I’m coming off a fun-filled, birthday-oriented weekend: candy and a DVD brought home by The Husband; champagne and fried chicken at Parish; dinner cooked by The Sis and Bro-in-Law (TH cleaned his plate then finished off mine–per usual); new weekday uniform gifted by The Sis that, sans job, renders me wrapped in super-soft cotton for the majority of the day–plus I get to call it my Writing Outfit which endows it with official importance. All in all, good times indeed.

So why did I wake up this morning with a case of the Mondays?

I have plenty of days when I don’t crack a smile or a conversation before the morning coffee is consumed–ask any of my former roommates. Then there are the mornings like this one, when losing a contact leaves me feeling like our house was targeted for nuclear attack; when the failure of my iPhone to charge is clearly a government conspiracy to drive me insane; when my former employer’s email reveals a depth of pathology that should be accompanied by The Twilight Zone theme music; when I see the obviously anorexic girl in my spin class and am more motivated to yell at than pray for her.

All this, and the toughest thing on my To-Do List for today is to pick up TH’s glasses at LensCrafters. What gives?

I’m beginning to understand that for all my pre-unemployment longing for days off the clock, I have a problem with not pulling in an income; with not having something taxable to do with my hands. I struggle with feeling useless, with coming up with accomplishments to prove my worth, with looking at this as a transition time rather than immersing myself in the opportunity I’ve been provided. And so, waking up this morning and being faced with a week of such thoughts, I copped an attitude.

Then I went downstairs and saw the freshly-painted room that TH labored over for two weekends: the luxurious red that surpasses my expectations and makes the walls look new and shifts the light in ways I never noticed before. I see the utensil left out for me, a small act of consideration that encourages me away from measuring out my life with coffee spoons. I climb onto my bike at said spin class and give in to the recognition that the instructor’s voice makes him sound just like Zach Galifianakis–which means that if I close my eyes, I can be transported to a Vegas elevator next to a bearded man with a baby strapped to his chest.

I walk outside and feel the hint of fall in the air, see the bus carrying kids to school, and hear the voice telling me to choose thankfulness–an admonition conceived not in some hippie self-help manual alongside other vague tips like “be light” and “spread love,” but a design on my life that has a Source and a purpose and a better reason than any I could dream up. And I know, despite moodiness and selfishness and all the other worst versions of myself I can be, that the specific nature of what I believe leaves me with this truth: there is Someone making all things new, no matter how they look right now. And that believing this is an act of courage that involves vision beyond what’s in front of me or how I feel. So I wrap myself in cotton, drink my coffee, and watch the light.

I just spent a significant amount of time licking icing off a napkin, debris left from surprise cupcakes from The Sis-in-Law. This after a buttery, cheesy, salty grits breakfast and a snack of coffee and chocolate chip cookie. So…yes. Yes, I am having a great birthday. Thanks for asking.

This past year has been full of Major Life Events. The Husband and I decided, why not? Let’s just pack it all in. So I turned thirty-three (Jesus year!), got married, started a new life in a new city, became a co-godparent with TH to The Niece, bought a house (okay, TH did that), and got knocked up (guess he did that too). Oh, and lost my job and sent out letters to literary agents and got rejected by some who wrote back! And the other night, when I received the email telling me I would not, in fact, be paid what I was owed, I felt the steam and blood pressure rising within; the familiar self-righteous vigilante justice button was pressed. And then, instead of resorting to the usual–high-pitched “how could she!” protestations and insults and threats and gnashing of teeth, I simply looked to my left, where TH sat. And I looked down, where The Kid sits. And for maybe the first time in my life, I thought about all I have instead of what I don’t. And I took a deep breath of gratitude and laughed. (And maybe muttered the word whore. But the laughing was louder.)

There is always something to celebrate, and always something to mourn. For so much of my life it was easier to see what was missing. What I thought I was waiting for, or was being denied. I have spent birthdays wishing for flowers, wondering when/if HE would show up, crying in my solitude, even begging the diarrhea to go away (in Italy, but still). This year, there are unknowns. There is a lawyer looking at my case. There are agents taking a pass. There is cutting back.

And there is so much more. There is the doorbell that just rang, the flowers delivered. I wondered if they would show up this year–we’re supposed to be watching our wallets, plus we’re married anyway, so aren’t the generous overtures supposed to taper off? But no. There are roses, there is a baby kicking, there will be sand in our toes next weekend, and there is a plan greater than my own. Grace always shows up, we just have to open the door.

Everything is necessary that he sends. Nothing can be necessary that he withholds.                           –John Newton

There are adjustments to be made when you find yourself carrying a tiny person inside you, just like there are adjustments to be made when you find yourself without a job to go to each day. I’ve been starting most of my days with a walk–the pregnant person’s version of a run–and my footsteps fall to the rhythm of Tim Keller’s voice as I listen to his sermons. Not a bad way to wake up. And The Kid has found his footing as well, using those tiny heels to kick up a storm. He’s already like his dad, getting especially animated at night and around food and coffee. When I sit in his room for my daily prayers on his behalf, he seems to calm down in reverence, his own tiny acknowledgment of holiness. Either that or he’s like his dad here too, likely to fall asleep in stillness.

Speaking of him, The Husband has been in spreadsheet overdrive since I lost my job, and as I sit typing away or researching new dinner recipes or querying agents, he is hammering away at Excel and re-budgeting our lives. And as previously discussed, I battle guilt over this fact, even though neither of us could have expected to be lied to so magnificently or treated so disrespectfully. And like any good introvert who loathes conflict, I battle the urge to nurse this guilt and let it grow into animosity and fear. Which means remaining vigilant in the form of prayer, and talking to TH, and…posting my innermost thoughts on the web, apparently. You’re welcome.

Money is one of those areas from which even the most fervent in belief back away slowly, whistling with a “there’s nothing to see here” attempt at diverting the eyes of God. It’s fine to talk about faith in suffering, faith in trials, but when the budget is busted, it’s time to get real–not wait for manna/dollar bills to rain down from heaven. So the challenge for me right now is to reconcile where practicality and faith meet. Because part of the time, my palms are open, and part of the time they are thrown up in frustration. We’re doing fine, especially compared to a single girl I knew a few years ago living in New York–that girl married a practical man, a great provider. (So don’t start freaking out, Mom.) But to have lost a chunk of planned income the year that we bought a house and two cars, and are having a baby? Not ideal.

These walks of mine include a stretch of sidewalk that opens out from the shade of trees and bathes me in sunlight, and as the gold hits my face I feel warmth and love. I feel seen, acknowledged. Then there was this morning, covered in clouds and a light dusting of rain, and I stepped into the open space with no greeting from the sun. And maybe it’s the practice of gratitude seeping through finally, or maybe it’s just that grace works, but I didn’t feel absence; I noted the ability, in this time of diminished light, to open my eyes fully and see the world around me more clearly.

I’m finding that being practical and faithful looks like…well, often, it looks like something close to insanity. It looks like continuing to give, even when you’re getting less. It looks like starting a new project, the words flowing like water, even when an agent hasn’t taken on your last one. It looks like spilling your guts online, even though some say, “Look who drank the Kool-Aid,” or “Wasn’t she smart at one point?” It means walking forward even when the forecast looks bleak.

Sometimes, it means being that person forging ahead on the sidewalk as rain pelts down and drivers pass you, wondering why you’re out in this and not headed home. Because here’s the thing:

How do they know you’re not?

I am a runner. I often have to repeat this sentence to myself as a mantra multiple times before I believe it, even after a couple of half-marathons, over a decade of pounding the pavement, and thousands of miles covered. But I do run regularly; at least I did until the pee caused two lines to appear on the stick. The first run I attempted after getting the news was…awkward. I imagined the tiny baby shooting around like a pinball inside me as my feet hit concrete and I wondered if it could fall out (I may have majored in biology, but objective knowledge is lost on me at times like these). In between gagging episodes, I kept trying to run, succeeding at short spurts but tiring easily. Last week, with an overblown blood volume, expanding waistline, and changing center of gravity, I attempted one of those short spurts and knew, like a spectator at the finale of a Fourth of July fireworks show, that such a display would likely not be repeated this year.

Apparently that center of gravity thing is a big deal, though I was never aware of it before now, and it shifts upward as pregnancy progresses. Which means that in addition to feeling overweight and over-gassed, the pregnant lady is more likely to get dizzy and stumble around (heretofore a state caused by too many glasses of red). And this stumbling is compounded by the release of chemicals that loosen the joints to accommodate the expanding frame.

Some call it magical. I call it weird as hell.

As I’m adapting (uncooperatively) with this invasion of my body, and as life is changing around me–unemployment, color swatches, day care tours–I am clinging to the centers of gravity in my life that don’t change, the home bases that I can return to and collapse upon in relief. The solid rocks. And I can’t imagine what my existence would resemble if these only consisted of what the world provides, what I can see with my eyes, what I can control.

Were it not for grace, my home base would likely be anger. Consistent outrage at injustices as I perceive them: inconsiderate behavior, emotional manipulation, high taxes, bad drivers. (It takes much less than war and natural disasters to get me all self-righteously, fist-shakingly boiling.) And if my resources ended at the self-help section of Barnes & Noble, I would eventually collapse in the fetal position next to a copy of The Secret in a fit of despair. I am not enough. And neither is anyone else. And I’m thankful to have learned that lesson prior to pushing this baby out and placing all my expectations on him. Or his dad.

I need someone outside myself and my community of better-than-I-but-still-imperfect people to go to, to know as ultimate refuge and justice and purpose. I need someone for whom my job loss or parental ineptitude is no surprise, who already had those pieces of thread woven into a larger vision that I cannot see yet. Without that, there would never be meaning or hope to anything beyond what I or the world ascribe: good. bad. positive. negative.

There has to be more. There has to be home, and a center that doesn’t shift. I’m counting on it.

Yesterday, The Husband and I watched the screen as our sixteen-week ultrasound played. And what we found out is that our baby looks healthy…and is a BOY!

And that officially derailed any trace of job loss being on the list of Things That Matter for this week.

Everyone says it, but we would have been happy either way. Since the doctor’s “educated guess” four weeks ago was Girl, though, we were pretty surprised. And excited. The luck of the draw (and not a creepy predilection) had me babysitting mostly boys while I was in high school, and I always thought they were a blast. I began to harbor a hope to have one of my own, but the women in my family are known for popping out other women. Looks like TH’s male-heavy genes won the battle this time.

And I can breathe a sigh of relief at the majority of responsibility that is now placed squarely on his shoulders, since he will be teaching this kid not only how to play basketball, but how to be a man. I see more than ever how blessed I am to have married this man.

Another thing our kid has going for him? He is blessed with a bloodline that carries quite the sense of humor. The Dad’s response to our gender news: Don’t let the liberals turn him into a pansy. I’m gonna buy him a gun.

Here we go.

My boss let me go yesterday. This was two weeks after I told her I was pregnant.

Have I mentioned that I don’t believe in coincidences?

I’ll have to be careful for now what I post on the matter–and then, in a matter of time, possibly unload a crazy amount of truth-telling and story-spilling on your asses–but for now I will deal in generalities and vague references. Neither of which are my love languages. I am holding a lot of things in, and that is not my preference, but you know what’s fun about being a writer? The writer can be sneaky with the real story, cloak it in different names and dates and locations, and still tell it. And you can bet your ass this story will be told.

But for now, let’s talk about Harry Potter and Friday Night Lights, shall we?

Two phenomenal, redemptive, awe-inspiring stories told over the years of my life when I needed reminding of what faith is and why it matters. I will be forever thankful for heroes in football pads and Ray-Bans and wheelchairs; for warriors in cargo pants and striped scarves. For a coach whose greatest victories are prefaced by a wounded player and a lost job; for a mother who bore the curse of death so her son could live. These are the tales that embody the paradox of gospel faith; in the rubble lies hope. There is no great story without a shattering of what went before; there is no great love without ultimate sacrifice. Justice is often delayed and enters through a side door, quietly, without anyone hearing it over all the noise or anyone seeing it through all the darkness. But when it shows up…man, does it ever do the job. You may have been checking your watch, tapping your foot, cursing its absence, but justice–and love–they know what it means to be on time.

I have learned the hard way, through justice delivered to my own doorstep, that failure is not what I thought it was. The trappings of success recognized by this world, the money and materials and acclaim, may in some ways make life easier (let’s not kid ourselves about that) but they do not provide warmth or company; and since when is easier better? Tell me your favorite story and let’s find the part where the hero coasted through without difficulty, without facing a battle. Good luck with that. Failure doesn’t look like loss; it doesn’t even look like death, because both of these have been defeated in all the greatest stories.

Failure is what happens when you’ve looked out for only yourself for so long, at the expense of all others, that there are no others left. It’s just you–all that ever has been is all that ever will be.

At the end of it all, the only things that matter are the things we do on behalf of others. And I can say that as one who has had everything done on her behalf; it just took me awhile to reach that point of letting go of everything I had done, of holding it up and expecting it to prove my worth, to justify me and be enough. And I gracefully, mercifully, reached that point by meeting head-on what the world calls failure. So now, when news like yesterday’s hits, I have somewhere to go and something deeper to expect. I get to know that the termination notice, the head-on paralyzing collision, the death blast from the devil’s wand–these are not the final act.

Enter redemption/justice/grace/Dumbledore, stage left.

“Are you worried?” I was asked yesterday, and had the nerve to feel indignant at the question. Then I was humbled by a reminder of a similar situation three years ago, when I was single and broke and told the practice was splitting and my services would no longer be required, and I was not so calm then. I headed south on Third Avenue through the darkness and cold November New York air, and I called my people, among them my future husband. I freaked out. I glared accusingly upward. Not cool, my eyes said. We had a deal.

My deal was falling apart, true. His was not. It was being kept. Not in spite of loss and shock and brokenness, but through it. And it’s not lost on me now, how it’s easier to stay calm when I have The Husband and he’s kicking ass at work and we have a budget that is not rocked unsteady by an extra toilet paper roll or pack of gum. But. I’d like to think that, since I had to go through there to get here, I am a bit further along. And so, when I’m asked if I’m worried and I feel indignant, thinking, What the hell is the point of believing if I live worried?, that this is not just a sign of time or change of circumstances, but of growth. Of faith. Of a path walked side by side, of suspicions squashed and promises kept, of self-brokered deals giving way to heavenly-breathed covenants. Of the thought of worry being insulting not just to him now, but to me too.

Of the tables being turned, and the response to an overturned plan being laughter…and the prayer, turning the banal into the divine: Thank you.

In every marriage, the husband and wife have roles to play. And I’m not just talking about the obvious, like Sperm Donor and Baby-Grower. For our part, it seems that The Husband’s job is to talk me off ledges, pry weapons out of my hands, and put out fires I’ve started. Mine, one I’ve indulged in taking a little too seriously lately, is pointing out everything that’s wrong with the world. The exhaustion brought on the first trimester of pregnancy and compounded by jet lag has intensified my negative tendencies, my glass-half-empty renderings for the past few weeks. As has difficulty in the non-personal areas of life (do they even exist? Not when you take everything personally): my pregnancy being referred to as “good news for [me], bad news for [someone else],” an “inconvenience,” and “the route [I] chose to take” coupled with a fear of ineptitude that has dogged me since graduate school and into my career (that’s twelve years now, but who’s counting?).

But….there is a but, right?

My faith answers in the affirmative. So does the advent of the second trimester, what with food regaining its appeal and my enjoyment of cooking returning (and TH’s enjoyment of my cooking replacing his self-made pizza roll-ups). And, once the jet lag subsides and I don’t wake up with a massive headache and a feeling of being pinned to the bed by my leaden body, I hear I’ll have a resurgence of (temporary)  energy. So there’s all that. But waiting on this promise to be fulfilled is a bit like waiting to feel like getting out of said bed and facing the day, rather than feeling like I’m being attacked on all sides.

(Sidenote: I tend toward paranoia and defensiveness. Not that you would have ever picked up on that.)

When I come out swinging and TH is in my firing line, he gamely bears the brunt of my negativity, my “look at all I’m doing for you” pointing and sullenness and audacity in the face of his never-ending job demands and his infinite patience. After I wondered aloud and irrationally whether he loves his job more than our family (pregnancy hormones turn every day into opposite day), I turned around to find the house sprayed for roaches, the trash taken out, and the disposal fixed. Not to mention the fact that between incessant meetings and IMs, he has called every daycare in our suburb and set up multiple tours. (Something that, apparently, we should have done before we even conceived?  CALM DOWN, FREAKS!)

And me? Well, this coffee and reflection sure taste good.

Marriage is often a battleground where people on the same team have to learn to fight fair; but for me, it’s also a continuing lesson in what Greater Love looks like, in how grace is played out day by day. My response to the brokenness in this world is flailing hands and raised voice and always anger; I am on a team with someone (and Someone) who uses love as an agent of change. Earlier this week I was driving home after a challenging day at work (which is to say, a day at work) and came upon multiple brake lights without apparent cause. Then I saw a raccoon slowly crossing the road. This is why we’ve all come to a screeching halt? This is why my schedule is being held up? An f-ing RODENT?! A creature that transmits rabies and upends trashcans? Have any of you even SEEN The Great Outdoors?! My hand flew toward the horn, then froze as my view widened and I saw a train of baby raccoons, four deep, following their mommy leader. Our cars sat still as the family passed safely across the road.

Sometimes, the world’s curtains part and I get a glimpse of the grace spent on an ungrateful me; of how much it costs to give your life protecting someone else’s.

It’s this grace that sets me free to recognize the well-behaved child in the chair after a chain of screaming ones and lifts me out of being the target of criticism to tell a mom what a great job she’s doing as she responds with thankful tears in her eyes (and I try to avoid a sidelong glance at the mother of Satan across the waiting room). It’s this grace that, when I tell TH of my nonstop burping and stomach discomforts and he smiles knowingly and replies, “Yep, heartburn–that’s the next stage,” prevents me from cracking a wine bottle over his head and drinking the remains and instead moves me to glance at the copy of What to Expect When You’re Expecting that he has studied and dog-eared and I remember that I’m not doing the whole job here when it comes to the new life on the way.

It’s this grace that, headache and leaden limbs notwithstanding, allows me to take a walk anyway this morning and leave the music off and look up instead. Grace that gets me through the bug bites and humidity and fearing halfway through that I just may crap my pants this time around. Grace that reminds me what prayer looks like when it becomes less about seeking answers than acknowledging those already given. Answers less wordy and instructive than I’d like: Don’t be afraid; give thanks; I AM. And in what alcoholics and pregnant women call a moment of clarity, I see that while it is true that this world and evil may well partner to attack me, what is more true and real is how well I am loved. So well that I am learning how to do it myself. Beside me on the couch and within my bulging belly are two of the biggest reasons why that is called Good News.