When You Ask "Why God?!," and Don't Get an Answer

August 26, 2013 by Amanda Conquers

I have had two miscarriages.

The first one was right before Addy. The pregnancy came as a surprise; we hadn’t been trying very hard to prevent pregnancy, but we weren’t actually “trying.” I found out very early on. We were so excited... SO excited that we ignored the rule that some follow of waiting till the doctor confirms the pregnancy. We just couldn’t contain our joy.

Less than a week after we told our parents, I began cramping. And no matter how I prayed and hoped against hope… I was miscarrying.

I was heartbroken.
But I am not sure "heartbroken" adequately describes feeling of a 1000 lb. weight crushing your innermost being, how it feels like a part of you dies and can never be recovered.

I spent a week laid up on the couch with the puffy eyes and a tissue mess around me. Then, I got off the couch and decided to focus all my efforts on getting pregnant again. A few months later, the pee stick gave me that extra pink line.

It was a hard pregnancy. I was terribly ill (as in I visited the ER when, in my 11^th week, I started throwing up blood because my esophagus was raw from throwing up so much. Yeah. That bad.) But the hardest part wasn’t the morning sickness. It was where I realized that as much as I thought the meaning in that miscarriage was discovering how much I wanted to be a mom… it wasn’t. I was pregnant still grieving the loss of the baby that would never be.

I wanted to give that miscarriage meaning. I wanted to be on the other side of grief. I thought another pregnancy would get me there.

And the hard truth: Sometimes in this life, our “Why GOD?!?!” questions just don’t get answered. And sometimes, as much as we would like to be on the other side of grief, grief is a process.

Sometimes it’s in wading those heavy waters with a hole in your heart as wide as the Grand Canyon that you find that even though the hole remains, God’s grace can fill even the widest chasm.

And really, it isn’t that I actually wanted to grasp the meaning in the losses… what I really wanted was to hold those babies in my hands. And I can’t. And I wrestle with it. While as much as it might seem meaning is the only thing that can bridge the gaping hole in the aftermath of loss… truth is, only faith can.

I think it’s in those moments of loss that we encounter the gap between our understanding and God’s ways. This side of heaven, things don’t always make sense… we see through the mirror dimly, peering through the mist (1 Corinthians 13:12). Real faith demands that we freefall… let go of our understanding and jump. God is good. God has a plan... even when I don't understand it. And the hardest reality to grasp: God loves us and has our best at heart. At some point in the freefall, faith catches us. Joy and peace are restored.

We fall in love. We fall INTO Love.

Saying a prayer this morning for all who mourn... Blessed are those who mourn, for they SHALL be comforted. (Matthew 5:4).

By Grace,
Amanda Conquers

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Eat Your Crust

August 19, 2013 by Amanda Conquers

Growing up, my grandparents lived ninety minutes away. Once a month, we'd make the trek to the Bay Area to visit. At dinner time, we’d sit at a small table—4 kids, two parents, and two grandparents. No matter how little the elbow room was, the table was always properly set: bread plate, salad bowl, and water glass on the right, above the knife.

At some point, every dinner around that table would consist of Andy, Kelly and me arguing over who got to use the one children’s plate with the little Pluto caricature printed on it, probably leftover from my uncle’s childhood. There would be conversations about Granny’s cooking, whether or not Gramps would make us watch the Lawrence Welk Show after dinner, and how picky of an eater I was.

Gramps always led the mission to get me to eat everything on my plate. The Great Depression and hard times from my gramps’ childhood would never be mentioned. However, starving children in China might be brought up and so would my gramps’ and granny’s excellent health.

“I don’t know why you won’t eat everything here, Amanda. I eat everything your gran puts before me, and look at me, my health is great.

I don’t think you realize how good you’ve got it.”

As I cringed through bites of things like baked salmon or tomato casserole, my gramps would notice the remains of a French bread slice on my plate. I had buttered my bread, consumed the soft insides and left crusty, bitter outsides behind.

“You know, Amanda. Crust gives you curly hair. You should eat your crusts. Wouldn’t you like curly hair?”

I did.

As a child of the eighties, all I wanted in life was big hair and bangs—curled up high with a few wisps on my forehead.

I remember when my mom let me perm my hair in third grade, and I crossed my fingers for body and height and curls. The permanent did not live up to my expectations and fell out in a month’s time.

With hope for better tresses, I started eating my crusts. Religiously. I guess I thought the heat-kissed outsides of bread held some kind of hair-curling nutrient. I was in seventh grade brushing out my fine, straight hair when it occurred to me: I had been eating my crusts for years and still didn’t even have a wave. I’d been duped. Bread crusts having magic hair-curling properties was a myth just like tooth fairies, Santa Claus, and “don’t make that face or it’ll stay that way permanently.”

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

As my gramps is living out his last days--hospice has been called, his body is shutting down, he has forgotten who each one of his grandkids are--I feel like I am grieving the loss of my granny, my childhood days spent at their house all over again along with grieving the loss of my gramps.

I am mourning the passing of a generation. As my parents become my grandparents and I become my parents, I marvel at the way time marches onward, and it does not stop.

Gramps, Granny and my dad. Circa 1952

When you leave this earth, you can’t take anything with you; you can only leave behind. I think it's in all of us to want to know that at the end of our life that we will leave behind something that's good, something that lasts, something that keeps getting passed on.

As I try to think of what it is my Gramps would pass on, I think of bread crusts. The way as a child I wanted to just eat the soft insides and avoid the bitterness and hardness of the crust. The way I didn’t want to eat what wasn’t pleasant.

Honest, sometimes I try to live my whole life that way. I open my hand to the beautiful wedding day, the snuggles and the I-love-you-to-the-moon-and-backs, the house and the backyard. But sometimes I want to close my hand to the hard: the hard parts in marriage, the temper tantrums in the grocery stores, the miscarriages, the job losses, the times of more month than money. I see the good stuff as a gift, but I fail to see the value in the hard stuff.

My grandparents were crust eaters. Overcomers. Hard workers. People who married for life even on the bad days. People who lived through wars and Depressions and things like the death of a grandchild, a disabling injury, and many cross country (even cross world) moves. They were people who knew the value of everything put on their plate.

They knew how good they had it.

(Left) My gramps and granny on their wedding day. Wasn't my gramps handsome? (Right) circa 2003

To this day, I still eat my crust. And I am learning to “eat my crust” here where sometimes it’s hard and it doesn’t always make sense or seem fair.

I might not have curly hair, but I know how good I’ve got it.

Care to reminisce with me? What is one thing your grandparents always told you to do?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

A Strategy for the "Terrific" Twos (and maybe parenting in general)

August 15, 2013 by Amanda Conquers

My son is 2.

You know, that special time in a child’s life when they suddenly have a will of their own and use it every chance they get? Yeah. That.

Everything green on his plate will not be eaten, not even tried, maybe even thrown.

It will take no less than one hour from the time I tuck him in bed till he actually goes to sleep. (and on the rough nights… 2 hours.)

The bed will be gotten out of no less than 32 times.

No is his favorite word.

When I say it’s time to leave, there will be that sparkle of mischief before he takes off running in the opposite direction… and after I catch up to him, he may start kicking and yelling depending on how badly he wants to stay.

Parenting Jed is hard right now. There are days when I contemplate whether or not I should just cave and let him live off of chicken nuggets and goldfish and stay up till he falls asleep on the couch. It seems easier.

Discipline and consistency are not exactly easy. And some days, when you are with a toddler… progress is difficult to see.

And then I think of Addy. The other day we were wandering through the produce section of Costco. Addy points at the huge bag of asparagus and asks, “Mom, can we get that green stuff? I like it.”

I stopped in my tracks and perhaps looked a little more stunned than I should have. Play it cool, Mom. Play it cool. I smiled, “Why, yes. Yes, we can.”

It was like sparkles and a glowing light had descended upon us in that super store. Break through. Victory. Sweet fruit of my labors. Maybe it was in the simplest, most everyday-ordinary of ways, but we were overcomers.

My mind flashed to the 2 year old battles I had had with my picky, toe-headed daughter over the dinner table. I remember trying different tactics. I remember evenings of frustration. I remember wondering if I was going about it all wrong and if all this was really worth it. I knew I wanted a healthy child and a girl that would be brave enough to try new things.

So I did it. I pressed forward. I drew my line in the sand. And it wasn’t easy, and it wasn’t overnight. I am not exactly sure when the shift happened. I just know that now she eats a lot of what I put in front of her (save but her short list of foods she cannot stand no matter what. I can live with that. I have my own short list. Mushrooms are and always will be nasty nasty little things.)

Bedtime is no longer a battle with Addy. She knows my “momma means business” voice and acts accordingly. Sometimes I have to remind her I mean business, but it’s not daily, it’s not even weekly.

Addy brushes her teeth. She shampoos and conditions. She dresses herself. She goes to the potty all by herself. She picks up toys. She loves helping momma (and some of her “help” is actually helpful.)

At some point, Addy stopped being a toddler and became little girl. At some point, the discipline and wisdom took root in her heart.

All that hard work eventually paid off.

I need to remember this on the hard days. The strategy for the "terrific" 2's might not be profound or easy, but here it is: Keep at it, momma. Don't give up. Keep love first and foremost. Do what’s best for your children in the long run and in light of eternity. Keep mold and shaping. Keep disciplining.

Change might creep in slowly so that you barely recognize it… until one day your child asks for green veggies and the light shines down on you and you look back and realize you’ve been making progress all along.

You’ve got this, momma.

The sweet rewards of hard work will soon be yours.

Does it help knowing that each child is different and what worked for the first will likely not work for the second? Yeah. Sorry. But, hey… motherhood is this glorious adventure in which we likely will not ever lose our need to lean on Jesus.

What would you add to this list? What are your current parenting battles?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

A New Home

August 14, 2013 by Amanda Conquers

So here it is. A new home. A new address. A new design. But the same heart and the same Amanda.

Welcome.

Honestly, I have been wanting to do this for a long time. I loved “The Cadence of a Conquering Housewife,” still do. It’s just a bit of a mouthful. I love the idea of calling out cadences and encouraging each other. That is not changing. I just want a name that is easy and memorable and always applies to me whether it’s “housewife” stuff or not (because Amanda Conquers is always related to me… it is me).

Before I show you around, can I share a story with you?

Legend has it that long ago in the still hours of the night, a Norse army attempted a surprise attack on a Scottish encampment. In the middle of their quiet creeping, one poor Norseman happened upon a thistle, felt it’s thorns pierce his feet, and let out a cry that called an entire army of Scots to action. The Scots were able to defeat the Norse thanks to one humble weed. That flower is now the symbol of a nation.

I don’t know what it is about the thistle. But I think it might be one of my favorite flowers. (Not that I want my husband to go out and put them in a vase for me. I am not so sure they are that kind of flower.) There’s just something about the strength of that humble weed, the tenacity of it, the way it’s hard and thorny and even a little ugly… until the bud gives way to the feathery-soft, arrestingly beautiful insides of the thistle flower. I love the way that lowly weed is so full of purpose… even if it’s hard to see at first.

I think we all might have a little bit of thistle in us. Humble beginnings. A hard and, at times, thorny shell. A fight and a strength. A divine purpose that might just affect the outcome of an entire nation. And a beauty that proves God knows how to redeem ugly… We might fall so short, we might have broken pieces to our lives, but God makes beautiful things.

Arrestingly beautiful. Yes. Us.

Just earth and clay and dust. Low and humble. But redeemed and beautiful and full of purpose. Glory-giving-to-God.

Okay. So now you know the story behind the picture in my heading.

Now for the logistical stuff.

I updated my About Me and This Blog page… I even added some random facts about me. I would love to have you stop by and tell me a little about you or what we have in common. I will be working on migrating some of more pages over (you know, those tabs that go across the top) as I finish updating them.

I lost almost all my comments in the move, but I did manage to get all my posts moved.

If you subscribe by email, I moved my email list over to this feed. You don’t need to do anything to keep receiving my posts. (And if for some reason you would like to stop receiving my posts, just click the unsubscribe button at the bottom of the email). If you would like to make sure you never miss a post and have the convenience of reading and interacting right from your email box, enter your email address in the box on the top right or click---> HERE.

If you don’t want to subscribe by email but you do want to make sure you don’t miss a post from me, you can subscribe by bloglovin’ or feedly. They are both awesome ways to see all your favorite blogs in one place and read what you want to read when you want to read it. They have apps for easy phone and template viewing too.

I updated all my online profiles (facebook, twitter… and I am now on instagram. I know I am kind of late to the party, but I am loving connecting through insta-real-life-happening-now-grams). I was able to update my existing accounts so if you were following, you are still following me... I just have a different name.

I installed some new sharing tools that I hope make sharing and saving a whole lot easier for you. You can see those at the bottom of every post.

Okay. I think that’s it for now. I hope to have some more posts up this week. I don’t think I realized how much work a domain change would be. I have been missing writing and am bursting at the seams with thoughts begging to be written down.

Seriously. From the bottom of my heart. Thanks for being a part. Thanks for making the jump with me. For your encouragement. For you readership. I love having you here.

I would love to hear what you think of the new design? Also, am I alone in my love for thistles? Or do you see the beauty in them too?

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

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Crazy Obedience

August 07, 2013 by Amanda Conquers

5 women got this crazy idea: what if we wrote on what it means to follow Christ? What if we took a challenge to be willing to do anything God would ask for a month? What if we banded with other sisters and encouraged each other and shared our struggles and testimonies?

We are finding out. Care to join us?

This page will be updated with links to our posts as we post them.

New? Start Here.

Want some blog swag?

Credit: The photo for the graphic was taken by my very talented friend, Katie, and is used with her permission.

Walk Slowly

July 29, 2013 by Amanda Conquers

There is an old Indian proverb: Children tie the feet of their mother.

And if you are a mom, you might know this to be true.

The slowing down starts with your swollen belly, duck-waddle walk, sleep deprivation from peeing in the middle of the night every hour and a half like clockwork and things like heartburn, shortness of breath, and calves that seem to have swallowed ankles whole.

It continues with a labor and delivery that rarely goes as planned. And no matter how that baby comes into this world, it leaves a warrior’s mark on your body. You will be a woman who hunkered down, who pushed through, who thought she couldn’t, who with much pain and sacrifice (and maybe even collar-grasping and screaming into your husband’s ear) brought life into this world. And when they lay that fresh-skinned baby on your chest for the first time, you will never be the same.

Mom. Warrior. Sacrifice-Maker. Nourisher. Boo-boo kisser. Taxi-car driver. Expert snuggler. Storybook reader. Silly-song singer.

That baby will wrap himself around your heart and your legs, and you will never be the same.

Children tie the feet of their mother.

You will answer baby cries at all hours of the night. You will read up on how to get a baby to sleep through the night, and just about the time you think you’ve got it figured out, they will have a growth spurt or drop a nap, and everything you thought you knew will go out the window.

Your arms will develop car seat muscles. Your perfume will be baby spit-up, and your shoulders will seem to always be covered in a mix of snot and drool.

Your life will revolve around things like feeding, pooping, and napping. You may have a moment where you cry because all you want in life is a shower.

No matter how much you have desired to be a mom, it will grate against your independence and your pride. You will at some point feel like a failure. You will at some point long to have something in your life that you feel like you are good at or an expert on.

Children tie the feet of their mother.

That child will grow older and faster. You will find yourself saying things you never thought would pass your lips in your lifetime: things like, “We don’t strip down naked at the park,” “Please, don’t wipe your boogers on your sister,” or “Ew! Don't lick the dog back.”

You will delight in their distinct personality and cringe at their defiance. You may also want to hide behind the Coca-Cola display when your child goes all flailing arms and legs and screaming on the floor of the grocery store. When you watch your toddler rip the plastic shovel from his playmate’s hands and yell, “Mine!,” you will know beyond a shadow of a doubt, we didn’t learn our sin nature; we were born with it.

You will discipline and mold and shape. You will wonder if you are doing it all wrong.

Your days will move slowly--either at work counting the hours till you can get home to your babies or at home counting the hours till your husband comes home to help you. You will pick up toys only to pick them up again a few hours later. You will know how painful it is to step on a Lego or a miniature stegosaurus. You may have days where you feel like all you do is clean up messes.

Children tie the feet of their mother.

And then there are those moments when you are making your way towards the McDonald’s drive-thru because your day just seems to need an easy button. In that feeling of guilt for not making the pb&j on whole wheat bread, the apple slices and the carrot sticks, your 4 year old glances up at the big blue sky as though he’s seeing it for the first time and asks, “Is that where Jesus lives, Mommy?”

If you don’t live slow enough, tied-up enough in the wonder of those small years you could almost miss it.

Holiness.

Yes.

In that moment.

And you tell your little one how Jesus lives in your heart when you ask Him to. And maybe, without missing a beat, your baby will stop and pray, “Jesus. I want you to live in my heart.” And just like that, in the midst of your mundane, God invades that moment, and it is Holy.

I know a man in the Bible who walked with a limp.

Jacob—whose name meant one who fights for his own way—wrestled God one night. God touched his thigh and changed his name. With a limp, Jacob became Israel—God Prevails. Because the only way to live like God prevails is to lean on Him.

Children might tie your feet. You may have to make more sacrifices of your time and your dreams and your way than you thought possible. You may feel inadequate, not-good-enough, like you yell too much and you don’t keep the house clean enough.

You might feel like you limp as a mother.

But that is the place God prevails.

Lean, Momma. Lean on Him at the hospital when confusion clamors, and it’s not going how you envisioned. Lean on Him when that baby is up all hours of the night. Lean on Him when your toddler has peed on the floor for the fifth time in one day. Lean on Him when your little one is screaming because he’s shoved a Tic-Tac up his nose. Lean on Him when you discover things like rashes or ticks or high fevers. Lean.

You might feel tied up, but you are wrapped up in the abundance of God’s Grace.

And that place of spills and kisses? It’s Holy ground.

If I could say one thing to the young momma behind me: Your feet are tied up for a reason.

Walk slowly.

The years are precious and fleeting and littered with the gifts of His grace. Let those babies tie you up with their chubby arms around your neck. Know that your kids don’t need you to be perfect, and they don’t actually need Pinterest-inspired anything.

And, Momma, it’s okay if you limp.

Because if you are leaning on Jesus, your kids don’t see your limp; they see Jesus walking with you.

By Grace and with all my love for you, Momma,

Amanda

Conquers

Maybe share with us? What is one of the best ways your life has changed since becoming a momma? What is one of the hardest ways?

Photo Credit: Photos 2, 7 and 8 on this post were taken by KatieFewellPhotography and are used with her permission.

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On Leaning, Limping, and What It Really Means to Live Broken

July 16, 2013 by Amanda Conquers

Lean on Jesus.

I have heard this phrase many times. And for some reason the last time I heard it, I thought of why one might lean.

I remember spraining my ankle.

As I lay prostrate on the floor unsure of my ability to get off the ground, my husband gave me his hands and pulled me up. I put my arm around him. I leaned on him. And though I walked with a limp, I walked. (Well, at least until I got to my bed anyways. And then I pretty much let my husband wait on me.)

I think of the one man I know who walked with a limp.

Jacob—whose name means supplanter.

A supplanter is one who wants his own way and doesn’t trust anyone but his own self to make it happen. He pushes others out of the way. He is prideful, offensive, a liar, and a cheater.

There Jacob is on the eve of encountering his brother Esau… the one he supplanted. He must have trembled in his sandals as he got word that Esau’s band of 400 men were marching out to meet him in the morning. Jacob separated his belongings, he sent fine gifts, but he couldn’t stop the inevitability that he was about to come face to face with the person he wronged. He cried out to God to help him. He reminded God of His promises.

His last act before laying his head down to sleep: he sends everything he values most in life across the ford Jabbok. Jabbok means “emptying,” and I have a feeling as Jacob laid down that night unsure of the dawn, he felt emptied. Desperate. Afraid that he might lose everything. Wanting the control he’s always had that seems to elude him now.

God meets him there at that empty place.

Jacob and God incarnate wrestle—Jacob’s will versus God’s way.

Jacob fights just like he’s fought his whole life… like he fought for a birthright, like he fought for a wife, like he fought for sheep against Laban. He fights desperate, worried, and he does not give up. Just before the break of day, God reaches out and dislocates Jacob’s thigh.

You will limp now, but you may lean on Me.

God changes Jacob’s name from one who fights for his own way to Israel—God prevails.

Because even in our darkest times, when everything is out of control, when we fight and claw and grasp… God prevails.

My fingers run down that Genesis page touching truth so hard and so profound. God gave Jacob a limp. Because the only way to live like God prevails is to live broken.

I think of the way I have fought for my own way. Mydreams. My calling. I have been emptied. I have wrestled God, I have demanded blessings, I have been prideful and self-seeking. I have sought numbers and success and titles. I have bitterness in my heart towards those I see as more successful. It’s ugly. I see it and it humbles me.

I am broken.

You may limp now, but you may lean on Me.

The only way to fully live is to live fully broken. The only way to walk the straight and narrow is with a limp—often slow and always leaning on Jesus.

There was a time when someone at church would make a statement like, “It’s all Jesus. Only because of Him. Lord knows, I can’t do any of it on my own.” I would cringe. How could it be all Jesus? You did it too. God might have opened doors, but you knocked and you walked through them. And now I get it. They didn’t walk, they limped.

I think of Paul’s “thorn in his flesh,” David’s adultery, Gideon’s timidity, Ruth’s Moabiteness, Peter’s quick-to-speak-and-slow-to-think, Jeremiah’s weeping… a Bible full of people who walked with a limp. People who were nothing but earth and clay. People who God chose to put His very power inside of. People who knew the only way to reveal the miracle of God’s Glorious Redemption in themselves was to live broken open. Dress up the vessel and one brings glory to oneself. Break open the pot and one reveals the surpassing love and mercy of Jesus Christ and the at-work power of the Holy Spirit.

I see the way I fall so short—as a wife, as a mom, as a child of God. I see the fears that I allow to consume me. I see the way I would much rather put on my mask than have to share my struggles.

You may limp now, but you may lean on Me.

This Sunday as I was standing in worship, asking God to heal me, to touch my brokenness, we began singing this chorus:

“The lost are found

The blind will see

The lame will walk

The dead will live

For You are God; Forever You will reign”

And just like that this broken, limping girl remembered… Jesus came to make me whole.The lame will walk. He is making me whole. Lean into Him.

I whisper it. Israel. God Prevails.

You may limp now, but you may lean on Me… and I. Will. Make. You. Whole.

Amen.

Here’s that awesome worship song by Hillsong United. It makes me weep everytime. God is good. The gospel is the best news in the whole wide world.

By Grace,

Amanda Conquers

Sharing with the #TellHisStory community