have been a source of anxiety for us on a very tight budget. Being able to focus more on Cara and her surgery and recovery is a gift I don’t know how to say thank you for. “Thank you” doesn’t seem sufficient, but thank you.

We are eager to “pay it forward” and already have plans to do so.

Yesterday, we were in Columbia for Cara’s pre-op appointments. As usual, she was a rockstar. She smiled and laughed the entire time we talked through the operation with the surgical team, signed our liability releases, and discussed logistical plans. As usual, the surgeons bolstered our confidence in them as they patiently answered our questions. We rewarded Cara with her first taste of BBQ on the way home, which she very much appreciated. 

 

Though I don’t know how I’m going to walk away from her that morning, I think we’re just ready to get the thing over with. We want to be “on the other side,” recovering and marveling at her resilience and spirit.

Thank you for your continued prayers, and thank you for blessing us with your love.

Now, I have a reason to hate snow.

We thought Jackson was just crazy for not loving (okay, refusing to eat) ice cream. We thought it was “a texture thing,” something that might change as he got older.

Then we had hives, an epi shot in an ambulance, more hives, and an appointment with an allergist.

Turns out, Jackson’s brain was already working for his body. Turns out, cold-induced urticaria is a real thing that can lead to mild reactions or severe anaphylaxis. Turns out, Jackson’s inclination to turn down ice cream may have a legitimate biological explanation.

So, now we’ll avoid ice-cold foods, be wary of cold pools and other bodies of water, and strictly avoid skin exposure to cold.

We could be sad about shorter snow days and no milkshakes, but we choose to be grateful knowing that God is omniscient, omnipotent, and omnipresent.

Friends - don’t think you aren’t fearfully and wonderfully made, knit together by a sovereign Creator (Psalm 139:13-14); don’t think He doesn’t know the number of hairs on your head and find you more valuable than birds or flowers (Matthew 10:29-31).  

It amazes me to reflect on the many ways that God chooses to reveal Himself to me, reminding me that my children are His first, and only He knows their future. I’m thinking we’ll need that reminder often over the next few weeks as we prepare to hand our littlest to a surgical team for 10-12 hours.

Also, we need to move south.

The board is set. The pieces are moving.

That's Tolkien, in case you forgot. :)

After sharing our news about Cara's diagnosis and need for surgery, so many of you reached out to us. You've shared your cranio stories (I have new friends!), you've called/messaged/texted to express your love and let us know that we are in your thoughts and prayers, and you have encouraged us with songs and scripture verses. Know that we cling mightily to those, even if they are received with just a "like" or a smile.

Over the last few weeks/months, we've been back and forth to Columbia several times, meeting all of Cara's surgical team. Her doctors are so knowledgeable and have been so gracious answering our questions and addressing our concerns. Right now, the plan is for Cara to have her surgery Wednesday, March 11. The date makes it more real to us, but we are confident in her team of doctors and, more importantly,  God's sovereignty.

During our transition from graduate school to our next job and home (you can keep praying about that, btw), we never expected to be preparing for a surgery for our sweet baby girl. But, here we are, and we know that God is with us and will never leave us (Deut. 31:6-8). We believe He is capable of planting trees in the desert (Isaiah 41:19), and we know we are more valuable to Him than the birds of the air (Matthew 6:25-34).