Launch Day for JOY ACTIONS!!

Wow. The day is FINALLY here! My book Joy Actions is finally ready to be read by an audience! I am beyond excited, nervous, full of joy, and scared out of my mind! LOL. This book has been a true labor of love from start to finish, not just in the writing of it, but especially in the living of it. My prayer warriors and I have been praying over it and we continue to do so. My heartfelt prayer is that it will bless those who read it and point them to my Jesus. 

While I am excited beyond measure, the whole month of March, especially March 16 & 17, is difficult. Twenty-one years may have passed since we first heard the words, "There's no heartbeat," but these are the days when it feels as if every year, every month, every day, every hour, every minute, every second of the past 21 years fall away as if they were nothing. My heart aches even while it soars to new heights.

Yes, I have written a book about joy--choosing joy, but that does not mean that doing so is easy or that it has been easy over the years. I have days when I am easily able to choose joy when I see God's glory in every speck of dust. But during the month of March, I have days when choosing joy is more challenging than holding my breath for longer than a few seconds.

While the rest of the world is focused on this coronavirus and all that is going on with it, all I can think about is how twenty-one years ago, I was lying in a hospital wondering why in the world I had to deliver my baby who was already silent. And I'm excited about the fact that my very first book is published and available for mass reading. 

*sigh*

I hope that you will pray for me especially during this difficult time. 

I hope that you will pray for my book to a blessing to all who read it.

I also hope that you will buy my book and read it! 

Much love to all,
PollyAnna Joy

Joy Actions is available both with and without illustrations (by Jan Lindie) and in a Kindle version: https://smile.amazon.com/Joy-Actions-PollyAnna/dp/1710720301/ref=sr_1_1?keywords=Joy+Actions&qid=1584400511&sr=8-1

James Isaac: My "Laughter"

In early 1999, I went back east where my friends and family gave me a wonderful baby shower. I received so many wonderful, thoughtful gifts. There were a few hand-made blankets as well as the typical diaper bags, diapers, diaper cream, and other wonders. It was a wonderful, joyous time of celebration as we all prepared to greet the new little life growing inside me.

Because of all the ultrasounds that I had to have, it was impossible not to know the sex of our baby. Yes, we were having a boy! Even before I had gotten pregnant, I knew that our baby would be named James Isaac. James after his daddy.  Isaac because in the Bible, Isaac is the son of Abraham and Sarah’s promise that they had waited most of their lives for. Not only was James Isaac the son of the promise God had given us, but he was also our little Laughter. Remember, Sarah laughed when God told her that she would have a baby at almost a hundred years old. So when the baby was born, she named him Isaac, meaning “laughter.”

So much about my wonderful baby gave me such wonderful moments of Laughter. Besides, I had always loved to laugh and after suffering from deep depression for a few years, I needed every reason possible to laugh. I was trying so hard to allow God to work in my life and make me His instrument. Being pregnant with my first very beloved, desired, and wanted baby gave me back the laughter that I had been so desperately needing.

I was in about my 36^th week of my pregnancy when the doctor told us that our beautiful baby boy, James Isaac, hadn’t turned yet. He was breech. The doctor spent almost an hour explaining to my husband and me that if James Isaac hadn’t turned by the time I went in for my next appointment the following week, he would have to admit me to the hospital and turn the baby manually.

            I had never heard of such a thing, so we had a lot of questions, the biggest being why would I have to be admitted to the hospital.

            The doctor assured us that they did procedures like that often enough that they knew what they were doing, but yes, there was a high risk that I could go into premature labor. I was far enough along that they were confident the baby would be whole and healthy, but if the baby could stay in and “percolate” (my term, I think) until at least my 38^th week, they’d prefer that. 

I thought it was strange that a week and a few days would make such a difference, but I trusted the

doctors, so I was given a steroid shot as well as the shot new mothers get when their blood type is A negative. My husband and I left, assured that they were telling us what was best for the baby—and me.

            That very evening, I was lying back on the couch, trying to get some rest, when I watched my belly as my beloved James Isaac obviously rolled over into the position he was supposed to be in. I watched his little butt sticking up out of my belly, almost as if it was standing on my back and leaning over, and then it moves from my lower to upper belly! I saw a foot poking out where I could clearly see the imprint, including toes!

There is nothing in the world as wonderful and amazing as having a life grow and move inside of you. We women truly are blessed to be able to hold God’s beloved children inside our bodies. It was such an honor being the temporary home for my precious child. I loved being pregnant.

            Don’t get me wrong, now. By my 38^th week, I was like many other pregnant women who couldn’t wait for the baby to “get out!” We are anxious for the birth in part because being pregnant really is exhausting, but also because we simply cannot wait to hold our Precious in our arms.

            Five or six days after James Isaac turned on his own, I was in class at school when I felt James Isaac drop. I immediately raced to the bathroom because I felt as if I really need to go. When I got there, though, nothing happened. Nothing at all. I was dry as a bone. I thought that was strange considering what I had just felt and the desperate need I’d had to go to the bathroom, but I made my way slowly back to the classroom and finished out the day.

            I thought seriously about calling my doctor’s office, but I had an appointment scheduled for the very next day. I figured if James Isaac had dropped into place unless I was having pains, I might as well wait for the appointment.

            I didn’t worry. 

Why would I worry? Everything had gone so well with my surgery just a few months earlier; there was no reason to worry. James Isaac had turned and dropped. He had done what he was supposed to do. It wouldn’t be long before I would be in full-blown labor.

            I couldn’t wait.          

            In the doctor’s office, I was stripped from the waist down, waiting for the doctor to come in to do his exam to see how close we were to delivery. The nurse came in to listen to the baby’s heartbeat.

            I loved listening to James Isaac’s heartbeat. It was one of my favorite sounds in the world. I always hated that we only listened for a few moments.

            Rather than the fast woosh-woosh-woosh-woosh that we had been hearing for the past six months when we’d listen to James Isaac’s heartbeat, all we heard as she placed that monitor on my belly was a slow, methodical ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum. 

            My heartbeat.

            Not the baby’s.

            She moved the monitor to find a better position in order to hear the baby.

            Still mine.

            The nurse said that she was going to get a different monitor because that one didn’t seem to be working very well. She said something about maybe even letting the doctor listen to get the baby’s heartbeat.

            As soon as she left, I looked at my husband, “Something’s wrong.”

            “What do you mean? She said there’s something wrong with the monitor,” he tried.

            “No, that was my heartbeat we were listening to. We should have easily heard the baby’s heartbeat. We’ve never had any trouble hearing the baby’s heartbeat.”

            “Let’s just wait and see what the doctor says. I don’t think that nurse knows what she’s doing.”

            “No, she knows what she’s doing. There’s something seriously wrong.”

            Deep breath.

            Deep breath.

            You can do it, Polly. Just breathe. Wait until the doctor comes in. He’ll tell you what’s going on. Maybe it’s just what happens when the baby drops and it’s time for labor to begin. It’s going to be okay.

            Lord, help us: “But when I am afraid, I will put my trust in you” (Psalm 56:3, NLT).

            The doctor came in with another monitor and immediately put it on my belly. He said “hello,” but normally he was more talkative. I knew he was concerned.

            Again, we heard ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum…ba-bum… mine, not the baby’s.

            He didn’t take long, “Let’s go downstairs and have an ultrasound. We’ll find that baby,” attempting to sound more confident than he looked.

            I knew.

            I didn’t need the ultrasound to make it so.

            I knew.

            It was over.

            But I went downstairs as asked, laid down on the ultrasound table, and let them do the ultrasound.

            There it was on the screen—as obvious and real as the sound of the screams that were choking me. A heart not moving.

            James said something about it not being real.

            I looked the doctor in the eye and I choked out, “You fix it.”

            “Oh, Polly. I would if I could. I am so sorry,” he patted my shoulder gently.

            “Can we have a second opinion?” James broke in.

            “If you want,” the doctor said as he left us for a few minutes to go get one of the other doctors in the group. 

            We had seen this second doctor before so we knew him.  We trusted him, too.

            It didn’t take long for him to verify what the first doctor had found.

            A different doctor couldn’t change what wasn’t there on that screen. He couldn’t make the baby’s heartbeat any more than our first doctor could.

            The doctor told us our options: he would have to induce my labor so I would have the baby naturally (yes, that means vaginally) but he needed to know whether we wanted to do it right away or wait a day or so.

            James wanted to wait, but I told the doctor that there was no waiting; we would do it right away.

The arrangements were made for me to go straight across the street and be admitted to the hospital. 

            As we were leaving the doctor’s office, the doctor asked me if we should call someone. (This was pre-cell phone days, mind you.) I told him that we probably ought to call my parents but that the call would be long distance. He told me not to worry about that, so we called my mom and dad.

            Mom wasn’t home yet. 

Dad answered the phone.

            “Praise the Lord, Kinseys!” Dad answered exuberantly, as he always did.

            “Daddy? Oh, daddy,” I sobbed.

            And he knew.

            “Is James there with you? Hand him the phone.”

            And James explained that we were going straight across the street to be admitted to the hospital and the doctor was going to induce my labor and that yes, I would have to deliver the baby naturally.

            I guess Dad told James that they would be on their way as soon as they could.

            I was given a room in the hospital in the far back corner, as far away from the mothers on the floor whose babies were crying and cooing. 

            The doctor induced my labor and the wait began.

We learned that there was no heartbeat on March 16, 1999.

James Isaac was born on March 17, 1999.

I can’t even begin to tell you how long my labor lasted except to say that I was induced in the early evening and James Isaac was born early the next morning. 

            Mom, Dad, Katie, and Baba (my grandma) arrived late that first evening. I noticed almost immediately that my mom had a nasty bruise on her wrist. It looked like a hand wrapped around her wrist. She told me that when she had gotten home from work (apparently just a few minutes after we had spoken to my dad), she had walked in and immediately began talking about what they needed to do for the evening and what she had to do for supper and just talking a mile a minute so that Dad was unable to get a word in edge-wise. To get her attention, he had grabbed her wrist. In his anxiety for me, his daughter, he grabbed her much harder than he’d intended or meant to, leaving a hand-shaped bruise wrapped around Mom’s wrist like a bracelet.

My brother and his family came, as well. My youngest nephew, Nate, was only about four months old at the time. We had all been looking forward to having cousins close in age.  

            I was on some pretty powerful drugs that let me sleep through most of my labor, but I was half awake and half asleep off and on throughout the long night. One time I was in between awake and asleep and I knew the doctor was in the room talking with my family. I remember hearing my Baba say that in spite of everything, I looked really good. 

            I also remember my sister sharing with the doctor the story of how she was there to help me after my cyst surgery, but that she was unable to help me when I went to the bathroom. She told him how she’d brought me a spatula.

            In spite of the circumstances, it was still funny.

            It was a surreal moment for me and I wasn’t even fully awake.

            I can only imagine what things were like for my family as they waited and watched.

            Once it was time for me to begin pushing, the doctor realized that the bed I was in was not a break-away bed. I had never heard of such a thing, but apparently, the maternity wards have beds that come apart special for delivery so the Mom can stay in the same bed for both labor and delivery. My doctor was really upset, but he didn’t have time to worry about it. He had to make do with what he had. I was too far dilated and ready to deliver. There wasn’t any more waiting.

            He propped me up on towels the best he could and told me to push when I felt a contraction.

            It did not take too terribly long once I started pushing and my beloved James Isaac was born.

            I couldn’t see, but I listened as the doctor counted as he unrolled the cord from around my sweet son’s neck.

            One.

            Two.

            Three.

            Four.

            I don’t know where it stopped. It was already too much. My husband has said that he heard (and saw) six times. My mom says she remembers the doctor saying seven. Even one was too many. 

            We had our “why.”

            It didn’t make it any easier.

            As soon as the baby was wrapped in his blanket and wiped off a little bit, he was laid on my chest. His precious body was still warm from being snug inside me where my body had been unable to keep him safe.

            He fit in my arms on my breast as if he had been created just to fit right there snuggled against me. 

I loved how he felt.

            My husband and I were not aware of the doctor as he finished removing the afterbirth, stitching me up, and getting me cleaned up.  My husband leaned over me and our baby and we cried as we felt the warmth quickly seeping from the little body in spite of the warm blanket.

            All too soon, the nurse came to take my son away. 

            I slept.

            The nurses brought my son into the room over the next day or so whenever they could.  I was not able to hold him much as I was very weak and in a lot of pain—and on a lot a pain medication.

            I had blood drawn what felt like every hour on the hour. I’m sure it wasn’t that often, but it felt like it. And every single time, it hurt. Bad. I cried it hurt so bad. I couldn’t help but wonder why she was hurting me considering what I had just been through.

            I tried to ask her to stop, but all she said was that she was following orders.

            A friend of mine had come up to see me.  She was a CNA (Certified Nurse’s Assistant); she spoke to the blood nurse and told her to come back at a different time. When the blood nurse left, my friend had my nurse call my doctor and speak to him about all the blood being drawn.

            I did not have any more blood drawn while I was in the hospital.

            (My doctor even apologized later when I saw him in his office. He said that it was simply what he normally did in such situations, but if he had known how much it was hurting me, he would have ordered them to stop drawing blood much sooner. I wonder if that helped him in future situations.)

            James and I both attempted to hold our James Isaac whenever we could. Because of the damage to his neck, we had to be especially careful, so rather than pass him from hand to hand, the nurse actually put our baby on a pillow to be held and transported more easily.

            I sat in my bed, watching my husband as he fell apart—weeping and sobbing—with our son in his arms as the nurse put her arms around the two of them. It took me a while, but I finally was able to get out of the bed and wobble over to take the nurse’s place. 

            The last time we saw and held our beloved baby, I asked whoever was in the room, “Can I kiss him?”

           Can you believe I felt the need to ask such a question? Why wouldn’t I be able to kiss my own son? But I had no idea what we were allowed to do and what we weren’t allowed to do in such a situation. No one came to offer suggestions or to tell us it was ok to love on him just as if…..well, just as if…..

            So I kissed his precious little cheek—his perfect cheek—and laid him back in the bassinet to be removed by the nurse for the last time. 

            It was horrible.

            My husband and I left the hospital that day—just the two of us in a car that had been prepared to be taking home a baby. We went to a home that had been prepared for a baby—baby bed, baby clothes, toys, diapers, bottles, a rocking chair. 

            It was horrible.

            And we still had a funeral we had to get through.

           

            On the day of the funeral, we arrived at the funeral home for a receiving (there would be no viewing) that we had just an hour or so before the actual funeral. I walked into the room where my son’s body was in a tiny box and made a bee-line for that box. I stood before my son’s box and would have crumpled to the floor in my grief had it not been for the loving arms of my mom. She held me up as I wept.

            She finally led me to a chair and the people began filing in. One after another. The line seemed endless. 

            Every single one of my students had come. They were all there.

            I learned later that they were told they had to go to school and were not allowed to leave for the funeral, but every single one of them—and their parents—said that they were going to the funeral and that is exactly what they did.

            While I don’t condone defiance or rebellion, I have to admit that their devotion to me rather than to

the rules warmed my heart as so little at that terrible time did. Even now, fifteen years later, it warms my heart more than I can express in words.

            My doctors came. 

            James, my husband—our baby’s daddy—preached the funeral. All I remember about it was that he kept saying over and over, “I now know the meaning of life. I know now the meaning of life.” I’m still not sure exactly what he meant by that, but it’s what I remember that he said.

            I also remember that during the actual funeral—it was outside at the grave so it was a combined graveside service and funeral, a tiny spider was crawling on my arm and my sister—who is DEATHLY afraid of spiders (if only I could make you understand just how severe her fear is…), swiped it off my arm and killed it—just as calm as you please.

            She had never before and has never since been even half that calm when she sees a spider. It was another surreal moment that stands out amongst all the horrific memories of that time because it was just so odd and unusual as well as so out of character for my sister.

            After the service, we were told to wait because there were people who had not yet had a chance to speak to us. We had a second receiving after the funeral and spoke not only to those we hadn’t spoken to prior to the service as well as many who just wanted to hug our necks a second time.

            It was a long time we had to stand there, but every single person who walked by hugged me and told me how much he/she loved me. In spite of the fact that I was still in a lot of pain and worried about my breasts leaking, it was worth the time and effort it took to keep standing. 

I needed the love.

            Over the next several months, I did whatever I had to do—no more or less. I finished the school year, but the end of that year is a fog. I know I did not work over the summer months, but the only thing I remember is being in my pajamas—a lot. I think I still showered for Sunday services, but beyond that, I don’t think I left the house or showered. 

            I counted down the days—six months—until we could begin trying to have another baby. I lived for the day when the doctor would say that my body had healed enough and we could begin trying.

            This is when I first truly began to feel trapped as if in a deep, dark cave, so dark and so deep that I couldn’t see my hand in front of my face. I was completely alone and scared out of my mind. I had no idea which direction to go to get out of my dark cave. There wasn’t even a pin-prick of light to give me a hint as to where to go.  I had fallen multiple times and had bumps, scrapes, bruises, and pains that made every movement simply unbearable. 

            I made a very conscious decision to sit down on a rock in my cave and stay right there without moving because moving only hurt…..for a very long time.

Living in Darkness after Child Loss

It Will Be Well

You know, it is not easy to get to a point where I can say “It is well with my soul” after all I have been through. There have been times when it was not well with my soul. My soul was screaming out in pain, as if it had been stabbed repeatedly with great violence. I wondered if I would ever be able to say again that it was well with my soul.

How does one find the ability to be well, deep in her soul, after suffering a stillbirth and then two miscarriages? The loss of each baby took a part of my soul. My heart was ripped out with each loss. My wounded soul was slashed open after just healing from the last loss. The scars that each loss has left on my soul make it very tender, sensitive, and easily cracked open again.

I am no longer whole because three parts of me were torn away—buried. One in the cold, dark, damp earth. Cleaved from my womb only to be taken straight into a darkness that mirrored my soul. Two others were not even given a chance at experiencing life since they were destroyed even as my very inner being cried out for their light to be able to shine.

Darkness overcame my soul and for a very long time, I wondered if I would ever see or experience light again.

I lived in a deep, pitch-black cave where I was unable even to move because I could not even see my hand in front of my face. When I did try to stir around in my cave, I would fall, stumble, and bruise my body from head to toe. It was cold. Damp. There were noises that made the hair on the back of my neck and my arms stand up on end. I could feel the evil surrounding me as I wept deep, soul-wrenching sobs from morning ‘til night, night ‘til morning.

The tears never stopped flowing. They created a stream in my cave that ran no-where, as far as I could tell. No matter how hard or long I looked for the end or the beginning, it continued on into perpetuity.

Then came the day when the tiniest pin-prick of light suddenly appeared off in the distance. After being in the darkness for so long, at first I did not believe it was real. I knew I had finally begun hallucinating in the darkness. I had been without light for so long, I was imagining that it was calling to me.

Ever so carefully, I began stumbling my way towards it. I continued to fall, bruise myself, and weep deep in my very being, but I steadily made my way towards that tiny light.

That beautiful light began to grow larger the closer I got to it, but it still seemed so very far way. For a long time, I gave up attempting to get to it. I simply sat in the same spot, weeping and wondering why the light never got any closer no matter how long I traveled towards it.

One not so very special day, I heard something.

            “Polly. PollyAnna. Come out. I am here.”

            Now I was hearing things as well as hallucinating? My terror grew with each call of my name.

            Instead of going towards the light—towards the voice, I ran, as well as I could, deeper into the cave to hide. I was afraid.

I was afraid of the light.

I was afraid of the tender voice calling my name.

No matter how deep I went into my cave, I could still hear the voice, “Polly. PollyAnna. It’s ok. I’m here. I will wait as long as necessary. I will never leave you.”

            Slowly, with shaky, tiny, stumbling, tentative steps, I began the journey once again towards the light.

            And the voice.

            The tender-loving voice never stopped calling my name, speaking words of encouragement.

            The day came, finally, when the light began to grow and I could see not just my hand in front of my face, but the walls of my cave.

            Hope began to stir deep inside.

Every time I stopped to catch my breath, I moved on as quickly as possible.

I was no longer afraid of the light.

            Or the voice.

            I desperately wanted to reach the light and see the man who was calling my name. I knew that all would be well once I walked into the light. I became desperate and never stopped even to catch my breath.

I began to run, slipping, sliding, falling—again and again, but this time, instead of giving up or running back into the cave, I kept moving forward towards the light.

            The sound of the man’s voice grew louder with passing step. But not louder as in He was shouting; just louder in that I could hear Him more clearly. I knew He would fill the hole that ruptured open each time I had lost a baby.

I needed to get to Him.

Finally.

There He was.

He was sitting on a large rock at the entrance to the cave. As I came into view, He stood and held out His arms so I could walk into His welcoming embrace. He held me for a long time, crooning soft, gentle, loving words into my ears as He held me close to His beating heart.

            When the tears slowed, He pulled away, took me by the hand, and led me out, fully into the light, away from the cave. He stopped. We turned and watched as a giant stone was rolled in front of the cave, sealing it for all eternity.

            That was the moment when I realized that my soul was mended. Yes, there would still be tears to come, but with Him by side, holding my hand, it was finally well with my soul.

Polly Anna Watson, Wednesday, January 22, 2020; revised: Friday, January 24, 2020

“It is Well” by Horatio Spafford and the new version by Kristine DeMarco

A Beautiful Conversation with God

About a year ago, a friend of mine shared on the Facebook that she was going through a new journal called "Whispers of Mercy" and God was changing her life. As an avid journaler and someone who is always looking for new ways God is moving in the lives of others, I clicked on the link to the journal and saved it so I could hopefully purchase the journal as soon as I had the finances. It looked like something that I definitely wanted to give a try. 

The concept Holly Love King uses in "Whispers of Mercy" is fairly simple: each new entry begins with a Bible passage and a brief devotional/explanation/discussion of the verse. Then there are lines for you, the journaler, to write your conversation with God. 

You have to get quiet with God and allow the Holy Spirit to speak to you. You cannot be distracted. This is a beautiful thing. It is real. It is powerful. And, as my friend shared on Facebook, it is life-changing. Following is my conversation with God this morning. It might not make sense if you don't know my story so you might need to go back and read some previous posts. Yes, this is super private and personal, but it was also very exciting and I just feel that you might be blessed, too. Rather than typing it out, I've chosen to upload images of my original handwritten conversation. I truly hope you can read it. 

I am Defined by...Part 2

I am Defined by...Part 1

I am Polly Anna. My parents named me perfectly. According to Eleanor H. Porter's Pollyanna, a Pollyanna is someone who looks for the good in life--someone who finds something to be Glad about even when it is difficult, if not impossible, to find something to be Glad about. Pollyanna is known for playing "The Glad Game." Yes, it is very high on my list of favorite book of all time.

According to the "Word Origin and History for Pollyanna": "n.

one who finds cause for gladness in the most difficult situations," 1921, a reference to Pollyanna Whittier, child heroine of U.S. novelist Eleanor Hodgman Porter's "Pollyanna" (1913) and "Pollyanna Grows Up" (1915), who was noted for keeping her chin up during disasters.
http://www.dictionary.com/browse/pollyanna?s=t

A few synonyms for a Pollyanna are: dreamer, hoper, positive thinker.

The American definition of Pollyanna is actually very offensive: "an excessively or blindly optimistic person." I do not identify with the American definition of Pollyanna in the slightest, but I will say that this is why I believe that so many people are so easily put off by me. Having the anointing oil of joy more than anyone else is a heavy responsibility. One of the most difficult reasons why it is a heavy responsibility is because it means that many are easily offended by my "excessive or blind optimism." But I can't answer for anyone but myself. I am who I am. I am who God made me, not just the name my parents gave me.

I am not only Polly Anna in name--on my birth certificate and in my signature, but I am a Polly Anna in every fiber of my being. I am one who finds cause for gladness in difficult situations. I am a dreamer, hoper, positive thinker. I do play the Glad Game. I do look for the good in people and situations. I live life enthusiastically and with JOY. I love to laugh. I love to make others laugh. I love to smile. I smile for no reason whatsoever. I love to sing just to sing because I'm happy!

"I sing because I'm happy! I sing because I'm free!"
https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5QbNh6C7ijU

I tend to be the one who gets a tad overly-excited about the little things--who squeals like a stuffed pig when I'm excited. A sweet friend took me with her to Washington, DC several years ago and, of course, we went to the National Zoo where we got to see my very favorite animal in the whole wide world: pandas! Yes, I screamed, squealed, cried, and screamed some more! My friend finally walked away and went to find a seat where she waited--patiently, I think--for me. She still teases me about it. When my husband took me to Zoo Atlanta a few years later, my reaction was similar. I think my screaming and crying for joy actually scared a few people. I honestly started screaming and hyperventilating before we even got to the Panda-paddock. My husband wasn't sure I'd even make it to see the pandas!

I try to go see movies in the theater during slower movie times because when I watch a movie, I WATCH a movie. I laugh loud. I cry--loud. If it's a musical, I sing--loud. (I even whisper loud.) Some people laugh along with me and get a kick out of my enjoyment of the film--and we all have a very good time. Others get really upset and tell me that I am ruining the movie for them and ask me to be quiet. I honestly don't mean to be rude or ruin their experience. I simply enjoy can't help it. Honest!

Yes, I am loud. That, too, is very much a part of Polly Anna. I do try. I really do. I respect those around me so very much who are able to speak quietly yet metaphorically carry a big stick. I think that is awesome. What an incredible power to wield! I speak very loudly and carry a toothpick. Seriously. And it's a blunt toothpick, not one of those sharp ones. Even my whispering is loud. When I was little, my Grandpa Keefer was always telling me, "Not so loud, Polly." Every so often, as an adult teacher, I've had teachers from the classroom next door come over and say, "Not so loud, Mrs. Watson." 

It does hurt my feelings, a lot, to be told over and over that I am too loud, especially when I do try not to be so loud. But even when I try to speak in a softer, quieter voice, it comes out loud and strong and clear. It simply bursts forth out of me--almost of its own volition.

And I talk a lot. A lot a lot. Throughout my school days, I always did very well and had very good reports to bring home to my parents. The only comment that was ever on my reports was, "Polly talks too much." The only reason I ever got in trouble in school was for talking. Teachers would try to move me across the room away from my friends, never realizing that I would just make friends with the new people--if I wasn't already friends with them. I talked to everyone: boys, girls, teachers, myself, my hairbrush. And I still do.

I am also a touchie-feelie kind of person. I like to stand close enough to be touching the person I am talking to, or sitting close. I will typically touch the person--on the hand, arm, shoulder, face, or head. If I am close to the person (a family member or very close friend, I may rub the underside of her upper arm or her back). And I hug--any and everyone who will let me hug him/her. I love hugs. My Grandpa Keefer was a hugger; everyone loved his hugs. When we were all sitting around after his death, everyone talked about how wonderful his hugs were. I want to be remembered for my hugs, too.

As I have gotten older, all of the previous characteristics have continued to define me. No matter how hard I have tried to dampen the ones that have gotten me into trouble, they continue to get me into trouble. Yet, I am Polly Anna and I love that part of who I am. It is my favorite part of myself. I truly wish that part of myself could and would always manifest itself--be manifested on a day-to-day basis.

But like Pollyanna in the story, my life has not been perfect. I almost wish that the worst thing that has ever happened to me would be to fall out of a tree and not be able to walk. (I don't mean that. I'm speaking metaphorically here.) Like Pollyanna Harrington, I have had many times in my life when it has been beyond difficult to play "The Glad Game"--to be Polly Anna. 

    In my twenties while my husband and I were living in Springfield, MO, I fell into a deep depression that I found it very difficult to come out of even after we had moved back to NC. I think I stayed in at least a state of mild depression until I got pregnant with our first son.
    During my pregnancy when we had the first ultrasound, it revealed a large mass on my left ovary. After a few weeks, they did another ultrasound and discovered that the mass had grown a centimeter for every week that had passed since the first ultrasound. The doctor decided that he needed to do a surgery right away--I was at 20 weeks--to remove the mass as well as my ovary and part of the fallopian tube. All was well with our baby boy.
    On March 16, 1999, I went to the OB for my regular weekly appointment, excited about the final weeks of my pregnancy. I was at 38 weeks. They couldn't find a heartbeat. James Isaac Watson was stillborn on March 17, 1999.
    Then on November 10, 1999, I miscarried: Panya Ruth Watson.
    Anna Rose Watson was miscarried while I was on campus at the college where I teach on November 22, 2005.
    I think depression is a given.
    My marriage went down the tubes.
    In November 2009, at death's door, I had to have an ostomy bag

for three months. In April 2010, it was reversed and the doctor removed eight inches of my colon.
    Then, in November of 2010, I had a uterine ablasion because of vaginal bleeding due to a polyp.
    I don't remember the year, but somewhere in there, I had a meltdown where I might have killed James if he hadn't left the house. 
    During that same time period, I had a boss who had it in for me and was determined to have me fired. 
    I began seeing a chiropractor and a massage therapist.
    I had my first official anxiety attack and began taking medicine specifically for anxiety.
    I also began taking medicine for depression--eventually going up to 100 mg.
    Migraines have been a consistent problem throughout all this time. I have been able to keep them managed--mostly--with Excedrine Migraine.
    In December of 2016, I had my gall bladder removed.
    Summer of 2017, I was officially diagnosed with fibromyalgia.
    I was written up at work in October 2017 and the very next day, I yelled at my boss.
    In December 2017, I was diagnosed with:
            Bipolar 2
            PTSD
            Adjustment Disorder

All of these things make Polly Anna who Polly Anna is. Do you have any idea what it's like to be a super social person but yet full of anxiety when you even think about social situations, so you more often than not cancel social functions? Most of the time, if I somehow or another get to the social event, I have a wonderful time; I enjoy myself very much and I think that the people who socialize are glad that I was there. 

But then there are the very few times when being amongst others is so overwhelming that I have literally run from the party, jumped in my car, and screamed the whole way home. 

There have been times when the negative comments about my exuberance or my loudness or my enthusiasm have hurt my feelings so badly that I have gone home, sat in my spot on the couch, and not moved for days, weeks, and even months except to go to work or church. And I did those with little to no enthusiasm or desire to be there. 

I have become so angry because of the hurtful comments that I took to saying things like "I'd like to punch [...] in the throat." I wrote several stories about serial killing. (Granted, I honestly they're actually pretty good stories about serial killing, but I used myself as the model for the serial killer in each story.) I was holding a baby once and when he grabbed my glasses off my face after slapping me, I was so close to hurting him, I put him down and ran away. 

I have terrible "temper tantrums." I have recently learned that these are part of the Bipolar diagnosis and are called "manic rages." They can come as quickly as they go and there is rarely a rhyme or a reason for them. I have mostly been able to keep them under control in public, especially at my work, but that has not been easy. If I am successful there, then the rage has to be released somewhere and that, sadly, tends to be at home on my husband and/or son.

Yet, through it all, I continue to seek JOY. I know that I still have the anointing oil of JOY on me more than anyone else. I still live life with enthusiasm. I still smile a lot, laugh a lot, sing a lot, hug a lot. Some of it is because it's still me--Polly Anna--underneath all the "stuff" that has happened over the past 30 years, but some of it is the mask I have created for when it is simply too difficult to BE me, but yet I need to be Polly Anna. Several years ago, around 2009, in fact, God gave me Psalm 45:7: 

I knew as soon as I read that verse that He meant it for me, as a special Word from Him to me, that His Holy Spirit was speaking directly to my very soul. In that moment, God anointed me, pouring out the oil of Joy on me more than on anyone else. It is a heavy responsibility that I do NOT take lightly or for granted.

Every single detail I have mentioned throughout here makes me who I am today--makes me the Polly Anna I am today, December 21, 2017, at 47 years old. A part of me wishes that none of the bad stuff had ever happened. But then I am reminded that God more often than not uses those who have struggled greatly. 1 Peter 1 says: "⁶ So be truly glad. There is wonderful joy ahead, even though you must endure many trials for a little while. ⁷ These trials will show that your faith is genuine. It is being tested as fire tests and purifies gold—though your faith is far more precious than mere gold. So when your faith remains strong through many trials, it will bring you much praise and glory and honor on the day when Jesus Christ is revealed to the whole world." Almost every single Hero of the Faith whether in the Bible or someone we know historically experienced great trials, tribulations, and suffering. Paul talks about how he asked God three separate times to take the thorn of suffering from his side, but God refuses. Paul accepts the inevitable saying that he is glad, thankful for his weakness because it is in his weakness that he is made strong in Christ (2 Corinthians 12). 

Maybe, just maybe, like Paul, I have these thorns so that in my

weakness, I am only made strong through Jesus Christ my Savior.


And then we go back to 2 Corinthians which reminds us that: "God

is our merciful Father and the source of all comfort. ⁴ He comforts us in all our troubles so that we can comfort others. When they are troubled, we will be able to give them the same comfort God has given us.⁵ For the more we suffer for Christ, the more God will shower us with his comfort through Christ. ⁶ Even when we are weighed down with troubles, it is for your comfort and salvation! For when we ourselves are comforted, we will certainly comfort you. Then you can patiently endure the same things we suffer. ⁷ We are confident that as you share in our sufferings, you will also share in the comfort God gives us." In other words, not only do all my trials help define me, but they are also meant to be used to help comfort others. God HAS comforted me through all my trials; He continues to comfort me through them. My "job" (if you will allow me to use that term) is to comfort others who have experienced similar trials. 

Maybe, just maybe, others will see me--hear my story or ready my story and find comfort in it because, in spite of it all, because of it all, in it all, through it all, IT IS WELL.

It is well with my soul. I may have mental illnesses and physical disabilities and character traits that drive others crazy. I may be different from the vast majority of the people I know and come into contact with. You may not understand why I smile. You may not understand why I smile at you. 

That's ok.

Because I am Polly Anna. When I die, I hope it can and will be said of me: 

Polly Anna: She sure was!

Polly Anna

Smile

Do you smile? A lot?
Never?
When you see someone looking at you? Even a stranger?
All the time?
Only when you're in public? 
Only when there is something worth smiling about?

Growing up, my mom was always telling me to Smile. I'd get up to do a performance of some sort (piano recitals, VBS presentations of what we'd learned throughout the week, church choir, church plays, various school activities, the list is endless) and mom would be in the audience smiling her huge smile. If I wasn't smiling, she'd make a smile motion with her finger to her mouth and I'd automatically smile.

Whether I want to smile or not, smiling is officially a huge part of who I am. I smile ALL the time. I almost got in a fight once when I was in high school because I was smiling. We were practicing for our band competition and the band director had us lined up across from one another. I was smiling at everyone on the opposite side of me when this one girl who I didn't know angrily asked me, "What are you smiling at?!" I grinned even wider and told her that I was just smiling! She took a step out of line towards me, but a friend standing close to me told the girl that I always smiled [like a goofball--I can't remember if he added that part or if I've added it to my memory ;)]. Needless to say, I'm pretty sure he saved my life. I have NO fighting skills, so she'd have beaten me to a pulp if she had decided to follow through!!

That experience didn't stop me from smiling one bit. It was too deeply ingrained in me by then. 

I might have smiled early on because my mom "made" me, but as the years went by, I smiled because I wanted to. I loved to smile and I certainly loved to laugh....a lot.

There have even been times when I've walked into my classroom and my students have said, "Toldja!" When I've asked what was up, I was told that they had bet one another on whether or not I would walk in with a smile on my face. I had no idea at the time that others noticed my smile--whether I smiled or not or even how often I smiled--or not. It was reassuring, I admit, to learn that when I was in public, I was always smiling.

Smiling has been one of my greatest blessings; I am truly thankful to my wonderful mom for making it so much a vital part of who I am.

I am sad to say, though, that smiling has also been my greatest curse. Since the first onset of my depression while my husband and I were living in Missouri, I have used my smile to hide behind--as a mask to cover up my sadness and deepest sorrows and anxieties. I have pretended that all is well when in reality I was not only battling depression, but I was also battling a desire to just die. I had come to hate my life in such a huge way. I had NO real friends while we lived in Missouri and I was simply miserable. I was so excited when we finally moved home; I just knew that my depression would end and I could quit pretending that all was well. I was out of "Misery" (my mom and I had started calling Missouri that) and I was back home with family and friends.

Then we learned that I was going to have a baby and my smile grew bigger, wider, and much more pronounced. I had thought that I smiled huge before that, but being pregnant was the greatest desire of my life and I was more JOYFUL than I'd ever thought it was possible to be. You couldn't wipe the smile off my face even while I was throwing up! And I threw up every single day of that pregnancy--until it was abruptly over.

James Isaac was stillborn on March 17, 1999. That is the day my smile died, as well. 

It is the day when the mask came back up and was permanently glued to my face. My smile was for the benefit of others. They grieved for me and hurt for me and I wanted to reassure them that I was ok--or that I would be ok--even though I wanted to be in the ground with my baby. 

I smiled because I didn't know what else to do. I smiled to reassure others. I smiled because it was too deeply a part of me not to. I smiled because I wanted to prove that I was strong--not only in body, but especially in my faith. I smiled. But I smiled only with my mouth. I have no idea if others noticed that I didn't smile with my whole being as I had done before. I've never asked because I hoped with every fiber of my being that my smile was good enough to make them feel better so they wouldn't worry about me...even though they should have been worried.

Over the next ten years, at least, my smile was plastered on, but it was fake--a mask--hiding severe depression, anxiety, and grief. I have recently learned that PTSD doesn't apply just to those in the military. I clearly was suffering from PTSD, but I pretended that I was the PollyAnna everyone expected me to be. I smiled because I was determined to be happy in spite of my pain and suffering, in spite of my grief. I smiled because I had read somewhere that some things we must do as a way of "faking it 'til we make it." Deep down, I hoped that if I kept smiling even though I didn't feel the smile that one day the mask would come unglued and my smile would be genuine--it would be the real me.

In a way, that was true. I smiled until my cheeks and my neck hurt. And one day, I realized that in order for my mask to be removed--for my smile to be real again, I would have to make A CHOICE to change. I would not become happy again just because I smiled until it happened. I would only become happy again when I CHOSE to make it happen. 

It was during that time that I discovered that I didn't want to just be happy, I wanted to be JOYFUL, full of the JOY of the Lord. That was when the Lord gave me the verse, "You love justice and hate

evil. Therefore God, your God, has anointed you, pouring out the oil of joy on you more than on anyone else" (Psalm 45:7 & Hebrews 1:9, NLT). I wept as I understood that God wanted to restore my JOY. But not only did He want to restore my Joy, but He wanted to anoint me with the oil of joy--more than anyone else.

I began studying everything I could about JOY, starting with every single verse in the Bible that mentions JOY--in every translation and in every definition of JOY. I began memorizing JOY verses and looking for JOY in everything around me.

My mask--my fake smile--did not come off quickly or easily. As I said, it was glued on. It came off in small pieces--slowly--one at a time. I would argue that there are still small pieces that refuse to come unstuck, but the wonderfulness of God is that my smile is real again--genuine. When I smile now, it's because I have the JOY of the Lord deep down in my heart and soul. He truly has anointed me with the oil of joy more than anyone else I know.

I do not take His gift lightly. So when I smile at you, know that I smile from a place of JOY. My smile is just one way I have of demonstrating that God has removed my depression, anxiety, suicidal thoughts, and the painful mask I wore for so long.

And all I can do now is Praise Him with my Smile!