"For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven." Ecclesiastes 3:1

As the glorious, summer days swiftly fade into crisp, autumn ones, I am grateful for this past season of my life. I learned more about God, my husband and myself this summer than I ever expected or imagined. I experienced a full spectrum emotions:  anger, disappointment, sadness, hopefulness, forgiveness, joy, and gratitude. This season in our lives and in our marriage taught me that the things I work to build in my own strength will only fail, because "He has made everything beautiful in its time" (Ecclesiastes 3:11). I learned that this does not read, "I can make everything beautiful in MY time." Fortunately, life doesn't work that way. Just imagine if it did. 

As I mentioned in my last post, Brian and I spent a few months apart this summer to gain some perspective. While it was a difficult time for the two of us, I thoroughly enjoyed spending time with many of the people I am blessed to call my family. Brian came to Georgia at the end of July, and it was a precious time of healing and reconciliation for us. Since that time I can honestly say that I experience joy in a way I never did before. I'm not talking about the kind of "happiness" or "self-esteem" the world would want us to believe we should have. Rather, I have the kind of joy that comes from not knowing what tomorrow will hold but knowing full well the One who holds it.

With this newfound joy and gratitude for what God has done, I hopped a plane in early August eagerly anticipating my return home to Brian (and, I'll be honest, I was as excited to see The Chief). But when I arrived home, nothing sounded better to me than my bed. And that was the first place I went. When I didn't get out of bed for the first week, I chalked it up to jet lag. Around the second or third week I started to suspect that something else was seriously wrong. Was I depressed? I didn't think so. Was this narcolepsy? I hoped not! Brian tried his best to coax me out of my sleepy stupor with dinner, salsa dancing, and movies, but I wouldn't budge. I was seriously considering moving my bed into the kitchen - that whole two birds with one stone thing - when I had a revelation...

Sunday, August 30, began the way most Sundays begin in the Morgan household. A little bit late and in a hurry so we wouldn't miss church. It's the story of my life, really. I rolled out of bed and jumped in the shower only to jump right back out as the urge came over me to...well...become ill. And I then did what I suspect every grown woman does after a moment like that. I said to my husband (who had promptly left the bathroom), "I need to call my mom!" Fortunately for her it was the middle of the night. Otherwise, I am certain she would have received this call:

Katy - "Mommy! I'm not feeling well..."
Pam -  (Long pause) "Who is this?"
Katy - "Do you seriously have to ask me this every time? It's your daughter...Katy!"
Pam - "Oh. What's wrong?"
Katy - "I just threw up." (Sniff, sniff)
Pam - "Well, what do you want me to do about it?"
Katy - "Nothing, I just wanted you to know."
Pam - "Oh. Well, thank you so much for informing me." 

Somehow, at 28 years of age, I still feel compelled to call my mommy every time I get sick. Call me crazy, but I believe it's just a bond some mothers and daughters instinctively have. The kind of bond that makes a grown woman say to her mother, "Sure, you cleaned me up my entire childhood, but you're not done yet!" The kind of bond that will one day cause an elderly mother to say to her daughter, "Guess what, you overgrown brat? It's payback time."

Unfortunately (or fortunately for mom), the miles and hours that separate us caused me to reconsider my compulsion to inform my mother of my every visit to the loo. So, I picked myself up by the bootstraps, and we made our way to church. Surprisingly, my rendezvous with the toilet that morning didn't leave me wondering what kind of flu bug I caught this time. Mainly because I felt absolutely FINE after the whole "incident" (Honestly, am I grossing y'all out yet? I promise there's a point to this story.). In fact, I could only think of ONE thing that would have caused that kind of momentary "sickness." That's when it occurred to me to freak out a bit. 

To be honest I was so distracted the entire service, and I couldn't wait to get back home. The suspense was unbearable. If only we hadn't been running late, I could have taken a pregnancy test before church. Must make a mental note to always leave time for unexpected things like sudden illness and peeing on a stick. 

Fortunately, I fake myself out every month, so we had a stockpile of pregnancy tests in the cabinet. I grabbed two of them - thoroughness is key when you're married to a pilot - and shut myself in the "loo" for approximately 6-8 minutes. I was disappointed when I couldn't quite determine if that second line was a figment of my imagination or an indication of a mini-me. I took the test to Brian who was as inconclusive as I was. I drank about a gallon of water and returned to the loo. When the second test displayed similar, inconclusive results, I was (as the Brits say) gutted. Why couldn't they make those things so that fireworks or confetti or something spews out when it's positive? Why does it have to be so confusing? 

With all this drama and uncertainly we found ourselves nearing teatime, and most of the stores around us close early on Sundays. If we were going to have any rest at all, we needed to know for certain. I needed a different kind of test. We found a convenience store in Bury St. Edmunds (about 25 minutes from our house) that was open a bit later on Sundays, so we quickly got ourselves and the Chief in the car to make it there before they closed. Again, my thorough husband insisted on two tests and I insisted on more to drink. I'm not a camel, for crying out loud!

Two minutes after returning home, I emerged from the loo with a huge smile on my face. Sure enough, the Brits know how to make a straightforward, no-nonsense pregnancy test. There was NO mistaking that second line. I didn't even need fireworks or the second test to prove it, but I went ahead and took it anyway for good measure. Brian (ever the cautious one) decided he was more reluctant to believe anything store-bought, so he suggested I go on base for an "official" test. Once again, our suspicions were confirmed, and we started to realize that if five pregnancy tests wouldn't convince us, nothing would. 

So, if our calculations (and the calculations of the nurse on base) are correct, my due date is April 22! I will most likely have a more accurate date once I have my first ultrasound in two weeks. What a wonderful time to have a baby in England. The flowers are blooming, the winter is waning, and the sun is hanging around a bit longer. I can hardly wait to meet Mini-Morgan (or G-baby as my father has already designated it). Whatever you want to call it, please just pray that this baby won't have me in the loo much longer. Oh, and who's the idiot who coined the phrase "morning sickness"? Try "all-day-every-day sickness." Must have been a man. A man without a clue. 

Excuse me, I need to go now...