The Whole Ultrasound Story.

I’m still in complete shock about our little baby.
We saw the little one wiggling on screen for us on Monday.
Baby Roque waved at us, wiggled little toes, sucked a thumb…
& it was the coolest moment of my whole life.
We saw a little heart beating oh-so-fast: 154 beats per minute.
We turned away from the screen as the sonographer typed the gender.
We anxiously waited as she wrote down,
“Congratulations, it’s a ……”

We took our envelope to the Brandon Mall, to Build-A-Bear.
We chose a bear. We explained our whole spiel to the lady who worked there.
We took two “record your own sound” boxes into the back room & we recorded:
“We love you, baby girl.” & “We love you, baby boy.”

We gave her both sounds & the envelope.
We went to make a birth certificate for the bear. We paid.
We got the bear (in the box) & went on our way.

We waited.
All day.
Seriously, like hours.

Then, we had our whole family piled into the living room.
My sister Laura on skype above the TV,
John, Dana, Papa Roque, my Dad,
James (shooting video of the whole thing), BJ, my Mom, Mama Roque, Peter & me.

We told them about our decision to find out the gender.
We told them about our plan to wait to find out until we could all find out together.
My Mom opened the box the bear was in.
Mama Roque took the bear out.
My Dad & Papa Roque prayed for our little one.
John made some jokes & then (FINALLY) pushed the button.
We heard:

We love you, baby…  Continue reading “The Whole Ultrasound Story.”

Why I Write. (Part Two)

Warning: I think this will be a long post, but I’m really hoping that it will be worth your time to journey with me.

Inspired by the last post, thanks to Dallas Clayton, here are my thoughts on why I (want to) write.

At some point during this fantastic friend and family filled weekend, I was sharing a teeny, tiny bit of my story and I noted that I was a Marketing major before Africa. And more importantly, that Africa totally wrecked my life, and now, that’s definitely not what I want to do or be.

If Africa changed everything, what do I want to do, who do I want to be, NOW?

A writer. Oh, how I do want to be a writer.


Later, as we were driving to Orlando to be with family, I told John about how strange that felt.
How it seems like maybe after Africa I should want to be a nurse or a teacher, or a missionary permanently.
And maybe that’s what people expect to hear when I tell that bit of my story.

Even though I considered those things, I know I want to be a writer. Why? Continue reading “Why I Write. (Part Two)”