A life to the full

There are only two and a half months until I finish college. Somedays I can hardly believe it. It feels like I just started. Part of what will allow me to graduate college is the successful completion of a six-week internship. The first step to a successful internship completion is, of course, finding an internship.

I applied for the best internship I could find, happening right in the heart of the largest city in Canada. I’m in school for journalism. Immediately after I applied, I started imagining myself taking the train to downtown Toronto each day, the bustle of activity featuring busy commuters surrounding me. I thought about the stories I would write, and the people I would meet. I couldn’t wait. Maybe it wouldn’t be simply an internship… perhaps they’d even give me a job afterward.

This must be what God wants for me, I thought. Why else did I feel so confident? Was God giving me a glimpse of what my future might hold?

I received an email from the company, requesting an interview.

Victory.

I prepared for the interview using all the ways I knew how — I made connections with people from the company and called them to learn what their interviews had been like; I emailed previous interns; I wrote down the answers to questions I thought they might ask.

The morning of the interview, I felt nervous but confident. I could do this.

I didn’t feel great when the interview ended. None of the questions I had prepared answers for had been asked. I started to doubt everything.

I received the email yesterday: I didn’t get the internship.

Come over with me to (in)courage... 

You don't have to listen to strangers on the internet (5 things to remember when you get a bad book review)

I got a stunningly negative book review this week.

It was so long, I actually checked the word count of the review. It was over 1,500 words.

It detailed each part of my book the reader disliked. She listed specific quotes, analyzing my writing, my word choices, and my motives behind why I wrote it. She disagreed with a lot of my character choices and said she didn't feel good when the book was done.  

My pride was wounded, of course. But overall, this didn't offend me. 

It's impossible for a book to please everyone. There is no single piece of art in this world—not a book nor a song, not a piece of music or poem or painting or movie—that is singlehandedly loved by each person on the planet. It can't be so. We are all unique individuals, with our own thoughts and mind and opinions. 

The beautiful part of the internet is that we each have a voice. We can use Facebook or Instagram or Twitter or Youtube or a blog to share exactly what we are thinking exactly when we are thinking it. It's a lovely thing, isn't it? We learn about each other instantaneously. 

It's also the worst part of the internet. 

Although this reader mostly wrote a review about why she disliked my book, she went a little further and wrote some comments about the author. About me. There was a sentence or two that stung.

I was reminded that people get braver on the web. I think the internet has desensitized us. We forget that not everything comes across the waves with a pretty filter. 

This reader used her voice to explain why she didn't like my work. Totally fair. But it doesn't mean I have to listen. 

I learned a few things this week—about bad book reviews, and rejection, and what to do when you hear something that hurts:

1. You can let the mean words sting. 

I want to be a good writer. I want to be a serious writer. Therefore, I want to have thick skin. I am absolutely certain there will be more bad book reviews. I've had people email me their opinions on my writing before. The words have stung each time. 

After reading the review, I told myself, "Do not let this affect you. This doesn't matter."

But that wasn't the truth. The words did affect me. They did matter. They weren't kind, no matter how you look at it. So I gave myself a few minutes. I let the words sting. 

Then I chose to keep going. 

2. Remember why you did this in the first place. 

Why did I write my novel? To craft a story of redemption and hope. At the end of the day, this is what I always come back to.

Fill in your own blank. Why did you do the thing you did? Remember the beginning. Remember your why.

3. Vulnerability is the scariest thing in the world. 

Each time I hear someone is reading my book, I feel as though they are scooping my insides and spreading them out on a table for examination. Seriously. It feels as though I give each person a small portion of me—the equivalent of handing someone your heart on a platter. Be gentle, I think, be gentle. (They are not always gentle.)

This is vulnerability. Brene Brown is a genius when it comes to this. She says, "Vulnerability is about showing up and being seen. It's tough to do that when we're terrified about what people might see or think." 

This review was a prime example of why I hate being vulnerable. Most of the time, you end up getting hurt. But not always. 

Each time you open your hands and offer the world your art, you lose control. You don't get to choose how the receiver will feel when they read it or see it or hear it. Your only portion of control is the choice of whether you'll offer it up at all. 

The answer is: always offer your art. Even when it's scary. Even when it hurts. 

4. You don't have to listen to strangers on the internet. 

I'm grateful for people's feedback. Whenever I create something, I always ask someone's opinion first. I like knowing the message I'm trying to communicate is going to be communicated as effectively as possible. 

I don't expect everyone to like everything I produce. It's impossible. I want people to be honest—book reviews are truly about honesty. 

But at the end of the day, no matter what anyone says about me or you or the things you or I have created: we don't have to listen to strangers on the internet. 

I've been learning about boundaries recently. (This is something I'm terrible at.) I let people in too far. I give too much of myself away too easily. This results in a lot of unnecessary hurt. 

This week, I practiced my boundaries. I decided how far book reviews get to come. (The answer? Not very far at all.) This goes for both negative and positive reviews. I am grateful for the feedback, but I will not let this change me. I won't let what people say alter who I am. 

5. Keep writing. 

Maybe, for you, it's not writing. Maybe it's cooking or singing or playing a guitar or painting murals. I urge you: don't stop doing your thing because someone doesn't like it. That would be the saddest thing in the world. 

Today I'm off to school to write my final exam. Soon I'll enter my last semester of college. After that? Who knows. But I know this to be true: I will never stop writing. 

Regardless of what anyone says, I am confident in this: my identity isn't formed by what someone says, or what I do. It's immeasurably more than that.

I hope you know this, too. I hope you never stop doing your thing either.

Offer your art today, whatever that may be. Offering your art without knowing the response you'll get? That's one of the bravest choices you can make.

When your book is launching into the world in two days

The nightmares have begun. 

They started five days after I began my vacation last week. In all honesty I was quite proud they waited that long before interfering with my dreams. I dreamed the books at my launch party were all different—filled with typos and grammatical errors, some being an entirely different story altogether. I dreamed I forgot how to speak, I dreamed I forgot how to write. I dreamed no one came to my launch party. 

Anxiety and stress always try to snatch joy away from me. It's infuriating.

I awoke from the nightmares, filled my coffee mug, stared at the ocean outside my window, and took a deep breath, inhaling peace, remembering I hired an editor for a reason. There were no typos or grammatical errors or new story. I breathed again. It was just a dream.

When my feet hit the sand I looked out at the water. 

I pictured my novel nestled in my hands and saw the peach cover in the back of my mind. 

I opened my fists so my palms were outstretched.

I let go.

---

I have a notebook from when I was in eighth grade. It's completely full, an entire novel hidden inside of it. It was about a girl in high school, trying to figure out who she was in a world that seemed hard and sort of painful. The grammar is terrible, and I think I used "so" or "very" every other word.

Unbeknownst to me at the time, nine years later I would be halfway through journalism school releasing my real first novel—this time one that was not written in the eighth grade and was fully edited (Thanks, Mary!).

This little peach book in my hands represents a range of different experiences for me. I wrote the book because of one experience; I published it because of another. When I see this book, I see more than the characters—more than Sage and Maeve and Sol and Ky and Levi—I see me, I see my mother, I see this past winter and this past spring. 

Writing this novel was a form of therapy for me—it was a way for me to take my anger, frustration, sadness, and delight and pour it out in a healthy (ish) way. I would gently weigh my emotions in my hands, seeing anger through Levi and frustration through Maeve and sadness through Ky. I took all of the pieces of who I am and spread them out within the characters I created. 

I still don't know if I actually know how to write a novel. All I know is how I felt—and how writing about how I felt using fictitious characters was the only thing that made sense at the time. (It's still one of only ways I truly know how to process things.)

As the doors to this book swing wide open and she begins to make her way out into the world, I feel like an overprotective mother clawing to keep her child from running out onto the road. 

"This is my baby," I think. What if they hurt her? What if they hate her and criticize her and don't treat her as gently as she deserves?

For anyone who has ever created anything you know this is the most frightening part: the time when you have to give it away. Creating only to give it away is not for the faint of heart. But creating for just yourself seems far too lonely. 

So on Thursday I'll open my palms once more—albeit somewhat unwillingly—and give my baby away to the world. This peach book is what four years of my life looks like. After the past four years, I can finally say I am very proud to give her away to you. 

I will try not to cry any more than I already have; I will try not to throw up either. 

I hope you enjoy this story. I know I enjoyed creating it for you.

The hunt for who I am

My nephew is one and a half.

He doesn’t say a lot yet – just a few random words, and only when he feels like it. (I already am a huge fan of his stubbornness. I hope he’ll grow up sticking to his guns.) Recently my sister has been teaching him different animal sounds.

She’ll say, “Noah, what does a puppy say?” and Noah will woof obediently. Or, “Noah, what does a lion say?” and Noah will roar. “Noah, what does a monkey say?” and Noah will twist his whole body, grinning, because he knows you’re about to tickle his underarms.

Noah, of course, is not a dog or a lion or a monkey. He’s a little boy. But there are moments where I wonder if he convinces himself he is a lion because he can roar.

In the same way I wonder if I can convince myself I am unworthy because of the things I have done.

If you asked me who I am, I would hand you a variety of answers. I’d say my name is Aliza Latta. I’m 23 years old. I’m a writer, I’m in school for journalism, and I’m an artist. I’m a poor college student who owes the government a lot of money, a daughter, a sister, an apprentice of Jesus, and Noah’s auntie.

There are so many things we could say about ourselves, but if they all got stripped away, what would we be left with?

If I got kicked out of school, would I still be considered a student?

If my fingers got chopped off and I couldn’t write or make art, would I still be considered a writer and an artist?

A friend of mine has had four miscarriages in the past two years. We were together the other day, talking about this. She looked at me and said, “Aliza, all of my babies have died. Am I still a mother?”

The past few months have shaken my identity all up. I woke up questioning who I was, mourning things that had happened, and wondering where I was supposed to go or how I was supposed to move on from the person I thought I once was.

Humans — I know — are constantly evolving, shaping and shifting and growing and molding into new, changed people. This is a wonderful gift. I am very glad I am not the same person I was six years ago or six months ago or six days ago. But it begs the question: If we are consistently changing, what is the basis of our identity?

I have placed my identity in school, in a relationship status, in success. I have placed it in my Instagram following and in my independence. Each of these places are like shifting sand beneath me: zero strength or security.

But Christ is teaching me a new way.

Come over to (in)courage with me to read more...

The spiral of pain and healing

I haven't written here much. Actually, over the scope of this summer, I've hardly written at all. Eleven thousand quiet words on a Word document that needed to escape, but aside from that: nothing.

Perhaps it's because I've been too involved (also slightly neurotic) with formatting and readying my novel in preparation for the eyes of the world to see, that I've hardly had a chance to think about the thoughts somersaulting against the walls of my brain.

I think about how I felt around this same time last summer when I was nervously awaiting what would be my first year of college. In some ways, I feel similarly, the same mix of excitement and nerves. In other ways, I feel unlike anything I've felt before. This year has held a massive amount of pain and euphoria, and I often attempt to comprehend how both sadness and happiness can mingle together like they do.

There are days where I feel on top of the world. These are the days that have mostly been filled with either the preparation of my novel or seeing my nephew. These are the days I am gliding.

And then, there are the others. Days where I awake saddened. Some days I can put my finger on the exact reason why; others I cannot.  But I am learning to lean into this pain. Pain can be a great teacher. 

I've started seeing a counselor. She told me healing is like a spiral.

"Often we think of healing as one straight line. The problem with that is, we easily become discouraged because it seems as though we take steps backward," she told me. Her hair was long and dark, her dress the same. "If we look at healing like a spiral then we can see we are continuing to move forward. But just because we are in the spiral doesn't mean we don't feel the pain."

I stared at the picture she had drawn; the shape of the spiral on the otherwise blank page.

"The spiral seems like a longer journey than the line," I told her.

She laughed. "It is."

I'm learning to lean into this too: this spiral of both pain and healing. Some days the spiral feels unending and other days it feels manageable. I take my pain and use it as fuel, and even this shows me my progress. I'm doing a 40-day prayer challenge; tomorrow will be Day 21. I take my pain and use it as the gasoline to fuel my prayers. I am starting to more fully understand that God is present with me every moment. I am starting to think of my prayers like the artwork a parent collects of their child: something precious and cherished and good. 

I'm starting to think of myself that way too. 

I am grateful for who God is and for how he can take our pain and turn it into something precious; even in the midst of us feeling it. I have learned through this prayer challenge that God can give us eyes to see, empathy to pour out, forgiveness to release. 

When I look back on this summer, I will see a spiral of pain and healing and empathy, but also a spiral of all the ways people and experiences have helped me grow. 

And I will take a deep breath and feel gratitude that God cares about our feelings, knowing true healing is long and slow and wide and filled with rich progress — just like the perseverance I've been praying for. 

The mercy I need today (and everyday)

My eyes pop open. I turn to look at the clock. Immediately, I sit up, heart pounding within me.

Oh, no. No. No no no no no no. 

A sense of dread fills me up to the core.

My alarm didn’t go off. I’m supposed to be at work right now!

I fly out of bed, ripping my brush through my hair, splashing cold water on my face, looking haggard. I don’t have time to shower or put on makeup, and I throw on yesterday’s clothes.

“I’m sorry!” I text my boss. “I’m sorry, I’m coming, I’m sorry!”

I grab my purse and my keys, shifting the gears in my car as fast as it’ll let me. I drive like the mad woman I feel I am. The cars in front of me, of course, are going far below the speed limit.

“C’mon,” I mutter, impatiently dancing my fingertips along the steering wheel.

I glance at the clock on my dash. By my estimate, I’ll be at least forty-five minutes late, if not more.

It’s Monday — undoubtedly the worst day of the week. Sleeping through my alarm has proven this fact to be true. I mentally go through all of the tasks I need to complete today. This one mistake has ruined everything. My whole day is shot. Scratch that. My whole week has gone entirely down the drain.

On the half-hour trip to work, I imagine running into the office, frazzled and unkempt. I rub the sleep out of my eyes. I wish I had put on blush, and feel slightly grateful that half of my mascara is still on from last night.

I think of how everything is ruined now. Starting my day and week off on the wrong foot means that everything will seem harder and less thought through. I am hungry from not eating breakfast, and I wish a coffee would appear in my hand.

Suddenly, without warning, I have a new thought: I don’t want to be frazzled. I don’t want to be stressed.

Click to read the rest over at (in)courage...

In which I reveal to you the cover of my novel

It's amazing to think that something you've been working on for four years might finally be becoming a tangible book you can hold in your hands. 

Self-publishing is no joke. I have never read so many forums on margin sizes or spent this much time Googling how to format a Word document. Each day I spend hours trying to make my novel just that much more precise, ensuring there are no extra spaces in the manuscript, and that the font is easy on your eyes. 

And all of this —all of the non-writing stuff—will be worth it as soon as you have this book in your hands. 

That time is coming. Today you are now able to PRE-ORDER my novel! I cannot express my excitement to you. 

Even more exciting, I can now show you the official cover. I love it so much. Huge gratitude to my friend and graphic designer, Brendon Downey, for making the cover better than I could have imagined. 

What do you think? 

I love it.

I wanted the cover to be peach (you'll find out why when you read the novel). I also wanted to include a house. The book has a distinct theme about home. What does it feel like when someone leaves you behind? And what would it look like if they decided to come home again? Lastly, I am excited that we were able to incorporate some of my hand-lettering. 

You can pre-order Come Find Me, Sage Parker here:

*recommended if you're in the US

*recommended if you're in Canada

And if you haven't seen yet, you can download the first chapter for free here: 

And finally, I will leave you with the blurb that will appear on the back of the book. 

---

For nine years Maeve Parker has been waiting for her mother to come home. 

“I’ll be back soon, my darling,” her mother, Sage, said the day she left. “Don't you worry. I just need to go find myself.”

Do you have to run away in order to find yourself? Maeve wondered. When, exactly, do you know when that self you were so desperately looking for is found?

Now Maeve is sixteen-years-old and Sage still hasn’t returned.

Fiercely independent and disillusioned, Maeve has grown up with her mother’s ex-boyfriend as her only companion. Giving up all hope of Sage’s return, she convinces herself that mothers—and people—are unnecessary. When she meets Ky and Levi, she is adamant about keeping them at arms length. But Ky, the only true friend Maeve knows, and Levi, the boy with the startling blue eyes, crash through Maeve’s walls.

Then one of them is wrenched away—permanently. And Maeve is left dangling with the final words they left behind: go find Sage Parker. 

Waiting for a rainbow baby: a story of recurring pregnancy loss

---

I am honoured to host my friend Sarah here today. Sarah is a classical singer with the prettiest voice you'll ever hear. She's also a strong, resilient woman. I have been stunned by the tenacity she and her husband have shown through the exceptional amount of pain they continue to walk through today. I hope you feel touched by her story. I know I am.

---

by Sarah Shelley

Rainbow Baby: A baby born after a miscarriage, stillbirth, neonatal death or infant loss.  The rainbow does not negate the effects of the storm, but offers a sign of hope at the end.   

i.

I had my first positive pregnancy test in April 2015. 

I was 25-years-old and absolutely over the moon with the result. My husband Josiah was away when I took the test, so I immediately began planning how I would tell him when he returned at the end of the week. After several hours scouring Pinterest, I settled on something personal. We have a wire picture holder on the wall in our apartment. It’s designed to hold photographs with little clothes pegs, but we use it to hold cards with reminders of how God has been good to us along with answered prayer requests. Each card has a word on the front and a small description on the back. I made one that said “Adventures,” and on the back I wrote: “We are going to have an adventurous year — Christmas this year will include a baby… and I’m not talking about baby Abbott.” (My sister was expecting a baby in early May of that year.)  I went in for blood work to confirm the test and waited for the end of the week when Josiah would return. I felt like I was walking on air for the rest of the week with a perfect secret only I knew about. 

At the end of the week, I picked Josiah up from the airport, drove home, and showed him my new addition to our reminder board.  He was thrilled — shocked, but thrilled. We went into full celebration mode as we talked and dreamed about our future.  How and when would we tell our families?  There were so many great things to plan — Pinterest to the rescue! 

About a week later, I woke up in the morning with cramping and bleeding. Worried, I immediately went to see my doctor. Test results showed that I lost the baby. The rest of that week is a blur in my memory. Josiah and I both took time off work. We sat together, cried together, and napped a lot. Emotionally, we were exhausted. Physically, I was exhausted too. I didn’t know this before, but a miscarriage isn’t one momentary event – it lasts for days and sometimes even weeks as the body clears out all signs of the life it was growing. Add pregnancy hormones into the mix, and it’s a recipe for disaster. 

In the middle of all of this, my sister was in the last few weeks of her pregnancy. Months prior, I had offered to host a baby shower for her. We hadn’t announced our pregnancy to our families yet and I wanted my sister to be able to truly celebrate her day without worrying about how her joy could hurt me, so I took the maximum dose of the pain killers I had and proceeded with the event as planned. My sister is very kind and she obviously would have understood if I had to change the shower plans, but my hormone overloaded brain could not process any alternate plans. The only real options I saw were to cancel the shower entirely or fake it for a few hours – I chose the latter. 

ii.

It took a little while to heal, but after several months, we realized how much we (still) wanted to have a baby. We started trying again and I found out I was pregnant in early December — the same week I was supposed to deliver from the previous pregnancy. This time, I bought a little onesie from the store, Indigo, that read “I’m told I like hockey” and wrapped it up for Josiah. 

With hesitation, we celebrated again. 

My estimated due date was mid-August. I am a classical singer by profession and December is notoriously busy for concerts and events. At 7 weeks pregnant, I was waiting off stage for a Christmas concert performance when I felt a familiar cramping sensation in my lower abdomen.  I couldn’t verbalize my fears without breaking down entirely, so I pushed my worries aside, walked out onto the stage, and sang a song about a baby in a manger, as I contemplated if I was losing my own baby at the same time. Many might argue that I should have just left and not performed, but those five minutes of singing gave me a beautiful escape. While I sang, I got lost in the song and actually felt happy and at peace. After the performance, I left the concert early and drove home with tears streaming down my face. The cramping quickly turned to bleeding and the next morning, my mother-in-law drove me to the hospital. Josiah doesn’t travel that often, but he happened to be in Tennessee for a few days — just terrible timing. At the hospital, the doctors ran ultrasounds and blood work. I was told I lost the baby — again.

Josiah returned the onesie. We mourned together a second time.   

The second loss was not easier than the first. I felt like my first wounds had been ripped open again and I had to heal for two losses. Two miscarriages in the same year is hard to process, so I named the babies we never got to hold. I needed to acknowledge them in some way – remember their brief existence. I named my first Ella because it means “little girl” and she was only ever little.  I named the second Oliver. The name popped into my head and it seemed to fit with Ella, so it stuck.  I wish I had a better reason than that. Both babies were too small to know gender for sure, but just because they were small doesn’t mean they didn’t matter. This is also when I started to seek out other stories of mothers who had miscarried. I needed to know the pain was survivable — that others had walked the path I was on and made it out alive with their heart intact. I read blog posts (some helpful, some definitely not) and I read a book by Samantha Evans called “Love Letters to Miscarried Moms.” If you are going through a miscarriage or if you know someone who is, I highly recommend the book. 

After the second miscarriage, Josiah and I went to One Fertility in Burlington. We became willing pin cushions, as the doctors performed multiple tests on both of us.  At one appointment, I counted 17 different vials of blood taken from my arm. I didn’t care though because each test brought us closer to a reason. We wanted answers and we would give up any amount of blood to get them. The good news and the bad news is that everything came back mostly normal.  I was put on a thyroid medication and given a hormone called progesterone, but the doctors could see no obvious reason for my two losses. 

iii.

In early August 2016, I found out I was pregnant again for a third time. The test came back positive the same week I was supposed to deliver from the last pregnancy – again. This baby was due in April 2017 and now we had the fertility clinic on our side. At 5.5 weeks, I had my first ultrasound and everything looked normal. We booked an appointment for another ultrasound at 6.5 weeks. I felt good, maybe even happy, as we went in for the second ultrasound, fully expecting to see that little flicker of a heartbeat on the ultrasound monitor. The ultrasound technician was silent as she scanned me. She asked only one question: had I experienced any bleeding? No, the answer was no. I felt good — no cramping. No bleeding. But maybe that didn’t matter? The doctor informed us that the ultrasound did not look normal, but she wanted more tests to compare my results. At 7 weeks, we went for the third ultrasound. 

They couldn’t find the baby. 

I was told I miscarried again. This time, there were no warning signs like cramping or blood, but it didn’t matter. The cramping and bleeding started shortly after we left the appointment, just like the doctor said it would. Josiah spent hours holding me as my body cleared out the life inside me for a third time. We cocooned ourselves in our bed, exhausted from pain and sadness. As the cramping began to subside, my sister called and, without knowing our news, she announced that she was pregnant. Of all 365 days in the year, we were given the same due date. I hung up the phone and wept. 

We named our baby John.

At a fertility clinic, the system post-miscarriage is a little more involved than a regular doctor’s office. The doctors watch you much more closely as your body attempts to return to normal.  There are weeks of bloodwork and follow-up appointments. We met with the doctor and despite having three ultrasounds in the first trimester, they couldn’t find any reason for the miscarriage.  We were told that we could keep trying or we could look in to IVF (in vitro fertilization).

iv.

After I recovered (physically and emotionally) we decided to keep trying as we looked into IVF.  IVF is a whole other blog post in itself. There are a lot of hormones, needles, appointments, and other procedures — not to mention it is also very expensive. As my due date from the previous pregnancy approached, can you guess what happened? If you guessed “positive pregnancy test” — you’re right!  My body, apparently, is like clockwork in the most frustrating way. 

After three unexplained miscarriages, a positive pregnancy test is no longer a thing of joy — it’s a source of anxiety. There was no fanfare with this announcement. Thirty seconds after the two lines appeared on the pregnancy test, I walked over to Josiah and told him the news. I called the fertility clinic and started the testing process — again. At just over 5 weeks, some of the blood results were questionable, so Josiah and I decided to reach out to some family and friends for prayer. We had an ultrasound at 5.5 weeks where we saw a little flicker of a heartbeat. The tiny little pixels on the screen flickering was the most beautiful sight I’d seen in a while. We returned two weeks later and saw a bigger baby with a stronger heartbeat. The baby was measuring a little small, but we started to hope. Our baby’s due date was in December 2017. 

In my 9th week, I woke up in the night with unfortunately familiar pain. Contraction-like cramps wreaked havoc on my abdomen. The heating pad became my lifeline as the pain intensified and the bleeding increased. Josiah sat with me again — unable to take the pain away, but refusing to leave my side. There are some questions you never even consider having to answer. What do you do with a 9-week old baby in the palm of your hand at 4 in the morning? At 9 weeks, a baby is the size of a grape, cherry, or a cocktail olive — depending on which week-by-week pregnancy site you’re following. All the organs are there — the heart is beating and there’s even a tongue with tiny taste buds! But in that moment. I knew it was over. I felt numb as I cleaned my hand and flushed the toilet. The ultrasound later that morning only confirmed what we already knew – the baby was gone.

We named our baby Hazel because it means “God sees.” 

So what now?

We had our follow-up appointment recently. We’ve been encouraged to look into IVF again. I don’t know what we’ll do — we haven’t decided yet. Four losses in a row is a lot to process, but IVF is a big decision too. 

There’s a story in the Bible in the book of Daniel about 3 brothers — Shadrach Meshach and Abednego. The brothers refuse to bow down and worship an idol the king has made.  When the king confronts the brothers, he threatens to throw them into a furnace, but the brothers still refuse to bow. They state that they believe God can save them from the fire, but if not, they will still never bow to the idol. 

But if not.  Those are powerful words.

They’re saying that even if nothing goes according to plan, they will serve the Lord faithfully.  I long for faith like that, but I find it hard to trust when there are so many unanswered questions.  I know the ending of the story with the furnace, but I can’t see my own ending yet. The brothers were thrown into the fire — and the fire was made extra hot just because the king was ticked off.  When the guards looked into the furnace though, they saw four men walking around.  Only three brothers were thrown into the flames. The Lord met them in the fire.  Stunned and amazed, the king let the brothers out of the furnace — unharmed.  God saved brothers in the end — just not at all in the way the brothers had planned. 

I had a very different plan in mind for my life.  It certainly did not involve a miscarriage, let alone four.  I don’t have a happy ending to share with you — there’s no plot twist at the end with a pregnancy announcement or some other epiphany that rectifies all the pain we’ve dealt with over the last two years, but I think my story is still worth sharing. Unfortunately, I’m not alone in my miscarriage experience. 15 to 20 percent of pregnancies end in miscarriage but no one talks about it. I’m making an attempt to change that.  I’m sharing my story so you can feel comfortable sharing yours too. 

You are not alone. 

I know it’s hard to verbalize the conflicting emotions. The doubts. The questions. The all-encompassing sorrow that threatens to drown you. But find someone to talk to. Find a friend who will sit with you in your sorrow. Dear friends, don’t try to fix anything — you can’t fix this with any combination of words or actions, but you can be present. Feel the pain with us. Just sit. It’s uncomfortable, I know, but please avoid all placating comments like: “It’s for the best,” or “God has a plan,” or any sentence that begins with the words “At least…”

None of these words are helpful — I promise you. 

The words “I’m so sorry for your loss” speak more than any speech on “God’s will” ever could.  Keep it honest. Keep it simple. 

There’s a story in a book called “The Hiding Place,” by Corrie Ten Boom. Corrie tells the story of a train trip with her father when she is a child. Corrie has a lot of questions and she becomes frustrated with her father when he refuses to give her answers. Now, Corrie’s questions and my questions are very different, but the father’s response is still applicable. Corrie’s father uses an analogy of a suitcase to answer her big questions. He asks if Corrie will carry their suitcase off the train. She replies that she cannot because the suitcase is too heavy for her. Her father says it’s the same way with our heavenly father. Some things — some questions and answers — are too big for us to carry. So we have to trust that He will carry it for us. 

So I wait and trust. I’m forced to wait, really. I don’t know how our story will end, but trust in the God who does know. I pick up the same necklace every morning and put it around my neck as a reminder of the faith I strive for.

But if not.

I wear those words over my heart until finally — slowly — they start to sink in. 

I wrote a novel and thought it was time to tell you

I wrote a novel. Three years ago I started writing it. Two years ago I finished. Today I decided to tell you. 

I've been meaning to tell you for awhile. But I was waiting... waiting for something bigger, for something more exciting. I wanted to tell you I had a huge publishing deal in New York City, a fancy literary agent, and a good shot at making it on the New York Times Best Sellers. 

My goal was to be twenty-years-old and utterly established. I had dreams and goals and a 5-step plan. I told God I would never self-publish. I told God I would only release my book if I made it to the top. Shooting for excellence, you know? I decided anything aside from the best would be simply considered as mediocrity. 

It took me two years to realize otherwise. The past few years I have been relentlessly querying literary agents in New York City. I would find the most popular young adult authors in the bookstore, then trace their literary agent's name and publisher who was listed on the back cover. I'd go home and query them, silently begging them to validate me as a writer and human being. I thought if someone well-known accepted my writing, then I must be worth something, too.

I was rejected over 50 times. Rejection letter after rejection letter landed in my inbox. Each one was kind, offering encouragement to try again at another time, or informing me that my story just didn't fit what they were looking for.

In the beginning, I used the rejection as fuel to send more letters, to tighten my writing, to take the time to pray about the right agent—who would surely send my novel to the top of the publisher's list.

But no matter what I did, I continued to be rejected.

Was I a bad writer? Should I not pursue writing fiction? Should I stick to journalism, or hand-lettering, or maybe move on to working at McDonald's?  

I thought I was only worth something as a writer if I was on the New York Times Best Sellers. 

God was slowly, kindly, tenderly teaching me something else. It took me two years to learn that the validity of my writing and the definition of my worth are not tied to a fancy literary agent or a publishing house in New York. 

So now, after years of telling God otherwise, I have decided to self-publish my novel. 

I had to get to the point where publishing it myself didn't feel like settling. It doesn't feel like settling anymore. It feels like the most exciting prospect of my life. 

My book used to be about becoming known. I can sincerely tell you it's not about that anymore. I'd like to start small, taking the hours and days and months and years I have spent on this story, and quietly offering it out into the world. 

Maybe it'll just be my mom and my sister and my best friend who read it. But that's okay. Because the lessons I have learned these past three years—that my worth and my writing are not determined by what anyone says or thinks—well, those lessons mean far more to me than getting on the New York Times Best Sellers. 

I haven't given up hope on that, though. But it's certainly not the driving force for why I write. It used to be. Not anymore.

Soon my novel will be released into the world. I'm petrified and elated and grateful that God has been so kind to me, quietly molding me into someone who recognizes her worth. 

I don't have a hard release date for the book yet. This is all very new to me, but I'll make sure to keep you informed as I continue in this process. This is what I can tell you for now: my book is titled Come Find Me, Sage Parker, and is a contemporary young adult novel. 

I cannot wait to share my words with you. I've been waiting three years. I'll try my best to wait a little longer. 

A piece of truth for you (and a free printable)

It's been almost a month since I finished school for the summer. Entering the summer has brought forth both excitement and relief to be finished papers, exams, and assignments. But for me this summer has also opened some wounds that feel fresh and raw and achy, which has allowed me to enter a period of healing.

Fear is a constant struggle for me. Even, two years ago, when I started a concept called The Year of No Fear, I still consistently felt afraid. This summer I am focusing on breathing truth into my core, which often circles around to embedding scripture and words Jesus says deep inside of me.

This hunt for truth has revealed to me what the definition of truth really is. St. Augustine said, "All truth is God's truth". If that's the case, I'm starting to recognize just how many things point back to God. 

It has almost become a sort of scavenger hunt. I get into my car in the morning, put my sunglasses on, and search for truth. What will be true today? I think. What truth will I find that will point me back to God? 

When I search for truth, I end up finding it. Sometimes I find it in people and places I never even thought to look. 

"The truth will set you free," Jesus said. And of course he's right. But I'm learning it can hurt to get there.

Today, on Mother's Day, we gave each woman in my church this print I painted. I wanted to also share it with you. I wonder how you are today. I wonder how you are this summer. I wonder how, even when the flowers are blooming and the birds are chirping and the sun is beating down on your shoulder blades, if maybe you feel some sadness entangled within all of that too. 

But no need to fear.

Here you go. 

We can breathe in truth together. 

Click to download a free print