Poems I like today

I am grateful for the internet.  The eternal source of poems that may have been forgotten, lost in obscure books long out of print.  Instead they are fresh and real as the day they were written, there in front of me.  I may need to look up the obscure verbiage or antiquated language, but I CAN do that.  So here are a few.  Found (in part) in the introduction of The Inquisitor's Tale Or, The Three Magical Children and their Holy Dog by Adam Gidwitz (Illuminated by Hatem Aly)

Pied Beauty

By Gerard Manley Hopkins

Glory be to God for dappled things –

   For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow;

      For rose-moles all in stipple upon trout that swim;

Fresh-firecoal chestnut-falls; finches’ wings;

   Landscape plotted and pieced – fold, fallow, and plough;

      And áll trádes, their gear and tackle and trim.

All things counter, original, spare, strange;

   Whatever is fickle, freckled (who knows how?)

      With swift, slow; sweet, sour; adazzle, dim;

He fathers-forth whose beauty is past change:

                                Praise him.

 Text Source and to hear it read aloud

 

As I Walked Out One Evening

W. H. Auden, 1907 - 1973

As I walked out one evening,
   Walking down Bristol Street,
The crowds upon the pavement
   Were fields of harvest wheat.

And down by the brimming river
   I heard a lover sing
Under an arch of the railway:
   ‘Love has no ending.

‘I’ll love you, dear, I’ll love you
   Till China and Africa meet,
And the river jumps over the mountain
   And the salmon sing in the street,

‘I’ll love you till the ocean
   Is folded and hung up to dry
And the seven stars go squawking
   Like geese about the sky.

‘The years shall run like rabbits,
   For in my arms I hold
The Flower of the Ages,
   And the first love of the world.'

But all the clocks in the city
   Began to whirr and chime:
‘O let not Time deceive you,
   You cannot conquer Time.

‘In the burrows of the Nightmare
   Where Justice naked is,
Time watches from the shadow
   And coughs when you would kiss.

‘In headaches and in worry
   Vaguely life leaks away,
And Time will have his fancy
   To-morrow or to-day.

‘Into many a green valley
   Drifts the appalling snow;
Time breaks the threaded dances
   And the diver’s brilliant bow.

‘O plunge your hands in water,
   Plunge them in up to the wrist;
Stare, stare in the basin
   And wonder what you’ve missed.

‘The glacier knocks in the cupboard,
   The desert sighs in the bed,
And the crack in the tea-cup opens
   A lane to the land of the dead.

‘Where the beggars raffle the banknotes
   And the Giant is enchanting to Jack,
And the Lily-white Boy is a Roarer,
   And Jill goes down on her back.

‘O look, look in the mirror,
   O look in your distress:
Life remains a blessing
   Although you cannot bless.

‘O stand, stand at the window
   As the tears scald and start;
You shall love your crooked neighbour - (Love this line!)
   With your crooked heart.'

It was late, late in the evening,
   The lovers they were gone;
The clocks had ceased their chiming,
   And the deep river ran on. 

Text Source

Your marriage is worth saving - a letter to a friend

I don't know you very well.  You are really the dear friend of a dear friend and I see you here and there.  I don't know the specific details of your marriage and your heart, but I heard that your marriage is on the rocks and my heart went out to you.  I hate it when people give me unwanted advice, so I won't give you any.  I'll just tell you about me.

I have sat alone in church looking at the apparently happy couples all around me, arm around each other while the preacher preaches, feeling utterly lonely.  I sat there wondering why my marriage doesn't look like anyone else's, why my husband wasn't next to me and did everyone else wonder what was wrong with me too.  Could they see the broken relationship that I was half of? 

I have sat side by side with my husband on the couch of many a couple's counselor over the years, emotionally raw and sad and so full of fear and anger and pride.  When the counselor asked the question, "Do you want to continue with each other?" I wanted to scream both, "NO!" and "YES!" and desperately wanted to hear what he had to say first because I didn't want to be the first to say it, either way.  I only wanted the pain of being in a relationship with him to stop.  I wanted it to be his fault and not mine.  I wanted to be the victim and cry and then he'd see how much he had hurt me.  I didn't want to admit that I had been wrong, or selfish, or distant and disinterested, or demanding, or used him as my verbal whipping boy when I was angry about other things, or lonely or sad, and had been a hormonal wreck that wasn't very fun to be around.  And I didn't want it to be over because that somehow meant I had failed in a monumental way and because some part of me still loved him.

I didn't want my heart to be that vulnerable to him, this man that I loved, but didn't (and sometimes still don't) trust.  I didn't want to see what he had done for me, for us, for our family over and over again, sacrificing himself for us, carving out a life and becoming a better man.  I only wanted to see when he screwed up and made his own mistakes, while ignoring or expecting unending forgiveness for my own.

I wanted it to be about me and my needs, and his should not matter.  Even though I never thought or said that out loud to myself, it was the reality of how I acted in relationship with him.  There are details of our marriage that I'd tell you in person, but since this is out in the world for everyone to read, I won't.  (Because I love him and want to cover him with that love.  Not cover up for him, cover him.  It's different.)  But over the last 9 years, we have been through hell and back.  Luckily, in my ear, I had a sponsor, a mentor if you will, who had been down the same path I was walking and her marriage had ended in divorce.  Even though she fought for it, her husband did not.  I'll share what she would remind me of, over and over when I'd call her in tears, ready to give up and walk away.

She asked me if I thought getting divorced would make it easier and I said, "No, but at least I won't hurt any more!"  Her reply always shook me out of my self pity. "Yes, you will." She said, "But it will be a more sad and lonely kind of hurt with no resolution because there is no hope that the two of you will ever get to a better place." And I knew she was speaking from experience.

She reminded me that wherever I ran, my baggage would follow.  All the stuff that comes out when I am tired, lonely, hurt, and angry would come out again and again.  With someone else, or toward my children and friends if I never got married again.  It's like that children's story, "Going on Bear Hunt."  which says, "You can't go under it, you can't go over it.  Oh no.  You have to go through it."  And I did.  And I still am.  And it sucks.  And it is glorious.  And it is hard.  And I hate it and wish it was easy.  And I love it and am grateful that the crap in my heart is being changed and that our love is deeper because of it.  Imperfect and still needs work (and man, he can still dive me up a wall), but it is deeper and richer today than it has ever been.

I'm not saying that I did it, so you can too.  I am saying it's worth it, even though it is really, really, really freaking hard.  It really is.  I hope you don't give up.

Right here. Right now.

Are we near the end of this pregnancy?  Who knows.  None of my previous babies made it this far into the pregnancy.  Today I'm 39 weeks and 3 days.  Judah was 38 weeks and Cora was just 35.  Physically I'm OK.  In fact, I'm better that I ever was with either of the two before in terms of how well I feel on a day to day basis, but I am tired of keeping the house/fridge/car/laundry in a constant state of readiness. 

Each day brings "practice labor" and I'm ready to be done practicing and move on to the real thing.  I know, he's still growing/baking/packing on the lbs and I SHOULD remember that it is easier to take care of him on the inside than on the outside, but OH I am so ready to hold this little guy.  I am SO ready for the kids to meet him and SO ready for the family time that follows the birth of a child around here.  Inlaws and friends visit and Matt is home from work for weeks on end.  It's hard and good and wonderful and tiring, all at once.  I love it.

I've always been one to look ahead to the next thing, the next day, the next event, the next wonder, missing what is right under my nose.  And what is right underneath my nose is so delicious and in need of Mama, even if Mama's mind is drifting ahead to the future.

Judah's vocabulary grows and grows, even if most of what he talks about centers around Lightning McQueen and Thomas the Tank Engine and all his (Thomas's) friends (I try not to feel like his TV habit is a total parenting fail after making it 2 yrs with no TV for my oldest.  Sigh).  He loves to snuggle with me in the morning and puts his face just next to my face and smiles his little smile that crinkles his eyes into half moons.

Then we read "'Dog Go' by P.E. Basement". Every morning.  Until a car outside distracts him and then he's off to the window, telling me what he sees.  He wants to wrestle and play rough with Cora and she has no desire to.  None.  And it usually makes her start howling and tattling.  Judah doesn't understand that at all.  He's just being a rough an tumble boy!  We practice gentleness a lot. And in truth, he's still so very small and has so much to learn.

Cora wants to be big and yet get equal treatment to her younger brother, who is still learning the rules she master long ago, all the time.  We have lots of conversations about either being the big girl, or the baby, but not both.

I remind her of the benefits of being oldest, but she quickly forgets, reverting to baby talk she never used, even as a baby, but Judah did, and sometimes throws fits just to match her brother's fit.  Lord, give me patience.  The sassiness wears me out!

We talk a lot about her heart and her attitude and finding beauty there, rather than in princess clothes and sparkly shoes.(Although she has those too.) She cranks out around 30 drawings per day of people and places and friends and parties and fairies etc. My art stack grows and grows! ( Don't worry. I save the favorites.) Her questions are deep and somber and often out of the blue. She loves in a different way than my boy and her love is quiet and sweet and tenderhearted, not the run-by strangle hugs that Judah gives. It's easy to lose that quiet love in the wild wrestling of a two year old boy whose joyful exuberance is often louder than she has any desire to be. So we find time in the quiet moments together.

It will all change soon. A little one will be between Matt and I in the bed again, taking all our extra moments.  And while I love change, I love these moments too. And I get to practice being right here. Right now. For a little bit longer.

Mediocre

Every day.  Every moment.  We hear this voice from inside us, from around us, telling us, "you were meant for more than this."  The eternal is calling.  Let it all go.  With enough faith, you can walk on water. 

And then the day comes.  And then the nights come. And someone needs a new diaper.  And someone wakes up scared of monsters and has to sleep in your bed.  And lack of sleep steals your joy.  And someone melts down over legos and you feel like you spend the day breaking up fights, putting small people in time out, wiping backsides and cleaning up endless messes and hunting for small socks for small feet and listening to someone cry over having to wear socks or having to share or having to not hit their brother.

And the eternal feels lost.  And the days go by in a haze of mediocre.  And the wrinkles and the gray hair are multiplying in the mirror.  And no one hears you sing except the walls in the shower and small ears at bedtime who want the same song every night, while they rest their head on your shoulder.  And this thankless job feels like letting go of anything that might be bigger.

But the words, the deeds, the kisses, the meals, the small hands, the songs, the lost boots, the found socks, the sand piles, the muddy hand prints all add up to you.  The world changer.

Long ago, before the gray hair, I heard the call to go unto all the world and preach the gospel and stood on the shores of foreign lands.  And waited for that moment when the soundtrack began playing and the montage of my world changing deeds began to roll.  Chariots of fire.  Me serving in some selfless way and showing Jesus to someone every day and winning the world for Christ.  But the reality was when I was there, I did what I do best.  Caring for a small one and singing songs in a tiny church.  And there I was.  The world changer.  I changed it for one girl.  She didn't live past the age for 4.  But I was there with her every day, every moment, every night.  Loving her in those small ways, for that stretch of time.

And here I am now.  With these two, soon to be three.  Every moment.  Every morning.  Every night.  Loving them in small ways.  In mediocre ways.  And the lie creeps in, "you were meant for more than this." and the truth is, I am already doing more than this.  The mediocre is profound. The meaningless is not meaningless.  Not for these small ones.  For them, I am the world changer.  And so are you.

This mediocre moment is just a snapshot of all of eternity that we don't yet have the eyes to see.

On colored lights...

One can learn a lot about oneself just by decorating a Christmas tree.  This year, all but a couple of strings of lights gave up the ghost and I asked the family if we should get white or multi-colored lights.  They unanimously voted for colored lights so off to the store I went.

I wrestled the 600 feet of lighted strands onto the tree and stood back to admire my handiwork (and to check for gaps) and realized I really, really don't like multi-colored lights.  And then I realized why.

When I was growing up, my family was, shall we say, economically challenged.  OK, we were poor.  I didn't really have an understanding of that, but as I grew up, I began to see the differences between my house and other kid's houses, my clothes and their clothes, my one Sunday dress and their endless array of Sunday dresses.  Kids can be cruel.  Teenagers, especially, can be extra vicious.  I did my best to avoid and ignore comments, but some of them bit deep.  And so began the personal quest to be good enough.

Around Christmas time, I noticed that the nicest houses had all white Christmas lights, whereas the trailers, such as mine, had colored lights and somewhere in my head, I began to associate multi-colored lights with being poor and all white lights with class and wealth.  It's weird, I know.  And here it is still, hovering around my 36th Christmas, the same old aversion to appearing different, or less than others, merely by something as simple as Christmas lights. 

So there they sit, my multi-colored lights.  (On a timer so I don't have to scramble under the tree every morning to turn them on.)  The kids flipped out when they saw them, of course.  Judah said, "WOW!  I yike it!" while hopping around.  Cora just sat at the foot of the tree and smiled up at it with shining eyes. And I smiled and did my best to prevent the youngest from pulling the 7 foot monster down on top of himself in his exuberance..  Their joy adds to my joy and I can let go of this association.  Multi-colored lights are beautiful and I am good enough, lovely even.  My tree and house are good enough, lovely even.  It's a process.  

3 am life questions with my little girl

It's 3 am.  I feel the air pressure in the room change as a little one sneaks in.  My eyes are still closed as our oldest girl, just 4, appears on my side of the bed, but I feel the brush of her small hand on my arm.
"Did you have a bad dream?" I say, the usual cause of her appearance in my room at this hour.
"No. I just need your help."
"Help with what?"
"I need to you to help me pray to ask Jesus in my heart."
Confused, I ask her what she said again.
She repeats, "I need you to help me pray to have Jesus in my heart.  I want to go to heaven to be with God."

My mind races, fully awake now, trying to scramble around and process what I've just heard.  This is my 4 year old.  It's 3 am.  The ramifications of this question are deep and life-changing.  I hold her close in my arms and tell her, "I will help you.  Let's talk about it when the sun comes up."
I want to be fully present for this moment.  I wonder silently if this is the right choice, but I can't talk to her rationally at 3am about the choice she wants to make and I really want to be able to.

This is my girl of deep questions.  In the last month I've gotten the following, usually at 6:30am when she first wakes up:

"Mama, how do I know what is truth?"
"Mama, can two girls get married?"
"Mama, how does a baby get inside of you?" (She actually asked this one at age 3, but now she wants more details.)

The list goes on and on.  She desperately wants to grasp the world around her.  Not HOW things work, but why.  Mostly interpersonal relationships.  She recently held a fellow mom friend of mine captive with her questions for more than thirty minutes.  The questions were all about my friend's parents and grandparents, divorce, death and on and on.  This girl cuts from, "My favorite colors are pink and purple," straight to, "my baby sister died.  Is your mama dead?"  It's kind of rattling.  It keeps me on my toes.  I am grateful for the job of helping to shepherd this little deep well of a heart.  I pray for the knowledge and understanding to do so.

Thoughts on 36

The fall frost has finally come to our maple trees and they gave up the last of their gold speckled leaves this week.  The Christmas music is already playing because, why not.  Especially when the biggest girl requests Ella Fitzgerald Christmas music.  How can I resist her excellent taste?  Through some herculean effort on the part of myself and the children yesterday the house is, dare I say, clean.  At least the downstairs part.  No movement from the youngest yet.  I'm just 16 weeks along yesterday.  It should be soon now.  Being still enough to feel it rarely happens.  In fact, most days I forget until someone asks me how this pregnancy is going.  I am consumed with 4 year old imagination and nearly 2 year old darling chubby curiosity.  They are contentedly cutting up paper at the table and I'm not going to protest if they accidentally move on to the vinyl tablecloth.  Quiet moments of reflection are too precious to sweat that stuff.

Thirty-six sounds old to me.  Edging closer to 40 which is some mental 'over the hill' lie I've swallowed over the years.  I'm sure I'll look back at 80 and laugh at my youthful folly, knowing I had more than half of my life left to enjoy.  It doesn't feel old though.  Even though the midwives handle me with care and do extra tests now that I am of 'advanced maternal age.'  (Isn't that a lovely term?)  In some ways, looking back over the years, I've been waiting for something big to happen.  To 'become' something.  A famous singer?  A widely read mommy blogger?  I'm not sure what it is I am waiting for.  Recently I was reading about Moses and was struck by the fact that God didn't choose him when he was in his prime, adopted son and royalty to Egypt.  Nope.  He chose him when he was 80 years old.  A fugitive, hiding in the desert and a shepherd.  The strong days long past.  Just like Abraham and Sarah.  90 years old and pregnant!! Talk about advanced maternal age!

Somewhere in my lifetime I absorbed the message that only the young have anything to offer the world.  They are the innovators, the imaginative, the world changers.  But God has wildly different ideas about when people have the best to offer.  He doesn't look at their age, their youth, their beauty.  He looks at their hearts.  And mine has been, to say the least, being molded and changed through pain and fire and loss for some time now. 

I see glimpses of progress in my heart.  I am (mostly) no longer discontent with my life.  I love my husband through his imperfections (most days).  God's love is finally breaking through to my selfish heart.  I still have days when I resent being home with these lovelies, even though I chose this life with them and wouldn't trade it.  It can be lonely, thankless, and filled with far too many bodily fluids, but here I am.  I have an amazing community of friends and loved ones to help me through those days.  And I am realizing that this isn't the be all end all, just because I didn't 'become' in my youth.  I did 'become', even though it isn't flashy.  And I will be whatever it is I am called to, maybe at 36, maybe at 40, maybe at 90.  For today I am really enjoying the journey.  Happy birthday to me.

An open letter to Amy Krouse Rosenthal - concerning the Beckoning of Lovely

Introduction:

  I wrote this letter to Amy Krouse Rosenthal recently and although I mailed it to her, I wanted to put it out there on the internet in case others feel like I do.  Read on, fellow lovers of Lovely.

10/11/12

Dear Amy,

On 11/11/11, I arrived at an old bungalow home on Douglas Avenue in East Nashville.  In the yard stood a nearly naked maple tree that had recently let go of its beautiful, leafy coat of gold, the remains of which covered the ground.  I, along with nearly thirty other women, sat in the small living room of a woman named Alice Smith.  You may not know her at all, but around here, she is a connector of lives, a gatherer of information, and a finder of beautiful.  Not necessarily in things.  Mostly in people.  It’s her gift.  She saw it in you from afar.  She introduced me and many others in East Nashville to your books, youtube videos, and finally, the “Beckoning of Lovely” movement.  On that night we watched your film.  I left my friend's home, literally inspired and lifted.  I left full to bursting with my own ideas that had been touched off by the things I had seen.  I almost didn’t want to speak for fear they would be lost in the noise of my own voice. 

I have often felt like the lovely has been dragged out of me forcefully by the grind of daily life with small children.  If it does appear, it is often focused on them and must be finished and packed away by the end of naptime.  I used to be a song writer, back before babies and the “baby brain” that comes with it.  I used to make beautiful things for more people.  I know I will again and that this is just a season, but when I’m in the weeds, it’s hard to remember that. 

I shared your movie link with everyone and talked about the beautiful thing you had made.  I read your book – Encyclopedia of an Ordinary Life and laughed at the small things and the magical things.  I read how you liked to write to authors and so, this is my letter to you. I just have this one thing to say.

I’m not sure what happened to the film, but I wish I could watch it again.  You said you took it down to make it more polished, but for me, the point was made.   You came together with others and made a beautiful thing.  It was, in truth, lovely.  It was lovely, as is.  It didn’t need more.  It needed to spread like wildfire and grow beautiful things in others as it did in me.  It had impact. 

If you need further proof, take this letter as that.  Here I am, nearly a year later, thinking of it and wishing I could see it again.

In the (nearly) last year I have begun painting.  I have begun writing (in earnest).  I found my voice again and have begun playing music again and have begun singing more than bedtime songs.  I am taking up the fiddle and enjoying my photography as an art rather than merely a documentation of my small ones’ march from birthday to birthday.  Your film was an impetus. 

I don’t know the reasons you took it down, but I wanted to encourage you to put it back out there.  Yes, the magic day is passed and there will never be another 11/11/11, but the beauty is still there to be shared.  Please send it back out into the Universe.

Sincerely,

Ariana Evans – mother, musician, maker of lovely.

p.s.  Thank you.

p.p.s.  Forgive the scratchiness of my writing.  I've begun to write with a pen and ink nib to help me stay in the moment.

AE

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

If you don't know who Amy Krouse Rosenthal is, here is a primer.

(from her bio on www.whoisamy.com)

"Amy Krouse Rosenthal is a person who likes to make things.

Some things she likes to make: Children's books. Grown-up books. Short films. Salads. Connections with the universe. Something out of nothing. Wishes."

Hop on over to her website and be amazed.  Go on...hop!

You and Me plus three - A love letter

 

For better or worse
For richer or poorer
In sickness and in health

We said those words together on that chilly spring day, bare feet on a brick path, and little did we know what we were in store for.  It's not our anniversary, it's not your birthday, or my birthday or any other special day today, but this is a day that I tell you how much I love you.

We've had our ups and downs, sorrows and joys, have been broke, living in a one bedroom upstairs apartment where the winter winds whistled in through the cracks.  We've been together.  We've been apart.  We have been crazy about each other and have driven each other crazy.  We have been wildly in love and wanting to spend every moment together and we have come as close to hatred of each other as two people who are married should ever come.  Maybe a bit too close.

We reached an equilibrium after a whole lot of work and had a good life, you and me.  It wasn't peaches and roses all the time, but we were together and it was pretty great.  Then the life we knew and the plans we made got turned upside down.  Babies, losing babies, crappy cars, crappy jobs and layoffs, and a leaky old house that drives you crazy and drives me to daydreaming.  It has been a wild last 4 years!  Sometimes it's seems as if we are just holding on with eyes tight shut until the wind stops blowing and the waves stop pounding us, praying we make it through the storm.  But this storm isn't a storm, really.  It's life.  And without you in it, I would have been swept out to sea a long time ago.

I don't say enough how great you are.  How thankful I am that you have put aside your dreams to take care of our family, even though the way you have had to go about it is soul crushing work.  How I wish it was different for you.  How happy it makes my heart to see you run and play and love on our children because I know how much you love them.  And how hard that is for you and hard earned, since you didn't have a dad around to show you how to love them.  How content I am to just hold your hand as we sit across from each other at our favorite coffee shop, enjoying a stolen moment alone, feet entangled under the table and you open your heart to me just a bit more and I marvel at the things you show me.  You have a deep love for me and our family and for others that I sometimes forget but sometimes get a glimpse of and it wows me.  It shocks me.  It surrounds me.  You love with a fierce love.

When I lay there pale in the hospital bed and you were brave for both of us.  Both times, brave for both of us as I came unraveled.  You were a rock for me.  And then when I got my breath back, you cried for our lost babies.  I love you so much for that.  

We are so different and sometimes it frustrates me, more from a lack of understanding (and a big dose of fear) of how two people who are so polar opposite in occupation and hobbies could come together and stay together.  Perhaps it is the sameness in substance that binds us.  Your joy, even if sometimes it's covered up in the weight of family life.  Your tender heart, even if you hide it, I know it's there.  Your Faith in our Father.  Your loyalty.  Your depth of character.  All those grey hairs you have earned in the last 8 years, caring about things.  Your generosity to not just your friends and family, but to strangers.  Your kindness to find good in me and others when we can't find it ourselves. 

So life may send the 'sickness', the 'poverty', and the 'worse', but I'll take it as long as you are in it with me.  I'll stand by you always.  I'm so grateful you carried my guitar all those years ago and let me ramble on about degreasing my engine.  You pursued my heart and wrapped it up with yours, healing wounds I didn't know I had.  Who you are is a blessing.  Thank you.

All my Love,
Tiny

Beautiful and Precious

There is something beautiful and precious about life.  It's so fragile yet so unstoppable.  Against all odds, the seeds of spring survive, buried deep in what seems like a kind of death.  But the sun warms.  The rains fall.  And the idea of what could be, comes alive in a small, hard cocoon of forgotten possibility.

And so it is with the lives of my precious children.  In some ways I feel unworthy of the life they have awoken in my being.  Like I was never meant to feel this deeply or this wildly.  It's a strange and wonderfully scary place to be.  The seed of forgotten possibility suddenly wants to put down deep roots and send tentative tendrils up, reaching for the sun.

We went this last week to have an ultrasound to see what to expect with this baby.  My faithless heart and I went wearing black, just in case I would begin mourning in that moment.  My expectant heart and I dressed up a bit, hoping that moment would be a celebration.  And God knew which one it would be before that baby's form ever flashed on the screen, while I yelled, "I see it!"  and my tender-hearted husband cried beside me, and a weight lifted off of us.

I am tempted to write that God is faithful.  He is.  But for every mourning heart of a parent out there, those words sting.  Why was He not faithful to heal the lost children?  The hurting ones?  The children of this world who haven't made it to their 2 month birthdays, like sweet Pearl has?  I don't know the answer.  He is faithful, but it all is beyond my understanding.   Why do I get these three children when dear friends try again and again for a second baby?  A first baby.  It's not fair.  My joy seems gaudy in the face of their sorrow.

And yet it grows.  God has a plan.  In time I won't be able to hide that He is working in my body and this baby's body.  It is the unstoppable force of dust that has had breath breathed into it by the Creator.  His plan for this little one may be big or small, but it is part of God's story.  I can't even write my own chapter.  If I could, I would have skipped all of the sad parts.

I don't know why my friends can't have children right now, but I know that God binds up the wounds of the broken hearted.  He did mine.  He will yours.  The wildly and deeply will come.  And though the seeds may have not awakened yet, they lie sleeping in your heart and He knows.  And He holds the pieces of you in His hands to keep you from falling apart when everything threatens to break.  And here's what I want you to know; it is you who are beautiful and precious. 

For MQ, JD, KC, and BN.   And for every other mother out there who has lost their baby. 

Give up, give in, rest

"Stop fighting me!  I'm trying to keep you from getting hurt."

I said that to my son this morning as he attempted to dive off of the back of a chair and through a window.  The words left my mouth and I was suddenly flooded with all of the words my parents said to me over and over while I was growing up.  In spite of how I believed they felt about me as a teenager, they were, in truth, trying to keep me from hurting.  How I fought them.  I sneaked around, I lied, I did what I wanted in covert ways that kept me from trouble, but did damage to my heart.

I see the sneakiness in my daughter and it terrifies me.  Granted, it's three year old sneakiness of coloring on walls, raiding my closet for clothes to dress up in when I ask her not to and in general doing what she wants as long as she thinks I can't see her.  I see the fight in my son and it frightens me, even though it is only the fight of an eighteen month old.   Oh, that stubborn face when he gets determined to do something.  Even after I've just caught him in mid-air or pulled his hand from the flame (sometimes literally).  I didn't think I was a worrier, but it seems this is my first instinct as a parent.

Our culture says YOLO! (you only live once)  Our culture encourages us to live and love recklessly.  There seems to be some mysterious beauty and allure in the untamed heart.  I have felt that.  "'Tis better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all" they say, but somehow that mostly applies to sleeping around.  We aren't there yet.  My kids are small.  But seeing their resistance to the wisdom of my years even now brings that worry.

I see the willingness in myself to still have those sneaky, stubborn, rebellious traits in spite of the fact that they do damage to my health, my relationships...everything!  I can hear God saying the words I say to my children.  Granted they are more gentle, but there are those words in my heart. Give up, Give in, Rest.

Give up the stubborn need to be right.  Give up the worry about these kiddos, give up the secret desires of my dark heart that threaten everything around me.  The fear, the anger, the selfishness, the shame, the covetousness. 

Give up the insanity.  Give in to my Grace.  Rest.

 

Sounds like a plan.

How my phone spent a week in a bag of rice and I learned a lesson in parenting

I don't have an i-phone.  I just have a palm phone which even my cell phone provider does not call a 'smart phone'.  It's only mildly knowledgeable, and yet, I'm on that thing a lot.  Recently, it nearly met its doom in a puddle of water on the counter when the portable dishwasher emptied on the space between the two sink basins and ran back over the entire counter.  I found it in the morning.  I took it apart immediately and per online advice, stuck it in a bag of rice.  Lest I be without a phone for half a millisecond, I called my provider to have my number switched over to my old phone.  And by old, I mean 2 phones back.  It's a flip phone.  This one, to be exact.  Straight out of the junk drawer.  I need to let go of thing!  Sheesh.

When I switched, the customer service guy mentioned how hard it would be for me to send texts and I merely scoffed.  I mean, this had been my phone before, right?  I know how to send text messages on those numeric keys!  How bad could it be?  Then I realized how often I send text messages that would take 5 minutes to send on a standard keypad.  Then I realized how much time I spent checking facebook status comments and photos on my very slow phone since I wasn't able to even access the web on this one.  Then I realized how often my kids are were vying for my attention while I took much, much longer to communicate on this new/old phone.  So I gave up.  If someone wanted to talk to me via long texts, I just called them for a moment or I didn't respond until I had some kid free time.   Don't get me wrong, this wasn't by choice!  I felt frustrated and cut off from friends.  I felt annoyed and spent my evenings perusing my phone carrier's website, looking at stats of smarter phones that I could get for free or cheap if I activated my upgrade.

But how many times per day are my kids asking me for something or talking to me and I am too busy.  How often am I engaged in a conversation with an unseen person via text and I just don't answer my children when they are talking to me because I want to finish my sentence?  They don't recognize that device as another person, merely some gadget I'm playing with.  All day.  They can't see what is going on on that screen and as a result, they feel ignored.  When we are with other people and I tell them I'm having a conversation with another adult, they can gauge that.  They can sit and wait until I'm done talking and then talk with me.  My phone offers no such cues.  I have it with me all the time. In the park, at home, in the car, in the store.  There is never a time when they can clearly see that it is their turn to talk to me if I have that thing in my hand.

With my little flip phone in hand it became again what it was mean to be.  Just a phone.  Remember the days when you called someone and left a message?  Or if they didn't have an answering machine you just called back.  I'm not calling for a personal return to phones tied to the wall by any means, but I am recognizing that being present applies to my phone too.  I can have mom breaks.  I have have a time out, but when I am present, I need to BE present.  Not wishing I were somewhere else, with someone else. 

It won't be like this forever.  My kids will grow up.  I can be here, or I can miss it.  Funny that while this phone in rice thing was happening, some very interesting blog posts circulated on facebook.  They came up when I had a hour at night to waste.  They struck a chord in me and I realized that I have been guilty of missing my children's childhood.  How much this time when they are young is a precious gift and while I have served on the mission field in foreign countries, there was never a mission so important and precious as this one.   The blog post that talked about motherhood as a mission field is no longer up.  It's as if it was up just long enough to speak to my heart.

A week in rice and my phone made a miraculous recovery.  And so did I, just a bit.  Oh, I'm still guilty of picking up that thing to entertain myself when the kid madness is turning the house upside down and we are housebound with a week's worth of stomach virus, but I am much more aware of it and I tend to put it down.  Texts can wait.  Voicemails can be heard later.  Phone calls can be returned.  I've got little hearts to tend and, sometimes, it's good to not be available to anyone else.

On love and loss - my four children

I am the mother of 4 children.  You may not know that.  You may only see the two I get the privilege of raising, but my love for each of them is no less.  Our second and fourth children were too small to know their gender, but we have decided that they are a boy (the 2nd) and a girl (the 4th).  It helps me think of them and love them and I even have potential names chosen that I kind of call them in my head when I think of them.  It is real to me, my love for them.  And yet, it is a secret.

Part of motherhood is sometimes the loss of a child.  When that baby or child is big enough to have a funeral and be mourned, there is a validation to the sadness.  A place to give it focus and hone the emotions into words, tears, recognition of a life, and to receive comfort from a community.  But when the baby is unborn and so small that they never passed the cellular level, the loss of them is faceless and formless.  There is no focus for the grief.  And so it gets set aside.  "You can try again.", some well meaning person says and while it is true, there will never be another baby just like the baby I lost.  Even naming them is complicated.  I have these few names that I love.  Names that I would like to say out loud to my son or daughter for the rest of their lives.  And should we have another child I may want to give them this name.  So I hold back from giving a true and final name to my lost children.  And they remain nameless, faceless, formless and lost.

The first time I lost a baby, Valentines Day 2010, it seemed I was welcomed into a quiet and yet disconnected group of women who had also lost a baby.  A club that no one wanted to be a part of and so kept secret.  The other members were not known, but there we all were, unwilling initiates whose grief had been the dues we paid.  I would say I had miscarried and a friend would gently say, "Me too."  Friends that I had know for years or family members and I would sit there in quiet anguish that I had not been able to help them through that sorrow and could not now, lost as I was in my own. 

This time, Valentines Day 2012, I lost my girl and immediately reached for help.  I knew I would need it.  I knew I was lost without other moms and friends to come around me and love me and my family.  I needed help to sort through the heap of baby girl clothes I had been saving, I just couldn't face them, so I sent out the call for help.  What I got in response (in addition to help) was emails from mamas who had also lost a baby, but didn't feel like they could talk about it at our MOMS Club events with all of the pregnant mothers around.  It's too painful or too awkward or would worry the pregnant mothers and I remembered that the silence is the pain. 

So for all of you mamas out there who have lost a baby, this is for you.  Your children are not forgotten.  You can talk about them any time.  Don't worry about the awkward silence from those who don't understand.  I pray they never do.  Know that there are others who do understand, but might not be able to talk about it yet and in their silence lives the pain.  Motherhood does not always equal a baby to hold, but it always means that my love has multiplied and gone out to another in a way I could have never imagined.  And talking about my lost children helps my heart to heal a bit more.  I hope yours will too.

Creating or Re-creating?

I know I promised motorcycle photos, but I've been lost in thought this week.  I've been taking in a lot of information lately, not all of it good, not all of it bad, but lots of it making me think.  I've come to realize that a lot of what I do creatively is re-creating.  The little elephant below - someone else's design.  The things I knit - patterns I've seen and want to make.  Songs I sing lately - not written by me.  Now don't get me wrong.  I'm not discounting them as useless.  It takes skill, desire, and practice to be able to re-create.  But does it really take imagination?  That is what I've been pondering over.  I don't want to spend all my artistic energy doing my own spin on someone else's brain child. 

So what is the difference between inspiration and copying?  For example, I am fascinated by Nikki McClure's art turned into children's books.  Specifically "Mama, is it summer yet?"  So do I sit down to see if I can do a paper cut in her style?  Yes.  That can be creative.  But not copying her images and doing it as she would have done.  That's re-creating. 

So why is it different when I do a little elephant?  Or embroider a pattern?  How can I find the impetus to create and not fall into the trap of just re-creating.  That is my journey this week.  I'll be pondering it over  and I'd love to hear your thoughts on how you avoid the potholes of just re-creating, rather than using things around you as a springboard for your own creative process.  Please leave your thoughts in a comment!

Boob Envy

Yes.  You read that right.  I have boob envy and I have it bad.  J-baby is 2 months old now and he is officially weaned.  And every time I see a friend (or stranger) nurse her baby, I feel a little lump in my throat.  I see women randomly on the street and the thought crosses my mind "I bet she could nurse HER babies".  And then I sigh, just a little inside.  This is the one thing, of all of the things I prayed for, that did not happen for me.   Not that you need to know all of this, but it's therapeutic to write it all out.  I was unable to nurse my Cora girl when she was born.  I was told I needed to pump more, that her latch was bad, that I wasn't relaxing enough to get a letdown for the pump, that she was too weak to nurse since she was a preemie.  On and on. I tried every technique, every herb I knew of, every drug.  I sacrificed sleep and pumped around the clock.  I had the lactation consultants on speed dial.  I literally drove myself insane.  And it didn't work.  Nothing worked. I had to be medicated for Postparum Depression (PPD) after the last drug I went on to promote lactation did nothing for me.  I was broken-hearted and DETERMINED that it would be different this time.

But it wasn't.  I had my full term baby, I had a VBAC (which somewhere in my head I had convinced myself that my C-Section effected my ability to nurse. It doesn't. It didn't.), I was DETERMINED to make it work.  Until I took my little son in for a weight check and he had lost a pound after 5 days.  I called a new lactation consultant and asked her every question and after another night of my little boy frantically trying to nurse for 3 hours and then falling asleep, I saw his behavior for what it truly was.  He was exhausted, not satisfied.  I took a bottle of formula in hand and I fed my son.  He gulped down every drop, burped contentedly, and then fell asleep, full and happy for the first time in his short little life. I cuddled him and sobbed.  Heart-wrenching sobs and was angry.  Angry at God.  Angry at my body.  Angry and broken.  I didn't understand why I couldn't have this.  I wasn't going to starve my son any more for the sake of my nursing pride, but WHY?!!  Why couldn't I have this one last thing?  And granted, I was 5 days postpartum and a hormonal mess, so this all felt way more intense.

I went to see the lactation consultant (a different one from the ones who I saw with Cora) and long story short, she took one look at me and told me she was surprised I could make any milk at all.  I had an organic problem.  I just don't have the glandular tissue I need.  It's a condition called Breast Hypoplasia and I'll let you google it.  Mine is a mild case and not at all like what I found when I searched for images. Yeep!

I felt such relief at having an answer!! I left her office with every (new) herb she recommended and started on meds (not the crazy making ones this time) to make everything work as much as it could with the full knowledge I would never make a full supply for my son, but I could give him what I had.  And then he got sick and refused to nurse, or eat at all since he couldn't breath and it was all downhill from there.  By the time he got better, I was down to the dregs and he was not happy about having to work so hard for his lunch.  I slowly let it go.

And I am still sad about it.  I can get angry if I think about it too much, since for years I've been seen by medical professionals who never once mentioned that this might be a problem, that there might be an underlying syndrome that I could possibly correct with medicine and weight loss.  And now here we are.  J-baby has donor milk from other mamas and formula and I have a little sigh in my heart when I think about it.  I don't hang out in that place.  I am grateful for the gifts I have been given with beautiful healthy children and for the most part, a healthy body. But there is a little sad part in my little mama heart that longs to feed my baby the way God intended a woman's body to work.  And writing it out helps me let it go a little more.  To find joy in the gifts I have been given and to be thankful for what I have (or don't have).  For at the heart of it is a plan that is bigger than mine.

Lent and Love

I've given up sugar for Lent and let me tell ya, I am not a happy girl.  I willingly admit I am a junkie and crave sugar all the time.  We don't keep sweets in the house because I will eat them in a day, but give me about 10 minutes and I could rustle something up from the ingredients we have!  I'm not being super hard core and checking every label, but if it tastes sweet, I am not eating it.  (I might have to add ketchup to that list since after 5 days of no sugar, it tastes like tomato syrup to me)  I'm not sure how long the detox period will last, but for now, I'm not through it.  The headaches are the worst.

Couple this with the fact that I am doing some serious praying and reading about love, Christ's love for us, among other types and I've got quite the mix on my hands.  I might have just lost my mind.  Showing love, or being mindful of how loving I am when I am on edge and jonesing for something sweet might just be the stupidest plan I've ever undertaken.  So here I am, day 5 and praying for the strength to walk away from my daughter's animal crackers, and biting back all of the angry and ugly words that want to come spilling out of me in response to denying myself my favorite drug.  Not that anyone is being particularly annoying.  Just me, a detoxing junkie over here. 

But that is the purpose of Lent, for me right now, to deny myself a physical pleasure that I may focus on the sacrifice of Christ.  In that way, in my own very small way, I hope to get a glimpse of His sacrifice.  Not that giving up sugar is like giving up one's life, but maybe I can just touch the edge of the thought, and hold it in my mind, in between diapers and feedings and the never ending demands of a newborn and 2 year old who are on conflicting schedules.  Maybe for long enough to understand Love a little more.  I hope so. 

To my girl

The day
The dawn
The joyful moments captured
Forever in my mama heart
The giggles, the questions
The snuggles.
The much loved books insisted upon before dawn
The tired body forgotten
In the wake of conversations
That if overheard would not be understood
But are a part of the daily patter and chatter of life
With my girl.

Habits and frustrations
Learning and teaching, each one to each in their turn
Eggs with cheese, Puffins and milk
Bananas and conversation
Serious blue eyes answer my question with an insistent
"Yes, Mama"
These days swim past me like a river
Like a tide that I cannot hold on the sand
My baby girl becomes a big girl
A big sister, a little friend,
and I hold her gently,
like a tiny bird
Before she flies away.

In my own words

I spend a lot of time lately writing other people's words down.  I'm the secretary/ website editor and manager for my local MOMS Club as well as working part time (from home) as the personal assistant/web designer/graphic artist/ copy editor/ all around go-to gal for a friend of mine who has an interior design business that she wants to put on the web. (still working out kinks and adding info to the site, but she is a fabulous designer, if you ever need someone)  With all of this time spent with other people's words, I find that mine are the last to get written down.  I can't journal on paper any more because I've officially lost the use of my right hand for small motor functions (pregnancy related carpal tunnel - don't worry, it'll come back) so this is my journal.  And it gets left behind when I'm busy.  My darling 2 year old, when she sees me in this office chair, comes over, stands at my side and says 'want up?'  So she sits in my lap with her sweet questions and fiddlings, making it very hard to type.  So I give up and we go read books or play blocks or paint with her watercolors.  It's not a bad life really.

But my 34th birthday came and went without much of a blip this year.  Usually I throw myself a cookout, but I didn't have the energy to clean the house, so I settled for a quiet cup of cocoa with friends and then later that week, a movie with my hubby when we could get a babysitter.  I also record the date for posterity to go back and see who I was at the time, or at least a small snippet of me.  So here are some post birthday thoughts.  As was the case in my last pregnancy, I feel very strongly that I am not my own.  Not just because my body is currently inhabited and dictated to by a very small, but very bossy little boy, but because my life and days belong to my family and to others right now.  My home, my husband, my children, my groups, my work, my friends.  They own me right now, and by 'me', I mean my time, my body, my thoughts, and my heart.  It's a season and I'm not complaining, but just writing it down.  (p.s.  It is super frustrating to type with double wrist braces on that somehow manage to delete my words and open  random programs on my computer while I am writing!!)

Middle age is creeping up on me and I don't really mind.  I see my body aging and while I'm a little concerned about how far south my boobs are gonna go by the time I'm an old lady, I realize that not everyone can be medically reconstructed every other year to maintain some impossible standard of beauty. (and actually they never manage to.  Old ladies with lots of work done look strangely stretched and plastic and no longer human. I prefer wrinkles.  It's much more becoming.)  I also love my body when I'm pregnant.  Bulges and bumps and imperfections seem to fade in the face of this growing roundness.  I don't worry about the size of my rear end or whether I have 'muffin top' in my jeans because I have WAY more than muffin top right now. :)  And my hair looks awesome.  Thanks pregnancy!  Truthfully, I'd rather have the use of my hands, but I'll take whatever small concession I'm given and settle for a little extra beauty, at least in my own mind.  I know my puffy face will return to normal and the use of my hands will return and my round belly will (post baby) resemble a half filled waterbed, but for now, for what it's worth, I find myself beautiful.  It's an odd thing to say since most of my life I have looked in the mirror and thought the opposite, despite my sweet husband's vehement protests to the contrary.

I recently read the blog of a young girl who is living in Africa and has sacrificed everything she had to be there and serve God.  She wrote a post about giving everything for Him and how, in her opinion, most people aren't willing to do that for the sake of creature comforts.  I felt a little guilty since my life does not resemble hers at all, with her 14 (yes, 14) adopted daughters (she's in her 20's), her days spent caring medically for the poor, the neglected, and the starved.  And yet, in my own way, I can lay it all down for Him.  This season in my life is about giving myself to others and while I'm not serving the poor in Africa, I am laying down myself, daily, for the purpose I have been given (even when I whine about it).  I get the benefits of being in a place and situation where creature comforts are easily had, but how I choose to give of myself and the state of my heart is what God sees.  I pray that this year is about loving those around me better and laying my own self down in order that others may see the light of Jesus.  And to be unashamed about that.

In praise of innocence (ie, the unpolluted mind)

Some books, movies, tv shows, and a few other et ceteras have come across my path lately and I have been questioning why they need to be in my life.  At one point, I was told that it was just me, that I was just 'sensitive' to these things.  At the time, I was a little cowed and shut my trap.  Perhaps I am too sensitive.  But after some thinking, I asked myself, "Why not?"  What's wrong with NOT filling my head and heart and dreams up with the worst of humanity? 

Now, I'm no fool. I am not talking about putting on blinders and pretending that violent, terrifying, and horrific things don't exist so I'm gonna stuff my fingers in my ears and say "la la la la la."  What I'm talking about is using these things as a form of entertainment.  And in time, desensitizing myself to them.  The things that we see on television are full of murder, language, sex, gore, and anything else the writers can dream up to get people on the couch and watching.  Now I admit, I'm a sucker for murder mystery shows like Castle or Lie to Me, but I know that these are not things Cora should watch.  For the most part, I wait until she has gone to bed.  But, really, why should I be watching things that I know my child, with her wide eyed innocence, will be frightened of, or confused by or keep talking about why the 'man' was 'sad' when really he was terrified and being hurt, when a scene came up that I wasn't expecting and she happened to get a glimpse of it before I could turn it off.  It's one thing for me to stand guard at the gate of the world around her and explain things that happen and people's actions that I am not in control of, but it is another to read it to her, or let her see it on the TV because I'm too bored/tired/busy to take her for a walk outside and let her pick up leaves and acorns and talk about the rocks and the sky and I happen to be trying to catch up on Ugly Betty while folding a pile of laundry! 

I am thinking I need a major shift if I have to defend no only my child's innocence, but my own, from my own choices.  I have no idea where to begin, but I just had to say this out loud (so to speak). I'll leave you with this thought from my own faith tradition.

Philippians 4:8 (New International Version) Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is noble, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is admirable—if anything is excellent or praiseworthy—think about such things.

The line

I've been trying to find the line of late.  The place where I can say, this is where I stand on an issue.  It's hazy, it's gray, it's confusing.  I've been watching from the sidelines as a friend defends her beliefs and her right to practice them the way she sees fit in her own home.  Not only that, but limiting how others practice their beliefs when they come to visit her.  So, where does the sanctity of my own home become paramount, overshadowing my ability to be a gracious and understanding hostess to friends?  Should it be?  Should I force others to conform to my belief system, just because they happen to be in my house?  If not to conform, to respect?  And what does that look like? 

I'm being vague on purpose, because it doesn't matter what the issue at hand is.  Lifestyle choice, religious beliefs, food, sex, violence, language, dress...they all carry different weight in my mind, but in honoring a guest in my home and that guest honoring me, they are all the same.  For me, it comes down to how we respect one another.  And with all that aside, do I feel that my children will somehow be harmed by welcoming this guest into my home?  It's a heavy thing.  It divides.  It creates silent barriers that friends are unwilling or unable to cross.  Most of all, it makes me very sad.  I don't have an answer, just ponderings.  I hope that a middle ground where both parties can come together without feeling compromised exists, but are we willing to do the work to get there?  I hope so.