I Can Do Hard Things

I have another blog that I’ve kept since 2004.  I recently skimmed back over the number of entries that were tagged “diet” or “diet 2010” or “diet 2012” – and recognized recurring themes.  Defeat and Victory.  And Defeat again.  And dissatisfaction for where I was currently – even at my lowest weight. Still not good enough.

Most entries described dissatisfaction with the number the scale showed. I was quite focused on that number and whether it was going up or down.  If I could just reach THAT number, I’d have succeeded and victory would be maintained of course – because really, wasn’t this just a math thing?  Calories in, calories burned.  Simple.  The number – at least initially – proves that my efforts are being rewarded in a tangible way.

Except that there is a monotony in keeping a food journal, and exercise is mostly dull and certainly – when done right – HARD.  Diet fatigue, lack of self-discipline, and self-indulgence tend to reappear eventually.

I never really struggled with weight until I had a few children. I spent a lot of years in denial that this was truly a problem that would not go away without effort.  Then there were some short-term efforts.

My sole lengthy success in exercise and weight loss was in 2005-2006/7 and I was proud of my efforts.  It tended to be what I talked about, what I thought about – every day.   I have since been quite humbled.  If I eat what I want when I want in the quantities I want – my “set point” is close to 200 lbs.  For now. The years go by and that set point seemed to be rising – thank you Menopause.

So here I am again – exercising regularly – at least 3 times a week ( now starting 40th week – and yes, I am counting) and logging my food (counting again).  Thoughts I experience while exercising include “wow, this is hard” and “almost done” and “I KNOW why people DON’T do this – it’s hard”.   This time around, in addition to logging my food – I’m trying to pay attention to appetite and reducing portions to what satisfies (vs. what makes me feel stuffed).  I do not worry if I clean my plate – even in a restaurant where I’ve paid good money.  (this is a challenge since I am cheap)    I am taking this process a week at a time.  I eat most anything I want but in portions that are budgeted for my day’s allotment.  I have an occasional day I go over.  I weigh myself daily and record every week or so.  I use an online site to log food – and the app on my phone.  (myfitnesspal.com)  I say no to myself sometimes and yes to myself at other times.

Most days eating less food is hard.   But I parent the me that wants to indulge daily and say NO or Not So Much.   Discipline is hard for me. Sometimes going to exercise is NOT what I want to do.  I cannot ever picture loving it – and it’s not important that I do.  That does not mean I cannot make myself do it.  (Grateful that I can!)

I encourage myself with goals concerning health and future mobility and clothes that fit better.  I try to be patient and not be too concerned with the scale.  I try to not talk about it ALL the time.  I try not to get TOO hungry or to bake TOO much.

I don’t wonder about why it’s hard to do. I know why.  Food tastes good and exercise is hard, and my metabolism is not fast.

I CAN DO HARD THINGS (a day at a time).



I have birthed four children and over the years, photographed deliveries and C-sections for many friends. I’ve seen close to 500 babies born while employed as a baby nurse for a couple of years.  Exciting and thankfully only rarely terrifying – it was an awesome job.  I now see new parents and assist them (and encourage them) every work day – but I don’t often see a baby enter the world.

In recent years – I watched my niece give birth to a special little lady in my life. I took pictures for a friend at her last two C-sections, and although I did not see that boy who made me grandma take his first breath, we surfed the internet together on his first full night in his home.  🙂

This past weekend I have been honored to attend – and take a few pictures of the birth of another baby.  His name is Rowan Michael House.  I met his mother as a newborn and she grew up and became friends with my daughters. She even lived with us for a few months as she prepared for her marriage to Cody.

Watching a baby meet his parents never gets old.  How could the miraculous get old?

I watched from the sidelines less than 48 hours ago and saw a father fall completely in love with his son.  I saw a mother at last meet this little one who has been knocking from the inside – and teasing her with the possibility this might be the day – for two long weeks! He’s given her a new understanding of the word patience (which he’ll do again and again) and of labor.  Four grandparents met the person who has MADE them grandparents – a couple of them embracing this role for the first time.  One set of those grandparents are great friends of many years.  🙂

Birth photographer – yeah, I could do that job.  (additional skills with lactation assistance included!)



If one feels the need of something grand, something infinite, something that makes one feel aware of God, one need not go far to find it. I think that I see something deeper, more infinite, more eternal than the ocean in the expression of the eyes of a little baby when it wakes in the morning and coos or laughs because it sees the sun shining on its cradle.
Vincent Van Gogh

Quiet Place

On my recent trip to CT, my sister and mother wanted to track down the flat marker that indicated the spot where my step-grandmother was buried with her first husband.  Unlike in northern Maine, where there are many headstones with the name Flewelling carved into marble, this small quiet CT cemetery has one marker with this name.

It seems that they are out of place, these two Flewellings – since their life in CT was not where the majority of their lives were spent. We hunted for a bit and finally I saw it.  We pushed the grass back from the edges of the stone – confirmed the name, and then took a few photos to send to her far away descendants.

As I was wandering through this quiet cemetery looking for the flat marker, I noted a beautiful tall headstone at the perimeter.  I was surprised to see that there were three matching dates of death and began to wonder if it was a car accident or a fire that claimed three family members at the same time.Then I noticed the surname.
Five years ago, there was a family  brutally attacked in their home in a small town in CT.  The mother and her two teen-aged daughters were murdered after hours of torture. The father was beaten but escaped, crawling out a basement window to try to get help.  The help arrived too late for the women.  Their murderers were just recently convicted of these horrible murders.

The gravestone was crafted with relief drawings at the top. There were potted flowers in front and yellow flowers cradling the sides of the stone, obviously having been tended with love. It was a simple headstone and the location was peaceful – in stark contrast to how they died.  I stood for a few minutes and thought about the horror they endured for hours before they were killed – and the man who survived as well. He lost his family and the life he knew and had to endure the legal trials – yes trials – as each man was tried separately.  I’ve read that this man who lost so much is engaged now – and marvel that years later he was able to find a way to love again.
I took a picture of the stone – feeling somewhat intrusive as I did. As I stood in this place, I remembered the murders but now felt the peacefulness and quiet of this place that felt quite sacred.  The stone was simple but beautiful – and the location at the edge of the small cemetery offered a place of contemplation of lives lost.
The phrase “rest in peace” felt very right as I walked away.

Their Dad

Twice In the past year, he has walked a daughter down a long aisle.  He has witnessed them join their lives to the partners they have chosen. He has assembled furniture and moved furniture into new homes and hugged them and kissed them good-bye. He will perform a ceremony joining his last unmarried child to a special woman later this year.  He watched his eldest begin his own journey as a father nearly one year ago.

As a daddy, he rocked his babies to sleep next to his heart in a big wooden rocker. When they grew a bit more, little girls were picked up and twirled around in daddy dances. Sometimes, there was a niece who was danced as well.  He sang to them, told stories of the adventures of brown haired girls and boys and yellow haired girls and boys, chased them squealing, and tucked them in and gave good-night kisses.  He was a bit player in plays they created and directed.

He taught them to drive.  He taught them about life. He told (tells) them jokes.

He prayed for them.

He modeled what character acts like and how a husband should treat a wife.  He loved / loves their mother.  He taught without words which traits would be desirable in a husband – and how to BE a husband – simply by being who he is. Patient. Faithful. Honoring his God.  Gentle.  Forgiving.  Generous with his time.   Humble.   (He will be uncomfortable with this tribute -*smile*)  He worked hard even on days it was not particularly fulfilling to do so.

He did not do everything right.  Fathers make mistakes and good fathers ask forgiveness and try again.

He’s entered the time of life when they’re no longer upstairs in their rooms at night.  They’re now in the little instant message chat box on the computer, or they’re on the phone, and sometimes – they’re visiting in the same room.

There have been glimpses of the dancing daddy from years ago as he twirls another little one around. He holds her up high and she squeals in delight.  His daughters and niece get a glimpse of how he played with them.  They smile as they watch him swing her around.

They may even remember.

Entertaining the Troops


There is a novel called The Notebook by Nicholas Sparks about a couple who have been together for a long, long time.  She has forgotten much and has almost forgotten him, but as he retells their story, she sometimes remembers.

That is fiction, but today I saw the real.

It was a difficult decision to bring her to this place, but when there was little sleep for either of them, and the wandering off got more dangerous – it was time.

He tells us that one truth he’s learned is that they are indeed “one”.  A piece of him remains behind as he leaves her there each evening.  He returns each morning, rested and knowing she has been kept safe through the night.

He explains her limitations in conversation to her old friends – my parents. She is pleased to see them and recognizes them right away.

He relays a bit of the humor in the conversations that happen.  When he told someone that he has been married to her for 59 years, she looked up and said “better luck next time.”

He visits his old friend (my dad) and eventually leaves for a bit to take him for a short ride in his car.  After they leave, she wanders out of her room and down the hall.  As she is walked back into her room, she goes to the window.  She is looking for him.

The brief drive is done and she looks out the window and sees him step out of the car.  She is immediately more animated but seems a bit unsettled and states emphatically as she points – “That’s Merle.  That’s my husband.”  She wants to get to him.  She wants us to help him find his way back to her.  She asks us to help him find the door to get back in.

He returns to her room and his gentleness is calming.  She holds on to his arm.  She is peaceful.

Dementia has stolen away much from the final years they thought they’d have as equals.

But as he stated at the beginning of our visit – they are one.  He holds the memories for both of them.  He remains faithful to his wife, sweetly tending to her, protecting her.  The rings placed 59 years ago remain on the aging fingers, symbols of vows honored.

Today I witnessed love tangible.

Home and Family Defined

When he contemplated the transition to a time of ministry, my world shifted a bit.  I would not grow old in this farmhouse that had housed my family while they grew.  After the initial realization that we would be moving to places unknown, it was actually not so hard to let go.

Home is really family – and to some degree – my stuff.  Some moves have been exciting – a bigger, newer home, or even a transition to a new state.  One move was more stressful than the others.  We were leaving home and friends far away, knowing no one in this new place, living in a small rental home that needed some cleaning and painting, and four small ones to keep occupied within its walls – while a husband worked in a very stressful new job.

When we moved to the farmhouse, it felt permanent – but it was not.  (photo above from a recent trip down memory lane – in its present state of “decay”)

But I have been blessed in that each move has been the result of a choice, and with an intact family.  When we left the farmhouse to enter a parsonage – it was not “my” home, but it was.  The people in it were my family and my family is home.

This last home has grown quiet and feels a bit empty with daughters and niece no longer there.  It has emptied out to just two – and although it seems to have trouble with maintaining that number, this time it just may last.

A house is a house – a family is home.