The Greener Grass

Very recently I came across a father of a child with autism who enquired about the program I lead in Brooklyn.  That enquiry led to the discovery of his heartfelt blog, his personal journey as a father with an autistic child.  I went through several entries and admired his courage to be so open.

I knew one day I would have to write about this and so, after reading this father's blog, I have decided to talk about my only son, the love of my life.  My Aaron, my prince.

People often ask how we do it with Aaron.  The numerous drops of blood taken multiple times a day to check his sugar, the interrupted sleeps to make sure he's stable, night after night, every night for the last seven and a half years, in fact.  Some well wishers muse in the middle of manual injections and sigh, "I could never do what you guys do."  Then the shaking of the head.  "I don't know how you do guys do it.  I would never be able to do it."

As though in life, we're always handed a choice.  As though we had a chance to say, "No thanks, God.  I would never be able to do it.  Hand the child to someone else who can."

The truth is, life threw a curve ball and we've been swinging ever since.  If swinging is what it takes to keep the child we've been handed, then swing away is what we'll do.

When Aaron was diagnosed with Juvenile Type I Diabetes at barely two years old the nurse in the ER scolded  me when my chin trembled and I began to cry.  The needles and the beeping noises and the hustle and bustle of the emergency room were enough to make a grown up anxious, let alone a toddler.  She advised me to compose myself and smile at my boy and so, I did.  My often stoic husband collapsed on Aaron's bedside and he started to weep after I told him Aaron had diabetes. I told him gently to collect himself.

I never really cried over this unwanted life sentence.  I had been teary, a little sniffly at times in the beginning but I never really gave it the good cry it deserved.  Two years ago, however, I watched the Biggest Loser alone, in the dark, with no one else in the house.  A twelve year old boy with Type II Diabetes had lost weight and the Diabetes shed away with the pounds.  I looked at that boy with utter disdain.  The putrid taste of resentment settled in my mouth.  "You ate and ate," I said at the television.  "That's why you became a diabetic!"

And then, just like that, the angry tears flowed and then the anger, eventually, turned to agony.  And finally, after many years, I sobbed.  Aaron's pancreas had been destroyed by an autoimmune disease, not because he overate the sickness into his body.  He can't shed the diabetes simply by self-control and dieting.  He had nothing to do with bringing the disease into his life.  Life just dealt his little tiny body a bad blow and neither he nor us, his parents, had a choice or a say in the matter. I suppose I had been angry for a long time but I didn't know who to direct that anger to.  For the moment, the 12-year-old triumphant boy seemed a fair target.

There has been numerous hospital trips since that first ER visit and the occurrence of hyper and hypo glycemia has become a normal part of our lives.  And really, the finger sticks, the insulin shots, and the scampering for some sweets to keep Aaron from bottoming out and possibly seizing, are so engraved in our daily schedule that people's pity often confuse us.  Aaron's diabetes has become nothing more than a hiccup at this point.  He is, to both me and my husband and I'm sure his baby sister, anything and everything that is healthy and normal.

I think for years I did not give myself permission to be sad because when Aaron became sick I was a Peds nurse to a bedridden little boy who breathed through a trach and whose chance of any normalcy was nonexistent.  I thought, I have the greener grass.  I have no right to be heavy hearted.

And because our steps are always ordered by God, I eventually became a teacher to children with special needs, many with varying disabilities, from minor to severe, and I found multiple reasons to be grateful.

I continue to pray diligently for a cure but I think after that good cry a certain level of acceptance brought a sense of wholeness that had been absent in my heart for a long time. Our grass may never be greener to someone else but if good health means not having Aaron, then I'll take the diabetes any day.  Really, it's made Aaron who he is: uniquely compassionate, always saying prayers for the poor, and befriending the friendless.

I'll never forget what the mother of that little boy I treated said after Aaron was diagnosed.  "Ana, I have to give it to you.  I can't do what you do for your son.  I don't have the stomach for needles."  I remember looking at my patient, his bedridden little body, and being very dumbfounded.  For that mom, incredibly, her grass was greener.

I've met numerous parents since whose lives seemed marred by the presence of extreme disabilities and you could tell just by looking at them that while they hoped for better, they never wished to live on the other side of the fence.  Just like that father who blogs about his little boy, I know the challenges of fighting through a disease and waiting for either a miracle or a cure but just like him, I also know what it's like not to want a child different from my own.

You see, the grass on my lawn may not be the greenest but it is home and to me, no other place would do.

The Thing About Being Beautiful

In less than 8 weeks, I will be 38 years old.  I tell everyone I'm turning 40 because that announcement seem to elicit a gush of compliments, No way, you're gonna be 40? Omg, you don't look it at all! But when I become truthful and admit that on the first day of March I will be 38, the response is a bit different. Are you doing anything special?


I remember meeting a 32 year old when I was 17.  I thought she looked 50 and now when I see her pictures at that time, I realize that indeed, she looked 32.  I was young and anyone with crow's feet was old and old could never accompany beauty; they were antonyms of each other.  I look at teenagers with disdain now.  I think to myself, I know what some of you brats are thinking but one day you too will wake up and wonder why your chin is sagging as you gather loose strands of hair from the sink in pure panic!

If you've been following my blog you know by now that Sarah, the wife of Abraham, is supposedly the ultimate Virtuous Woman.  That is comforting considering that even at 60 she had kings and princes after her.  I often wonder if she just aged beautifully and really, really slowly or if she took some measures to staying beautiful.  The woman in Proverbs 31 sure sounds like she was aware of beauty---she arrayed herself in linen and lavender colors.  I mean, she was amazing in every area imaginable but she also knew the importance of being beautiful.

But really, who has time for facials, manis and pedis, and the salon?

Being a Virtuous Woman has this added pressure of self-care, of maintaining one's outward display of beauty.   Left up to me, I would simply pride myself with the beauty of "wisdom" that age provides.  I would walk around unbathed, go to the supermarket in oversized sweats, and never wash my hair.  Honestly, I can forgo the Halle Berry look but between the high blood pressure and the arthritis and the really crappy mornings, beauty has had to redefine itself. And really, I don't want to use getting older as an excuse to neglect myself all together.   Why should I constantly resent all these young celebrities on television that remind me that 40 is really not the new 20?

And so, tired of waking up every morning groaning as my joints crack and squeak and complain, mocking the absence of teenage youth, I have bought Billy Blanks Tae Bo on ebay.  How To Get Celebrity Fit.


It is a one hour exercise video that I started last night, committed to looking young and sensational, even if it kills me.  This is the modern day version of the Virtuous Woman's"linen and lavender." Trimmed abs and a youthful silhouette.  I was pumped.  I did the punches, the kicks, the jumping jacks.  I could see Billy Blanks.  I could hear Billy Blanks.  I was one with Billy Blanks.

I lasted 11.53 minutes.  I was gasping, sweating, and looking for my asthma pump.

That's it? My husband asked.  I sneered at Mr. P90X with his buffed arms and pecs and told him that I was pacing myself.  11 minutes the first night, 15 minutes the next, then 20, so on and so forth.

The reason why I couldn't do it tonight is because every joint in my body is aching, even that of my right pinky.  But there's always tomorrow night.  I will be sure to wear lighter clothing and to keep my asthma pump nearby.

The thing about being beautiful for me is that it does not want to come along easily on this uphill climb to age and so, I resent it.  I never knew that growing old gracefully meant panting like a dog in front of a video and hoping you didn't pull too many muscles, or that beauty and misery were very good friends.  I have a feeling that Sarah did not need Tae Bo but she also did not have to stress over super sized fast foods, air pollution, and Brooklyn drivers.

But alas I am aiming for the Virtuous Woman so I must be beautiful and achieve the "linen and lavender." And for me that means showering daily, cutting back on sodium, brownie deprivation, and a long lasting relationship with Billy Blanks.

What Resolution?

When I was a little girl, on New Year's Eve, I would take out a piece of paper and a pencil and write my resolutions.  I don't know what needed critical changing at 8 years old and really, no one required it of me, but I was an odd child and already very hard on myself.  Over the years when life piled on it's disappointments and cynicism replaced hopeful wonders, my resolutions found their way less and less on a paper and more and more in my head.

Quite frankly, I became disenchanted with years of failed and unfulfilled resolutions.  Nevertheless, I would come up with them anyway.  A new year, a new beginning.  I had faith in myself.

I don't know what happened this year.  I think Thanksgiving came too fast and Christmas came even faster.  When the New Year rang in, there were no fireworks or ecstatic reverie or your usual 3...2...1...Happy New Year!  The pastor was still talking about not being hung up on the past and midnight came without its due anticipated celebration.  By the time I got through 5 people to finally wish my husband Happy New Year, 2012 seemed to have come and gone.  Don't get me wrong.  It's not like I've ever celebrated the New Year outside of a church pew.  Every year was met in solemn or vibrant worship but in times past, there was always some level of excitement.  My cousins and I would glance over our shoulders to look at the giant clock at the back of the church and you could feel anticipation vibrating through the seats and whatever the preacher was doing, the rest of the congregation in silence chanted, 3...2...1...and hands would be squeezed and smiles would be exchanged and when the pastor released us from worship, people seemed to jump out of their seats to greet everyone with childish glee.

I don't know what happened this time.  Perhaps it was just me.  People said Happy New Year! and I smiled, yeah, yeah, same to you.  Happy New Year.

Maybe it's because 40 is around the corner.  Maybe because I'm carrying an extra 7 pounds into the new year.  Maybe it was because I was just exhausted.  Whatever it may be, I was unimpressed with 2012.  I went to the church bathroom and looked at myself in the mirror.  My God, I'm the New Year Grinch!

Today, while getting ready for a big family party, a day after the New Year, I drove to Costco and sat in the parking lot for a long time.  I watched people rushing to the warehouse--droves of them.  You would think the whole Staten Island was stocking up for a snowstorm.  I reflected on life, on 2011, on what it all means and everything seemed hazy and blurry.  And then I thought, I have got to join that drove or there will be no paper plates for this party!

"Be grateful," I heard myself say suddenly in a whisper.  "Be grateful for what you have."

I thought of the single mother who lost her 22 year old son two days after Christmas.  She has entered 2012 without her only son.  My husband had found me sobbing in front of the computer while I watched his video on Facebook and I kept repeating, "My God, why?  That poor mother.  That poor, poor mother!"

And so, that is my one and only resolution. This year, I want to be more grateful. I don't know if the rush of the season had stolen my holiday cheer but whatever the reason for my daze maybe, it is ultimately trivial and unimportant.

I want to be more grateful for everything that I have.  If I keep just that resolution penciled into my heart and mind, then 2012 is guaranteed to be a good year.

What's with the Attitude?

Because I'm blogging again and feel a certain level of accountability to my readers, I've been on guard when it comes to my impatience, my anger level, and my road rage.  And because that has all been kept in check or more honestly, suppressed, it's inevitable for all of that bad behavior to spew some place else.  After all, we all need an outlet.  I know a few who overeat, some who watch movies, preferably violent ones, a handful who cry, and a few, like myself, who take it out on the innocent.

"I said the Plaza on New Dorp, babe," I repeated, taking a deep breath.  My family and I were on the road on a Saturday to do some Christmas shopping on a budget.  I had heard about the 5 dollar and under store from my sister and since my Christmas List had close to fifty names, that store was going to be the one and only destination.

"There are two plazas in the area, babe," my husband also repeated, minus the deep breaths and the rolling of the eyes.  "I just need to know which one."

"I said it, remember? I said it three times.  The plaza where Aaron took Karate when he was four.  Remember?  Don't you remember the place?  We took him there every Saturday for a year, remember?  That plaza.  I said it.  Three times."

There are moments in my life when I find my own self unbearable and yet, for some reason beyond my own cosmic control, I keep plowing towards that despicable place until I've reached a point of no return.

My husband's jaws moved back and forth a little.  He didn't say anything but kept his eyes on the road and continued driving.  Now, you must understand who I'm married to.  I probably subconsciously started this blog toward Virtue because I am married to that alien-from-outer-space-are-you-for-real man?  I mean, my husband is Mr. Virtuous. I've refrained myself from writing about him so as not to incite jealousy from other husbands and perhaps other wives.  Honestly, I've refrained from writing about him to keep everyone from gasping, "What have you ever done to deserve Mr. Perfect?"  You would have to know him to fully appreciate what I'm saying and then you too, like some of my close friends and family, male and female, would sigh and say, "I want to marry him!"

That perfect man began signaling to make a turn into the wrong street away from that plaza "where Aaron had taken Karate when he was four years old for a year."

"Where are you going?" I said.  "The plaza over there!"  I was pointing now.  "The plaza over there where Aaron took Karate for a year.  Don't you remember?"

"Babe, I remember."

"Then why are you turning here?"  Exaggerated sighs.  Sucking teeth.  Eyes rolling like an exorcist.

"You said to go to Dr. Broillet's office.  That was the way to his office."

I had a rebuttal, of course.  But even I can't write that rebuttal now because it makes me want to go back into the past and slap that nagging wife senseless.

My husband's face became grim, a rare occurrence and I took note of it.  He kept driving, this time in restrained silence.  I kept talking, like most wives who deserve a time-out chair.  My husband finally spoke.  I could think whatever I wanted to think, he said.  There was obviously a miscommunication somewhere.  And no, it wasn't true.  He was listening.  I was often guilty of the same thing--listening but not hearing correctly.  I didn't want him to start listing my offenses.

I wasn't yelling.  My voice wasn't even raised but my tone and my dripping sarcasm disturbed my 9-year-old son.  He chimed in and echoed his Dad.  Mom, it's not a big deal, ok?

We pulled in the parking lot and my mind began to race.  I looked at my husband.  This wasn't a matter of right and wrong.  I had been demeaning, speaking to my husband like he suffered from cerebral coma.  Over what?  Over driving directions.  Over a wrong turning signal.  I had been under some stress at work and my patience ran extremely thin but my attitude was inexcusable.

I grew up in a home filled with constant bickering, sharp arguments and full blown fights.  I never heard my parents apologize to each other, although perhaps behind closed doors they did.  I grew up in an environment where saying "I'm sorry" and admitting you're wrong were foreign and uncomfortable.  And the hardest thing for me to do, to this day, is apologize.

I looked at my husband again and thought, this was a silly disagreement.  It was no big deal.  But it could be a seed of resentment that I am unintentionally planting in his heart and should another disagreement come around, and of course it will, I could water that seed.  I suppose that's how some marriages fail.  A collection of small little nonsense that turn into a field of bitterness and unforgiveness.

"Babe," I said softly, holding back my husband's hand from unlocking his seatbelt.  "I'm sorry.  I'm sorry for being so snotty.  I'm sorry for having an attitude."

My husband's face relaxed.  He looked at me, his eyes had immediately softened.  He chuckled.  "Yea, what's with the attitude?"

"I'm stressed!" I said, throwing my hands up in the air in an exaggerated, melodramatic way.  My husband and my children all giggled.

Stress was okay, my husband said.  He would like to be the stress reliever and not my punching bag.  My husband is known for  his "sayings" and I thought he would quote some famous phrase in French.  But he didn't.  He just smiled and shook his head at me.  I apologized again and in a child-like voice I told him I wanted to be like him when I grew up.  He was amazing.  How did he become so amazing? He was my Mr. Virtuous.

My husband shook his head and got out of the car.  Compliments make him uncomfortable.  "Stop that nonsense, " he said.  "We all just have to control ourselves and watch what we say."

And that's the challenge.  Controlling ourselves and watching what we say.  Relieving our stress in a healthy manner and not using the innocent, our espouse or children, as punching bags.

Thank God for a good man.  Left on my own, I just might self-destruct.

Just one kidney, please

I walked in yesterday on what seemed to be a rather emotionally charged conversation on the phone between my assistant and who I assumed was a friend and I immediately closed the door to the office and gave her some privacy.  "Anna Marie, no," she called out, trying to summon me back into the office but I made my way to our make-shift cafeteria that could fit approximately two malnourished adults and waited.  She followed me and explained that it was her mother on the phone.  A friend was dying.  His situation seemed hopeless.  He needed a kidney.

"He can't find anyone to give him one," she said, clearly concerned.  Then she went on to explain that he did not want a kidney from his children or his nephews and nieces and his wife and siblings were far too unhealthy to be donors.  "He won't do dialysis.  He'd rather die."

We continued to talk about the situation, the pro's and con's.  Pro's that a kidney could extend his life another 20 years.  Con's that his blood type was rare and a match was virtually impossible.

"And really, he can't find anyone in his family that could give him a kidney."

We reflected on this horrid, horrid situation then asked each other honestly if we would be willing to volunteer a kidney to a family member?  It's a very painful procedure and you, as a donor, would have to take medications for the rest of your life.

"I'd do it for my Dad," she said.  "If he were still alive and he needed one, I would do it in a heartbeat."

Forever the psychosomatic, I immediately put myself in the shoes of the ill.  "No one would give me a kidney, I  don't think."

My assistant laughed, as my staff often do when I make random comments.  "Your husband would!"

Yes, he would, I mused.  But I really didn't think anyone else would.  I combed through the closest people in my life and thought about the sacrifice a kidney would take and the more I thought about it, the more convinced I became that placed in the same awful situation I would probably be left spending everyday on my knees making amends with my Maker to secure a spot in heaven.

"He should just go to Europe or something and make the best of his last days, " I said.  "I know that's what I would do."  And then I pictured myself becoming very ill in the middle of Paris, dying somewhere in the Louvre, unable to say goodbye to everyone I loved.  I would be buried in France without a tombstone.  Maybe staying local would be the safer move.

I thought about a handful people I knew.  People who would probably get a line of donors should they find themselves in such a terrible state.  What made them so special?  What made everyone just absolutely and positively love them enough to do whatever it would take to keep them around?

Later that day, while on the BQE, where my deepest thoughts often take place, I thought about the Virtuous Woman.  Would Sarah have gotten a kidney immediately?  Not from Hagar, of course not, but I wondered if she were surrounded by people who would fight each other over that sacrifice.  Yes, she clearly was surrounded by admirers and a husband who adored her, but did she have a circle of family and friends who would do whatever it would take to keep her around?

That's the problem with strength, I thought to myself.  You get too strong to need anyone's help.  And even if you did need it, you would be too proud to ask.  Ah, the problem again with vulnerability!

I remember crying at 18 and a family member walked in on me, stood, and watched me cry.  Then he closed the door and I heard him chuckle, "How the mighty has fallen!"  My God, it's been that long.  I've had such a reputation for so long!

Who gives a kidney to the mighty?

It's this balance between strength and vulnerability that I find most challenging.  And I keep wondering, did the Woman of Virtue have a soft side?  Did she ever seem to others in need of anything?  Surely she wasn't a complaining, bemoaning drama queen who wallowed in self pity but my Lord, was she ever vulnerable enough to need someone in order to stand on her own two feet even for just a moment?

I opened my wallet to locate a phone number this afternoon after pulling in my driveway and noticed a heart on my driver's license.  I'm a donor.  I giggled at the irony.  I had forgotten about that.  Someday my heart may beat for someone else, my pancreas may save a diabetic little boy, and my kidneys...my kidneys may add another 20 years to a dying man.

That's it, I thought.  You can't spend your days reflecting on what can be done for you.  You must always be in the state of readiness to do for someone else.  And should the moment come when you find yourself in an unfortunate, hopeless bind, help will come to you perhaps in more ways than you could have ever imagined.  Mighty or not, someone will step up to the plate.  It's the law of nature, I suppose.  Virtue begets virtue.

And the very fact that I can't seem to imagine a line of people offering their kidneys tells me that I have a long way to go to be that Virtuous Woman.  Because strength and accomplishment and bravery alone could not have made her virtuous.  Goodness, kindness, mercy and meekness are all characteristics of virtue.  And if you have all of that, very few around you would hesitate to hand you their kidney in a heartbeat.

I need to get to that place.

Falling Off the Wagon

The last time I was on this blog, I made a proclamation--an epiphany--that I, indeed, may already be the Virtuous Woman described in Proverbs 31.  That, no, I no longer needed to strive to be Elizabeth because I am, alas, already her!  And here I am, nearly 6 months later, my joints rustier, my mornings chaotic, and my prayer life shameful.  But that's really not why I decided to get back on the wagon, a wagon that had gone nowhere since I stopped blogging, freed from the sense of accountability from a surprising amount of readers that spanned across the United States and extended overseas.  I remember lazy mornings where I reluctantly pulled myself from my warm bed to pray and exercise knowing that there were people, friends, families, and complete strangers following me in my journey towards Elizabeth--to that difficult, challenging place of perfection.  I am sooo far from that place.  But alas I'm back because I need Elizabeth to spring me not only back on my feet but to keep my attitude in check.

I think it may be approaching 40--all of this hormonal change, or perhaps an early sign of menopause, God forbid, that has me recently on an extremely crabby mood.  I mean, crabby as in don't-look-at-me-or-I-just-might-throw-this-zucchin-at-you in the supermarket.  And I can't even tell you the thoughts that run through my head when the Verrazzano is jammed early in the morning and I'm desperately trying to get to work on an alternate side parking day in Brooklyn.  There are some people that should just not be driving out there--atleast not on the Verrazzano or the Belt, or Ocean Parkway.  There should be laws against driving in NYC if you're a highway phobic.  Because then women like me who are striving to remain Godly endanger the possibility of entering the pearly gates.

Have you ever been so annoyed that you want to crawl out of your own skin?  That's where I am.  And it seems as though no amount of buying new boots or drinking Starbucks coffee or sneaking to finish off some stale Halloween chocolates can simmer me down.  The awful thing is, I can't come up with a legitimate reason for the irritability and the last time I went to the doctor my blood pressure was so high he told me to take up Yoga.  Then, he thought better of it.  He knew about my inflexible joints.  "Maybe just stretch," he said.  "And walk.  Walking is good.  Yoga you can do much later."  And because I am psychosomatic, that night I told my husband I was having a heart attack.  "I have high blood pressure.  It can lead to a heart attack."  My husband wasn't sure what to make of this asymptomatic myocardial infarction so he said, "See your doctor in the morning."  I told him I would be dead by then.  

That was two months ago.  And I'm sure my blood pressure is steadily rising.

So today, while driving home from church I thought, "My God, I need Elizabeth.  I need to get back on the wagon and snap out of this."  

Then I thought of Sarah, the epitome of Virtue and I wondered if she dealt with anger, justified or not.  And then I remembered how angry she had gotten over Ishmael and Hagar; she was so "wroth" that she coldly sent them off to the wilderness, not caring what would become of them.  She had felt insulted and undermined in her own home and, wildly angry, she sent her husband's concubine and young son packing to some undetermined destination.

Maybe that wasn't the exact passage I needed to remember to simmer me down.  But whatever Sarah's case maybe, her anger, we later find out, was God-ordained.  It was instrumental to fulfilling what would become of Ishmael and Isaac.

I doubt my irritability has the same purpose of equal epic proportion.  

I really do think I just need to start praying more...to start organizing my day...to start, again, striving for goodness and kindness and love and oh, that foreign word in a place like NYC, long-suffering...

So here I am, climbing back on this wagon, planning for an early morning rise tomorrow, a moment of prayer, a few minutes of stretching, and the slow, steady ascent back towards virtue.  Pray for me.

A Less Than Perfect Life

I was riding in the car of a good friend once when he sincerely told me, "I used to be so jealous of your life.  But I see all these things that you go through and I realize I would be destroyed if I were you.  So, thank God for my life."  I remember laughing and then stopping quickly and saying dryly, "Gee, thanks."

I stayed quiet in that short ride but I knew what he meant.  I am not unfamiliar to heartfelt compliments: You have such a good marriage. You're so talented. Your children are beautiful. But I think those who know my life well enough know to stop short of completely envying what I have and wishing they wore my size 7 shoes. 

For 3 months now I've wanted to be Elizabeth, the name I've given to the Virtuous Woman.  But when I look closely at her life I think to myself, "Why in the world would you want that?"  Sure, Elizabeth was above all honorable ones and she was wise and well favored and beautiful.  Beautiful.  I think of how lovely Bathsheba, the inspiration for Proverbs 31, must have been.  A righteous king followed his animal instincts, murdered, and shamed himself because of her.  An older man once asked my husband, "Who can resist a beautiful woman?"  Not King David, apparently.  And neither could any king who caught a glimpse of Sarah, the supposed real representation of the Virtuous Woman.  Every king in every city wanted her and poor Abraham had to lie and deny that she was his wife for fear of his own life. (It is no wonder I am never going to be the Virtuous Woman.  It has been ages since I was found irresistible by a king! So long now that the memory of it has escaped me.)

But as I wrote in detail in Blog 5, Bathsheba, I think might have lived a life of quiet desperation.  Of course I could be wrong.  She might have spent everyday in blissful hysteria but I highly doubt it.  One thing I'm sure of, however, is that Sarah agonized for more than a decade about not having a child.  For everything that she was, her beauty, her wisdom, her uniqueness, she experienced a sense of isolation and desperation that only barreness could bring.  She must have felt lacking as an individual despite the accolades thrown her way because she failed to do what is expected of a woman--give birth. No wonder she was so bitter towards Hagar.  A servant easily did what she, a woman of Valour, was powerless to do. And I think to myself, does Virtue and suffering come hand in hand?  Why would I want Elizabeth's life for all that she had if it included all her suffering?  But sometimes I wonder if perhaps I am not already Elizabeth.

On that particular ride with this good friend, his sentiment about my life, though ill-timed, was understandable.  We were, after all, on the way to Columbia Hospital to see my little girl who was fighting for her life.  And I suppose no one would have wanted to trade places with me in that exact moment. My friend had been there by our side when my husband lost his job from a Fortune 500 company and we struggled for the next year and a half living on an impoverished budget in a cramped apartment good only for anyone under five foot ten.  And then, amidst the struggle, our son, our firstborn at a year and half was diagnosed with Diabetes.

I am not unfamiliar to suffering.  That much I have in common with the Woman of Valour. 

But I must admit that Proverbs 31 also describes a woman whose life seemed to be surrounded by love, filled with substance, and full of blessings.  And this too, I have in common with the Woman of Valour.  I am reminded of this right now as we get ready for our nightly family devotion.  I have a son whose diabetes have not made him any less confident, any less talented.  He started reading at the age of 3 and just ended 3rd grade the top of his gifted class.  I have a daughter whose beauty draws instant favour and whose life, whose miraculous life, is an immeasurable gift in itself.  And I am married to a man other men admire and wish to become and after 10 years of marriage, he still adores and worships the ground I walk on and we still share a love that is deep and unshakeable.

I am not unfamiliar to suffering but indeed my life is surrounded by love, filled with substance and full of blessings.

I am beginning to wonder if perhaps I may just be living the life of a Virtous Woman.