Christmas vacation is officially over. I have conflicting feelings over this. I am a bit relieved because it is exhausting, and the long breaks during the day will be nice. I don’t think people understand how much special needs parents desperately need some room to breathe. I am also sad to see them go, because I truly find joy in spending time with them. And, for another reason too.

On Tuesday afternoon when the boys arrived home from their first day back, they were happy. They shared bits and pieces of their day. Micah chatted about nothing and everything. (To his teachers, I love you. I forget how much that boy talks and this break has reminded me. Thank you for listening to him and making him feel important.)

When they arrived home from school and had had their snack, they started on their chores and homework. When they were done, they got their much anticipated screen time. While they were running minions and giggling with that ridiculous talking cat, I made a cup of tea and sat down. That’s when it happened.

The first of the daily e-mails arrived. If you don’t know what kind of e-mail I am talking about, I am jealous of you and your inbox. It couldn’t have been more ominous if it tried. Nestled in between a note from my Mom and an update on my order from David’s tea was an e-mail from a teacher. My fingers hovered over the tempting mini trash can off to the side, but there is this little thing called responsibility. So I opened it.

These e-mails are a bit like Russian roulette. You know what is coming, so you brace for impact. But at the same time, there is a small chance and with it a glimmer of hope that you won’t take a hit. Maybe it would be more accurate if the gun was loaded with all but one bullet, because that is how often you get good news.

I sometimes wonder why they can’t seem to write some positive with the negative. Because I know my children and I know the terrible things they are capable of. But I also know their hearts and they aren’t evil. They are sweet, and loving and kind. It is a bit of a messy package. I think it would be easier on autism parents to be able to handle the stress and grief over what their children were up to at school if they could cling to a little bit of praise as well.

My heart sank as I read not one, but two e-mails. Two e-mails for my two very different children. Two e-mails from frustrated teachers who had to come back from a relaxing break and had to deal with my son all day.

But here’s the thing. These are my babies. I have been dealing with my sons for over a decade. Far longer than any teacher. Yes, their days during the week are longer than my days with them. They have more waking hours with my children than I do during the week. But you know what? Teachers, I am giving you my children at their best.

What the teachers don’t see is my children when they wake up in the morning. Screeching because they can’t shut out the noise and desperately need to drown it out. Dumping things all over the floor because they are overly impulsive. Walking around naked because they’re so distracted they can’t even remember they were in the process of getting dressed. In the one hour before I send them out the door, I manage to get them fed, guide them as they get dressed, pack their lunches, and instill some peace in them so they are ready for their day. What the teachers don’t know is that sometimes my children are late to school because I won’t let them leave until they are ready.

I have medicated children. As a parent, that is sometimes a tough pill to swallow. When you first hold your baby in your arms, you fall in love with the sweet. In that magical moment, you don’t really think about the future. When I first held my babies, I didn’t know the magical moment would be when their medication kicked in. Like a light switch from chaos to contentment. When their switch finally reaches contentment after an hour of chaos, I send them out the door and pray they will have a good day. I never dreamed I would have a pharmacy in my home. I never dreamed I would have to give my children meds every day, probably for the rest of their lives. But it’s okay, because it helps them be their best.

Only, I guess their best isn’t good enough. Because the e-mails keep coming. And not just e-mails from the teachers, although those cause me the most stress. Also the e-mails scheduling therapies, doctors appointments, and hopefully some respite. Sometimes I wish for just a moment I could be the parents who get e-mails scheduling play dates and birthday parties. But I am not one of those Moms.

I don’t resent it. I just wish that for one day, I could have it as easy as the teachers. Because when my kids come home, their medications have run out and it is back to chaos. I don’t get the level of contentment the schools do when I send my kids there every day. I wish I could have that. But it’s okay that I don’t. Because I am the mother. The one who will love them, no matter what the e-mails say. The one who will wrap my arms around them when they have had a bad day and just need some love. The one who will stand beside them and advocate for them every step of the way.

Because I am an autism Mom, and it’s my super power. We stretch and give. We deposit here and deposit there and have very little deposits coming back. We get by on little sleep and a lot of caffeine. We show up for meetings. We schedule those appointments. And we answer those e-mails.

Don’t even ask me about the phone calls. That’s a story for another day.

Sometimes I have Mom envy. I know I’m a Mom already, and there are women out there who just want to have babies. I get that. And I hope and pray that you’ll be blessed with a little one soon. But I’m not talking about that kind of Mom envy. I’m talking about the kind of Mom envy where everyone’s house and lives look way better than your own.

I’m talking about when you’re perusing the web and you see a picture perfect family. The one where he’s tall dark and handsome. And she’s blonde, thin and has perfectly straight teeth. And they have some perfectly adorable children, biological and adopted. And they travel the globe, doing amazing and fun things together as a family, and just look like they are winning at life. I want to be happy for them, and sometimes I am. But more often than not, seeing their photos and reading about their exciting experiences leaves me feeling empty and alone.

I know I am blessed with the tall (not so dark) and handsome hubby. At least, I think he is. But aside from that, nothing is the same. I’m far from thin, I definitely don’t have blonde hair or perfect teeth. Neither do my kids – not their teeth or their behaviour. (I’ll bet those perfect people don’t get multiple phone calls from the school when their kids have been up to no good). And those adopted children? I’d love to have them, but my plate is sort of overflowing.

Sometimes it gets me down. Sometimes I can’t see past their perfect smiles. And then, other times I can. Because not everyone can be as transparent as our family is. We joke about not having secrets, but really it’s very true. Even if we wanted to have secrets, the kids would spill to the next person they see. (Like when my son told the person sitting next to him at the Christmas concert that I almost burnt the house down because I was trying to make popcorn in the microwave.) Not everyone can share the hard stuff. Not everyone can write about the stuff that leaves them weeping. Not everyone is me. Not everyone has that story to tell.

And that’s the thing. Their story is not my story. My story is not your story. We all have our own lives, our own families, our own experiences. We all have our own moments where we shine. We all have our own failures (some are just better at keeping them in the dark as others.)  We are all equal in that way.

But that’s where it stops. Because we can’t all be alike. No two snowflakes are the same. We all have our own individual fingerprints, our own individual DNA. We are all unique. We can’t have the same looks, the same children, the same trips around the globe. But we can stand united. Because even though we can’t have the same experiences, we still need each other.

Like that time I saw another autism Mom struggling to get her child together in the middle of Walmart. And there were groceries everywhere. It’s not the same experience I have every day, but it’s similar. So I know I couldn’t do anything to help her in that moment. But I could take her purse from the middle of the aisle and put it back in her cart. And give her one of those looks. The kind not everyone gives you when your child is melting in the store. A look not of disgust or distain but if solidarity and encouragment.

Like the time I saw another larger Mom trying on clothing at the store. Standing in front of mirrors that don’t show mercy, I watched as she stepped back feeling deflated. I’ve been there before. To be honest, I am there every day. Just trying to feel beautiful in a world that tells you you’re anything but. So I stood beside this woman for just a moment and told her what I would have wanted to hear. And watched as her shoulders rose back to where they should be. And as she turned away with a word of thanks, she went and bought the shirt. And I felt like maybe, just for a moment, I was winning at life. That maybe, for a minute, there was a reason why I face what I face.

It’s the first day if 2017. People usually make resolutions. Or they choose one little word they’re hoping will make their year the best it can be. This year, I just want to live intentionally. I want to tell my story. To feel, even if very briefly, like my story is worth having and worth sharing if not just for a single moment.

We may not have picture perfect lives. We may not have the children, or the trips, or the perfectly manicured lawns and gorgeous homes. But we all have a life worth living and sharing about. My prayer for this year is that we all experience life together. Not just the good bits, but the bad too. Because sometimes, when we are real, we remember we are just where we are meant to be.

I’m going to keep sharing my story. Because it isn’t glamorous. It isn’t beautiful. But it’s real. And it’s mine to tell, no matter what this year brings.

A few days ago we attended a little welcoming party for a newborn baby . I even had a chance to hold that sweet little boy and it was so wonderful to hear his little baby noises and watch him yawn the biggest baby yawn I have ever seen. What a sweetheart! His Dad mentioned something about having a lot of children (this baby was their fifth), and quoted Psalm 127:5 – blessed is the man whose quiver is full. They definitely have a full quiver, and it is awesome!

Later that evening, another friend posted a photo of some wall decor in their home. It featured the ultrasound photos of all five of their babies in a funky frame alongside this framed Psalm. “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.” (Psalm 139:13-14) I thought it was awesome and very creative. What a neat idea. But then, my heart felt a little sad, just for a moment.

I always wanted to have a quiver of children. I wanted to have at least four. Maybe six. I came from a large family and I wanted a large family. I am not so sure my husband and I had the same idea for our quiver, but that’s another story for another day. Today’s story is about God Glasses.

What are God Glasses? Maybe it’s not the greatest term, but it is a simple way to explain what happens when you look back over your past experiences and see the hand of God in your life. To see his plan unfolding in your life – the BEST plan. The plan that might not be what you would have chosen for yourself, but that really is better than what you were thinking.

My God Glasses for a “lack” of a large family show me two things. Two very amazing, very important things. The first is, I HAVE CHILDREN. The second – two is more than enough.

My husband and I had these amazing grandiose plans (as most newlyweds do) to enjoy being married without children and start building a family after five years. So imagine our shock and yes, a bit of alarm, when we discovered we were expecting after we had been married for only three short months. A year and one month after our wedding day, our bundle of baby arrived. And what a joy he was! Two years later, another bundle of boy added to our forever family. I didn’t want it to be the end, but was told by doctors that I needed to be done and they were taking medical action to make it so. For the safety of my health, and my future children’s health. It was a bit of a blow to be cut off, but then, God Glasses. Ten years later, I put my God Glasses on. I realized that if I had waited those five years, I wouldn’t have been able to have any children at all. My God Glasses showed me His plan was better than my plan. My God Glasses showed me His blessings rather than my burdens of being without children.

Seven years after our forever family was formed, I had another God Glasses moment. We had been struggling with having a child with autism – and all that entailed. All the meetings with the school, the intervention, the special foods, the different medications. It was a challenge! Then we received the news that they both had autism, and some other added complications, and we were overwhelmed. Challenges and blessings can sometimes be bundled into one, can’t they? My God Glasses made me realize that two children with autism was more than enough. I didn’t need to add to my quiver. My tiny quiver was overflowing. My God Glasses showed me His plan was better than my plan. My God Glasses showed me the two children were more than enough, and any more would likely be too much to bear.

God Glasses are necessary as we navigate through this life. It is so important to look back on hard situations and disappointments that once shook us to our core – and see how God has moved. God Glasses allow us to see His plan with a fresh perspective. From His perspective.

What do your God Glasses allow you to see? I hope you will be as blessed as I am when you look back and see how God has turned your trials into triumphs.

It has been a few days since I embarked on the first day of my new journey – after the diagnosis. I honestly thought that it would be the best thing in the world, just what I needed. And it was, in a way. But then I sit here, folding laundry. Large laundry – the kind that people wear on their “fat days.” Worse, actually. The kind of laundry that no one wants to wear. That’s the kind of laundry I was folding. A part of me died a little bit. Because while I got a diagnosis, and it was the one that I expected, the skinny person inside of me died.

Every time I look in the mirror I am surprised. I am surprised at the person looking back at me because it’s not the person I feel is walking around out there. If there was such a thing as reversed anorexia, that is how I would categorize myself. Instead of thinking of myself as bigger than I am, I think of myself as smaller. So when I am met with that harsh reality, it knocks the life out of me. I see how I really look to others and it makes me sad. Now I am not completely out to lunch, I know I am not model thin – but I definitely don’t feel as large as I actually am.

So when I was folding my laundry – these clothes I have worn many times before – it was as if my eyes were opened to how big they really are.  And the hope that some day I would appear as skinny on the outside as I do on the inside disappeared forever. Because one thing is true, there is no way to reverse what has happened to my body. I will forever be a super sized person.

But then a fresh breath of hope in the form of a phone call. My sister, who is always in tune with my heart, called me on her lunch break to tell me she was going to buy me some pants for my birthday. As she added the pants to her online cart, she told me she was getting a size larger for me to grow into. Partly because that’s what was available, and partly because she can see the Jerusha I saw in the mirror today and the Jerusha I see when I look at myself. And she knows the dream that died. And she told me. “embrace it Jeru – it’s going to be okay.” I know that’s true. I do. And I love my sister, who knows that the Jerusha I see when I look at myself desperately wants to look pretty. And I love that she always helps me find clothes that will help me to look the way I want to look despite the Jerusha that really is standing in front of the mirror.

As I hung up the phone, her words ringing in my ears, I turned back to my laundry. I took a pair of holey pants to the garbage – I have new ones on the way. And as I was throwing them out, I felt a voice whispering “I make all things new.” A voice who knows the Jerusha that I don’t even know yet. A voice who knows all of my days – the days that have passed, the days I live right now, and the ones that I will live. A voice that makes it all okay.

Because I am more than the clothes that I wear. I am more than the size of my body. I am more because He is making me more. Jesus has an upside down kingdom. What the world thinks is right isn’t really right. What the world thinks is beautiful isn’t really beautiful. And in that moment, when I heard that voice whispering – I had a little perspective. Perhaps I am going to always be a large person while I live here on this earth, but that doesn’t mean my heart has to be broken in pieces over it. Because God is making me new, and it is going to be okay. If I am going to be large, I might as well live larger than life.

And while I live larger than life, I am going to embrace this – because that’s all I can do. I can embrace the lipedema riddled body. I am going to treat as best as I can the more serious lymphedema, and I am going to LIVE. For as many days as I have been given. Because right now, in this moment, it is not the end. He has made a way for me, even as I am. And even in the moments where I am faced with the reality I don’t want to face, He is the God of all my days. And I am trusting in His plan.

Pain has possibility. Most of us wouldn’t see that in the every day, because pain is difficult. It makes us uncomfortable. Pain makes us have to feel things we don’t want to feel. Wikipedia states “pain motivates the individual to withdraw from damaging situations and to avoid similar experiences in the future.” But what about the pain that is unavoidable? I’m not talking about the physical pain you might feel when you stub your toe or break your arm. I’m talking about emotional pain – the deep stuff. The stuff that hurts so much you don’t even want to read any further. (Keep going, it’s okay. Trust me!)

The kind of pain that we all have to endure at some point in our lives but we all hope we never have to endure. The pain of broken relationships. The pain of hard situations and circumstances that t-bone you when you least expect it. Painful situations don’t seem like they have possibility. But they do.

Sometimes God allows pain into our lives to change and shape us. That is such a difficult lesson – and one that often will take us years to understand and process. In the meantime, we can take a look at King David – the man after God’s own heart. He had a lot going for him – he was a king chosen by God himself. But he suffered greatly, and his pain was so overwhelming for him.

Let’s look at the beginning – before he even assumed the throne – he was working for King Saul, who became so jealous of David that he wanted to kill him. Numerous times he fled for his life. He spent many years on the run from Saul. But God used that time in his life to change and shape him – it was in those times that he wrote many psalms and songs that we still read today.

Fast forward to the New Testament and we see another Saul – also called Paul – who suffers much pain in his ministry. This is the one who had spent time chasing down and arresting Christians who was vehemently opposed to the gospel of Jesus. Until he had his own encounter and literally saw the light. After that it was his life’s mission to bring the news of the life and resurrection of Jesus to everyone he saw  – both Jews and Gentiles. This made some Roman officials very angry, as some Jews didn’t believe that Jesus was the Messiah. Numerous times Paul was arrested and jailed and put on trial for living out his life assignment from God. At one point, he was arrested for doing nothing other than performing a Jewish ritual in the temple. The Jewish leaders had been trying to catch him for so long they leapt at the chance, after which they had nothing to accuse him of – at least not anything that would stick – and he was passed from official to official to official until he was finally set free. This lengthy process allowed him time to write the many letters to the surrounding churches to encourage and guide them – what we now know as the Epistles.

Pain has possibility. In the deepest, darkest and most painful situations. When we just can’t handle the pain for one more moment – it happens. He breathes hope into the hopeless situations. It may be just a little whisper. It might be just a spark of encouragement. It may be something grand. But it is hope just the same. And hope is His promise to us as we struggle through day to day life. Hope is His promise to us as we face the painful situations in our life.

It was Paul, the one who had been imprisoned numerous times during his missionary journey, who wrote the book of Romans. So when I read these words, I know they are coming from someone who endured suffering and pain:

“Because of our faith, Christ has brought us into this place of unreserved privilege where we now stand, and we confidently and joyfully look forward to sharing God’s glory. We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us to develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope and salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because He has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with His love.” Romans 5:2-5

Even through the painful situations, we can see hope through Christ. He breathes hope into our lives, and even through the pain, we are transformed.

One Sunday morning as we were worshipping in church, we were singing a song that I felt right down to my very core. And in that moment, I felt like He had breathed hope right into my body. My broken, aching body. The words that crept into the secret recesses of my heart and filled me with life:

Pain has possibility. It can even be a gift that we are grateful for. I never thought there would come a day where I would stand there and confess in my heart that I was grateful for this debilitating disease. But here I am, saying it. I am thankful, grateful and hope infused for this pain, if it would be this that He would use to someone point others to Him, whether it be by my life or my words.

So whatever pain you are experiencing, be it emotional pain, physical pain, spiritual pain, or all of the above, it is my prayer that He will breathe hope into your hopeless situations today. Because His hope stands forever, long after our painful situations have passed away.