Author Archives: Natasha Metzler

Beautiful Helen: an Alzheimer story

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Beautiful Helen: an Alzheimer story

“Beware of Helen,” the girl who was training me said, “She has Alzheimer’s and can be very difficult at times. She’s been known to throw things, chase workers out of her room and scream obscenities at anyone and everyone. ”

I nodded and scribbled a note on my paper.

Despite her warning, my first week at the Adult Home went by smoothly enough. As a CNA most of my work was drudgery but I enjoyed seeing the patients and talking to them. They made me laugh and as a history-lover, I enjoyed listening to their stories.

It wasn’t until I had worked there for two weeks that I even spent time with Helen. I had come in early so a co-worker could have a few extra hours off and was nominated to take Helen her evening medication. I walked slowly up the stairs and knocked on her door.

She opened it and frowned, “What are you doing here?”

“Just bringing your pills, Helen.” I smiled at her, lifting the small cup for her to see.

“Oh,” she opened the door wider. I walked in, grimacing at the overpowering scent of perfume.

“I’m going out tonight,” she informed me.

I noticed the pile of dresses lying on the bed and realized that she was dressed in a slip. “I see,” I went to her nightstand and poured a small glass of water.  While my back was turned, she slid closer.

“I like your hair,” she said.

I spun slowly, the water in my hand. I glanced in the mirror at my wild curls. “Thank you,” I said, balancing the small container of pills on the edge of the dresser.

“I used to have hair like that,” she smiled faintly and touched her thinning gray locks. “I was almost as pretty as you once.”

“Oh, Helen,” I handed her the pills and water, “You’re still beautiful.”

She smiled brightly at me and I realized it was the truth. Lord, you did make her lovely. Help her remember who she is in you. I said goodbye and went to the door but paused before leaving, “Wear the pink dress tonight,” I told her, “It will look lovely with your pretty blue eyes.”

She looked at me in shock for a moment then smiled brightly. “I believe I will,” she told me. We were both laughing as I closed the door.

After that day, my co-workers always left Helen’s pills for me to deliver. I would walk up to her room and she would tell me what she was doing that night (dinner, a movie, going for a twilight stroll with her husband) and then she would tell me that I was beautiful and I would return the compliment.

Several months later I was sitting in the kitchen, taking a break to eat my supper when she came marching in. I glanced up with a smile but it died on my face when I saw her.

“You stole my nylons!” she screeched at me,“Now, give them back.” Her foot stamped, her eyes were flashing and her words were sharp.

“Now, Helen,” I began, trying to speak softly to help calm her.

“I can’t believe that I come to this place and you steal from me!” She began pacing up and down the hallway, her voice rising. “You are a terrible, terrible person to steal from me! Don’t I pay you enough so you can buy your own $#% nylons?!”

There was a part of me that cringed at being accused of anything. I wanted to say, “Why, in the world, would I want your nylons?” But I held my tongue and took a deep breath. I looked at her and prayed silently, Lord, help me calm her down.

Suddenly, her words disappeared and I could see the fear in her eyes. Instead of ranting, I heard her heart crying, I’m scared. I’m confused. I don’t even know where my nylons are! I thought I left them in one place but they’re gone. Just like all my memories. Gone.

My heart softened. My look softened. She paused and stared at me. “Come, Helen,” I said, gently, “Let’s look together.” My eyes crinkled as I smiled, “They might even be in the laundry.”

Fifteen minutes later Helen turned to walk back upstairs, her nylons held tight in her fist. She glanced back at me and all the fear and anger was gone. “You’re hair is so pretty,” she said. “I was pretty once too.”

“You still are, Helen.” I said, quietly, “You still are.”

Tuesday’s Prayer

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I filled the house with smoke for the second week in a row. You would think that after five and half years, I would get the hang of this oven. Alas, it seems to not be so. The coconut oil that spilled into the bottom last week (which started quite the fire) apparently was not all burned up.

The coffee cake this morning? Not the best. Sorry, dear Pioneer Woman, but it seems your tastes are a bit sweeter than mine. It felt a little like inhaling spoonfuls of sugar. (Maybe I’m just sensitive to the stuff.)

There is a bag of trash that has been sitting by my front door for three days. (Ew!) It, unfortunately, has blended into the woodwork and I keep forgetting to take it with me when I go to the barn.

I was kind of hoping that no one who need to use the restroom while they were here because there is a huge pile of laundry in there that never got taken care of.

And I was actually praying that no one would need to open the fridge for anything. There is something dead in there. Probably that container of chicken stock that I thawed two weeks ago but forgot to use.

What I’m really trying to say is neither my house, nor I, am very well put together at times. 

But it never fails. When I open my door, open my home– God shows up. He pours blessings on me.

He empties out the pride, forgives the sinfulness, and wraps me tight in grace.

We decided to have prayer meetings on Tuesday mornings. It is the evidence that God has been stirring things up because my husband hates mornings. Yet, it was his idea to invite people up at 5:30AM to drink coffee and pray. It was originally going to be a one-time thing– he just felt the burden to pray for a friend and invited some others to join in.

But then it was so wonderful– meeting God in community, right first thing in morning– so we’ve had a few more. And now, for this season at least, I don’t think we’ll stop. 

God created community. He designed us for it. We are made to have a personal relationship with Christ and at the same time to share our walk with those around us. And the more true community you have, the more you crave it. Even enough to stumble out of bed at ridiculous times in the morning.

(Seriously, when we milked cows we didn’t get up at 5:30 (we milked at 7 and 7) but for prayer and community and the presence of God? Absolutely.)

I challenge you, friends, to establish community. No matter what your house looks like. No matter if you can cook (*ahem*) or if your floors are clean. Because it’s not really about all that stuff anyway. It’s about Jesus. Living. Moving. Breathing. Changing lives and forgiving sins and transforming hearts.

And if you live in the area, come on up next Tuesday morning. For reals. We’d love to have you. (And hopefully by then the trash will be taken out, the laundry cleaned up, the house smoke-free, and breakfast edible. But you never know. I make no promises. There will, however, be coffee and prayer.)

Community/prayer

the faith of my mother

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the faith of my mother

my beautiful Mama, in Alaska, when I was a little girl.

My mother never sugar-coated Christianity. She lived it raw, and hard, and glorious, and miraculous, and painful, and in such brutal honesty that I reached womanhood with a burning desire to know this scandalous beautiful Savior.

Her faith stills me quiet.

Her passionate existence stirs me to move and live and fight.

As a small child, I watched her move from New York and all her family to the towering mountains and strangers of Alaska. I saw her tears of loneliness and her sharp clinging to the true Comforter.

By the time I was nine years old, I had watched her face cancer with brilliant fearlessness, even while “what if’s” made her shake.

I remember her prayers– for anyone, everyone. The phone calls that ended with, “Can I pray with you?” Her feet pacing the kitchen as she called down the heavenly hosts to transform situations and lives.

She wasn’t perfect. That same passion that caused her to laugh and play silly games and adopt outrageous accents to make everyone else fall into stitches, also caused her to holler in frustration and anger when her four children tag-teamed to push her buttons. (She always joked that we must have secret meetings at night to sign up for what hour we were going to pester her. Just when one kid would get settled and attitudes dealt with, the next would start up.)

But I remember being 19 and having a woman look me right in the eye and say, “You honor your Mama,” she wiped tears and said with a shaking voice, “I would have aborted my son, my precious son, if your mother hadn’t intervened.” This woman spoke the story and I stood quiet, hearing the testimony of my mother’s passionate pursuit of Christ, even to the point of being the last thing standing between a friend and an abortion clinic. I watched the woman’s son play with trucks on the floor at my feet and reveled in the legacy I had been handed.

I was in my twenties when I stood in that church beside her and a woman walked up to us, holding a dancing toddler by the hand. “I don’t know if you remember me,” the woman said to Mama, “but a couple years ago you visited and came to our Sunday School class. I was pregnant but I wasn’t doing very well emotionally and you shared about God and hope and joy and… well, I want you to meet someone.” She turned to the little pixie-faced child and said softly, “This is my daughter, Cheri. I named her after you.”

And then there was Haiti. The time when I stood, translating the woman’s dire circumstances… the breach baby, the lack of hospitals or midwives, the complications… and my mother stepping up and laying hands on the 9 month pregnant belly and requesting a miracle from the God of the Universe. And the next morning, translating the woman’s awestruck words, “I think the baby moved.” I called Mama right after she arrived home to the U.S. to tell her I was holding a healthy baby boy, no surgery necessary.

Miracles. Beauty.

I remember Mama hurting. So many tears… And I remember her face of peace after months of heartache. “Forgiveness is always best, Tashi-girl,” she told me. I heard the words down deep. Etching truth where lies attempt to embed themselves.

Then this past year. Oh, this past year. Me, married and gone, still learning so much from her quiet strength and wisdom. It was cancer again. A different kind.

I stood in the hallway of the hospital, looking down at her wedding rings, nestled with mine on my left hand. You can’t wear any jewelry into surgery, so she slipped them on my finger and I watched her face until she disappeared through the doors, then stared at the rings until my gaze blinded with tears.

I was blessed enough to give them back to her, and we were all blessed when the scans came back with no sign of anymore cancer. But even if they hadn’t, even if she had left me, the legacy I carry is bright and strong and brilliant.

I want to have faith like my mother. The kind that sings the praises of God through fear, heartache, cancer, loss, emptiness, fullness, joy, pain, or sadness. To be a true woman after God’s own heart.

Tell me your story. Maybe it wasn’t your mother, maybe it was a relative or friend or neighbor. Tell me about the woman whose faith spurs you forward. 

 

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The Shadow House {part 2}

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The Shadow House {part 2} a parable by @natashametzlerread {part 1} here.

“I have many names,” he said, “I will give you one of mine.”

“What…” she paused as if unsure, then collected her courage and continued, “What are your names?”

“You already know them,” the Deliverer answered, “I wrote them upon your heart long ago, before you chose to come to the Shadow House.”

“I don’t remember any names,” she whispered, sadness filling her. How could she have forgotten all of his names?

“I will tell you one. The one I am giving to you.” He held the girl-woman’s face in his hands and smiling into her eyes said, “My name is Beautiful One and your name shall be Beautiful One.“

The girl-woman’s gaze fell to the ground and great shaking sobs rose within her. “I…” her shoulders heaved, “I cannot accept that name,” she finished. The tears ran in torrents down her scarred cheeks, every one caught in the light-man’s hand.

“Why not?” the Deliverer questioned.

“Because I am not beautiful,” she told him, trying to look anywhere but at the wonderful man before her. “Can’t you see the scars?”

The light-man smiled. A bright blinding smile. “Yes, I see the scars,” he answered her. “You are not beautiful now, but you will be. Just as Outcast will truly become Chosen and Angry will become Joyfulness and each one of the other children will become what I am making them as well.”

“How is this possible?” No-Name questioned, the tears slowing as her hope began to grow.

“I made you,” the light-man explained, “I can change you into what you long to be,” he paused to make sure her eyes met his, “if you let me.”

The girl-woman bit her lip for a moment then said slowly, as if explaining a great hidden secret that she barely dared to speak out loud, “I do so wish to be beautiful.”

“Then I will take your scars upon myself,” he told her.

“No!” No-Name cried out. “You cannot take the scars! You are too perfect.”

“It is because I am perfect that I can take them,” the Deliverer explained to her. “Trust me.” He gripped both of her hands in his. “Will you take my name?”

She looked beyond him for a moment, at the group of children who were watching them, their eyes bright and their bodies washed clean. “I will,” she whispered.

As she spoke a scar appeared on his cheek. She watched in wonder as it marred his perfect skin. She grimaced as he winced from the pain. A name rose within her heart. She didn’t know where it had come from but it found it’s way to her lips and in a quiet steady voice she proclaimed, “Redeemer.” The scar suddenly vanished.

Another scar came. “Mighty God.” she said, her voice growing stronger. That scar also disappeared.

Another came. “Wonderful Counselor.” It vanished.

One scar after another came and vanished as No-Name spoke the names, her voice growing louder and more lovely with each passing moment.

“Everlasting Father.”
“Prince of Peace.”
“Author of Life.”
“Savior.”
“Jehovah.”
“I AM.”
“El-Elyon.”
“Jehovah.”
“Healer.”
“My Rock.”
“My Fortress.”

Name after name, scar after scar.

When the scars finally stopped, No-Name stood trembling before the Deliverer and he spoke, “You shall no longer live without a name for I have claimed you. I have taken your scars and now I give you my name,” he paused and smiled as the girl-woman’s eyes began to shimmer and sparkle, the murky gray fading into a brilliant blue, “Beautiful One.”

The children stepped back as a bright light burst from the gray skies and surrounded the two. A melody began and drifted out from within the swirling light. The golden laughter came again, only this time it was more brilliant, more lovely than it had ever been before. The light seemed to continue forever and soon the laughter faded as a whispered conversation took its place. Time stood still as they danced within the light cloud, oblivious of anything but each other.

After some time the light cloud began to fade and the heavens closed. The children gasped when Beautiful One came into view. Her worn tattered dress had been replaced by a gown of pure white. Her hair was washed clean and her blue eyes sparkled, sending rays of light onto every place her gaze landed. Her perfect skin was accented by the glow of warmth that swam around her.

Now there was no doubt in anyone’s mind that she was no longer a child. She was a woman. A beautiful, light-filled woman who was gazing at the man she loved. The man whose name she had taken.

The light-man stepped back from her, smiling. “I have changed you,” he explained, “but it is your choice to stay this way.” He looked at the children who were gathering around Beautiful One, “The children will forget that they have been transformed. You must remind them.”

“Why me?” Beautiful One questioned.

“Because, my Beautiful One, they are a part of you,” the Deliverer explained.

Beautiful One looked around at the children who were gathered close to her, smiling and laughing. Her eyes widened as she realized that they each had brown curls and dancing blue eyes, exact replica’s of her own.

“And you are now a part of me,” the light-man told her. His hand lifted to brush her smooth cheek. “I am going away for a time. I am preparing a new house. A light house. Then I will return for you.”

“Don’t leave me,” Beautiful One whispered, her voice barely audible above the sound of the children who were now racing around the yard, laughing and shouting to each other.

“I will always be close to you. I am your light,” the Deliverer smiled then stepped back.

Beautiful One watched as the light-man disappeared back into the Shadow Woods, but the shadows didn’t close in behind him. In fact, everywhere she looked, the shadows ran away.

The children suddenly realized that he had gone away and ran to Beautiful One, reaching for her and asking where the light-man had gone. Beautiful One smiled as she gathered her girls close to her. “He’ll be back,” she told them, her voice ringing with confidence. He would be back.

That night, when the darkness came there was no whimpering or crying. Instead, a soft glowing light surrounded the children within the house and as they gathered together Beautiful One began to sing the promise that had been sung into her before the beginning of time,

The Children's Song from "The Shadow House" @natashametzler

I wish that I could tell you that never again did the children fear, never again was Beautiful One scarred; but I can’t. I can tell you, however, that despite the scars, the days when Angry, Spiteful, Prideful and the others found their way back in, the light never dimmed.

And although it felt like a very long time, the Deliverer did return for his bride. Once again he caught her tears and once again he took her scars and this time… this time he promised that never again would a tear fall and never again would a scar touch her beautiful face. This time, he took her and the children with him and they traveled over time and space to the light house that he had faithful built, just as he promised.

The End

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The Shadow House {part 1}

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The Shadow House by @natashametzler

The shadows danced across the room as the gray light faded quickly into oblivion. A whimper was heard in the closing darkness and the sound of shuffling feet. After a moment a match was lit and in the glowing light a face could be seen.

The girl holding the match was dirty and unkempt. Her brown curls hung about her face, oily and matted. Her face was covered with a multitude of tiny scars that crossed and covered each other giving her an unearthly look. She seemed to be somewhere between childhood and womanhood but it was hard to tell under the thick layer of dirt and grime. Her eyes might have been blue at one time but some kind of incredible sadness had overtaken them and the murky depths now gave out only a muted gray color.

A howling noise echoed through the house as the wind picked up speed. The slender hand holding the match shook slightly at the sound and the match dropped to the floor. Darkness consumed the room again and the whimpering returned.

“I’m scared,” a voice whispered.

“Me, too,” another sounded in the dark room.

The girl-woman’s voice wavered, “I have no more matches.”

“Stupid!” a new voice growled, “You let the only light we have go out!”

The whimpering grew louder as the angry voices debated and the darkness closed tighter.

After several minutes of anger, the fear began to set in again. The girl-woman sat down heavily in the midst of the frightened children. The smallest one whose whimpers could still be heard climbed onto her lap.

“I’m s-s-scared,” a voice repeated from the corner of the room.

The girl-woman reached out a hand in the pitch black room and felt around until she touched the girl. “Come, Frightened,” she said as she drew the child over. Within a few minutes all the children in the room were pressed close together, all reaching to the touch the girl-woman.

Frightened curled up next to her side. Hurting, who was still whimpering softly against her chest, was snuggled in her lap. The other children all tried to grab onto her hands, her hair, her skirt, whatever they could reach.

The fear was so thick that one could feel it in the air. After a moment of silence Spiteful whispered in her venomous way, “Why won’t you hum that song that makes us feel better? Huh, No-Name? Do you like it when we’re afraid?”

Hurting whimpered louder and her grip on the girl-woman tightened.

Angry reached out a hand and let her fingers scratch across No-Name’s face. “You’re causing the darkness aren’t you?!” She cried, then jerked her hand back, frightened at the feel of the girl-woman’s blood under her fingers.

No-Name reached up a hand to wipe the blood away that trickled down her cheek. Instead of responding she began to softly hum a song that was etched forever upon her heart. She had heard it once, long ago. The children knew of nothing except the Shadow House but No-Name had a memory, a distant drifting memory of a voice that sounded like water rushing over rocks singing the tune that she was now humming. Although she could hum the song, the words had forever escaped her.

The soft humming caused the children to relax around her. Spiteful and Angry both quieted and snuggled in close. Hurting’s whimpers subsided and Frightened slumped next to her as sleep overcame them all.

When they awoke, morning had come, though it wasn’t a sunlight or moonlight that shown in the morning at the Shadow House. Instead it was a gray-light that kept the darkness from overpowering but did nothing to stop the shadows from dancing upon on the walls.

“I hate you!” Spiteful growled from her corner of the room. The words were directed at Outcast who was slumped in the opposite corner. “I wish you’d leave. We don’t need you here.”

No-Name sighed as Angry joined the dispute. Hurting clung to what was left of the girl-woman’s tattered skirt and Wounded sat in another corner with her head in her hands rocking back and forth muttering under her breath, “I’m sorry. I’m sorry.”

No-name sent Frightened and Lonely out to find matches. Usually she sent Angry and Spiteful, just to get them out of the house but today she didn’t have the energy to force them to go.

The girl-woman wiped a hand across her face then winced. The new scratch marks on her cheek were sure to leave scars. It didn’t matter though, for they only covered old scars from other children who had lashed out at her.

The morning dragged on and the children became restless. No-name went to the door many times to call for Frightened and Lonely to hurry with the matches, but they didn’t come. It was nearing noontime before she heard the pattering of their bare feet on the path. She hurried out to meet them and give them a good scolding for taking so long but stopped short when her gaze fell upon the two girls coming toward her.

In their hands were buckets full of matches, but more than that, they were hardly recognizable. Lonely was smiling, a huge smile that showed forth white teeth and sparking blue eyes. Her usual downcast expression was gone and replaced by one of pure joy. Never had No-name seen anything like it.

And Frightened, she looked nothing like she usually did. She was walking with such assurance there seemed to be no fear in her.

No-Name’s gaze swung from one smiling child to the other. “Lonely? Frightened?” Perhaps it simply wasn’t them…perhaps it was some other children who had lost their way.

“That’s not my name anymore,” the one who used to be Frightened proclaimed. It was most certainly her voice, but never once had the girl-woman heard her say anything except, “I’m scared.” The child continued to smile as she went on, “I have a new name! It’s Confidence! And Lonely isn’t lonely anymore, she’s Beloved!”

No-Name’s face betrayed her bewilderment. “What…where….how did you get new names?”

“He gave them to us.”

“He? He, who?” No-Name questioned.

“The Deliverer,” Confidence told her. The child’s voice displayed such awe that No-Name began to feel an ache within her heart.

“The Deliverer?” She asked, “Where is this man?”

“He’s coming!” Beloved exclaimed. “He’s coming here, for you! He said he has new names for all of you too!”

No-Name spun around to look at the group of children standing at the doorway of the Shadow House. “New names…” she whispered. If only it would really happen. The dirty unkempt children crept toward her and reached their hands out to touch her as they stared at Confidence and Beloved.

Just then a sound echoed through the yard. It was a strange sound that No-Name recognized from years before. It caused her skin to tingle and the ache in her heart to throb harder. The golden laughter grew louder as the being approached.

“It’s him!” Confidence said as she started jumping up and down in excitement.

A man stepped out of the Shadow woods that bordered the yard. He was different that anyone the children had ever seen. His whole body seemed to glow with a light that didn’t just lessen the shadows but caused them to run far from him.

He walked up until he was standing before No-Name and the little girls that were hidden behind her, their eyes hurting from the light that shone from him. Even the clean girls took a step closer to the girl-woman, their scrubbed skin not looking nearly as brilliant compared to the Deliverer.

The man’s eyes blazed as he searched until his gaze fell upon the smallest child. Little Hurting was whimpering and clinging to the girl-woman’s skirt afraid to look at the man who was glowing with light.

He lifted a hand and motioned for her to come. Hurting glanced at him but instead of going, hid further behind the girl-woman’s skirt. No-Name could see the longing in her eyes so she reached down and gave the child a slight push toward the man. As soon as Hurting took one step in his direction the man reached for her and gathered her into his arms. He rocked her back and forth whispering words of love softly in her ear.

As the light-man held the child the light began seeping from his hands that were wrapped around her. It traveled into her body and slowly her skin began to change. Patches of light began to show through the dirt then suddenly a glow of light burst out and swirled around them, hiding the two from view. In the midst of the swirling light a voice spoke. It echoed around the Shadow House, loud and commanding yet gentle and loving at the same time. “You shall no longer be called ‘Hurting’, for through me you have overcome your pain and heartache. Therefore, your name shall be ‘Overcoming One‘.”

The other children watched in wonder as the light began to settle and the outline of Hurting came into view. To their amazement the little girl, now glowing in light, threw her head back and laughed. It was the same golden laughter than had come from the light-man; a sound that caused their hearts to beat faster with longing.

The light-man turned again toward No-Name and the children and motioned for Outcast to come. The girl looked toward No-Name and at her nod, took a faltering step toward the man, afraid that he would turn her away. Instead he rushed to her and lifted her high in his arms. “My child,” He said in a voice loud enough that all could hear. The transformation began again and the voice in the glow of light proclaimed, “You shall no longer be called, ‘Outcast’ , for I have accepted you. Instead you will be known as ‘Chosen’, for I have chosen you as my own.”

One by one the children slipped from No-Name’s arms and clung to the Deliverer as he transformed them into new children. Angry became Joyfulness. Spiteful turned into Caring. Wounded became Healer.

The last child to come from her hiding place behind the girl-woman was Prideful. She hung back, her eyes longing to run to him, but her stubbornness keeping her there. She refused to move until No-name took her by the arm and marched her over to the Light-Man. He smiled at the child and embracing her in the swirls of light, he transformed her into Loving.

As the two of them stepped apart, both glittering with sparkles of light, the Deliverer turned his gaze to No-Name’s face. At that moment she felt a greater fear than she ever had before. She realized that while the other children had names that were being changed, she had no name at all.

Tears welled up in her eyes. She knew that she could not be transformed because she was no-one and it made her heart break within her. As the tears slid down her scarred cheeks, a hand reached out and caught them.

The Deliverer, who had waited for each of the children to come to him, did not wait for No-Name. He reached out and pulled her into his arms.

“What is the matter?” he asked, his mouth close to her ear. The sound had dropped to a musical tone that struck a chord within No-Name’s heart. It reminded her of something…someone from long ago.

She kept her head buried deep in his chest and whispered in complete shame, “I have no name.”

She stepped back from him and looked up at his beautiful face. In that moment she remembered her own scars. Horror filled her as the man lifted his hand and gently rubbed his finger across her scarred cheek.

“I have many names,” he said, “I will give you one of mine.”

read part 2 here.

natural fertility ebook bundle

Summer Treats

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You may have noticed in my sidebar that May 6th-13th is your chance to get a whole collection of ebooks on Natural Fertility at a savings of 92%. I am a contributing author to the bundle and make a percentage of the sales. You can read my disclosure here. 

The grass is growing, the sun is streaming in windows, sweatshirts are being traded in for t-shirts…warmth has finally returned to the North Country– and when I received my advance collection of ebooks from the Natural Fertility Bundle, the first book I opened was this:

1 JMicecreamCOVERmock

Uhm, yeah. For those of you who don’t know my husband, let me explain something: our home is not a home without ice cream. (hello, the nieces and nephews even call him Uncle Ice Cream.) But, actually, it’s not just my husband, it’s the whole Metzler crew.

Soon after our wedding we invited some family up to visit. Amos wanted to have ice cream and I said we had some. What I meant by “some” was an entire half gallon. He looked in the freezer and immediately left for town, coming back with 2 more half gallons. I thought he was a little excessive.

Turns out the Metzler family thinks “having ice cream” means everyone eating multiple bowls full. Sometimes in place of dinner.

Growing up they made homemade ice cream in this enormous White Mountain hand-crank freezer, and, well, it was homemade ice cream so you had to eat it all. 

Old habits die hard.

My only struggle was that I greatly dislike all the added ingredients in most store-bought ice cream. Like…

• DIETHYLGLYCOL: A cheap chemical used as an emulsifier instead of eggs. It is also the same chemical used in antifreeze and paint removers.
• PIPERONAL: Used in place of vanilla. This chemical is used to kill lice.
• ALDEHYDE C-17: Used to flavor cherry ice cream. It is an inflammable liquid also used in aniline dyes, plastic and rubber.
• ETHYL ACETATE: Used to give ice cream a pineapple flavor – and as a cleaner for leather and textiles; its vapors have been known to cause chronic lung, liver and heart damage.
• BUTYRALDEHYDE: Used in nut-flavored ice cream. It is also used as an oil paint solvent.
• AMYLACETATE: Used for its banana flavor. It is also used as an oil paint solvent.
• BENZYL ACETATE: Used for its strawberry flavor. It is a nitrate solvent.

-from Just Making Ice Cream
10 Reasons to Make Your Own Ice Cream

My problem is no more. This lovely little book (filled with mouth-watering photographs) has nourishing ice cream recipes, and as a bonus, everything you ever wondered about frozen desserts. (what’s the difference between sorbet and sherbet? What makes something a gelato or french-style?) 

There are also tips and tricks to making your ice cream the best you’ve ever tasted and even five ways to make it without an ice cream freezer! This is definitely a happy-summer-book. 

_________________________________________

On that same note, the bundle also contains an ebook that I have been eyeing for quite some time:

1 smoothies

There are multitudes of excellent herbs available to aid in fertility… but sometimes taking them can be a drudge. I am flipped-out excited to try some of these yummy-looking recipes this summer.

There are also issue-specific smoothie recipes for thyroid issues, PCOS, Endometriosis, male issue infertility and more.

My blender gets a lot of use during the summer months and now, hopefully, those fruit-filled icy drinks can be beneficial to my health as well.

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Let’s just say that I’m looking forward to a fruity-creamy-sweet-summer! 

–> To read more about the Natural Fertility Ebook Bundle, click here. <–

Tell me: What is your favorite cool-summer-treat?

 

more than watchmen wait for the morning

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Some days run hard together and the sun seems to disappear even while it shines bright. Which is why my husband showed up last week, took my hand and said, “Let’s go on a mini-vacation.”

We spent the night at a hotel in Old Forge, one that sat right on the water where we could watch the last shades of pink slide out of sight into the ripples spread by the wind.  After the light was gone, I took a long hot bath and prayed that muffled tears wouldn’t wake my husband.

They were happy tears. Sort of.

The kind that comes and you’re fine, just sad, but okay and happy? Of course. You’re blessed and provided for and loved… and hurting. All at once and together and the same.

He was awake when I slipped into bed. “Read to me,” he said, so I clicked on the light and reached for my Bible and read the words I had underlined so many times.

Oh, Israel, put your hope in the Lord,
for with the Lord is unfailing love and with him is full redemption.

“Where is that found?” he asks.

“Psalm 130,” I say, turning the page for him to see.

“Read the whole chapter to me,” and he settles back against the pillow.

So I read and the words drift off me and float away. He sleeps at the sound of my voice and I quietly close the book and click out the light.

The clock reads 5am when I open my eyes again. My husband is snoring and sleep has evaporated so I slide from the covers and slip into a skirt. It is this bright silly thing that made me smile when I bought it, the way the stripes of color seem to swirl when I walk.

A jacket over my shoulders and I step outside to wander. Frost painted the ground, thicker as I neared the water’s edge. I stepped onto the dock and almost slipped, the icy whiteness stealing traction. Two steps, three steps, a cloud breaks and the sun makes me blink. I stand there, quiet, watching the frost melt away.

A verse comes to mind, the one that I paused at the night before, wondering why such a strange line was repeated,

My soul waits for the Lord,
more than watchmen wait for the morning,
more than watchmen wait for the morning. Ps. 130:6

Psalm 130:6

The last bit of frost is melting, the sun is so warm it is burning a pattern on my face. It comes, you know. The morning comes. And the watchmen, they know that morning will arrive. Light will break through and darkness will flee and morning always comes. 

No matter how strong the powers of darkness seem, the Kingdom of God is advancing. 

I wait with assurance. With knowledge. With the power of knowing that the darkness will leave. Like watchmen wait for the morning, I wait.

I hear the click of a camera shutter and spin around to see my husband standing on the balcony with my camera in his hands. “You look like your Mama,” he says, voice echoing across the silent water. I wrap my arms around me and call for him to come. So he leaves the warmth of the room and visits the coolness of morning. 

We walk on the boardwalk around the edge of the water and talk about mornings and Christ’s return and hope that is unchanging, that never dies, that burns deep and grows us upward.

Walking through the darkness of winter can feel like death at times, but the dormant season is needed to produce a harvest. Eventually morning light will touch the fertile ground and life will spring forth.

So we journey on, waiting expectantly, because it always comes. The morning always comes.

Redeeming the Division {rejoicing and grieving together} with giveaway

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Today I am bringing you a guest post (and giveaway!) from my friend, Angie. She is the author of the book, “Redeeming Childbirth”, and her post today is the perfect ending to our series last week on infertility. One thing that God has taught me over and over is  we are not as different as we think. 

Redeeming the Division {rejoicing and grieving together}

I am so honored to be here with you all and meet you. Honestly, as I was praying over what the Lord would have me share with those who have faced infertility or miscarriage… I was speechless at first. I had thoughts like, “How can I relate, or even have anything to share with them, since I have not struggled with this.”

Then the Lord again reminded me that this is one way that the enemy divides God’s people. Itʼs what I wrote about in the first and second chapter of my book, Redeeming Childbirth, the division among women on what has become one of the most controversial topics among women today {along with education choices and occupation choices}.

As I was writing my heart burdened for all those who were unable to have children. I have continued praying for all of you, my sisters in the Lord, who have closed wombs and have suffered loss {through all different circumstances}.

I wanted to write to you. To encourage you. But I also felt inadequate and unable.

The Lord impressed upon my heart to lift this specific ministry up in prayer. So I began to ask the Holy Spirit to raise up a sister who had gone through similar pain, to teach, encourage and inspire you– and the Lord answered my prayers in Natasha!

I see Pain Redeemed as the perfect complimentary book to Redeeming Childbirth.  I thank God for Natasha and her obedience to speak out on such a painful intimate experience in her life. I know that for me it took 11 years to get the courage to write. But once I did, it was an amazingly intimate experience with the Lord… in a new way I had never experienced before.

You see, together, as women in the body of Christ we need to learn to rejoice together and grieve together--even when we donʼt have the same life experiences, circumstances, or callings on our lives.

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There are too many divisions and camps in the church, especially among women. Our experiences or opinions draw lines and create groups. The reality is that there is something special between kindred spirits who can sympathize with one another, but because we are so divided we have a new problem today:

We are not fluent in the language of empathy and we are not practiced in the ability of grieving or rejoicing together.

In a culture that is completely focused on avoiding pain, many avoid the “needy” or “hurting” because it would be to inconvenient for their own lives or slow them down.

Likewise, one who has experienced pain, grief or loss often struggles to rejoice with their sister or brother in Christ when there is a real opportunity for rejoicing and praising God. Inside we have the temptation for jealousy, competition and instead of truly rejoicing in what God is doing in their lives, we make it about ourselves and what we donʼt have, or what our circumstances are. Ugly isnʼt it? I know.

We are the church, the body of Christ. And as His representatives, His ambassadors. We need to be a light in this dark world– but we canʼt until we learn to grieve with those suffering and learn to rejoice with those who are experiencing the Lordʼs blessing.

You see, I am the mama of six. I have not struggled with long term infertility and I have never had a miscarriage {that I am aware of}. I have never lost a child… but I have experienced loss and I believe everyone has on one level or another. Pain is not a foreigner to any of us. It is part of life. However, for a woman the pain and grief that comes from the loss of a child, or the loss of ability to be with child, can be some of the greatest pains we could ever encounter in life.

As sisters in Christ, we need to unify and encourage one another, building one another up without falling into the temptation for competition. It is amazing the ways the enemy divides the body of Christ. I believe it is such a hot topic among women because our choices and experiences greatly impact how we view ourselves, and likewise so do our circumstances. A womanʼs birth experience is a milestone in her life, whether it is a good experience or not. It is an intimate one that impacts her life forever, as does the pain of infertility and the choices one makes in how to deal with it.

We need to recognize that our battle is not against one another, but against an enemy that seeks to kill and destroy. We need to choose love and acceptance over judgementalism, division and cliques.

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I believe that we ALL have perspectives on pregnancy, childbirth and the gift that life is.  My deep desire is to attempt to bring God glory and to let Him walk into the painful broken circumstances of our lives and allow Him to transform us.

The reality is that regardless if you have biological children or not, you are a mentor to someone. If you are striving to be a Titus 2 Woman of God then books like Redeeming Childbirth are beneficial so you can teach and inspire your younger sisters in Christ in a Biblical way.

There are chapters specifically written to mentors because I believe this is critical to us all partnering with Christ to “Redeem Childbirth Together.” We as a church body can all benefit to study what God says about this topic in His Word.

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Even if you have not been pregnant before, even if you have had painful experiences like losing a baby… God is sovereign. You have the power, the choice to partner with Christ and redeem that terrible experience and glorify Him through it, as you minister to others.

When I was hospitalized with my sixth baby, the doctors recommended terminating the pregnancy. As I lay there on that cold bed, unable to feel anything from my waste down, uncertain if I would ever walk again, I had a choice to make. My convictions and beliefs made the decision not to terminate easy, but the hard reality of my circumstances impressed upon me a fear and doubt like no other.

The enemy attacked me with thoughts like, “Maybe God has chosen me to birth my babies and created another woman to raise them?” To make matters worse, I tried to lean on Christ and then people dear to me would remark, “Is it really worth this childʼs life?”

I was under attack.

Do not fearRC (1)And I had to view it as a spiritual battle. I made a choice to see that God had an amazing purpose and plan for my son… so much so that satan already wanted him dead. That really motivated and inspired me.

After coming home from the hospital I remained on bed rest for another 3 months, through part of my first and second trimesters. The emotional turmoil I experienced during this season in my life was unlike any other. I felt like a failure as a mom. I couldnʼt even change diapers and put my baby in his crib.

Was it really Godʼs plan that we have so many children? I questioned it all. But an older woman in my church encouraged me. She said, “Sometimes the trials we experience are not just about the lessons we have to learn, but are meant for the edification and growth of others in our life as well.”

She was right!

Though I endured pain, I never once regretted it. I never once wished we werenʼt pregnant. I did however, beg and plead with God to remove this cup of pain from me, to heal me. But that was not His will for my life in that season. He had a different plan.

You have a story, and if you choose to allow God to use you and your circumstances to glorify Him, I believe you will experience healing from your pain. Once you partner with Christ through allowing Him to do the sanctifying work in you… He redeems that experience, that circumstance, that hurt.

You see, I feel inadequate to minister to those who have had miscarriages and infertility… so I often donʼt try. But when I do, when I get real and share the yucky hard realities of what others are dealing with and experiencing both in  circumstances and in their hearts, it is then that God grows me and I become more like Him.

Let us all encourage and edify one another in Christ. And may we be an example to the world of what it should look like to be a part of the body of Christ.

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Angie @ RedeemingChildbirth.comAuthor Bio: Angie is married to Isaac Tolpin, Mom of 6, and lives in the Pacific NW on their small hobby vineyard {which they planted to teach work ethic to their children}! You can find Angie writing about Motherhood, Marriage and Faith on her website Leaving a Legacy {angietolpin.com} and manages RedeemingChildbirth.com.

You can find her online here:

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Angie has graciously offered you all a chance to win a free signed copy of Redeeming Childbirth: Experiencing His Presence in Pregnancy, Labor and Birth. 

To enter the giveaway, click through the link below:

Redeeming Childbirth giveaway

The giveaway will close Saturday, May 4th.