How to Host a Stranger


Her name was Mariam. And everything she had in this world fit into my minivan. Two little girls—three years old and eighteen months. Four suitcases—only two with working handles and none with working wheels. A few bags of diapers, lots of basmati rice, and a stroller.

Maybe it was because I had brought my Sam and my mom with me, but she must have felt safe enough to get in the van. After all, we were all just mothers and children in there. She even let me put the girls into donated car seats—they had never in their life been in a car seat. And let’s not talk about whether or not they had ridden in cars, mmm-kay?

As we drove, I listened to Mariam try to calm the screaming one—three, thick black hair and wide bangs, and so much life. She gave candies to keep the peace—apparently Afghan moms aren’t above bribing either.

The eighteen month old had curls that lifted away from her head right above her ears and big almond eyes, a dark-haired baby doll if I ever saw one. She made loud noises as she tried to wiggle free of the seatbelt harnesses. My Sam returned her grunts and yells with his own mimicked sounds.  I laughed at the seeming communication. We all start out speaking the same language of hunger and need. 

When the car hit the mountain pass, I thought of how crazy this must be for her. I was transporting her entire life to somewhere she had never been. She had no choice but to trust me. She didn’t fully understand where we were going or what was going on—how her spot at the shelter needed to be filled by another broken mother, how her case was being transferred to another non-profit, how the funds got delayed so she had nowhere ready for her, how people had scrambled to make a temporary place for her, how she had to spend the day in my home before going to another home that evening. 

Her husband had created an impossibly high wall of American bureaucracy when he abandoned his refugee wife and children and took all their documents with him. Did he know when he walked away—daughter screaming for him to come back—that he had taken with him the legs they might stand weeping upon too?


We got to my house at noon. I opened my fridge door and stood there awkwardly wondering what I could prepare for lunch. I picked up the box of lunchmeat—ham. The other box—ham. The one thing I vaguely remembered about Moslems—they don’t eat pig. I found a can of chicken in the pantry and threw together a chicken salad sandwich. I was determined to be a decent hostess (I was also starving). Mariam gently asked if she could whip up some over-easy eggs instead. Perhaps, eggs were the one thing that looked familiar in my American kitchen.

Later that afternoon, we were sitting on the living room floor, Barney entertaining her girls. I probably misspoke when I asked if she had family here. I don’t know a thing about Afghan culture.

Her sentences came out broken and all the harsh American “’a’ as in a-a-apple” sounds were softened to the schwa—“Ә”—like the last “a” in Amanda.

“No. No fuh-mily. Husbund leave.” Tears pooled in her brown eyes. I now know that a husband gone, no matter who is right or wrong, is shame and estrangement.

“Husbund leave. Farah cry, ‘Stay, please stay!’ Farah, cry, cry, cry. Husbund leave me, Farah. Maliha, only baby; nine months, like you baby.” She pointed at Sam. A few tears escaped from where they’d pooled in her eyes.

“Husbund… papers.” She made a shredding gesture as she said this. “Husband no call. No call. Nine months. No green card. No medicul. No food.” Mariam was distraught. I saw in her a desperate mother, a desperate woman, weary from the battle of survival.  I saw the pain of abandonment. I saw the worry and the fears—and while I would never compare my struggles to hers, I recognized something in her—something I have in my own self.

I grabbed her hand into mine. I am not a very touchy person, but compassion can move beyond language barriers and a simple touch can speak louder than any words ever could.

“You are safe here. We will take care of you. It will be okay, Mariam. You are safe.” I squeezed her hand and looked her right in the eyes. I said the word one more time because it really is the deepest longing of our mother hearts for our children. It’s the deepest longing of our own hearts—for deep down in us is this place that forgets the age we actually are because it goes right on feeling forever young—forever small and childlike and in need of care.

“Safe.” 
You are safe here. We won’t abandon you, because He will never abandon you.


When I had tucked my kids into bed the night before, I told them that we were going to be missionaries. They were so excited. They asked what a missionary was. I told them a missionary was someone who shows people who don’t know it yet the greatness of God’s love for them.

So the next day, while Mariam napped with Maliha in our big comfy chair, Addy and Jed built a blanket fort for Farah. They ran and laughed and tried to coax Farah into the fort. In the midst of this, Jed grabbed my arm and whispered in my ear, “Am I doing it, Mom? Am I being a missionary?”

“Yes, baby. You are doing it just right.” Sometimes, sharing the love of Christ looks like ordinary acts sprinkled right through with the gold magic of God’s love. As mothers, our big job and high calling is sharing that love story with the little people being raised up under our roofs. It might look everyday ordinary until that one moment when your child looks up at you and asks the deep question, and you see the magic that’s been there all along.

Last week, I discovered that showing the love of Christ to strangers—my kids right there with me—is the same thing as showing the love of Christ to my kids.


When I dropped Mariam off at the host family’s house, she hugged me touching her cheek to my cheek and kissing. I smiled and said, “Friend.” She smiled back and said, “Sister.”

“Yes.” Clumsy and American and a fridge full of ham, but I welcomed her anyways and she called me sister.

The thing I have known about missions since I was twenty-one and interning at a missions base, it’s not just about how you could bring the gospel to someone, how their life needs changing. No, that’s the thing about the gospel. For whoever would carry that timeless gospel message will find herself changed as well.

“’For I was hungry, and you gave Me something to eat; I was thirsty, and you gave Me something to drink; I was a stranger, and you invited Me in; naked, and you clothed Me; I was sick, and you visited Me; I was in prison, and you came to Me.’ “Then the righteous will answer Him, ‘Lord, when did we see You hungry, and feed You, or thirsty, and give You something to drink? ‘And when did we see You a stranger, and invite You in, or naked, and clothe You? ‘When did we see You sick, or in prison, and come to You?’ “The King will answer and say to them, ‘Truly I say to you, to the extent that you did it to one of these brothers of Mine, even the least of them, you did it to Me’.” -Matthew 25:35-40

I’d love to hear your stories too, have you ever welcomed a stranger into your home?


By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


**all names have been changed to protect those involved.**

P.S. Remember Mariam and her two girls in your prayers as they start all over again in a new city this weekend?

P.P.S. All I did to get involved was make a simple phone call a few months back to ask my local World Relief office what I could do to help with the refugee crisis. World Relief is a Christian non-profit that partners with the local church to establish incoming refugees here and show them the love of Christ. You can check to see if you have one close to you here--->WorldRelief.org/us-offices


This post is in no way endorsed by World Relief, though I did ask permission before publishing.
Sharing in this beautiful community of storytellers.

How I Know Postpartum Anxiety Is a Thing

I need to tell you about something. I don’t really like talking about it and I’d rather just pretend it didn’t exist.

I much prefer writing on the other side of messes or at least writing my way out of the mess. I don’t want to write where it’s messy and still messy.

{Deep breaths} Here goes:

In the days following Sam’s birth, I felt icky-anxious-raw.  I couldn’t handle loud noises, I was easily overwhelmed, the chaos I used to live in and be fine with seemed to scream at me—every pile, every misplaced toy, every dirty dish. Even the suspense contained in Jed’s favorite show, Octonauts, was too much for me. I couldn’t turn off that part of my brain that could imagine all kinds of worst case scenarios happening to my kids. I got all weepy and crazy-mom over the passing of time and trying my darnedest to soak up as much of each moment as I could. Time seemed to be a purse-thief and I was holding on and tugging back not wanting him to snatch anything from my hands.

I wondered if it was the aftermath of four subsequent miscarriages and then childbirth that left me with raw, exposed nerve-endings to all my emotions. I felt everything more deeply, more sharply, more loudly.

I’ve experienced the postpartum hormonal crash with each child and told myself that I just needed to survive the next two weeks. Those two weeks went by, and I felt better.

But here’s the thing: it’s been nine months, and I have yet to re-emerge as the Amanda I remember.
I’ve been waiting for it to get all-the-way better. In the meantime, I’ve been watching myself cave into myself.

Anxiety will rob you of your life—it will.

A few months ago, I fought off a panic attack while driving through traffic—so I stopped driving in traffic. I stopped going unfamiliar places.

I had this conversation with an almost stranger and brought up something that made her uncomfortable. I knew it was her issue and not mine and that I handled it with grace and sensitivity. But I couldn’t turn my brain off. It kept replaying that scene over and over. I felt physically ill with this deep down shame and dread. So I stopped small-talking with strangers and resolved to meet no one new.

My husband and I have always enjoyed going to the movies together—it’s like one of our things. And I haven’t been able to do it. I tried once—Star Wars, The Force Awakens. It took all my energy to keep from having a panic attack right there in that theater. When we left, all the tension I had from two hours of flashing lights and loud noises and all the suspense-building typical in action movies, well, it all came tumbling out through my tear ducts right outside the downtown IMAX theater.

I have struggled with anxiety before. In fact, I feel like I might be an expert at smothering a panic attack before I need a paper bag. But since having Sam, I am living here, not just visiting. I’m not the same. I can’t deal with messes or noisy kids or the volume on the television being above three-and-a-half bars. (Let’s watch with subtitles, guys. It’ll be fun. A dose of reading with our watching.)

It’s affected my motherhood, my marriage, and my friendships.


I got my thyroid tested and actually wished for something to be wrong because a thyroid issue just seemed to be a more acceptable problem. My pride can deal with a physical problem with a direct solution. Mental illness is so much harder to talk about.

The test came back negative. So I am over here, praising the Lord that nothing is wrong with my thyroid and refusing to believe that something is wrong with me. My sensitivity shall become my strength. My fears shall be my places of bravery. And maybe for the overwhelming things, like dentist appointments and movie date nights… maybe it’s okay to ask for help with those right now.

I am learning to not compare myself with anyone else. My struggles might not look like your struggles and my victories might not look like your victories, but that doesn’t diminish the strength it takes to overcome. Overcoming is overcoming. Period.


My life is slowed down. I can’t move fast. I’ll break. And as much as I hate to talk about this part because it makes me leak tears: I’ll break others—especially those dearest and closest to me. I have had to say no to the things I really want to say yes to. I’ve taken extra time for things like long showers, books, photography, nature walks, and journaling. I have one ministry, yes, and it’s here writing. And I can’t help but see the holy nod of the Lord. Yes. This is where I want you. Maybe your heart bleeds for other things too, but so does Mine. And I’ve got it covered.

Sometimes all this self-care feels selfish. So, listen to this, because anxiety struggle or not, all the women pouring out to their families and communities the whole world over need to know this: Self-care and selfishness are not the same thing. They’re not. Selfishness comes from a place of longing to puff your own self up for your own self’s sake. Selfishness takes and gives nothing back. Self-care comes from a place of longing to be whole so you can wholly love others. Self-care receives so that it has more to give.

I can tell you that I am making baby steps forward. Therapy has been so helpful. Avoiding fears only makes them bigger and stronger, but small victories lead to overcoming. It might be a slow work, but the rhythm to it is grace.

So, yeah. I have postpartum anxiety. I had no idea it was a thing. It might be a temporary struggle, it might be longer. But I am leaning.

And listen to me, dear sister, I’ve said this before: you might feel all super weak tied up with whatever struggle you are facing, you might feel like you are failing at life. But real strength is really in Christ. You don’t have to be strong enough to overcome. You only have to be strong enough to lean on the One who already overcame. 


Dear anxious heart, lean on Him. And you shall be called an overcomer yet.


By Grace,


Amanda Conquers


P.S. In the coming weeks, I will be moving my site to a better program and a better host. It will be a slow process (see post above) and could likely mean a few days of mess on this site. But, if you hate the mobile version of this site as much as I do, hold on. It's gonna get better :)

When You Feel Crowded Out by All the Beautiful Amazing People


Almost three weeks ago, I headed to a writing conference. I went with a book proposal packed in my bag and a body packed with so.much.nervousness. I had this memory playing on repeat in my mind; the one from the night before my wedding where I showed up to my rehearsal and retched in the bushes outside the church right as my now-husband went to hug me. Jesus, I will be obedient. I will go. I will try to share what You’ve put on my heart. But, please, please, don’t let me throw up on or near anyone. Amen.

The thing about writing conferences, is that it is easy to feel small—really small—when you are surrounded by people with speaking schedules and their names on the jackets of multiple books.

You can walk into that dining hall where agents and editors and seasoned authors all host tables and the hum of conversation can feel like a deafening roar of “See me.” “Publish me.” “Here’s my story.” You can feel like shrinking into the corner and letting everyone else do all the talking because, in all the noise, why would anyone need to hear your voice too?

You guys, when I arrived at this conference, I looked at myself and the message I struggled push onto paper, and I compared it to all the amazing writers who surrounded me. Without realizing it, I was telling God, “I’m not good enough. They are all way better. Why would You need to use me when You are already using her and her and her and her…?”


I came back from that first dinner and cried to my mom (Yeah, I brought my mom with me. I told everyone that I brought her to watch my nursling, Sam. It might have been for me too.) I knew I had to walk up and ask for an appointment with each agent and publisher. But I felt so unqualified, like I already knew their answer… and even more than that, like my book proposal and pitch would be a giant waste of their time. I wasn't just scared of being rejected, I was afraid I was going to be told I was foolish for even trying.

As I shared these fears with my mom, our conversation landed in the parable of the talents.

Some days, I look at myself and see all the cracks I bear—the anxiety, the messy house—my overusage of adverbs and my frequent run-on sentences—I see the way I can barely find time to post a blog, the homemade website with the bathroom selfie picture on my sidebar—I just want to bury the talent and the dreams I have because I don’t think it’s good enough. I don’t think I’m good enough. I think what I have is small.  

I wonder if the guy to whom little was given in the parable of the talents did that. If he looked at the larger portions his colleagues got and thought, I didn’t get as much, so I can’t do as much. My colleagues will do great things with theirs anyways. I’ll just keep mine safe and out of the way.
If you read the passage in Matthew 25 and look for the one reason the one-talent man gives for burying what he has, it might feel really familiar:
“And the one also who had received the one talent came up and said, ‘Master, I knew you to be a hard man, reaping where you did not sow and gathering where you scattered no seed. And I was afraid, and went away and hid your talent in the ground. See, you have what is yours’.” (v.24-25)
He was afraid of failing. He was afraid of disappointing. He was afraid to risk, because he was afraid to lose. 

Here’s the thing though: the servant recognized the greatness of his master. He knew that whatever his master touched multiplied, that the master got a harvest out of nothing.

Maybe we do that. Maybe we hear God pulling us in a direction, calling us even. And then we look over and see how it works, or how unqualified we might be, or how amazing the people already doing that are. We can over-think and scaredy-cat ourselves right out of what God has asked of us.

Maybe we know that God can do much with nothing, but we fail to include our little bit in the equation of God’s abundant grace. We can quote that grace is God’s unmerited favor, but, man, do we ever live like we need to be more qualified before we can receive it.

Dear sister (or brother), don’t let fear hold you back. Don’t hide the gifts, the passions, the talents in you. Knock off that whole comparison thing.

Jesus told His disciples, “In my Father’s house are many mansions…I go to prepare a place for you.” I love that, because the thing about mansions is that they contain many rooms and plenty of room. He’s made plenty of room for you, dear heart. You don’t have to hide out or step aside. Just follow Him.

Listen, when you presume to know that God doesn’t need you because of what others around you are doing, you are presuming to know the mind of God. And you’ve made a serious error in your judgments because you’ve missed one of the most amazing things about God and His great love: God doesn’t need you. He wants you.

{I mean, let that truth linger a bit: God. Wants. You. !?!}

He longs to partner with you, walk with you, be more than enough for you.

And If He is full in you, He can be full through you {and every single gap and crack you bear.}

Amen.

Shine on, sister.

I’d love to hear from you! Have you ever felt like this: crowded out and not quite good enough for the dream in your heart?? (Or maybe just tell me what you've been up to, I've missed this place and the people who visit here.)

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

P.S. I am back to writing over here after a long break. I am super excited to connect with you all again!! I am looking forward to this and to sharing what might be in store for this humble little space on the interwebs. :D

-->My favorite way to keep in touch through the week is on Instagram. Want to be insta-friends? :D @amanda_conquers 

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So excited to get to be apart of this lovely community of storytellers again.

The Beauty in Our Wrinkly Grandmas

It had been a few weeks. She’d had a massive stroke and subsequent little ones. She’d have days where she was unresponsive, and then the next day it was like she would rally all of her strength. If Tyra Banks and America’s Next Top Model never convinced you of smiling eyes (“smeyes”), Mary Lou would have showed you perfectly that eyes really can smile even when a mouth struggles to. She’d grab your hand with her one good hand and look you long in the peepers. It was like she was trying to simultaneously memorize your face and communicate everything she loved about you. She couldn’t talk, but she’d still force out the most important words: “I love you.” “Goodbye.”


 I think I will forever carry with me the memory of Granma the last time I saw her, her skinny frame heaped up on pillows. I saw the wrinkles carved deep into her face and hands--maybe they’d never looked so pronounced before. She wore on her body the life she’d lived. Aged to perfection, really. A life fully lived.

When I brought Sam over to her, only her second time seeing him, she grabbed for his little knuckle-dimpled hand with her one working hand. Sam gave her a smile, and she took that moment like a lemon drop and tucked it into her cheek so the joy could linger as long as it would.

Beauty is the smooth fresh skin of a baby. Dimples and rolls covering all the possibility and hope of a life just beginning.

Beauty is the wrinkled skin of a 91 year old woman. Loose skin and laughter lines—a life emptied out and lived down to the last drop.


When I first met Mary Lou, I was struck by how when you’d listen to her wide-eyed joy, you’d just know it: God delighted in this woman. I knew she wasn’t perfect, and in some ways her life was messy. But she was walking proof that God doesn’t love us because we are perfect, He loves us because we are His. She radiated the joy of the Lord. She did. It was like this part of her just refused to grow old and crusty. There was always something fresh about her even when her bones were tired. She had a childlike faith and wonder. She was downright spunky. She loved simple things like balloons, flowers, babies and the bright colors of spring.

She was ridiculously generous. She didn’t leave a whole lot behind, but that’s only because she spent her whole life giving it away. She invested in her family—her worries, her prayers, her faith and every extra bit of money she had. Our dreams were her dreams. When I think over the ten years of holding her grandson’s last name and every time she helped push one of our dreams to reality… I can think of one word to describe her generosity: extravagant. She emptied and emptied herself for those she loved, always trusting God to refill.  



 She stayed between the hospital and the convalescent hospital for a month and defied the doctors’ expectations. That seemed just like her. Determined. Like the time she needed knee replacement surgery but refused to get it till after our wedding, just so she could have one dance with my husband. It didn’t matter if her knee hurt, she smiled at Michael like she was five and dancing with him was cotton candy.


And then last Sunday, after a day of scattered rain and autumn leaves, the kind of day where the earth smells fresh and cold, God said it was time and Granma followed Him to her heavenly home.

On this side of heaven, death is hard. We cling to the hope of eternity. Even though we know we must all die one day and we are fortunate for the time we get with someone, death leaves a hole in us. It’s as though we fill the graves we dig not with displaced dirt but with the substance of own our soul.

We know we all must part with our grandmas one day, but how we miss them when they are gone.

Vibrant, beautiful, generous, present, spunky and ours.


We miss you, Granma.


By Grace, 
Amanda Conquers


PS. I know I haven't been posting very much these days. I have a project that I've been working so my posts will probably be sparce for a few more months still. Thank you for sticking around. I value you and pray for you... I really do. I look forward to sharing what I've been working on.
Sharing in this beautiful community of storytellers:

When You Think You Might Not Be Strong Enough to Mother a Strong-Willed Child


The spring of 2013, my husband had just started patrol working nights. We had moved, and boxes were piled up everywhere. If those two life changes weren’t enough, the church we met at, got married at, dedicated our kids at, shut its doors and moved two cities over.

I do not deal well with change. And in the span of one month, it felt like the landscape of my life had completely changed. I struggled with sleep. I felt anxious. Depression settled in over my life like valley fog on a dark night.

About the time of the move, we realized Jed would need to be moved from his crib into a toddler bed, not because we were ready, but because, at 19 months, he was the kid that fought bedtime by rocking his crib until it fell over. It was as if Jed decided he wouldn’t trouble himself figuring out how to climb out of the crib. Oh no, by sheer brute strength and an iron strong resolve, he would bend that crib to his will. 

(I had no idea toddlers came that way—so head-strong and unrelenting.)

That’s about how bedtime went when we moved him to the big boy bed, only there were no longer sides of a crib to push against. There was only Mom. And since Dad now worked nights, there really was only Mom.

And he pushed.

I remember huddling in my living room, tears streaming. It was midnight. And I wondered what kind of mom can’t get her kids to sleep by midnight? I was in that desperate place, the one where my Hail-Mary bedtime strategy was to hide out, cross my fingers, and hope that by some miracle Jed would go to sleep on his own. I had tried everything. I didn’t have any more energy.

I wish I could say there was only one night like that. Nope. If we lived in the time of walled cities and castles, I would proudly tell you that my son has the stamina of a siege warfare warrior. It took two exasperating months of three hour bedtime battles before Jed finally conceded. My sanity, my sleep, my patience, and my pride all lay on the battlefield splayed and bleeding, casualties of toddlerdom.

They say Motherhood isn’t for the faint of heart.

And if you happen to ask, “But what if you are faint of heart?” Well, Motherhood, she laughs out loud and says, “Buckle up, Buttercup. It’s going to be a long and bumpy ride.”

That spring, I was struggling. My family was in transition, and transition feels like falling apart.

As much as I wanted Jed to sleep at a decent time and have a blessed hour of a quiet house to myself, what I really wanted was to help Jed. I wanted to walk him through the transition of crib to bed, of old house to new home, of baby who needs mom for everything to little boy who can do some things on his own. And when I sat huddled in the living room, I felt like I had bled out every last bit of knowledge, grace, long-suffering, gentleness, kindness… and it wasn’t enough. I wasn’t enough. And I was empty. And I was failing.

I couldn’t walk through transition myself; I wanted to be to the other side. And I wasn’t walking my son through the transition; I wanted him to be on the other side.


The last time I wrote here I used this phrase to describe the strength of a mother: The only way out is through. A few weeks back, my friend lent me Surprised by Motherhood by Lisa-Jo Baker (and I devoured it and loved it and highly recommend it), and I love that she said the exact same thing one word different: “The only way through is through.”

Because it really is the grace rhythm we mommas walk: through and through and through. We make it through. Sometimes it looks a bit like clenched-teeth determination and sometimes it looks like knees to the floor and tears streaming.


It’s hard, you know. When you are struggling, when you feel weak, and right there in front of you is this child who you love to the moon and back, with your whole big heart, forever and ever throwing what feels like a month long temper tantrum with a few breaks in there to eat and play.

David says this in the Psalms: “I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint. My heart is like wax; it is melted within me. My strength is dried up like a potsherd” (22:14-15). And I totally get that feeling. Motherhood is this place where you feel emptied out and emptied out and emptied out and there always seems to be more you need to give.

And when you have that moment where you want to just hide your head under the couch cushions, because of that great pull on your heart, you keep going through anyways. And that’s a mother’s love.

The only way out is through.

Perhaps that pull on our hearts was meant to pull us to our knees. And if we let it, it will pull us to the side of Jesus and slow us down. It will get us so that rather than battling our relentless child, we start praying relentlessly for him.  It will get us so that we refuse to move without Him with us. And when lay our “not enough” self at the altar, we are taking up the One who came to be more than enough.

“My Grace is sufficient for you, for power is perfected in weakness” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

You don’t have to be strong. You don’t have to have it all figured out. And it’s okay if you feel like you might be a little faint of heart.

You only have to lean.

Jesus will walk with you, and you and He will walk your child, and two years later when you look back on that season of transition, you will find that your desperate Jesus-clinging walk looks a lot more like strong resolve. Because He really is strength in our weakness and to be a Mother you only have to be strong enough to lean.


Okay, and now since we are called the Body of Christ for a reason, I do believe we were meant to lean on each other too. Will you share with us? Do you have a strong-willed child? If you are in the midst of a difficult season with that child, will you let us know so we can pray for you? Would you share any parenting tips (gently and respectfully) with us?
(And on that note: I covet your prayers. In the transition to three kids, parenting has been pretty messy over here.) 



By Grace,


Amanda Conquers

The Strength of a Mother {and a Birth Story}


I was waiting for it to be time.

I was lying in bed trying to catch some sleep, getting the distinct impression I would not be getting any sleep that night.

In the middle of a contraction, my body quaked and I downright felt my water burst within me. In fact, it so startled me and jerked inside me that I thought I might be opening my eyes to behold my heavenly home.

I called my sister to come for the kids, I told my husband it was time. It’s time as in I am SURE and this baby is coming SOON. We loaded up and sped off to the hospital.

It was back labor; the baby’s head was posterior. Not sunnyside, but against my tailbone. And in case this isn't obvious: yes, it hurt. A lot.

When we arrived at the hospital, they skipped triage and put me straight into the birthing room. I don’t think they felt the need to question whether this was active labor. I certainly didn’t.

I labored and contracted in the bed while it took 3 different nurses and 1 anesthesiologist to insert a saline lock into veins that wanted to run away from them. My arms still bare the poke-marks and bruises.

I kept begging to get off the bed, asking the nurses to hurry up. I just knew I needed to move the baby off my back. I labored for two hours, on the bed, kneeling against the bed, sitting and holding my husband, kneeling over the top of the bed. I struggled to stay on top of the pain, on top of the contractions. When I told my mom I just couldn’t do it anymore, the pain was just too much, she smiled and said, “This is it. You’re in transition. It’s almost over.”

I wailed, “No I’m not! The contractions aren’t close enough together!” I think she might have laughed to herself. (Perhaps it should be mentioned in Jed’s transitional labor, the contractions were on top of each other and I never had more than seconds to catch my breath.)

And then I could feel it, the heaviness, the bearing down.

When it came time to push, all the excitement of discovering boy or girl melted away into a puddle of panic.

It was that moment where I was face to face with my greatest fear. The one that’s haunted me this entire pregnancy: Could good things really happen to me? It had lingered in the back of my mind, even brought about nightmares, that at some point something would go horribly wrong. I felt I just couldn’t face it.

When they told me to push, I cried out, “I can’t!” I wasted a few contractions fighting the urge to push. And when they assured me I really could, through ripping pain and hot tears, I exclaimed, “No, I really, really can.not.do.this! I can’t!”

 And the thing is, no matter how weak I felt in that moment, no matter how much I thought I really just couldn’t, the only way out was through.

Along with my husband, my mom and mother-in-law were my support team.

And the thing is, sometimes I feel like I’m a weak person. I am sitting here in all my postpartum glory a little bit ashamed as I weep over everything, have anxiety plaguing me as my pregnancy hormones leave my body, as I need so much help with everything (that back labor I mentioned, it kind of put my back out).

I had told my husband a few days back that maybe I just can’t handle very much. Maybe I am just a weaker person. Stunned, he looked at me and said, “Amanda, you’re the strongest person I know.”


And maybe we do that as women. Take our births that don’t go as planned and wear it as shame. The last minute decisions to get that epidural when we meant to go all natural; the unplanned caesarian that maybe feels a bit like you are less because you gave birth differently; the Pitocin that was needed to start a labor that never wanted to start; the milk that never came in or dried up too early. The postpartum hormonal crash that leaves us feeling not quite human, maybe struggling to bond with the baby we so wanted, or just feeling completely overwhelmed by life and change and new love.

We chalk it up to weakness. We feel ashamed. And maybe we miss the part where the only way out was through… and we, mommas, we’ve walked through.

And no matter how you went through, you carried life into the world.

And there’s something about sentence that needs to linger in the air:  
You’ve    carried    life    into    this    world.

The instant they pull that baby from your body, something of heaven touches earth. Within you life was formed, and through you life was carried.

And momma, no matter where you are sitting right now, be it struggling to come through a season of loss or knee-deep in laundry and dish piles or worried about whether you are doing it all wrong with the baby who still won’t sleep through the night.

Whatever kind of sudden or enduring life-storm you are sitting in the middle of, whatever the changing season…

This I know, you might need to lean on your friends and your family and your husband… and you definitely need to lean on your Savior. But you will make it through.
The big siblings singing "A Swimming Shark" to baby


Okay. And now I am so thrilled to introduce you to Samuel. His name means “God has heard” and it is through tears (which seem to come very frequently these days) that I get to proclaim the miracle that God heard my cries and saw the longing in my heart. He heard my kids’ prayers and my husband’s. And I do believe and am praying that God will hear the voice of this boy as he grows. Though we walked through a season of loss and sorrow, our bundle of joy arrived early one Sunday morning. (And isn't that a bit poetic?)


Little Samuel is healthy and has the sweetest countenance. We are in love. And in awe.
(Psalm 30:5b)



I’d love to hear your birth stories in the comments. And if you dealt with the postpartum hormonal crash. Help all us mommas know we all do this a little different and a little bit the same and that it’s all covered by His Grace?



By Grace,


Amanda Conquers




Sharing in this beautiful community of story-tellers:

For the Mom Who Finds Sunday Mornings Downright Hard


Hey, Momma. I see you there, weary-faced, babe sleeping your arms, and beside you a toddler squirming like a worm freshly emerged from the soil. I see you there with your child who still outright refuses to go to his class. I see you occupying the back row, swaying with the crying babe on your hip in the foyer, or practically excommunicated to the nursing room when your baby does anything other than sleep. I see you walking in late, wearing a little bit of shame at your perpetual tardiness. I see you there woman who is wife to the deacon, the pastor, the man who works graveyards, weekends, or overseas. I see you sitting alone, wrangling kids alone. I see you there Momma who isn’t married at all.

I see you there Momma who struggles with wanting to go on a Sunday morning because it’s just so exhausting. I understand how it might seem like you could get more out of your at-home Bible studies than attempting to listen and worship alongside a squirmy kid and a crying baby.

Momma, you might feel like you are unseen, less important, the wild-cry tamer. You might feel like the call to come forward for prayer or communion is for the ones not holding babies. You might feel like sitting in the very back with your kids and guarding the silence is your humble sacrifice to the body of Christ.

But let me tell you something, when Jesus told his disciples, “Suffer not the little children to come unto me” (Matt 19:14), He wasn’t speaking lightly. He was rebuking his disciples. And He really meant little children. Not just the years when kids love going to kids’ church and when they have some kind of attention span. He didn’t just mean the years beyond squirmy, screamy toddlerdom, or the terrible two’s, or, Lord help us, the defiant threenager years. He meant little children. The original Greek word used in that passage, paidion, actually means infant or young boy or girl, less than seven years old.

Momma, when you go to church, you are not just one person. You are entrusted with the care of little lives too. You are entrusted with modeling what it looks like to be a part of the body of Christ, what it looks like to follow Christ. Your mom-job all by itself is a really big deal.

I am not trying to argue that one shouldn’t teach young kids good behavior or that some of the elements of worship are done with soberness and respect. But, Momma, will you give yourself some grace? Will you recognize your value? Will you stop living in fear and trembling of the usher walking up and telling you your kids are being disruptive?

In your arms, you hold an unreached people group and a really great reason to go to church and to think you have to hide out in the very back or cover up the sin nature all babies are born with {and all toddlers kind of throw in your face} so misses the heart of Jesus.

Momma, do you know how precious YOU are to Him? How precious THEY are to Him?

Your kids are not your excuse to stay back, they are your reason to go forward. They are your reason to worship and sing and cry out for Jesus.

It’s not just that there is something about those little years that make us feel tired, desperate and bring out all our own insufficiencies… It’s that when you humble yourself and let your child watch you need Jesus, you both get to be apart of the miracle.

You and your kids see heaven touch your dusty clay earth.

No matter how exhausting of a task it might be to do without a husband, when you walk into the that church, when you hold that child in your arms as you sing out in worship, when you walk up to the front, kids in tow, to receive the elements of communion, when you go down to that altar and kneel with your little people surrounding you, when you pray and let the tears fall as you ask Jesus to meet you where you are, you aren’t the only one going to the foot of the cross. No, you are carrying your babies with you.

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Here’s where I get a little vulnerable and tell you how much this has been my struggle for the past two years. And one I have failed at miserably quite a few times. It’s been really hard to want to go to church lately, hard to go by myself, hard to know my kids will probably beg to sit with me instead of going to their classes, hard to know I am going to have to shush and watch and cross my fingers and hope that no one yells or runs into the aisle this time. It’s hard to not feel like I have a home church yet, to still feel unknown.

I want to just stay home, use my husband’s job as an excuse. I want to throw a pity party and look at all the other families who go and have a husband and a wife and kids whose socks match and hair is brushed. I want to look at the wife who has someone to help her when the boy gets rambunctious. But, you guys, I am finding that when I do it anyways, when I recognize the value and the weight of my mom-job, when I care more about my little people He actually entrusted to me than everyone they might disrupt… God’s grace is just so abundant. He really is willing to be strength for our weak places.

Maybe this sounds weird, but I can hear it… God whispering, “Well done.” I hear it when I’ve chosen to walk up to the front with both kids holding my hands to receive the elements of communion. I hear it when I have knelt at the altar and cried out to the Lord with both kids sitting right beside me. I hear it when I’ve closed my eyes during worship so I could turn my focus to the Lord and open them to find my kids clapping off beat, raising their hands, doing a happy dance, singing.

I just know it. I am modeling what it means to follow Christ. Perhaps, I am doing one better than the teaching they do in the Sunday school class, I am showing them. No, it’s more than that, I am carrying them with me.



I’d love to hear from you (whether you have help from your husband or not because I have a feeling sometimes getting to church is just hard for all of us). Have you ever felt like it was super hard to go to church with your kids?



By Grace,


Amanda Conquers

The Thing About Daughters

I originally wrote this to read aloud at a best friend's baby shower over the weekend. She's expecting her first daughter. {Squee!}  I wanted to share it with you too! 


I’ve heard it said that a baby is a mother’s own heart walking outside her body.                     

And there is something about a daughter that just makes this extra true. 

It doesn’t matter if you are the mom that made a special Pinterest-inspired pegboard to organize an almost shameful-to-admit number of bows or if you are the mom that secretly wonders if you can hack it as a girl-mom when you know how to accomplish exactly zero hairstyles…unless the ponytail counts.

When a little girl comes into your life and calls you mom, she will stretch you, change you, hold a mirror up to your own female self and challenge it.



When she’s little, you’ll watch your daughter full of her child-like wonder, and you’ll remember what it was like: the days of pink and longing for tutu’s and ballet slippers, the way you used to dance on the coffee table and ask for your papa’s attention. You’ll remember how you could make a mud pie, domesticate a jar for your lady-bug pet, and just how much it meant to you when your momma would buy you a twirly Sunday-best dress and then set you on the counter to curl your bangs.

Your daughter will tell you how pretty you are for years. She’ll likely have opinions about your clothes, and might even dig out the bridesmaid dress from the back of your closet and beg you to wear it for your trip to the grocery store.

She will probably sing about everything. You might even catch her singing her own song about how beautiful she is. It’ll melt your heart. You’ll both beam with pride at her self-confidence and cringe at the stark contrast in the way you view your own self through your flaws. You will make it your mission in life to protect her confidence and her beauty. You recognize the value of those things because at some point in your own journey someone or something tried to rob you of them.

There’s the moment you first encounter mean girls at the park. It will surprise you how young it happens, how sharp and diva-like one three-year-old girl can wield the words, “I don’t want to play with you.” And when your daughter looks to you, eyes big and wet, it will cut into your own heart—make you remember all the mean girls you ever encountered. You’ll do your best to reel in your inner momma bear, and you’ll do your very best to brush off the sharp marks those kind of words can leave.

There will come a time when she will confess that she doesn’t like something about herself: her hair, her freckles, her teeth, her birthmark. She’ll tell you how the kids made fun of her for it. It’ll catch you off-guard, because you look at her and you see beauty, you see someone marvelous and full of purpose, someone you love perfectly and wholly.

{A mother’s love is like that.}

She’ll imitate you, watch you, want to be you. She’ll mother her younger siblings, her stuffed animals, her dolls. While boys might want to make everything fight or blow up, she’ll want to band-aide and haircut and comfort.

She is your legacy. One day she will pick up the torch you have held in your own home and she will hold it in hers. She won’t fill her daddy’s shoes, for she’s meant to fill yours.





She’ll notice whether or not you swim in your swim suit, the comments you make about yourself in the fitting room, how you answer when she asks you how much you weigh. But the thing is, what she’s noticing isn’t how fluffy your stomach is or how dimply your thighs or how that mole sticks up right next to your nose… she’s noticing if any of that stuff bothers you.

You’ll relish in the moments where the parenting curtain is pulled back and you see in her a friend. She’ll say honest things spoken from a hopeful heart that will pierce the jaded places in your own heart. You’ll laugh together till your sides hurt, and you will share inside jokes. There will come a day when you would actually prefer to take her shopping with you than enjoy an afternoon shopping without kids.

It will probably shock you at some point, the way you mirror each other. She will battle the same insecurities you did. She is a piece of your own beauty and flaws, your gifts and talents, your sensitivity, the way you used to dream, the way you respond to conflict, the way you process life.


Maybe there will be that moment when she will come home from school with her first broken heart—be it from a boy crush, cruel words, or a failure in sports or academics. She might declare herself ugly, not smart, too short, too slow. And you, Momma, this is your shining chance to fight for her self-worth. You will tell her how beautiful she is, all the little pieces of individual-fabulousness of her that you adore.  When she tells you that you are only saying that because you are her mom and you have to, you will drag her in front of the mirror and declare that you will not leave until she can tell you all the best parts of herself.

Because maybe the world will try to break her down, tell her who she is and who she isn’t, tell her what’s she’s worth and wrap up far too much of that worth in ridiculous physical standards. But that’s why God made you, Girl-mom. You are her very own advocate, the one who knows that deep-down feminine place of longing to be beautiful, of longing to be enough. And you, Girl-mom, you are the one that can be her very own mirror and show her the value of a woman and her own self.


When we think about having a girl, we think of bows, dress up, and tea parties.  But the thing about a daughter is that she’s your very own feminine heart, walking outside your body.

Raising a girl is this glorious chance to fall in love with your own self the way the Father loves you.

And there’s so much grace in the fact that she didn’t come with your baggage, your life experiences, your pain. She is new and fresh and precious. She’s not your chance to go back and relive your own life better; she’s her own person created for His glory. She’s your chance to see yourself differently, and your high calling to advocate for, fight for, pray for and love perfectly.

And maybe this girl-mom thing is a bit terrifying, you’ll want to protect her from all the things you can’t control. And maybe it will be hard. But you can trust Jesus, walk with Him, lean on Him.

Because, yes, she will face pain and heartache, but you, full of the Spirit’s leading, will be there to guide her through it.



By Grace,


Amanda Conquers

Sharing in this beautiful community of story tellers:

The Perfect Sized Family

This last week, I laundered all the baby stuff. I got the good detergent, lovingly folded each little piece of baby clothing, held a few pieces up to my chest trying to remember what it was like to have such a tiny human nuzzled up under the crook of my neck. I think this might be the one time I love doing laundry.  

My daughter walked into the room while I was sitting behind our ottoman that had a three-feet-and-climbing laundry pile. Addy held up a newborn onesie and marveled at the size. She asked what prefolds are. She was wanting me to explain it all. Really, I think she wanted assurance that she would have a special place in our growing family.

Addy declared that all downstairs diapering will be hers to do. And while I don’t think she has any idea what that really looks like (or how often that looks like), I love her heart. She wants to be apart. She wants to be my helper.

I set down the blanket I was folding, and I showed her how to diaper on her stuffed animal.  She asked about the muslin receiving blankets so I told her about how newborns like to be tucked in tight just like when they are in their momma’s tummy. I laid out the blanket and showed her how. And really, even though it was Addy asking the questions, I am trying to remember myself, prepare myself, for what it's like to have a newborn. 

Jed came in into the room just as I handed Addy her swaddled and diapered dog.  He grabbed his stuffed animal so it could get the same treatment. Jed wanted all the explanations and how-to’s. He wanted to be apart too.

For the rest of that day, I got to watch my kids taking care of their “babies.” They built a baby crib-fort for their babies to sleep in, made their babies cry and consoled them, dug out the bottles I haven’t yet sanitized and pretended to feed their babies. I listened to Jed’s questions for his sister about how babies work. I smiled at all of Addy’s answers.




It took my breath away—the overwhelming and abundant grace in those moments. We are preparing. All of us. Our hearts are expanding, making room for this baby. These days are filled with dreams and hope, and an anxious desire to meet the one with whom we’ve already fallen in love. I am well aware that being both “great with child” and raising children—its blessing is doubly sweet. I am growing into the mother of three babies. And I am watching the two I have been raising grow into a big sister and brother to this baby.


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

If you were to ask me when I first got married how many kids I would have or when I planned to have kids, I would have told you:  “Four to six kids, and we will have them about every two years.”

When Mike and I talked about having kids and when and how many, we both agreed. We’d have all our kids, then we’d raise them, then we’d send them off into adulthood and then we’d enjoy an empty nest again. Bing. Bang. Boom. Just like that. 

We valued the positives in having kids close in age. We’d also focused on the negatives from our own childhoods of having our siblings spaced out.  

Maybe this will sound silly, but I am pretty well having my mom’s family. And it weirds me out. (We both had our oldest child when we were 25. Thus far, our kids are spaced out the same. And it will be strange if this baby happens to be a girl, because then I will also have the same gender order. )

It’s not at all how I would have planned my life. In fact, I think I would have ran in the opposite direction of this. But having kids closer together in age just hasn’t been possible for us.  

I struggle with surrender. I might know God ways are better and higher… but still, I tend to gravitate towards my own plans. I may have even once come up with a list of pros and cons to determine how many kids and how far apart they should be. My own plans always look good in writing, mostly because God’s plans require a measure of trust, and the writing of His plans only become plain as the story is being lived.

But this last week, watching my kids who are excited, ready and able to process this change, and no longer toddlers prepare for their baby brother or sister… It grabbed a hold of my heart, and filled it to overflowing. It’s good, guys. God’s plans are good.

I wouldn’t for all the world go back and rewrite my story another way, even if it meant I could erase all the heartache and struggle wrapped up in the reasons our kids aren’t closer together in age. Watching my son sing into my belly, beg me to show him one more time what the baby looks like, hearing all the things he plans to teach his baby brother or sister…  The way Addy is actually going to be able to help me; the way she without even meaning to speaks words that prick my momma heart and encourage me onward; the way she’s become, even if in just a small way yet, my friend…  The way this baby isn’t just my miracle but my family’s miracle because we all prayed for it, longed for it, waited for it... We are now living in the glorious days of great expectation.

I am learning that for all my pro’s and con’s, there isn’t a magical number of children that everyone ought to have, nor is there a perfect way to space your kids out. If you have been comparing your family to another’s, knock that off right now. God writes good stories, and He never writes the same story. Single, married without kids, adoption, one kid, the magical one boy and one girl, five rambunctious boys, three girlie girls and a tomboy mom, remarried with six kids between you two… they all are beautiful stories, though no doubt full of wrestling between best laid plans and how life is actually going. They are full of set backs and triumphs; deep heartache and heart-bursting joy. They are full of invitations to surrender, to trust. They are full of learning that God can and will use it all for His glory.

Dear heart, hold on, the story is still being written.


“Eye has not seen, nor ear heard, neither have entered into the heart of man, the things which God has prepared for them that love Him.” 1 Corinthians 2:9


I would love it if you would share this little piece of your story: What was your plan for kids? And how many kids, if any, do you actually have and what are their ages?


By Grace,

Amanda Conquers




Sharing in this lovely community of storytellers:

The Road Trip

We took a road trip a few weeks back. With two young kids. When I was 30-31 weeks pregnant. We spent 11 days on the road, slept in six different places, drove 3,000 miles, visited 3 national parks and an aunt and uncle.

Before we left, Mike had told me about telling his co-workers his vacation plans. I think each one of his friends responded with either “Why?” or “You’re crazy.”

Mike and I had started to question if we were crazy, if we would end up regretting the trip after a few days in the car, me in my third trimester and our active kids strapped in car seats. Most people we know spend vacations at the beach or go to Disneyland or on an all-inclusive cruise.

And maybe we are a little crazy. Maybe it’s no longer conventional to pack your kids into the minivan and risk eight hours of bickering in the confines of said minivan…for multiple days straight. Maybe it’s not normal to drive over a thousand miles to see the natural wonders of this world or discover how life might be lived a few states over. Maybe in our fast-paced culture we have ran afraid of boredom and missed the gifts it can give.

Friends, that trip was just what this family needed. I can’t even put into words the joy wrapped up in watching my kids’ faces as they pulled their first geode out of the earth or sat on a pony in the Montana woods or watched Old Faithful blow or spotted a bull moose a few yards from our car or tried to draw the baby buffalos romping through the meadow or awoke to discover snow covering the ground in May. Time slowed down for us, and those slow days and slow moments, it’s like I got handed a magnifying glass to the innerworkings and giftings of my kiddos. I got to see them. Really see them.

I can’t even tell you how refreshing it was to finally feel like there was nothing I needed to catch my husband up on and to just sit in the peaceful quiet watching the scenery roll by. It was a gift to watch the stress unravel off Mike as we drove further away from the demands of his job and law enforcement life. We made new inside jokes, like the ones we’ve carried since our first year of marriage. We laughed till the tears streamed. We dreamed of life in other places (like Montana may have stolen both our hearts), but the important part was that we dreamed new dreams, together.

All four of us (or should I say 5? J) tried things like buffalo, elk, and huckleberry ice cream for the first time. (And I am just saying that if you are ever in Missoula, MT: Big Dipper Ice Cream. Trust me.) We are convinced the Midwest over salts everything, that a Californian should never bother with Mexican food in Idaho, that Montanans might just be the most hospitable people on earth, and that the rudest drivers are not in the San Francisco Bay Area, but Jackson Hole, Wyoming.  

We made memories that I know the kids will still talk about into adulthood… like the time Mom accidentally took them to a crowded Montana bar on a Friday night complete with pool tables, live country music, and more cowboy hats than men because she thought bar meant that there was a bar, not that it couldn’t be a family-friendly restaurant too. Yeah. Nope. It was a bar-bar. (We almost walked right back out, but the owners and the people were so nice that we stayed, sat next right next to a stuffed buffalo, ate buffalo tenderloin and tacos, and got to hear a beautiful rendition of “Red River Valley” that made my country heart soar. We might not have fit in with the scenery, but I’m glad we stayed.)

Sure, there were a few meltdowns. We got asked “How much longer till we get there?” a few too many times for our patience. The kids ignored our request to keep their hands to themselves. Little Brother discovered the thrill of pestering Big Sister till she reacts loudly. This pregnant girl went a few too many hours without food, spent a few too many hours in one day in the car, and hiked one mile too many through rough terrain. All of which may or may not have led to a complete meltdown. (Jed is now overly concerned about whether I am hungry and has since told a few people, “My mom needs to eat right now or she will cry.” Thanks, Son.)

But the gifts. Oh, how they outweigh the struggles.

Deep down in the heart of this girl-woman, there might be an absolute wander-lust that makes things like road trips breathe life into her. Maybe it’s not for everyone. But truly, I think the best gifts that life, motherhood, and marriage have to offer are wrought in the things that make you wonder if you are crazy. The best gifts go to the bold ones, the crazy ones, the ones who take risks, the ones who know it might not all work out like a dream but still believe the story will be worth it. And in the end, the story is always worth it.

It’s easy to live in the excuses of timing and life, the maybe a few years from now when the kids are older kind of stuff. But I just feel like I need to quietly remind you that your family, your marriage, your own life story, they are all worth taking risks over. They are all worth big investment.



What is one big (and maybe slightly crazy) thing you have done that paid off in big rewards for your family?



By Grace,
Amanda Conquers



P.S. Next week, I should have a light-hearted post sharing some of the things that made this road trip awesome as well as some of the things that we’d change next time around...you know, in case you are thinking a crazy road trip sounds like fun too.

Because Grace Looks Nothing Like Co-Dependency


It happened when I was in seventh grade.

It was a field trip day. The fun kind. You know, where you do something educational like visit the state capitol, meet a state senator and then get turned loose in the historic district for lunch. The teachers give you a measure of freedom and your parents give you a measure of spending money. For a fleeting hour and a half you feel almost grownup, and you wish school could look like this everyday.

On that particular day, after browsing the old town stores, my girlfriends and I ended up in an arcade. I remember us huddled there around the skeeball lanes. We were thirteen and carefree, and our deepest conversation was likely something about which guy in our class we were most interested in “going out” with.

I had always felt like a bit of an imposter. A thirteen-going-on-sixteen year old dwelling in a ten year old’s body. I was painfully shy and at that particular moment I was certain I was the only girl in the class and probably the whole world who hadn’t gotten her period, her big growth spurt or a bra that wasn’t a trainer. But on this special field trip day, the heavens opened and the sun shone down on me and I was walking around with the cool girls. Everything that seemed to make me invisible didn’t matter to anybody else, and I forgot that I might have been different. I was one of the girls. One of the cool, mature, lip-gloss-wearing, uniform-skirt-rolling girls.

As we laughed and counted our tickets, an arcade worker approached us. He was much older, pushing 40 or 50. He kept inserting himself into our conversations, handing us tokens. He was flirtatious and creepy, and he would have been a nuisance except that free tokens seemed like they were worth tolerating him over.

Eventually we tired of playing games, so we spent our tickets and left. Only as we walked out, the arcade worker grabbed me by my shoulder, pulled me back away from my friends, and whispered in my ear, “If you will come back by yourself, I will give you anything you want from behind that counter.”

I felt frozen. My friends were unaware, still walking towards the door.  I was left standing there, smelling the stale alcohol on his breath, his hand gripping my shoulder heavy and tight. My lips couldn’t form a response. And even though I was thirteen and thought I knew it all, all I could hear was my mom’s warnings from childhood, “Never take candy from strangers.”

I robotically nodded my head at him and squirmed out of his grasp. I ran for the safety of my friends.

I felt dirty. I didn’t understand how I couldn’t manage to get a single boy in my class to notice me, but somehow the old smelly arcade worker noticed me. Wanted me. In a way that chilled me and disgusted me and chipped away a little piece of my innocence.

I didn’t tell my friends about it. I didn’t tell the teachers. I was too embarrassed. I thought something must have been terribly wrong with me. My friends were charismatic and beautiful and the creepy, arcade guy sought me out.

I told my mom a few days later. She immediately called the school. I still remember my teacher pulling me aside, “Why didn’t you tell me, Amanda? We could have reported it and gotten him away from kids.”

I was ashamed. Ashamed that I hadn’t possessed the courage to tell someone. Even more ashamed that it was me who he had tried to harm.

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Last week, I had a bizarre incident at the dentist. It started off as a less-than-tasteful pregnant belly comment from the dentist: “There’s no way you are that far along! Your boobs are bigger than your stomach! No, you are going to either have an undersized baby or you are going to carry past your date.” It was rude and hurtful, and maybe I could have shaken that one off, but she didn’t stop there. She turned to my  husband and said, “So how do you like your wife’s big milk jugs?” We were both wide-eyed and completely shocked. Who says that?! A few minutes later, she led me back to clean my teeth and said, “No, really, I don’t know what it’s like to have such big boobs. How does your husband like them?”

I was mortified, uncomfortable, and dumbfounded. This wasn’t a woman contemplating the pros and cons of implants; she made me feel dirty. I just wanted out of that conversation so I changed the subject.

I wish I could have formed the words to tell her how deeply she had offended me, how unprofessional she was and how if this was my work environment, her comments would qualify as sexual harassment. I wish I could have told her how anything and everything that my husband and I enjoy about one another’s bodies is sacred and private and beautiful and how dare she try to sully it with her unfiltered mouth and perverse mind.

But I was silent. I sat mute, frozen, not even completely sure why her words had so upset me. I went home, locked myself in the bathroom and bawled. It took a full day to realize that what had bothered me the most wasn’t that she insulted my ability as a woman to properly carry life and drew unwanted attention to a part of myself that I am insecure about, it was that she had victimized me. And I let her.

It took me right back to seventh grade standing frozen in that arcade.

I wanted to assume I was wrong about the dentist. Believe the best in people. Maybe she’s just a quirky dentist without a filter, maybe she was abused as a child, maybe… I wanted to take it on myself. Believe the same lie I believed in the arcade: there is something horribly wrong with me.

But I need to be real. What happened in that dentist office was dark and ugly. It was the taking of something beautiful and making it perverse.

Can I be honest and tell you I struggle with this? I don’t want to judge her. I want to keep my sunshine and rainbows glasses on and believe the best, excuse away her bad behavior, just pray for her. I don’t want to be the girl that fights just to fight and makes mountains out of hills. But deep down in my knowing place, I know I have to stand up right here. It’s hard and uncomfortable, but when I want to wonder if it’s really that big of a deal, I think of her making similar remarks about my own kids’ bodies that would sully their innocence and the beautiful purpose in their “private parts.” Oh no. Sometimes we fight the darkness on our hands and knees. And sometimes we call the dental board and file a complaint.

It makes me contemplate grace. I think sometimes we water it down, make it look something like doormat. But Grace isn’t co-dependency. It doesn’t make excuses for bad behavior. There would be no discipline in God’s love if that was the case.

God is both gracious and just… and you can’t separate the two. Justice and grace go together. They do. And together they demand that you take a stand for what is right, that you fight for justice and you fight for the voiceless, that you place the wrong-doing in the hands of those who are appointed to judge. After you have made your stand, you begin to put that seventy-times-seven forgiveness into practice.

Sometimes the place where grace needs to start is over that girl, the one who was silent and lost her words, who didn’t think she was worthy of a fight. She needs grace. She needs forgiveness too. And she needs to take a stand, better late than never.

The thing is, I felt like a freak of nature way back there in seventh grade, flat as a board and blooming later than November’s chrysanthemum. And this dentist managed to find that one thing about myself that I look at and see as some kind of anomaly now, larger than average; Victoria can’t hold my Secret; they’re out there and always out there for everyone to see no matter how high the neck line or black the shirt.

And making a stand, filing a complaint, it’s not about being a jerk or pulling grace out of the equation. It’s looking at me, the awkward girl, the quiet girl, the blend-into-the-background-except-for-the-bountiful-bosoms-that-would-still-poke-out-there girl. And loving her. It’s realizing she’s okay. There is nothing foul or disgusting about her body. Her purity is valuable and worth the fight.

It’s standing up for God’s plans and His handiwork and declaring to the darkness that I will not be clothed in shame. It’s instilling in my kids that they too are okay just the way God made them. Anomalies and all.

No, grace doesn’t lie down. Don’t believe that lie. Grace links arms with justice, and it stands tall and firm. Together they are not afraid to call the darkness dark. They fight the perversions of truth, and shine light on the lies of unworthiness. Grace is God’s unmerited favor but that doesn’t mean it’s blind to sin.


Have you ever had something happen where you wish you could have formed the words right then and there to stand up for yourself or someone else and instead you were silent?


By Grace,
Amanda Conquers



Psst… I know it’s been silent over here. I fear I was running short on words and needed to just be quiet. But now, I am looking forward to catching up on all the goings on… you know, for the few weeks that remain before I have a newborn! I missed this place and you. {Hugs}

I'm so excited to be sharing for the first time in a long time with this beautiful community of story tellers:

About Me and This Blog

Hi!


I’m Amanda.

I am an imperfect girl, a huge fan of Grace, and a follower of Jesus. I believe in absolute Truth.

I am the wife to one smoking hot cop. We’ve been married 9 years.

I am a momma to 2 littles: Addy (6) and Jed (3). They are my heart.



Coffee and deep conversations are my love language. I am a California girl (like totally) to my very core. I love road trips, bird watching, literature, and playing in the dirt (aka gardening).

I battle depression and anxiety. I have walked the hard road of repeated miscarriages. I struggle to embrace that God could really love me. I make a lot of mistakes; really, I'm just a bit of a mess. But I hinge my life on these verses: 
“Who will separate us from the love of Christ? Will tribulation, or distress, or persecution, or famine, or nakedness, or peril, or sword? But IN ALL these things we OVERWHELMINGLY CONQUER through Him who loved us.” (Romans 8:35, 37)

This blog pretty much hinges on those verses too. God made me to conquer, you to conquer. 

{Pssst... did you notice that Romans says overwhelmingly conquer?} 

Yes, in all those ordinary everyday ways you might fail: frazzled momma yells, dirty dish piles, forgotten birthday cakes, toddler messes that should cue the creepy Psycho theme music... 
And yes, God made us to conquer even in those hard things. I believe that there is no place His Grace can't reach.

I talk a lot about being a Jacob girl. Jacob who wrestled God. Jacob who was given a limp. Jacob who with a limp became, Israel, God prevails. Because the only way for God to prevail in our lives, the only real way to overcome, isn't to try harder; it's to walk leaning on Him. 

I am not a girl who has it all together. I am a girl who walks with a limp. I am a girl who leans on her Savior-become-Friend. I am a girl who, by the Grace of God, shall be called an overcomer.

I am inviting you to join me here on this Grace journey.


First Time Here?

If I could pick the posts visitors were to read, these are what I would pick. (They are my favorite and the most telling about me):  

Want to Keep Up with Amanda Conquers?


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I firmly believe that even though this is a blog called Amanda Conquers, it's about you too. I want to know the places where our stories intersect. I need your encouragement, your story. This is about community. And you are so welcome here. 


Okay. So... Tag. You're it! 
Tell me about you? Where do you hail from? What do we have in common? I'd love to get to know the AMAZING YOU. 
(If you are a blogger, don't be shy about leaving your URL in the comments. I would love to visit you back!)



Thank you so much for being here, new friend! I am honored to have you over at my place ;)

xo
Amanda Conquers



The Testimony I Never Thought I'd Have

About two months ago, a blogger in a group of which I am apart shared her desire to do a "Tour of Testimonies." I don't often sign up to write for another blog, but sometimes you just know that God has given you a story that is meant to be shared. Somehow, each time I share this testimony, it's like rubbing healing balm on my heart that had once felt so broken. I just know I need to share it: for other's to read, but also for my own heart.

I guess that's the thing about sharing our stories: they have the power to heal other's hearts, and our own.

So. Here's your invitation. It's a story that will look super familiar if you've been reading here for the past year, but you're still welcome to join me. (And this blog happens to belong to a sweet person with a heart for God's Word.)

Join me? Click -->HERE<--


By Grace,
Amanda Conquers


On Miscarriage and Grief

I have walked through 5 miscarriages. Just to be completely obvious and blunt: it was hard. Sometimes, it's still hard. But in this place God has taught me a lot about grieving, about brokenness, about holding onto hope. Dear sister, if you are walking through something similar I want you to know you aren't alone, and not just because there are other women who have walked similar paths, but because there is a God who loves you dearly who will walk with you, even when your faith feels shaky at best. I want you to know my heart breaks at your loss. I want you to know you are welcome here and so is your story. We need each other. We do. And we need Him.


The Miscarriage Series: 
An Introduction to a Series on Miscarriage
Season of Mourning (Giving Yourself Permission to Grieve)
When You Are Trying to Make Something Out of Your Ashes (On What God Does With Our Shattered Dreams)
Project Still Hope (An Invitation and a Tangible Way to Honor Lost Life)
What Hope Really Looks Like (How to Hope Again)
What You Need to Know When Fear is Suffocating You (For When You Are Terrified of Losing Again)
Practical Advice for the Grieving Woman and Those Who Love Her


My Story (in the most raw moments):
When Life Fractures Your Faith
The Post I Didn't Want to Write
Proclaiming the Miracle (A Pregnancy Announcement after 4 Repeat Miscarriages)


Other Posts:
The Thing About Fire (When You Wonder Why Life Has to Be Hard)
When Your Faith Looks Weak (On Being Pregnant After Repeated Miscarriages)


When Your Faith Looks Weak


Two weeks ago, I had to go to labor and delivery.

I was sitting down eating dinner when all of a sudden I felt pain creep into my lower abdomen. And then I contracted. The pain increased and I contracted again. I grabbed a glass of water, took to our recliner, and put my feet up. The pain got so strong there were tears welling up in my eyes. And then I contracted again. 3 times in less than twenty minutes. I called labor and delivery and, yes, they wanted me to come in.

As I am describing the pain to the nurse, I can feel the panic—that familiar fear. Oh, no, no, no, not again. It can’t be going wrong again. Tears of emotion joined the tears of pain.

I told my husband I needed to go in and we got the kids into the car.

Somewhere in the midst of the hustle to the car, the fear, the texts for prayer, there’s the still voice: 

Amanda, I’m here. It’s okay.

And I just knew He was and it was.



Sometimes, I worry that somewhere in the losses and trials of the past two years, my faith has become fragile. When loss happens to you, it becomes more than just a statistic, a sadness that might happen to one in every four women; it becomes your reality. You are no longer untouchable. When the losses roll in one after another, you feel vulnerable—maybe even doomed to despair.

This pregnancy has been emotionally and physically hard. It’s like I am holding my breath waiting to breathe again. The further along I get, the more it feels like breathing might be safe, but crampy pains and a few contractions and it’s like I am being brought back to that hot June afternoon, pacing the living room, hearing the doctor speak my devastation into the phone, “I am really sorry, Amanda, but there isn’t life in there. There was never even a heartbeat.”

My short stint at Labor and Delivery showed me something though. As much as the initial sight of hard circumstances might have brought on fear, as real as loss might be to me…  faith isn’t built in the absence of hard. The Amanda of 2 years ago didn’t have greater faith because she didn’t automatically imagine the worst at the first sign of difficulty. The Amanda of today doesn’t have a weaker faith because loss has touched her life.

When God said, “I’m here and it’s okay,” during my brief but very real contraction storm, I believed Him.

I knew He was with me, because I still remember some ten months ago when I faced the darkest night, when my faith might have looked the weakest. I was dagger spittin’ mad at God. I hurled the ugliest words I could find in my vocabulary, and I shook my fists to the heavens and demanded and He tell me why. And even there, God was with me. You guys, there were miracles, abundant grace, ways that God whispered to my soul, “Yes, you are walking through the storm, but I am still with you. And I see you. And I hurt with you. And I will not let you go.”

Can I be honest and tell you that I have struggled with thinking that maybe I am somehow less of a Christian because of those moments where my faith looked so weak. And because after walking through 4 miscarriages in 14 months, it just doesn’t take much for me to experience panic at the onset of crampy pains.

Here’s what I am learning and maybe it needs to be said for all of us who have ever struggled with doubt or at some point found ourselves unable to respond with absolute trust in God’s plan when we have faced unexplainable loss:

I think sometimes we act as though faith is a thing that we need to hold close, protect. We refuse to expose faith to the storms for fear it might get beaten down, and we choose to tread water instead.

But faith isn’t for treading water. Faith is for walking on the water.

Faith is for the places that don’t make sense. Faith is for the times when Christian cliché band-aides just can’t patch the brokenness inside you. Faith is for the storm. Faith is for the gaps. Faith is for when you could drown in the depths of places unexplainable.

Faith is this very real, Jesus-walking-with-you, in the mess.

Faith doesn’t need you to protect it. Faith is your protection. There’s a reason why it’s called the “shield of faith.”

I have been turning over this passage: “Fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith…” Hebrews 12:2. Jesus is the author and perfecter of our faith. Not me.

Friends, I have learned that real faith doesn’t understand. Real faith doesn’t always see the outcome. Real faith is clinging to God, sometimes even wrestling with God, and refusing to let go of Him. Real faith is being curious enough to walk out into the storm to see if God really means to never let you go.




By the time I got to the hospital, checked in and hooked up to the monitors, I can’t even tell you the peace I felt.

The very minute the monitor started reading the rapid whoosh whoosh whoosh of the baby’s heartbeat, the baby began to kick and punch and roll. The baby kicked strong and close to the monitor. Each kick startled the nurse and me, even hurt our ears: whoosh whoosh KAPOW! The nurse laughed and turned the monitor’s sound way down, “I don’t think we need to hear the heartbeat anymore, clearly your little one is just fine in there.”

Those deafening sounds felt like Grace. They were the final proof of what God had whispered into my heart when the pain was still intense, when the contractions were still coming. Thing was, I believed God’s words long before I had the proof.  

Because I have walked with Him through storms before.

Friends, faith doesn’t get beaten down in the storms… faith is a thing that grows in storms.



By Grace,


Amanda Conquers

9 Reasons Why Delivery-Room Gender Reveals Are Awesome


I remember the exact moment of our first surprise—I was high on endorphins after a long labour and three hours of pushing. The first words out of my mouth were, “Did we have a boy or girl?” The nurse turned to my husband. “Well, Dad, do you want to make the announcement?”

Mike had tears, a smile, and a tremble in his hands. He paused. He might even have forgotten for a split-second in the emotion of the moment which parts went to which gender. “A girl, Amanda. It’s a girl.”

I repeated back those words so many times, letting them sink in. This was our surprise, our miracle: “A girl? A girl! Really? A girl? This whole time we’ve had a girl in there? Ahh! I can’t believe it’s a girl!”
____________

I’ve always loved surprises. So, for me, when it came time to decide how we would find out the gender of our first baby, waiting until delivery just seemed like the right choice. We found out the gender of our second born because we were both really hoping for a boy. And now that we have one girl and one boy, we are doing what I actually prefer: waiting to find out.  

So, just for fun and just because sometimes I get the awkward side-ways glance or the “Oh my goodness, I could never do that. I would just have to know,” when people find out we are waiting, I have compiled a list of some really great reasons why delivery-room gender announcements are awesome.


1. You save money.

So, you know those moments when you are walking through the baby section at Target and there’s the sweet little three piece outfit that makes your momma-heart swoon? When you don’t know the gender, you imagine how cute your soon-to-arrive baby would look if it happened to be a boy or girl, and then you keep walking. Because you don’t know boy or girl. And you might not know much about babies yet, but you at least know you don’t want to stand in the return line with a newborn in tow.


2. You are very likely to get what you really need at your baby shower.

So, you know how I mentioned the cute baby outfits in the baby section and how hard they are to resist? They are! For like everyone with estrogen in their body. So, if you have a baby shower, sure, you might need a crib, baby carrier, stroller, car seat, bottles, breast pump, diaper pail, and a ridiculous amount of diapers and wipes… but you will get a ridiculous amount of outfits. And they will make you and everyone at the shower swoon. But the thing is, if you are a first time mom-to-be, let me tell you a secret. Babies poop. They drool. They spit up. Diapers will fail you. You might end up changing that precious baby 10 times in one day—his diaper AND his clothes. And at some point the only clothes you will want him in, save those special outings and picture opportunities, are the clothes that are practical and easy to get on and off. And the adorable dress with matching bloomers or the vest, button-down and bow tie… outfits like that, you won’t need 20 of them.


3. Double the presents.

So here’s the good news: your mom, grandma, auntie, sister who you are currently driving crazy because they want to shop for all the cute stuff. Guess what? They will not only come to your shower bearing practical gifts. They will also feel this overwhelming urge to go out and buy all the cute stuff as soon as your precious surprise arrives.


4. More usable items for the next baby.

If you didn’t find out the gender till delivery, you wouldn’t have been tempted to purchase the pink carseat with the butterfly accent print. Your nursery items will be neutral.  You will have newborn clothes that will work no matter if you have a boy or girl. And one day, should you be blessed with the opposite gender, your future self who is discovering how energy demanding and strong-willed a toddler can be, who only wants a decent nights’ sleep and a shower in life, who is wondering if she will ever have a routine again after adding a new baby to the family… that girl will thank you because she just won’t care as much about nursery theme and she won’t want to spend the extra money replacing the pink butterfly carseat (but she will anyways just to save her baby boy from growing up with a complex...)


5. Focus Point? Done.

Labour is hard. Really hard. Throughout the entirety of my first labour, the 19 hours of “back labour” and the 3 hours of pushing, I thought of one thing: Boy or girl? When I arrived at that awful moment when I just really thought I couldn’t do it and someone should just put me out of my misery, I still wanted to know. I had waited to know. The anticipation of the surprise still somehow outweighed those grueling moments of transition-labour despair.


6. It’s follows a natural plot line.

Okay, maybe this is a lit-nerd thing, but good books have a moment called the climax. Everything builds and builds—nine months of your body growing a human and preparing to evacuate it. Then there’s start of the climax: the labour and delivery where at some point you think you just can’t and somehow you still do. And then the final push and that first cry: and there is that baby. If you don’t know the gender, the room almost erupts into joy, the culminating experience of nine months of wondering, “It’s a boy! It’s a girl! No way! Look at that! Oh my goodness, A boy! A girl!” You have no choice but to stop and soak in the moment, let it roll around your brain, celebrate the news—and it is news—brand new—the baby and this discovery. It doesn’t matter that you are now delivering the placenta or being stitched up, this news has caught your breath and will hold it for a while. It’s a time-standing-still kind of magic.


7. It’s fun to have something to announce that people actually want to know on such a momentous occasion.

I mean, no offense, the birth stats are cool, but nobody but grandma cares if the baby is 6 lbs. 15 oz. or 8 lbs. 4 oz.


8. The older generation brings out all their old wives tales to predict the gender of your baby.

Sure, it will happen regardless, but it’s a little awkward when you are barely showing at eleven weeks and grandma swears it’s a boy because you are carrying low and in front. Really grandma? I think that might be the donut I just ate? At 32 weeks, it’s pretty clear “how you carry,” and a gender-unknown baby bump has some kind of magnetic pull on the pre-ultrasound generations. There’s just something about having the older women in your life gather around your belly, guess the gender, and tell you all about their experiences from decades past. Because no matter how technology changes, motherhood is timeless.


9. It brings your husband into the birth experience more.

As he cuts the cord, your husband will get to announce to you and everyone in the room who you have been carrying in your womb all those nine months. He will call his parents, his brother, your brother. He will walk into the waiting room where family members are anxiously waiting for the announcement. The first words out of his mouth will not be, “She’s finally here!” It will be, “It’s a girl!”



I’d love to hear from you and your experiences! Any reasons to add the list? Have you ever waited till the delivery to find out? Would you want to wait till delivery to find out?



By Grace,

Amanda Conquers


Image Credit: https://flic.kr/p/e4nLge (Please note: per license agreement, I was able to build upon this image and add my own words. They are not endorsed by photographer.)

When You Want to Be the Mom That Buys The Houses Across the Street for Her Kids


Last weekend, I had one of those tough parenting days.

My husband, my mom, and I were wallpapering our entryway/stairwell. We had an eight foot ladder on the middle landing, a plank going from the ladder to the top of the stairs—a sort of makeshift scaffold. There was wallpaper paste, rollers, scissors, a razor, and people trying to lay giant strips of wallpaper straight on the wall.

Naturally, this is exactly where my kids wanted to play.

Addy got asked to play outside, watch a movie, go in her room loads of times... maybe every three minutes. At one point she was sitting on the bottom step, and the excess wallpaper got rolled up and thrown from the top step onto her head. Twice. I could see her, feeling left out, overlooked, like she was just in the way.

She headed to her room, emerged a few minutes later bearing a Hello Kitty bag, and headed out the front door.  

I just knew I needed to follow her.


She was walking down the sidewalk, barefoot, bag stuffed full of clothes.

She was running away.

Her words: “Mom, I was just angry and wanted to see what was out there.”

“Out where?” I asked.

“You know, out there. Everywhere. I want to know what it’s like. I want to see the whole world.”

I just really really want to see the whole world, Mom. You can come with me. I just want to see it now.


Later that evening I found the note she had left for me on her desk: “I am going on a avencher for ever. I love you mom.”


It all quaked in me: the idea that my daughter would want to runaway, the feeling like a failure somehow, the glimpse into my daughter’s heart of hearts. I flipped back through my memories of her—the precious moments that seem sacred and holy and reveal the innermost being and childlike faith of my Addygirl. They are the memories I keep tucked close to my heart, the ones I ponder. They reveal her sense of wonder, her craving for adventure in the wide world, and her zeal for people and life.

Sometimes, I think God gives us these glimpses into who are kids are and who He made them to be. It’s beautiful and exciting and sometimes altogether terrifying. It’s not that I hold the plans for my kids' lives or have this prophetic revelation of their futures. But I do think God prepares our hearts as moms. He prepares us so we can prepare them.

One day, Addy is going to pack her bag for reals, hopefully with her shoes on, and leave my home. She’s going to run after dreams, dreams that might take her across town or across the globe.

This is really hard to think about.

And that’s the thing about parenting. Sure, it’s hard disciplining, teaching, being consistent, dealing with strong wills. But it’s even harder knowing that one day, and really everyday just a little more, I am preparing to release my child into the world as an adult. Sometimes God gives us these runaway moments as whispers, “Do you see her, Amanda? Do you see the desires I put in her heart? You can’t keep her. You weren’t meant to hold her forever.”

It’s these moments I realize how fleeting and precious these years are. It’s these moments I want to make time stand still. It’s these moments I fully recognize the weight of the call of motherhood. 

I am preparing my kids for the rest of their lives. This part of parenting only lasts so long. Each year their need for me changes, and the sphere of those who can influence them gets just a little wider.

As much as I might like to tuck them in close, wrap my arms around them, and maybe one day buy them the houses next door to me… I need to prepare my heart to let go just a little more each passing year. I need to walk that hard but beautiful road of parent to friend, of boo-boo kisser to heart-break consoler, of holding hands while we cross the street to hands-and-knees praying over each adventure they take without me.


I once heard that a child is a mother’s own heart walking outside her body.

And it just seems hard that the sacred call of motherhood means having to prepare your children to walk after the desires God planted inside them… especially when those desires might pull your very own heart thousands of miles from your own body. 

And yet in all the painful heart-string pulling, I know I need to walk this road leaning, trusting my Savior, pressing in everytime I want to hold tight… because, truly, what I really want more than anything is for my kids to know God, really know Him for themselves. I don’t want them to walk through this life beyond the walls of my home leaning on me, I want them to walk leaning on God

Wherever He would lead.




Is it just me, or is this a heavy topic for moms? I kind of cried a lot in the writing (and naturally I was in a crowded Panera Bread). I’d love to know how old your kids are and how you are doing with this whole kids growing up thing… whatever phase of motherhood you might be in. Share with us in the comments?



By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Just Me in My Comfy Pants (March Edition)

So… it’s been awhile.

I think pregnancy can do that to a girl.

But I miss this, I miss you, I miss writing. So, as I am feeling quite rusty, I think I shall warm up by sitting in my comfy clothes and just telling you a few random things that are going on in my life and things I have been learning.


1. I am 21 weeks pregnant. Older women tell you that each pregnancy is different, and maybe a part of you thinks they might know what they are talking about, but this other part expects it to look the same as before. Yeah, those women, they know what they are talking about. I have this vague memory from my previous second trimesters where I had gobs of energy, where my back didn’t hurt yet, where my “baby tummy” wasn’t quite so far out yet, where false contractions didn’t happen yet… maybe I remember wrong, because this time around: energy=0; back=I just bought a maternity girdle because hello sciatic issues and lower abdomen pain; waistline=I look like I am either carrying twins or am 2 months farther along; Braxton hicks= since like 16 weeks and they are strong.

2. This baby is fickle. I am still nauseous, though it is nothing like it was the first sixteen weeks, so I will gladly take it. I can’t eat anything acidic (oranges, lemonade, marinara, pizza sauce). I can't keep onions down (not in salad, not diced in my meat, not carmelized... no onions). Pretty much the entirety of Asian cuisines disgust me: Cantonese, Thai, Sushi, lumpia, rice noodles, and soy-sauced anything.  I worry I might be off coffee for life. And if you know anything about me, the Amanda prior to baby #3 lived for her morning iced latte and deep conversations spent over a hot vanilla latte. The Amanda currently housing baby #3 wants to get sick just talking about coffee… so, um, how about we change the subject?


3. I complain sometimes because this pregnancy has not been a cake-walk, but I am just so grateful. So grateful. Everything feels like a miracle. Everything is a miracle. Each kick. Each doctor visit. Each time I hear that beating heart. Each time the kids put their mouths to my belly and talk to their sibling. I will take the nausea, the back aches, the insomnia, the food adversions, and really, I promise, I take them with joy… because this. I held on for dear life to the promise of this little one. I am not letting go of my resurrection-power miracle over temporary complaints. I am overwhelmed by His goodness and grace... and I am clinging to it. You guys, I get to be a mom to this baby!


4. We are having….

A BOY OR A GIRL!!
(Do please pay close attention to that conjunction in there. It’s OR not AND.)

We decided to be surprised in the delivery room. (I am pretty sure I am going to share our reasons in a light-hearted post coming soon, so I’ll tell you more about it then.) Everything looked great at our 20 week ultrasound. Side note: I am pretty sure I noticed a cleft in the baby’s chin. I sort of squealed over this. It’s one of my favorite features on my husband. 


5. I got to go to a local writing conference last month. It was so refreshing. I got to spend time with a dear friend; talk metaphor, character, style, theme with people who get just as excited about those topics as I do; get encouragement just for writers that had gospel all through it; get some really great wisdom on non-fiction writing and writing a book proposal. You guys, I also won a writing scholarship that will pay my way to next year’s conference, membership to a group that essentially provides support for writers, and pays for an expensive writing conference where there are acquisition editors, literary agents and classes taught by renowned authors and experts in the Christian writing field! I feel like I pretty much got handed a vote of confidence from seasoned writers and the tools I would need to send a book out into the wide world. Amazing. And if you want to hear me continue gushing, on the award it says this: “who communicated a message of grace, hope and love in a creative work.” Could there possibly be anything better to have said about the work of your heart or message of your life? So humbling and so crazy exciting.


I feel like there are a ridiculous amount of things I could tell you because it’s been months, but I need to leave off for now. I sort of need to cook dinner.  But since I was able to get a nice camera with our tax return last week (I am SOOOOO excited about this! It’s been on the wish list for years.), how about I leave you with a few pictures of life around here?


Tummy talks in the kitchen

Just a dog and her Capri Sun... wait, what?

My in laws got a new puppy. This picture just makes me smile big. 

I planted daffodil, tulip and hyacinth bulbs last October after my last miscarriage. Here they are in full bloom while my belly is getting full big with a little life who kicks and hiccups and rolls. Spring always comes.

Nope, not choking him. :)



Looking forward to more time spent here.

By Grace,
Amanda Conquers


Proclaiming the Miracle (An Announcement)

Because, dear readers, hope is a thing worth holding onto, there is this:



11 weeks, 5 days. Due to arrive in July.

My last miscarriage marks the beginning of this pregnancy. And for the literature-lover who sees metaphors everywhere, there’s something that seems poetic about it. This little life is marked by the pain of loss, and I mean that in the best way. I think of Jesus showing His scars after His resurrection: Do you see the miracle?

“For with the Lord is lovingkindness and with Him is abundant redemption” Psalm 130:7. I stood on that verse through the hard times, and I hold it close now.

In other news, I have been wretchedly sick. I get morning sickness really bad. Not bad enough to say extreme, as in daily coming into the doctor for an IV kind of bad… but enough to earn the adverb really that I attached the word bad. All day, everyday. Calling it morning sickness seems grossly negligent, and I am tempted to think some male doctor came up with the term so he could justify his demand for a home-cooked meal every evening. Fortunately my husband is understanding and has grown accustomed to the lack of cooking (and let’s not mention the cleaning) from me.  If my sudden blog disappearance was any kind of mystery to you, I think you now understand the reason.

Here’s the thing. Can I tell you how hard it is to be excited when you’ve been living where the worst keeps happening? How hard it is to be excited when you feel miserable? It’s felt a bit like my life has been under a dark cloud. Somehow in the suffering, I just don’t seem worthy of such a miracle. I’ve grown accustomed to suffering as a part of the Christian walk. But rejoicing? I think I lost it somewhere in the sadness.

I want to live brave. Not just through the worst. But after the worst. And let me tell you friends, it takes nothing short of sheer bravery to believe that God is for you and that He’s got you in the aftermath of loss.

And really, this post is me being brave. It is me rejoicing no matter how I feel, no matter what the future might hold. I am proclaiming that I carry life. I’ve seen the steady heartbeat, five little fingers curled up against a cheek, feet kicking… all in a two inch body. It’s a miracle. My miracle.

Squeee!


By Grace,


Amanda Conquers

Walking through Miscarriage: Practical Advice for Friends and Loved Ones, Spouses, and the Woman Who's Hurting

I have done this a few times now. And I've learned a few things. Today, I wanted to conclude the Still Hope series with some of the practical things I have learned and what others have done that has been helpful and has been hurtful. If you have had a miscarriage and wondered things like how to share the news or have a friend or loved one going through this and want to be helpful and supportive... this post is for you.


For You

  1. Give yourself Grace. You can (and should) stop and grieve. It’s okay if the housework slacks, the dinners are take-out or seriously uninspired. It’s okay if you have to keep escaping to your room to cry. It’s okay if you let all the responsibilities you can get out of go for a season. 
  2. Receive Grace. If other’s are asking you how they can help and you have a stack of dishes in your sink, it’s okay to respond with that as an answer. It’s okay to need help. It's also okay to not know how to respond to everyone's kind words, prayers, generosity... just receive it, sister.
  3. It’s your story. If you just shared this amazing, well-planned and super cute post on facebook announcing your pregnancy and now you are left wondering how to share this hard news, it is entirely up to you. The Lord is the redeemer of our stories, but you are the keeper of your story. It’s okay to ask someone else to share this hard news (My husband and mom did this for me). It’s okay to hole up for a week till you can face this. It’s okay to slowly let your story out, one person at a time. It’s okay to share it and then hide out for a week without checking your messages. It’s okay to share every step in this process. It is entirely up to you.
  4. You cannot help how anyone will respond. Sometimes the encouragement and the prayers will hold you up, strengthen you. Sometimes other people’s way of dealing with grief will strip you raw. Do keep this in mind when thinking about when to share and who to share with.
  5. Even if you hadn’t shared the news with anyone before you miscarried, still, find someone other than your spouse who you can share this with… someone who can “mourn with those who mourn,” someone who won’t just listen once, but will ask you every couple days how you are doing, someone who will pray with you.
  6. Ask for what you need. I felt like I needed out of town, to hike something, to breathe fresh air. It was hard to ask my husband, to fork out money for a hotel and food, and I had to ask twice, because the first time my husband didn’t understand how desperately I needed this. It’s okay to speak up and ask.


For The Friends and Loved Ones


  1. Choose your words wisely. Sometimes we naturally want to fix problems, find some kind of silver lining. But when her heart is bleeding and raw, you just need to allow her to grieve. Those searching-for-a-positive statements deny a person the right to grieve (They are in a better place. At least you know you can get pregnant. At least it happened now instead of further along.). One day it will be time for this, just not while its fresh.
  2. It is okay to not have a solid response. The most comforting words for me looked like “Amanda, I am just so sorry.” “Holding you in prayer.” “I have been there, and it hurts. Praying.” "I don't know what to say, but I want you to know my heart is hurting for you."
  3. Saying nothing is better than a cliché. I’ve heard “God only gives his hardest battles to his strongest soldiers” “God won’t give you more than you can handle” “Heaven got another angel” Besides the fact that these ones I mentioned are just not Scriptural, clichés feel flat when you are feeling deeply.
  4. Check in on your close friend. I have a small handful of friends whom would send me texts or emails every couple days: How are you doing today? What can I do for you? I read this scripture and thought of you. Just want you to know I am still praying for you…  I can’t even tell you how much these women have helped me this past year. How much they have looked like Jesus and Grace.
  5. You don’t have to have gone through this to be able to help. Those friends I mentioned, most of them have never walked this road. And really, that hasn’t mattered. It’s been important for me to see that I am not the only one, to hear other stories, but even more helpful are those who are willing to stop and lift me up.
  6. Small acts of kindness. Volunteering to take the kids to the park for an afternoon, volunteering to bring dinner (in a disposable pan that I don’t have to wash and return and remember to whom it belongs), a sweet card, hot tea and scones, flowers, just a little something that says I am thinking of you. Here’s where I am honest: maybe it’s the introvert in me, but I didn’t want any kind of help for a good week that meant having company because I just didn’t have anything in my energy reserve. So if you are wanting to be helpful like this, just be sensitive to this (and if your friend is a hardcore introvert, maybe do something that you can leave on her doorstep or can arrive in a mailbox).


For the Husband


  1. You don’t have to understand why she is so sad. You don’t have to be as sad as she is. But do allow her the room to be sad, to process this in her own time and way. Miscarriage is deeply personal to a woman. She might feel like a failure, she might be angry over it, she might be deeply sad. Give her that room to stop and grieve. 
  2. Offer her grace. Lots. The housework might slack, the dinners might be lame, don’t point this out. Offer to cook dinner or pick up take out.
  3. Listen to her. When I miscarried over the summer, I was so angry, so angry. I just needed to do something, get out of town, hike something, wear my legs and my lungs out. Though I had to ask more than once, my husband heard this, asked for the time off and took me to the mountains. When I cried my eyes out and told him how stupid this miscarriage was, he didn’t say anything. I didn’t need him to say anything. He just offered his chest to cry on and put his arms around me.
  4. Be a shield for her. Mike shared the news for me with his family and our extended relatives. He watched out for me, made sure I wasn’t overdoing it. He watched for signs of me being overwhelmed and took the kids to the park.   



Any advice to add to this list? Share with us in the comments.

This wraps up the miscarriage series. I can't even tell you how healing it has been to write, and how burdened my heart has been for you, dear sister, who might be walking this hard road. I want you to know I have been praying for you, praying for peace and comfort, and for God to wrap His arms around you, praying for redemption of this hard part in your story. {Hugs}



By Grace,
Amanda Conquers



If you missed the introduction to this series, you can find it HERE.

If you would like to continue reading, here are the rest of the posts in the series:
Season of Mourning
When You Are Trying to Make Something Out of Your Ashes
Project Still Hope
What Hope Really Looks Like
What You Need to Know When Fear is Suffocating You