"Hope" Is The Thing With Feathers*: On Being A Songbird

 Photo: "Who Taught That Redwing Blackbird How to Fly" by freshelectrons is licensed under CC BY-NC-SA 2.0.

This morning I ran 3.6 miles!  Only 9.5 miles to go.  The last half mile was pretty rough, but I made it, slowly, one foot in front of the other.

At one point near the end of my run, the song I was listening to on my phone came to an end and there was a long stretch of silence before the next song began.  I really dislike those stretches of silence sometimes - at the end of my long runs I rely on the music to keep me going, to keep me focused, to keep my mind off how much everything hurts.  In the silence I hear my labored breathing, hear the sounds of my feet smacking the hard ground, hear the noise of traffic or construction or other people's conversations.  With the music it is easier for me to run with purpose, without it running often feels a lot more like work.

Today however, just as I started to groan inwardly at how long the next song was taking to begin, a new sound caught my ear.  I was running through a park and the songbirds were really making "a joyful noise" in the trees on one side of me.  I smiled immediately because I love the sound of birds singing (who doesn't?), and this morning their commotion sounded very much like boisterous voices cheering me on as I ran.

I love songbirds.  I love waking up in the morning, while it is still dark, and hearing them singing outside my window - announcing, without any alarm clock, the impending arrival of a new day.  I especially love that first morning, near the end of a long winter (and this winter was the longest, wasn't it?) when you first hear their voices.  To me, someone who struggles deeply in winter with its short days and long nights, those first early morning songs are the sound of hope - the reminder that this too shall pass and that if I can hold on just a little longer, I will once again be surrounded by a world of light and warmth.

It struck me this morning as I ran that Christians are called to the same purpose as songbirds.  We are called to be the heralds of the Light of the World, singing a song of hope and courage to those still sitting in darkness.  Often I listen to the news or read the headlines, and I feel so disheartened, discouraged by the seemingly great ocean of evil and hatred and suffering all around me.  But this morning I felt encouraged, invigorated by the gentle reminder that we are called to be the harbingers of Good News to a world that is waiting, often in hopelessness and despair, just as the songbirds are the harbingers of spring and of a new dawn to those of us who cannot yet feel it or see it.  The birds don't feel it or see it yet either, but they know it is coming, and they sing out their joyful song in the beautiful way they were created to do.  We, too, will soon enjoy the light and beauty of a glorious (and eternal!) spring day, but first we must usher it in as songbirds in the darkness of a waning night.

It is is said that Pheidippides ran the first marathon in Greece from a battlefield to the city of Athens to announce the victory of the Greeks over the Persians in a military conflict.  (The fable goes on to say that he then collapsed and died, which is why I am running a half-marathon, people.  HALF-marathon.)  I'll be running my race in October because I want to join with the staff and volunteers at Heartline Ministries in being a forerunner of hope to the people of Haiti, announcing a victory that is finished even as they wait, and the advent of a Kingdom of Peace to those who have known much more of loss and violence than I can ever imagine.

It takes courage and perseverance to be a forerunner.  It takes faith to be a songbird.  It takes eyes to see what the Creator is about to reveal, and it takes the courage to sing out the Good News of the victory of the Unconquerable Son to a world still shrouded in darkness.

So to the songbirds of this world: Take heart!  We hear you.  Your voice makes a difference, and when we hear it, we have hope.

And to those who feel worn out and alone, tired of waiting, tired of enduring:  I know it has been a long winter, the longest night.  But close your eyes and listen: "the birds their carol raise."  The Light of the World is coming!  Dawn is almost here!

******

I can't end a post about songbirds without including a link to one of my all-time favorite songs ever: Redwing by Hem.  Listen and enjoy!

Redwing

Hey, was that you floating past the tree line?
Hey, was that a feather in your hand?
No, I don't mean to ask these questions
I don't mean to rush your heart
I swear I saw this accidentally
No, I don't mean to start

Hey, the rain falls straight into the sidewalk
Hey, the clouds hang heavy in the sky
But I don't want to still believe in
The gravity of solid ground
The world below is not so big
That it can keep us down

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a redwing

Fly above the houses and the schoolyards
And fly until you cannot feel the Earth
No, I don't mean that it's so easy
And I don't mean that it's so small
But the world below is not so mean
That it can make us fall

We are standing on the rooftops
We are circling like sparrows
We are tiny, we are trembling
Scared of everything
But the heart is still a redwing

Songwriters
Daniel R. Messe

Published by
Lyrics © Universal Music Publishing Group

******

*"Hope" is the thing with feathers - (314) by Emily Dickinson

******

On October 19th of this year, I will be running the St. Louis Rock-n-Roll Half-Marathon with the goal of raising $5,000 for Heartline Ministries and the women of Port-au-Prince, Haiti.  If you would like to support me in my efforts, please visit my Pure Charity fundraising page for more information!  Thank you!

Siblings

July 2012

November 2012

December 2012

January 2013

July 2013

August 2013

Sometimes they intentionally pester and harass each other.  Sometimes they out and out compete.  But I also love the way they love each other.  And I know this might sound strange, but I'm glad they get the opportunity to take each other for granted, to accept and expect each other as a natural and perpetual presence in their own lives.  He just is her little brother.  She just is his big sister.  What an extraordinary blessing the ordinary can be.

25 Random Bits of Advice for My Daughter

1. Your emotions are very important. They can reveal much of what is real and true. But at the end of the day, your head is in charge.

2. Here's a question to ask yourself when you feel like your emotions might be getting the best of you: what would Hermione do? Seriously, it works like a charm.

3. The world is full of lies. I know this sounds like a very cynical thing to say, but it can actually be incredibly freeing when you think about it. The truth is quiet and rarely self-promoting. Become adept at finding it and ignore everything else.

4. In matters of food and cooking, always ask your Aunt Laura. This is probably also true in matters of make-up and fashion. We're all good at some things, but those are not my things.

5. Every single person you will ever meet has been badly hurt at one time or another. Most of us spend a great deal of our lives in reaction to this. Be gentle.

6. "The expert at anything was once a beginner." I don't know who said this, but it's true. It's okay to not know what you are doing. Really. Don't give up. One day you'll be surprised at all the things you can do that once seemed impossible.

7. Your father is one of the smartest men I've ever met. Listen to him.

8. Read! Think critically about what you've read. Then read some more. Repeat, repeat, repeat.

9. Relationships are important. You were built to live in community with others. This is not always easy (especially if you're as introverted as I am), but it is worth the effort.

10. You are not what you do.

11. You are not what you feel.

12. Do not pay full price for jeans from the Gap. And while were on the topic, avoid being a walking advertisement for clothing brands. It does not make you cool, it just makes them rich.

13. Always treat your body with respect, as you would any precious gift. And never forget that neither your beauty nor your health is defined by a number on a scale.

14. Never marry a man until you've seen how he handles himself in a competitive sporting event.

15. There is so much beauty in our world. Make discovering it a habit.

16. At the end of the day, there's really nothing to be afraid of.

17. You have always been your own person, and I LOVE that about you. You have just one Creator - don't let anyone else (including me) tell you who you should be.

18. Learn how to let things go. Then please come home and teach me how to do the same. ;)

19. People say that you can have too much of a good thing, but this doesn't apply to everything. Namely: varieties of tea, really good ink pens, book bags, and, of course, s'mores.

20. Contentment is all about letting go of (what feels like) your right to decide what is enough.

21. When in doubt, you can never go wrong with blue.

22. Your grandma makes the best German chocolate cake in the whole world. Have her teach you how to make it, or just do like me, and have her bring it to every birthday party you ever throw.

23. The point of most technology is to make your life easier. In other words, it's a tool for you to use and not something that should be controlling your day or life.

24. God is always trustworthy even when He doesn't seem like it. There will absolutely come a day when you will feel like this can't possibly be true. It is true. It will never not be true. If you believe anything I've ever told you, believe this: God loves you perfectly and without interruption. You can trust Him completely.

25. Your father and I love you. Always, always. Nothing will ever change that.

The most beautiful little girl in the world, on her first day of preschool.

Tonight's Topic: Life, Death, and The End of Everything. Cheers!

I let Eden watch Charlotte's Web several weeks ago. She had handled the drama that is Bambi with oblivious delight and dearly loves farm animals, so I thought, why not Charlotte's Web? The talking and singing barnyard beasts will be right up her alley, and apparently, the significance of death is still far from her radar.

And I was right, she loved it. She still loves it, in fact, despite this conversation that we had at the end:

E: "Mommy, where did that spider go? Why is the pig crying?"

S: [Caught a little off guard because WHERE WERE THESE QUESTIONS DURING BAMBI?? and yet, desperately trying to sound completely casual and nonchalant] "Well, baby, she got old and died."

S: Oh no. That had to be way too blunt. Where is the well-spring of mother-wisdom that is supposed to miraculously appear at these moments??

[Long pause.]

E: ME????

S: Nooooo. She can't be... it's not possible... she doesn't mean....

E: ME AND MOMMY DIE AND GET OLD????

So, to recap.

Parental To-Do List:
1) Scar child for life.

Check.

**********

I went for a walk in a big cemetery recently. I love cemeteries. I think I've mentioned all this before, probably more than once. I know it's weird, but I just think they are utterly fascinating places. When I was a kid I always wanted to live next to a cemetery when I grew up. In fact, I thought for a long time that one of the coolest jobs in the world would be being a groundskeeper at a cemetery, keeping everything beautiful and tidy and well-loved.

The cemetery that I visited a few weeks ago is fairly large. As I walked through the front gates and made my way down the path toward the older section near the back, I noticed how the lifespans recorded on the gravestones progressively shortened. Not so very long ago old age must have seemed a gift, a family unmarked by the death of the young and the seemingly strong must have seemed a marvel.

I stood for a long time at one small family plot in particular. It belonged to a man who over the course of eight years lost a two-year-old son, his thirty-four-year-old wife, and finally, the last remaining person in his immediate family, a five-year-old daughter. He then lived on into his eighties. His grave was next to theirs though, and there were no others. I spent a long time wondering about his life. The Before and the After and the What Came Next of his story. I wonder what he thought of his own personal longevity and what he did with the rest of his life. I wonder what he thought of his story and if there is anyone living who still knows it.

On my walk I saw one phrase repeated again and again and again: gone but not forgotten. And next to more than a few of the gravestones bearing these very words, were other gravestones, so old and weather-beaten that all inscriptions had been completely worn away and only the presence of the rocks themselves bore witness to the fact that someone once had lived and died and been buried there. I kept wondering if there was anyone left alive who might still know those names - who might still say, you are gone but not forgotten. Or, with the eventual death of friends and family, and the power of wind and rain on rock, had their very existence been obliterated from the memory of the world? How many, in that cemetery alone, were both gone and forgotten? How many, in all the ages of this world, have come and gone in a blink?

**********

A friend of ours from college, an extremely talented musician, is on the brink of releasing his second album, The Cymbal Crashing Clouds. One of his songs - "A Last Time For Everything" - keeps circling through my mind over and over. I'll post the lyrics here someday hopefully, once I make sure it's okay. But three miscarriages in four years have left me thinking a lot about last times these days.

On Saturday, I threw a birthday party for my sweet little girl, and despite my utter lack of crafty-supermom-Susie Homemaker-skills, I worked as hard at it as I could to make it beautiful.

She's three. She won't remember.

But this may be the one and only three-year-old birthday party I ever get to throw, and I will remember.

**********

So, that. I'm no longer at all sure that we will have any more children. I've stopped planning it out. And it's not because I'm being melodramatic or depressed. It's because I've been brought face-to-face three times now with a reality that all those people who died a century or two ago probably never had the luxury of forgetting. There is a last time for everything, and by and large, we don't get to decide when that last time is. A last birthday party, a last child, a last breath. Our life is a series of last moments, the vast majority of which slip by without us even noticing, and sooner or later we each experience them all.

But Ben's song reminds me that there are other lasts worth noting. Time is winding down on more than just our lives on this earth. And one day, when we have finally set aside all the temporary things of this mortal life, something else will come to an end. "He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away." (Revelation 21:4)

Last tears.
Last mourning.
Last pain.
Last death.
There is a last time for these too.

**********

July 30th was my Judah's due date. For awhile, there was a part of his life that had me looking forward. Now it is all looking back. Despite what this long post on death might lead you to believe, I'm actually feeling okay. I think, maybe, the worst of the grief has passed. Those sharp pangs of heartbreak and anger are fairly rare now. The depression seems to be lifting. It's never quite the same though, is it? You recover from an illness, but how do you ever fully recover from the death of someone you loved? I miss Judah, and it makes me sad that he isn't here. And he's never going to be here. So, as long as I live, how can there not be some part of me that remains a little sad? I'm not sure how to recover from the missing him. I'm not sure how to let go of the great big dream of the how and the when and the where of my own children. I had a plan. It's not remotely coming to pass. And I'm coming to terms with that.

**********

One last song, and I'll call it a night. :)

I've mentioned before that I love JJ Heller's album, When I'm With You. In her song, "Olivianna," (which is, of course, about death) there are the lines:

You're going home love
Where you belong

I've heard the song many, many times, but I really heard those words for the first time the other day. I think, so often, that Judah and my other two babies are supposed to be here, with me - that here is where they belong. And it's true - we do belong with those we love. They do belong with me. And that, of course, is why their absence is so painful. But we are all only here temporarily. And soon we are all going home to be with the One we love, and the One who loves us. So, they are now home where they have always belonged. And one day, someday, whenever my last day comes, I will be too.

**********

I'm so very glad that no matter what our gravestones look like a hundred years from now there is Someone who knows us all by name.

Recognition

A week or so ago, something very small happened, and I haven't been able to stop thinking about it.

It was just an ordinary day, and we were home doing ordinary things about the house. And Peter said or did something. And it was just something small - so much so that the actual substance of the word or action slipped from my mind before even a few minutes passed. But I remember that it made me feel loved and loved in a very specific way.

This has not been an easy year for us. It is easier now than it was just a few months ago, but still, I often reach the end of a day feeling empty and weary - feeling as if I have battled for every good thing and feeling, in my bones, that that same battle will be waiting for me tomorrow. And Pete has worked hard to love me well during this time. I know it. I've seen it. And when he did whatever small thing it was that he did a week or so ago, it made me feel loved, and it made me think about this specific love he has shown me - this love that is patient, and gentle, and soft-spoken, and long-suffering - this staunch, sturdy love that is ever-present and also, quiet, undemanding, agenda-less. And I thought about all this love a bit absently as I sorted mail, or stacked dishes, or whatever it was I was doing that day, until I became aware of some little mental pinging in my brain, growing louder until it brought me up short. It was a strong sense of recognition or remembering - an acute feeling of, "Wait, I know this... I've felt this way before...what does this remind me of?"

And it clicked, and I remembered, and I recognized:

Jesus. This love reminds me of Jesus.

I know this love, I recognize this love, because it's the same Love that comforted me as a child. It's the same Love that hunkered down with me at the bottom of a pit of depression, and then, when I was ready, took my hand and pulled me out. It's the same Love that shouldered my pain in an apartment bathroom on an early July morning. And it's the same Love that has walked with me since, whispering, "Courage!" in my ear during all the heart-breaking moments of this year. It is not a generic love - it is specific, it is recognizable, it has a face, and once you have really encountered it, you do not forget.

So. I just want to say to you, husband, whenever it is that you read this blog, that even when I'm not looking for it or thinking of it, you remind me of Jesus.

And that is no small thing.

From The Middle of While We Were Yet

Pregnant.

One tiny word in one tiny test stick window. We'd given up on the squinting, doubt-filled, is-that-a-second-line-or-isn't-it kinds of tests years ago, even before Eden. The digital tests are more expensive, but they remove the uncertainty, the questions.

Pregnant. That's what I was, not just three months ago, but also a week ago. I'd already had some suspicious symptoms, but it took the test to completely convince me. Pregnant for the fourth time.

And then the next day,

I wasn't.

Again.

Sometimes I wonder why I post the things I do on this blog. Sometimes I wonder if I will look back in several years when I'm older and hopefully wiser and regret what I've put here. Or, if not regret it, at least shake my head at my choices. I wonder if being honest and open in the moment is the right way to go. Maybe the right thing to do is to wait till it's passed, wait till the depression is conquered, the sadness and grief is overcome, the victory is won, to share the experience. Then, with the perfect clarity of hindsight, I can tell the story the way it should be told, with the emphasis on the end, not the middle, on the glory, not the pain. I wonder this often, especially now, when the "middleness" of my story is so very obvious. I don't want to do myself or my family a disservice. And I especially don't want to diminish the power or glory or goodness of God. He deserves all praise. Always.

But I find myself compelled to come here again and again and again. Partially, probably, it's a release to give words to my experience and these posts may very well be stepping stones in the healing process. But I honestly think it's more than that. I come here, and I lay it all out for all eyes to see because I know this is the middle and not the end, and I want everyone to know not only that I have been redeemed but what I have been redeemed from.

Because this, this right here: the anger and the doubt and the sadness and the questioning and the struggle is what the Good News is for. This is it. This is where faith is made real and where all the Sunday school lessons and Bible studies find their purpose. If I can't speak of these experiences in the hour of their agony then my God is not the God of the lepers and the barren, of tears and sweat like drops of blood. But He is! He is exactly that. Time and time again He reveals it. He is the God of the broken and diseased, the outcasts, the confused, the doubters and liars and betrayers and sinners one and all. My God is the One who came not for the healthy, but for the sick. My faith is real and strong not because one day it will be easy and happy. It is real and strong because of this very moment when it is not easy and not happy - it is this moment for which it exists. And, I think, maybe, it is this moment when it is most powerful.

This morning in church we sang Chris Tomlin's The Wonderful Cross, and the words just kept repeating over and over and over again in my mind. Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonderful cross! Oh the wonder of a God who created the heavens and commands the angels, but who, even greater and more amazingly, chooses to pour His glory into the darkest moments of agony and pain and shame. The God of the dead and the dying. Oh the wonder of a God who fulfills His glory in the weakest things of this world, in the weakest moments of our lives - not just once they have become strong, but in the very midst of their weakness.

I have now had 3 miscarriages in 4 years. My brokenness is undeniable, my frailty and limitations haunt me. I am weak, and I am full of sin, and I am struggling in so many ways. Sometimes I think, in every way. And I am determined to put this all out there for everyone to see because I want everyone to know the God who is the God of this moment - the ugly middle - and the God of me - the confused, angry, depressed me. He is a God worth knowing. He is a God worth trusting.

"But God demonstrates His own love toward us,
in that while we were yet sinners,
Christ died for us."
(Romans 5:8)

The Path Before Me

I should state right now that I found the above images on a blog belonging to a friend of a friend. I haven't yet asked her where she found them or even made sure that it is okay for me to post them on my blog as well. This is a COLOSSAL BLOGGING FAIL. I just want to admit that up front.

I've been thinking a lot about that second image especially lately. It seems like a perfect depiction of my emotional life since February 19th. An excruciating game of king of the hill in which each subsequent emotion is not eradicated, but simply displaced by the tyranny of the next. Disbelief dethroned by yearning, then anger, then depression, then ultimately (I hope) by acceptance. Grief is not linear and every experience is unique, but oh. Twelve months. Please, Lord, don't let it take twelve months.

It has definitely been nice to feel some of the anger dissipating. It is not completely gone by any means, but somehow, somewhere, at sometime, a great deal of it was swept out, and I was able to recognize a moment of peace. But... now the clouds have rolled back together, the sky has closed, and darkness has descended. I've looked at the world around me and I've thought, I know this darkness. I know this darkness. Please, Lord, not again.

I thought - I honestly thought - it would be easier this time. I thought, we've done this before. We're in a better place. It will hurt, but not like before. But I was wrong. It hurts, just like before. And, perhaps not just because of the miscarriage, perhaps because of all the change: the moving and the trying to make new friends and the trying to adapt to new roles in life, in addition to the miscarriage and my hurting family - perhaps because of all of it, the depression seems so much worse this time. It reminds me, not of my experience following the first miscarriage, but of the horrible swamp of sadness** that was my life just a few years previous to that. I feel the weight of it pulling me down, and I know what lies at the bottom of that pit, and I don't want to go back there again.

And, Lord willing, I won't. Because I know what this darkness is, and I've defeated it once before, and I am not alone. Peter and I have had many talks lately about how I'm doing. About how we're doing. He knows too, and he cares, and this time I'm not afraid to be honest from the beginning. I'm not afraid of the options, of the tools available to us, and I'm considering them all. And this time I know what I didn't really know before - what I didn't truly learn until the days immediately following our first miscarriage - how very, very much I am loved.

But I feel broken too. Not brokenness as we pray for in church (although I suppose I feel a measure of that too), but broken as in, Does Not Work. Malfunctioning. Useless. I wake up and I feel no joy and I work with all my might to perform my roles of mother and wife and friend to the best of my ability, and I pray for endurance, and I pray for grace, and I pray for forgiveness. And I just keep mechanically putting one foot in front of the next. Wash this dish, dry that tear, smile, try to pay attention, try to listen, try not to fall apart here, breathe. And in my mind the lies about my value and my worth and my purpose bounce back again and again and again despite my attempts to slap them away. And I feel like I'm playing a game of ping-pong against a brick wall, and every day I feel weaker. Tired. Too tired and so overwhelmed.

And yet... the hope remains. It still endures. I know, I can't stop knowing, how much I am loved. I have not forgotten. And even as I fail more and more, and perhaps fall more and more, I feel His love. I feel His acceptance of me. I feel His gentle encouragement. He is not ashamed of me. He is not ashamed of my grief. He is not anxious or afraid of the present or the future.

I was created for Him, and He holds me, broken, and He is not disappointed.

So, as I struggle through another day, I remember. As I run my emotions dry on the treadmill, I remember. As I stand in front of the mirror and fight back the tears of disgust and dislike, I remember.

I remember my affliction and my wandering,

the bitterness and the gall.
I well remember them,
and my soul is downcast within me.
Yet this I call to mind
and therefore I have hope:
Because of the LORD’s great love we are not consumed,
for his compassions never fail.
They are new every morning;
great is your faithfulness.
I say to myself, “The LORD is my portion;
therefore I will wait for him.”
The LORD is good to those whose hope is in him,
to the one who seeks him;
it is good to wait quietly
for the salvation of the LORD.
(Lamentations 3:19-26)

I remember, and I won't forget. The spark of hope is in me yet, the light of His love burns in my heart even still, I have seen His miracles, and by His grace I still believe.

The path of the righteous is like the morning sun, shining ever brighter till the full light of day. (Proverbs 4:18)

Posts that have given me hope this week:
Peter's Easter Sermon
Just Breathe
When Christians Ask Why


**And yes, that is a reference to The NeverEnding Story. Because it's God's grace (and even humor) through the little things that is helping me get through. :)

Just Some More Thoughts

So. It is a new day. It is also Day 32 since our miscarriage. We are still okay. In fact, there are times that I would even dare to say we are good. That being said, I have been disappointed to find that the anger and the temptation to bitterness have lingered on, seemingly indefatigable reminders that all is not well in our world. For a long while the anger made me feel guilty and confused. I felt confused because I still couldn't identify the source for my anger (at least not in such a way that I could then rationally talk myself out of it) and guilty because anger is supposed to be such a bad emotion and its presence in my heart felt like a charge against me, a red flag that I am, in fact, a bad person. Worse, I hated (and felt even greater guilt over) the way that it would not stay contained in my heart, but would instead periodically erupt from within, spewing pain all over those around me - often those I love best and care about the most. I mentioned several times to Peter and other close friends that I thought there should be a time of confinement for those who are grieving, just as there used to be for women advanced in pregnancy in previous centuries. I want a safe place where I could hide away and work through my grief honestly but without the constant fear of hurting innocent bystanders in the process.

Despite my wishes, this place of isolation has not materialized. But for the most part I have ceased to feel so guilty and confused. Many mornings I would wake up, feel a sense of being physically unwell, and start running through a mental checklist: do I have a headache? a stomachache? What do these feelings add up to? And I would repeatedly come to the same diagnosis for the lump in my stomach or the vice in my chest or the ache between my shoulder blades: it's anger. I'm just angry. Somehow, in some strange way, this initial recognition of physical symptoms (instead of emotion) helped. After all, when we are recovering from a sprained ankle, do we blame ourselves for the swelling, or the redness, or the pain? Anger remains a frustrating reminder of this wound in my heart, but it has lost much of its power in being reduced to just a symptom. On those mornings when I recognize its presence I have stopped focusing my energy on trying to eradicate the emotion and have instead prayed for grace: that in my anger I would not sin. And instead of guilt and confusion I feel a form of peace and a capacity to endure.

***

The other night, in yet another attempt to delay her bedtime, a pajama-ed Eden curled up in my lap and requested a story. Tired and not particularly wanting to read the same picture book for the thousandth time, I suggested that she ask her dad to tell her a Bible story. She did and he, of course, obliged, choosing the story of Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. He described how the three men refused to worship the god created by King Nebuchadnezzar and as a punishment were bound together and thrown into a fiery furnace. And then he told of the miracle: how King Nebuchadnezzar looked into the furnace and saw not three, but four men walking unbound and unharmed in the midst of the fire - and how the King described the fourth man as looking like "a son of the gods."

Honestly? Sitting, listening to that story, all I could think was: how odd.

How odd that God would choose to demonstrate His deliverance in such a way. Why did He let the men be thrown into the furnace in the first place? Why did He wait so long to demonstrate His power? If He was going to save them from this death, why did He do it in the middle of the fire? Why didn't He stop it from ever getting that far?

***

Then later in the week I found myself reflecting on the season of Lent in which we now find ourselves. I was thinking about how it is supposed to be a time of sorrow and repentance. And my mind wandered to the fact that it also in a small way supposed to be a time of knowing Christ through "the fellowship of sharing in His sufferings."

And suddenly, I wanted to laugh.

What sufferings? What suffering does the God of the universe endure? What suffering can be experienced by the One who is, and is surrounded by, Love, Truth, Beauty, Joy, Peace: everything I long for and am drawn to? What sufferings?

Mine. All mine.

***

So. It is a new day. I wake up and I recognize that though things are better they are not yet well. I pick up the burden of my sorrow, of my grief. I say a prayer that I would not succumb to the anger and bitterness that day or even just that moment. I look out the window at a Spring that is not what it was supposed to be, and I shoulder my suffering and I look for my deliverance.

And I don't know why He waits. I don't know why He doesn't step in to set things right sooner. I don't understand.

But if I'm going to trust someone, anyone, how can I help but trust Him? The One who gave up Heaven, gave up everything that I wish I had, to come down and share in my suffering. The One who sat with me, just me, in an apartment bathroom and grieved. The One who over and over again, for our sake, exchanges not sadness for joy, but the other way around. The One who made deliverance possible when He gave up immortality for a mortal body and then suffered poverty, racism, oppression, rejection, betrayal, and death.

It doesn't make any sense to me. I do not understand. But He is present with me in the fire. And I am free.

For All Those Who Make Their Home in Tornado Alley

I'm just posting the lyrics to this song because I love it. I love most Hem songs actually. They make me happy. Or sad sometimes but in a happy way.

Funnel Cloud by Hem

Clapboard on the houses
Clothesline threading through
Holding down the corners of
The field where we grew

Off on the horizon
The same thing everyday
Until a painted backdrop rises up
And blows the world away
Blows your world away

Carry off the blankets
And carry off the trees
The light you've seen can touch you now
And change the way you see
And change the way you see


I know I've said it already, but I really love this song.

Because All This World Is Just A Stage

In the folder of information that the hospital gave us to take home are several different pamphlets and booklets that describe the grieving process. The traditional "five stages of grief" are denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. One provided pamphlet notes, "People often think of grieving as going through stages that progress in a linear fashion. However... know that it is very unlikely that you will experience these feelings on a certain timetable or as 'stages.'"

If only it were that easy.

On Friday we found out our baby had died. Cliche it may be, but I couldn't shake the feeling of a bad dream that just wouldn't end. Surely soon I would wake up? I asked the doctor if he was sure, made him show me proof. Later, in the hospital's labor and delivery ward, I asked again. The world felt off-kilter, reality seemed indistinct.

Early Saturday my baby was born. I cried during the delivery, and then, empty and tired, I slept.

On Sunday I put on a brave face and at times actually felt brave. Sunday was a day of many people, many hugs, much love and support. I spent most of the morning trying to hide the shaking of my hands, the trembling of my chin. And I cried on that day too, sometimes with great uncontrollable sobs, sometimes silently. At some point I wondered, if I can just manage to stay calm will others recognize grief?

Monday was the worst. Monday found me doubled-over in the shower, gasping from a sadness that felt like a sword through my chest. It is startling, how physically painful sadness can be. That, in and of itself, is a shock.

Tuesday was a good day. I don't remember Tuesday.

On Wednesday the depression arrived. Just sadness in another form really, like a heavy wool blanket thrown over my shoulders, weighing me down, draining my energy. On Wednesday I accidentally drove by the grocery store I had been heading to, realized it several blocks later, kept driving. At Target I forced myself to read and reread my shopping list to try to fend off a peculiar propensity to wander aimlessly through the aisles, looking at everything and nothing. I discovered that smiling at strangers, even polite or kind ones, required more than I had to give. So I kept moving and prayed that I wouldn't see anyone I knew.

On Thursday the depression blanket was heavier and seemingly woven with sharp metal wire - anger making its first real appearance since the short burst of fury I had felt in the ultrasound room right after the doctor had left us alone with The News. I recognized the anger, an old tormentor in many ways, and kept questioning myself, who am I angry at? God? The doctor or hospital? Anyone and everyone? I never could successfully identify a rational target. But I realized that I felt cheated, robbed, and, unable to pinpoint The Robber, I directed my anger at the universe in general. I felt the first temptation to bitterness, the feeling that I had been wronged and had earned the right to take out my pain on others. After what had been taken from me, who could dare to hold me accountable?

Yesterday, another Friday, I got up (again! again and again and again) and went to a different hospital to be with my brother. I wore myself out with thinking other thoughts and grieving other griefs.

And now it has been a full week. A full week of being without child. A full week of emptiness. Everyone keeps asking me, "How are you doing?" At times, I have dreaded that question. I recognize that I have asked that same question to others many times before. I know there is really no other question to ask, and I know that it is motivated by love and concern. But I feel so at loss as how to answer. What does "good" or "bad" mean in this situation? It has been a full week of emptiness, and I have denied and raged and sunk low in depression, and I have even in some small ways (is there any small way?) accepted. Which parts are the good and which are the bad? Toward the questioner I sometimes find myself thinking, well, I'm here aren't I? I'm dressed, I'm standing, I'm looking you in the eye. I'm not somewhere curled up in the fetal position, lost in some mental oblivion. That's good right? That might not be the normal measuring stick for good, but what measuring stick do I qualify for right now?

How do I answer that question? Does the other person (often just a casual acquaintance) really want to know? Do I really want to tell them? Can I even figure it out for myself? Can I put it into words?

On Monday I forced myself to put on non-maternity pants even though they didn't fit. I couldn't bear to put on a lie. On Friday, almost without realizing it, I pulled on another pair and snapped them without trouble. I can't stop looking in mirrors, hypnotized. The belly is already almost entirely gone. And yet, sometimes I still think I feel the baby move.

On one day this past week, I can't remember which, Peter and I had a good talk. And I confessed. I would rather relive the delivery over and over and over than wake up to a new day each and every morning that does not contain some last connection to my son. I don't want to say goodbye. I don't want to be separated from him. I would rather live in pain and hold him than heal and be alone.

And that, all of that, is the grieving process. And it is not linear.

It's Aliiiiivve!

Hello, friends.

So I mentioned once awhile back that I was thinking about closing up shop on this ol' blog. I implied in that same post that I'd already decided not to, that this blog would definitely go on in some shape or form.

And then I just kind of stopped writing. For about two or three months.

Turns out that post was a bit presumptuous. I wasn't ready to decide just yet. I'm not even 100% confident that I'm ready to decide right now. I mean I thought about writing a lot. I took photos with the intent to upload them here. I thought about Eden stories to share. I came up with some great post titles. But the motivation to actually sit down at keyboard and type just... fizzled. Every single time.

I keep thinking of those famous verses from Ecclesiastes. These last few months for me have been a time to absorb and reflect. In fact, I think that so much has been coming in to my life and mind and heart lately, that it has taken all my energy to manage the flow, and nothing has been left over for giving out. There is a time to produce and a time to gather supplies if you will. A time to expend energy through various endeavors and a time to hunker down, and be silent, and just try to really take in this life as we find it. I'd been feeling the need to hunker down and be silent. It was long overdue, in fact.

But though the ground around our home remains frozen and seemingly lifeless, I've been feeling the stirring of some energy again. The desire to grow and stretch and shake off some of this dust and dirt and maybe even find some new sunny spots to explore. (Oh metaphors! How I've missed abusing you!) Perhaps it's the New Year and all the people around me who are busy making and pursuing resolutions. Or maybe I have finally recovered from MegaVirusAttack 2010/11, version welcome-to-a-new-state-and-a-whole-new-community-of-germs-just-waiting-to-make-your-acquaintance. (Oh, and that! The run-on-word thing! I've missed that too.) Or maybe it's something else. Maybe we all just need to turn off the lights and unplug the phone once in awhile. Sit in the dark, play the no-one's-home-game, and just be.

I know I did.

For The Love

In all honesty, I have seriously considered abandoning this blog over the last month.

I just can't find the time to write anymore. And that's not a bad thing. It's just a natural result of my life being very full right now - much more so than it was just a few months ago. I'm working a lot harder, but it's good work, it's satisfying work. I wish I had more time to work, in fact. And it's interesting to me that while I'm working harder than ever (and enjoying it more than ever) I'm actually earning nothing. Well, zero dollars, anyway.

But do you know what I think it's called when you get up every morning still tired from the day before, but glad - so glad! - to have another opportunity to work, to pour all of your energy and everything you are and have into the tasks set before you, even if those tasks are, by all objective standards, mostly small and insignificant?

I think it's called Love.

So, so thankful for my life.

(Also. This blog is not over quite yet. Eden is: 1) stinkin' cute, but also, 2) not that interested in listening to my meandering and, frankly, rather self-absorbed thoughts on life. Thus that role must still fall to you, dear friends o' the Internet. I recommend skimming. At least until you get to the pictures of the stinkin' cute kid.)

25 Things (I Don't Want You To Know) About Me

I have been feeling so very imperfect lately.

No matter how hard I try, no matter how sincere and well-meaning my desires and actions are, not matter how determinedly I push myself, what I accomplish seems only mediocre at best. The out-and-out failures I try not to think about. Worse, it seems to be happening everywhere - in my relationships, in my day-to-day work, in my role as mother, wife, daughter, sister, friend, pastor's wife, Christian.

It has been an unsettling and discouraging time, especially for someone who is so task-oriented, so prone to measuring her value based on the shininess of her accomplishments. Regardless of my efforts and my intentions, mediocre does not feel good enough.

In the bleakness of this mental landscape, I find hope and encouragement and reassurance in the realness of others. In fact, it seems that the older I get the greater and greater value I place on sincerity, openness, and authenticity. I see so many women who encourage and inspire me - in the world at large and in the smaller world of my own life and community - and without exception a hallmark of these beautiful souls is their willingness to be real. To be imperfect. To even dare to laugh about their imperfections.

One of my current favorite blogs is Inspired to Action. I love this blog, I love what it's about, and I love how it does, in fact, inspire me to action. (And people, as you know, I am basically Eeyore in human form. Have you ever seen Eeyore inspired to do anything? Exactly. Thus, what this blog does is awesome and you should all add it to your feeders right now.)

One of my favorite posts from this blog was entitled, Real Motherhood: The Things I Don't Want You To Know About Me. I love reading blogs, and especially at this time in my life, I love reading blogs written by other moms. But as Kat (the author of Inspired to Action) states,

It’s easy, when reading about other people, to think, "Wow. They eat all organic foods, have a family fun night EVERY night, homeschool, take European vacations, wear the latest fashions, go on family mission trips, run marathons together, make their own all-natural cleaning supplies and have never forgotten their kid at school. I’m such a loser."

So. True.

In fact, I'm pretty sure I've thought almost each of these things and felt discouraged about myself and my life as a result. And that's when I need to remember, AGAIN, that the people who inspire me most aren't, in fact, the people who seem to be accomplishing all of the above. Nope, the ones who inspire me the most, the ones who make me actually want to be a better person, are the people who aren't afraid to be fully real in every situation. Not that they are constantly sharing their every thought or feeling, but that they aren't faking who they are and what their life is really about, for better or for worse. I think I am inspired because they are unafraid. Or, if they're afraid, they have the courage to be real anyway. And that gives me the courage to do the same.

Besides, as Meg Ryan's character, Kathleen Kelly, states in one of my all-time favorite movies, You've Got Mail,

"What's so wrong with being personal anyway? Whatever else anything is, it ought to begin by being personal."

This is exactly the sentiment I'm trying to express when I talk about being real. Whatever we do or say in this life, what value does it have if it doesn't begin with being real?

I'm getting long-winded, as I always do.

But, in honor of all the people in my life who have inspired and encouraged me, not by being perfect, but by being real, here are 25 Things (I Don't Want You To Know) About Me:

1. I only clean my house when it is visibly dirty. I have grand aspirations of setting up some kind of cleaning schedule where everything gets cleaned on a regular basis despite it's appearance, but yeah... so far, those have just remained aspirations.
2. I am an extreme introvert. That means that no matter how much I like you, no matter how much fun we have together, no matter how great of a person I truly think you are, at the end of the day, I'm always happy to go home. I worry that this makes me a bad friend.
3. I frequently catch myself being very jealous of extroverts.
4. I haven't been to the dentist in 5 years.
5. I'm usually suspicious of people with strong political opinions. But because I don't have strong political opinions of my own, I end up not being a very actively engaged citizen.
6. As a senior in high school I was supposed to go to some sort of fancy lunch for being a good student. My parents didn't think the outfit I picked out was formal enough so they put something together for me to wear out of my mom's closet. I couldn't bear the thought of being seen in front of my peers in the clothes they had selected, so I stopped on the way to school and changed into a different outfit in a grocery store bathroom. Then, after school, I scrunched up the outfit they chose so it would look like I had worn it and threw it into the hamper. This is probably the single most rebellious thing I ever did as a child. (I know, right?) I didn't feel guilty about it.
7. I once accidentally killed a duck when I was in grade school. That, I still feel terrible about.
8. The first time I took the test to get a driver's license, I failed. Why? Because I went straight through an intersection from a left-turn-only lane.
9. There are many days, more than I would like to count, where I find myself looking at Eden and thinking, I have no idea how to be a good mom to you.
10. I absolutely, positively hate to be the center of attention.
11. When I get nervous, my throat tightens up, so when I talk it sounds like I'm going to cry. Combine #10 and #11 and you get a lot of meetings where I sound like I am much more emotionally involved in what I'm saying than I actually am. This embarrasses me to no end.
12. I've never learned how to parallel park.
13. Sometimes I pull up Cookie Monster's Monsterpiece Theater videos on YouTube to entertain Eden. I like them more than she does.
14. I have never, ever been able to figure out hair and makeup.
15. Lilo and Stitch makes me cry.
16. I don't really like classical music. I feel like I'm supposed to, but I just... can't.
17. I also don't like to watch professional basketball because I think the players have freakish bodies, and it weirds me out.
18. On the other hand, I have really ugly feet.
19. I am strongly lacking when it comes to coordination or a sense of rhythm. Clapping and singing at the same time can be hard for me.
20. And, while we're at it, I can't sing - I'm probably just a step or two above tone deaf. I console myself with the thought that at least I know I can't sing, so I won't ever end up on the gag reel of American Idol.
21. #10+#11+#19+#20 = Karaoke is my living nightmare.
22. I have a very strong sense of responsibility, so when it comes to big decisions I feel compelled to carefully research and consider every option. At the end of this process, I usually am so overwhelmed by mental pro/con lists that I just end up hoping that someone else will make the decision for me. My friend calls this Paralysis by Analysis.
23. I mostly grew up out in the country with two older brothers and no female neighbors anywhere close to my age. We also changed schools a lot. Thus, to this day I have a very hard time figuring out how to develop close friendships with other women.
24. I wasn't able to figure out what "Y2K" stood for until January 1st, 2000.
25. I excel at being thorough but am absolutely terrible at anything that requires efficiency. Thus, most other people can accomplish 2 or 3 times what I can accomplish in the same amount of time. Of all the imperfections I've listed, this is probably the one that bothers me the most.

And you know what?

This list could have been a lot longer.

But I'm learning to be okay with that.

P.S. Sorry about the whole outfit-switcheroo, mom!

The In-between

So, how do you go about summing up the change from one life to another in a silly little blog post?

I would really like to know.

On June 28th, just a little over three weeks ago, I stood on Californian soil (or, you know, on the concrete with which it is covered) and looked at the spot on our living room floor where Eden took her first steps. I thought about bringing her home from the hospital to that apartment. About the corner where her bassinet used to stand by our bed. I remembered working on my master's degree at the table, typing papers and completing assignments in the early hours of many mornings. I remembered friends coming over to celebrate the completion of my degree and my first job as an official librarian. We decorated sugar cookies. And we were with the same friends in the same apartment at the same table when I carved my first pumpkin. I looked at the kitchen and recalled the night I chased Pudge around that room with a Kleenex box stuck on his head, carefully cradling a sleeping baby in one arm, knowing even then that it was one of those moments that would be very funny later. And I looked at the little bathroom that stood, tucked across the hall from our door and remembered sadness and fear and the grief that came with my first real loss. So many life-changing events and daily ordinariness all bundled up together in one little space.

Today I am sitting in another little apartment. It is new to me. I look out the window and see a beautiful tree, green leaves bobbing and swaying in the breeze. It is beautiful, and I'm thankful for it and glad to see it, glad to live next to it. But it is also new. The van that I drive Eden to and from the park in is new. The park is new. It has two huge play structures and swings and a bicycling/running path and a little lake with geese (!). But the grass turns swampy after storms and the humidity drives us indoors after too long. That weather - the thunderstorms and the humidity and the gorgeous clouds - is new to us. New enough, at any rate. The town is new. I've found Target and the grocery stores but nothing is where I expect it and a surprising number of brands are missing or unfamiliar. Peter's job is new and our church is new and the people are WONDERFUL, but they are still strangers. Certainly not enemies, but somehow, still, not quite friends. Not yet.

I daily see little to dislike and so much to love and yet I find myself wanting to shed all this "new" and instead pull on the old comfy familiarity of my old home and my friends-whom-I-can-call-friends and my routines and my life. If only I could figure out where it is in this new home with everything put away but still out of place.

A friend recently posted the following quote on her facebook account: "There is no growth without change, no change without loss, and no loss without pain."

I sit quietly and think about that.

Outside the leaves keeps dancing and the grass is so thick and green. It is new yet. But I am still thankful for it. So thankful for the new and the old, for the growth and the change, for having once found things that are good enough to hurt when you lose them and for knowing that there is still more goodness yet to be found, here, in this new place.

Ponderings

I finally finished No Greater Love by Mother Teresa back at the end of May. It took me quite awhile - I had to renew the book at the library more times than I care to admit. This was in no way due to the book being difficult to read or uninteresting. I just found Mother Teresa's words so thought-provoking that I could only read short chunks at a time before needing to set the book aside and reflect for awhile.

It goes without saying that Mother Teresa was an amazing woman. I think anyone who has ever heard of her would take that as a given. After reading this book though, I feel confident in stating that she was also a woman who epitomized non-consumeristic and counter-cultural living, as well as the giving-not-taking lifestyle that I so much want to emulate.

Below are just a few quotes from the book that stuck with me. Taken as a whole, I think these words very much represent the kinds of thoughts and ideas that seem to be constantly swirling around in my head in this season of my life.

"Words that do not give the light of Christ increase the darkness." (pg. 16) (Gack! Knife. To. The. Heart.)

"I believe that if God finds a person more useless than me, He will do even greater things through her because this work is His." (pg. 66)

"Jesus will use you to accomplish great things on the condition that you believe much more in His love than in your weakness." (pg. 87) (Wow. I could sit and thank about this sentence for forever. It is so true, so powerful, and gives me so much joy - yet it is also so challenging.)

"You in the West have the spiritually poorest of the poor much more than you have the physically poor. Often among the rich are very spiritually poor people. I find it is easy to give a plate of rice to a hungry person, to furnish a bed to a person who has no bed, but to console or to remove the bitterness, anger, and loneliness that comes from being spiritually deprived, that takes a long time." (pg. 94-95)

"One day there springs up the desire for money and for all that money can provide - the superfluous, luxury in eating, luxury in dressing, trifles. Needs increase because one thing calls for another. The result is uncontrollable dissatisfaction. Let us remain as empty as possible so that God can fill us up." (pg. 95)

"Poverty is freedom. It is a freedom so that what I possess doesn't own me, so that what I possess doesn't hold me down, so that my possessions don't keep me from sharing or giving of myself." (pg. 96-97)

"If you want a happy family, if you want a holy family, give your hearts to love." (pg. 132)

"The work that we do is only a means to put our love for Christ into living action." (pg. 147)

"We will allow only God to make plans for the future, for yesterday has gone, tomorrow has not yet come, and we have only today to make Him known, loved and served." (pg. 148)

What more could I possible say? Amen!

The Big Reveal

So I think that I might have built The News up a little too much.

I think this because I'm realizing that the vast majority of you already know what The News is, either because we've had a direct conversation about it or because you're facebook friends with Pete.

So now, when I post it on my blog with a dramatic ta-daaa and jazz hands, you are going to be seriously disappointed. I apologize for this. But in my defense, I think you'll agree that it is all social networking's fault. Facebook + secrets/surprises = no bueno.

Anyway, without further ado:

Peter got a job as an associate pastor in Illinois!
My last day as a librarian was Wednesday!
In less than a month we will say goodbye to Southern California (our home for the last 8 years!) and move our daughter, two cats, and all our worldly possessions to we-don't-know-exactly-where-just-yet!

Ta-DAAAA!!! [insert jazz hands, fireworks, something surprising here]

Well, I feel better at least.

Here's the back story:

We never intended to settle in SoCal. In fact, I think we both assumed that we'd move back to the Midwest as soon as Peter graduated from seminary. That was five years ago. We talked about it many times and even came very close to just picking up and moving a couple of times. But "things" just never seemed quite right. There was always something left to finish here, for one or both of us.

Until last fall. Then, all of a sudden, we both just felt like it was time to go. Nothing really happened that made us feel that way, at least not for me. We just suddenly felt confident that this chapter of our life was finished. So we decided to move as soon as Pete's school year was over. And in January, when the Intent to Return forms were circulated among the faculty at Pete's school, he officially informed his supervisor and co-workers that he wouldn't be back.

At the time, neither of us had jobs lined up or even any sort of certainty about where in the Midwest we should move to. But then, with little to no effort, things began clicking into place. The next thing we knew, Pete had interviews scheduled with a church just across the Mississippi from St. Louis (where my brothers live). And again, early on we felt a confidence that this was the right choice for us and the right place for us. (Perhaps a little too early on, since the length of time between our readiness and the official job offer started to feel like an eternity by the end - thus inspiring my waiting-is-for-the-birds post.)

And now the waiting is over, the plans are made, and we are just tidying up the details (the seemingly endless details) required to move halfway across the country and start a new life.

Eden and I will fly out of LAX on June 28th. Pete will follow on the 30th in the moving truck.

We won't be here to see the Fourth of July fireworks at the Rose Bowl, or celebrate Eden's second birthday with all of her dear friends, or welcome the new school year. We won't get to laugh at the crazies lining Colorado Boulevard on New Year's Eve or watch the flyover before the kick-off at the Rose Bowl Game on New Year's Day. I won't ever help another patron find a book in the beautiful maze that is the Pasadena Central Library.

I'm sad.

But also, crazy, crazy happy. And excited. Because I'm hopefully going to see Fourth of July fireworks with my family. And we're going to celebrate Eden's second birthday with her grandma and grandpa and aunts and uncles and cousin and new friends in a new town where the grass grows green without the help of water piped in from other states and where lightning bugs and stars illuminate the evening instead of helicopter search lights and miles and miles and miles of city.

Once again I am reminded. It's a mudluscious and puddlewonderful world we live in, friends.

Here's to new adventures!

10

Ten years ago today Peter and I got married.

He was 22 years old. I was 20.

At the time, I joked about our young age, saying that I agreed with Harry Burns, who declared, "When you realize you want to spend the rest of your life with somebody, you want the rest of your life to start as soon as possible." I really meant it though. I still really mean it.

There was no way we could possibly have known what we were getting into of course - what our marriage was going to look like for the next ten years. What our lives were going to look like for the next ten years.

A cross-country move.
An empty bank account.
A graduate degree.
A three-year depression.
The abandonment of one plan and the search for another (and another and another).
Another empty bank account.
Another graduate degree.
The loss of our first child.
The birth of our second.
A leap of faith - just one of so many really.

I've spent so much time thinking about what to say in this post, but the truth is, there is just no way to encapsulate these ten years: what they have meant to me and how they've made me a better person, a more whole person. And, I hope, a more real person. In fact, I glance at that very inadequate summery list above, and I almost want to chuckle. Because a lot of it looks kind of terrible. And a lot of it was kind of terrible. And there were many times when laughing seemed impossible.

But, man oh man, if there's one thing these ten years have pounded into my brain it's that there's hope for the hopeless.

We've been hopeless. We are hopeless. But Hope just keeps finding us anyway, again and again and again.

And I'm almost positive I never would have seen that without Pete.

He gets up every morning and takes care of me. He makes me laugh. He pushes me to consider what I never would have considered and to do what I never would have dreamed I could do. He makes me feel beautiful - even in this post-pregnancy, post-sleep, post-exercise body. He endures my selfishness. He bears my burdens. He offers me grace and courage and forgiveness. He assures me that I matter. He also assures me that I'm loved, always, always, always. He hopes for better things, with me and for me. He gives me both space and companionship and does his best to discern which one I'm needing at the moment. And when that's all said and done, he is still up for watching a chick flick, scrubbing the bathtub, or killing a spider.

Ten years ago today I was still very much in the transition from childhood to adulthood. And God gave me exactly what I needed. His love has poured its light and warmth on me everyday through the words and actions of one of His most beautiful and amazing creations.

And especially today, I am awed and humbled and deeply, deeply grateful for this miraculous gift.

Happy anniversary, Pete. Thank you for showing me what love really is. And thank you for these last ten years. They've been perfect.

Gethsemane

They went to a place called Gethsemane, and Jesus said to his disciples, "Sit here while I pray." He took Peter, James and John along with him, and he began to be deeply distressed and troubled. "My soul is overwhelmed with sorrow to the point of death," he said to them. "Stay here and keep watch."

Going a little farther, he fell to the ground and prayed that if possible the hour might pass from him. "Abba, Father," he said, "everything is possible for you. Take this cup from me. Yet not what I will, but what you will." - Mark 14:32-36 (NIV)


Do you know that experience where you read or hear something a million times and then one day you read/hear it again and all of a sudden notice something completely new?

I had that experience recently with regard to the above verse - specifically in the words that Jesus prays. I guess I only really payed attention to the "not what I will, but what you will" part before. I think I figured it was the part we were supposed to pay attention to. (It's also worth noting that the prayer is not recorded the same way across the four gospel books.)

Recently however, I was struck by the first two sentences of this prayer.

"Abba, Father, everything is possible for you."

True confessions? Sometimes I try to prop up my weak faith by making excuses for God. I tell myself that the reason that God doesn't answer all my prayers or the reason a horrible, evil thing is allowed to happen, is that God has put limitations on Himself in order to allow free will, or something along those lines. I am not a theologian and there are probably all kinds of things theologically wrong with that thought. But I honestly don't even need to hear those more educated reasons because deep down I already know this "excuse" is flawed. I know it, because I see evidence to the contrary every day. God thwarts the will of mankind all the time. The Bible is full of these stories.

In this prayer, Jesus, without any sort of disclaimer or conditional statements, claims all things as possible for God. And who would know better what God is capable of than God Himself?

But it's the pairing of that first sentence with the second that gets me.

"Take this cup from me."

Do you know what I see now when I read this passage of Scripture?

I see a dearly loved only child, coming to his father, in deep distress and agony. He knows the horror that awaits him in just a few short hours. He know his father knows too.

I know you can save me from this, he states. I'm asking you to save me from this.

What must Jesus have felt when praying that prayer? What must God the Father have felt in hearing it? And more, what must He have felt in answering it? Because we all know what answer He gave.

I read this prayer, and I think back through so many of the prayers I have prayed in my lifetime. I think in particular of some of the more desperate prayers, the ones where I felt deeply distressed and overwhelmed with sorrow. And I think of the pain and agony of not having that prayer answered by Someone I know had the power to save. He could have said yes. All things are possible for Him.

And now I read this prayer and I think, even in this, He went before me. Even this pain, for my sake, He knows.


Let us fix our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith, who for the joy set before him endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God. Consider him who endured such opposition from sinful men, so that you will not grow weary and lose heart. - Hebrews 12:2-3 (NIV)

For My Mama, On Her Birthday

As I think I've mentioned already, before having Eden I was never really sure that I wanted to be a stay-at-home-mom. I wasn't much of a "kid" person growing up - I didn't like to babysit or even hold babies. I was (and am!) pretty terrible at all the "Suzie Homemaker" type activities: cooking, cleaning, whatever. I figured I'd always probably work part-time at least.

Then I had Eden and suddenly my career was about as interesting and stimulating as filling out forms at the DMV. I just wanted to be able to be home with her, to spend as much time with her as possible. I wanted to ensure that she was getting the best care and life experience possible. And I figured, who better to give her that than me? Who would ever be more motivated and committed?

And now, except for 10 hours a week, I am a stay-at-home-mom. And I think it was the right decision for me and for us. I don't have any desire to go back to full-time work or even to work a single hour more than I do now. I believe that every family is different, and I HATE all the judgment that flies back and forth between stay-at-home-moms and working moms (or you know, between a few individuals within both of those groups), but personally, I'm confident that I'm exactly where I should be.

However.

The transition to this new role has been surprisingly difficult at times. Even though I love it. Even though I'm confident of my choice.

While I was never ambitious or interested in climbing any sort of career ladder (I would happily stay a Librarian I forever, I think), I've always been a bit of an "achiever" personality-wise. Okay, fine. An "over-achiever" at times. Occasionally. My whole life. I was a model student, and I think for the most part (hopefully I'm not getting too big for my britches here), I was a model employee. I get immense satisfaction out of a job well done - out of a sense of accomplishment. Every good grade, successful interview, positive job evaluation, and promotion was an emotional boost - another brick in the foundation of my sense of self-worth.

But, as it turns out, there are no grades, interviews, job evaluations or promotions as a stay-at-home-mom. There's not even a paycheck. (And a paycheck, I've discovered, is a surprisingly validating thing. It's a very tangible indicator of accomplishment. "I earned this. And with this, we bought X, Y, and Z. This is what I contribute to this family. Etc.")

And the work is HARD. It requires infinite amounts of patience and self-control. (And let me tell you, working with public library patrons is not always a walk in the park. But still, not nearly as hard - at least to me.) It's often demanding and tedious and there are no allowances made for illness or lack of sleep. You always have to be "on" - and the regret that comes with the moments where you fail, where you snap at your child or don't prevent some accident that you could have prevented if you had been paying full attention, stings far worse than any botched patron interaction.

But lately it's been that lack of a sense of accomplishment that has been the hardest for me to adjust to. Every finished project is immediately undone again. Fifteen minutes after washing the dishes, dirty dishes appear in the sink. At the end of a long day of laundry, dirty clothes fill our hampers. Toys must be picked up and put away and picked up and put away and picked up and put away. I always feel slightly behind because these tasks, by their very nature, can never be fully accomplished. They are generally not stimulating and they do not require a degree to validate their worth. While librarian is not a flashy job, it still inspires interest and questions at social interactions. Stay-at-home-mom does not. And it's not because people are rude - because really, what are they supposed to say? "Oh, you clean and carpool and cook and sing the ABC's 15 times a day? How interesting! Please, tell me more about how hard it is to adjust the straps on that car seat. You cleaned up that entire diaper explosion using only two baby wipes - that is some serious skill! So what exactly are the lyrics to the second verse of Twinkle Twinkle Little Star? I've always wanted to know..."

You get the point.

Philosophically, I know that I am accomplishing something. I know that what I'm doing has worth. But it's measured in a completely different way, and I miss all the attaboys and slaps-on-the-back and other affirmations that came with a career.

I've been thinking about this a lot this week. And I've been thinking about my mom too.

My mom is the hardest working person I know. She always was up working before we awoke in the morning and she was still working when we went to bed at night. She did all of the cooking and cleaning and shopping and errands and fixing of this and solving of that. We almost never ate take-out. Our house and clothes were always clean. We always had whatever we needed - even if it was something that we HAD TO HAVE for the next day of school that we didn't bother to tell her about until bedtime the night before. She did all of this even when necessity (aka our private schooling) required that she also take on a full-time job. And in exchange we took her completely for granted. We called her at work to whine that so-and-so took a toy and wouldn't give it back. We complained about being dragged to the grocery store and then made complained more about what she fixed for dinner. We expected her to help us with anything we needed help with at whatever moment we needed help. We left our dirty dishes in the sink and marched off to play games or read a book.

It never crossed our minds to wonder if she was happy or would maybe like to read a book herself. We never considered whether she had more to offer the world than folding our socks or wiping our noses. She was mom - that's what she did. That's what she always did.

Dear Mom,

Thank you for serving us day in and day out. Thank you for all that time you spent making that Halloween costume that I then refused to wear the night of Halloween. Thank you for inventing an ingenious way to make me think I was "safe" from snakes. Thank you for taking me to the library. Thank you for cooking a hundred kabillion meals for me. Thank you for reading to me when I was sick. Thank you for giving up your sleep, your right to privacy, your right to anything, for me. Thank you for all the millions and millions of ways you put my happiness before your own. And most of all, mom, thank you for never ever making me feel like you minded one second of it. Thank you for assuring me through your every word and action that I was always worth it and that there was nowhere else you'd rather be and nothing else you'd rather do. Thank you for sending me out into the world with the unshakable conviction of your unconditional love tucked into my heart.

I can never, ever, ever repay you.

Happy birthday, mom!! I love you!

A Progress Report

First things first. I am sleepy, sugar-fueled, and frankly, a tad grumpy. I probably have no business writing a blog post at this time. But it's that or wash the dishes, so here I am!

I would secretly (well, not so secretly anymore, hmm) love to think that I have some sort of audience out there nervously chewing off their fingernails as they wait for the next installment of updates on our lives and/or Part Two of Stephanie's Meandering Thoughts on How To Be A Better Person. But, fortunately, there is still some rationality tucked up somewhere in some little-used corner of my brain, and that rationality is calmly confident that neither audience nor nervous chewing exists. All the same, I feel I owe someone an explanation about the lack-of-posting that has happened lately. Again. So, here is your explanation: 1. I am lazy. 2. Our lives really aren't that exciting. That's all! Also, it is absolutely going to happen again! Probably right after this post! So if any one of my imaginary audience-members should ever find themselves wondering, hey, what's up with Stephanie, she hasn't posted in forever... just remember: Lazy! Not Exciting Anyway! And, for my part, I promise (for as long as I remember) to never waste your time writing out another excuse again. Agreed? Excellent! Moving on...

Believe it or not, it is February 17th, and I have not forgotten my resolutions! Not that I have made a lot of progress on them, but I still remember what they are! Let's be honest, that's an incredible feat for me. In the interest of accountability, here is a progress (or not) report:

Resolution 1: Make all doctor appointments
I made an appointment with my primary care physician and with Eden's cardiologist. I also found out that Eden's next well-baby appointment isn't until she's two, so we're good for awhile there. And Pete and I decided to hold off on the ophthalmologist visit for a bit longer too. I actually had my appointment with my primary care physician this morning, and it is the main reason I'm feeling grumpy. It did not go well - it was basically an exercise in why I hate doctor's appointments anyway with a little our-health-care-system-leaves-much-to-be-desired thrown in for good effect. Nothing was resolved, and I will NOT be going back. To any doctor. Ever again. Okay, I jest. I will still make my appointments with my OB/GYN, an eye doctor, and the dentist. But that's it! Can we call that progress, please?

Resolution 2: Develop a habit of reading the Bible every day
Well, I'm definitely not at every day yet. But I'm better than before! Slow progress is being made, and I'm hopeful that it will continue.

Resolution 3: Eat better and exercise more

[crickets chirping]

Resolution 4: Learn to live counter-culturally and not be (as much of) a consumer
Again, slow progress is being made. I'm still thinking about it A LOT. I would like to move a little more into an acting phase, but I also don't want to just do something so that I can say I did it. I want it to mean something - to flow out of what I actually believe to be true and valuable. I have selected a book by Mother Teresa to begin reading (as soon as I finish the parenting book I'm working on). It was recommended by several friends so I'm excited to read it. I also question my purchases more now too - not just, is this economical? But, do I really need this? And what do I need it for? Am I trying to buy happiness or fill an actual need? Honestly, sometimes I recognize that I'm trying to buy happiness, and I do it anyway. Because frankly, in that moment I just don't have the strength of character to want to be different. I read an interesting quote today - the author (Frederica Mathewes-Green) said, "Everyone wants to be transformed, but nobody wants to change." I can strongly identify with that statement.

Peter and I also did some talking awhile back and decided to give up our tenth anniversary trip to Hawaii. Instead, we're giving the money to organizations working in Haiti to serve the people who are suffering so profoundly following the earthquake. I'd love to tell you that it was an easy decision, but it wasn't. I still feel sad about it sometimes and want to throw a pity-party. (I've discovered lately that I am EXCEPTIONALLY good at pity parties. Seriously, I can put on a gold-medal performance, people.) But when I think about what those women and children in Haiti have to accept - have to endure - I am ashamed. I think again, too, about those people in The Hunger Games, whose hearts have been hardened to suffering and who think no further than their own entertainment while children are dying in front of them. I don't want to be one of those people. Peter said it made him a little sad too, but also reminded him about the Baileys in It's A Wonderful Life - how George Bailey always has these plans to get out of Bedford Falls and see the world, and how he always chooses to set those plans aside to do what is right and show compassion toward others. I don't remember everything Pete said, but I do know that at the end he said something along the lines of, "it's a better way to live".

And really, that's what I'm hoping to find: a better way to live. I wish that I could find that better way through some sort of painless transformation, but I have a feeling that it's going to look a lot more like slow, pokey, old change. The occasionally painful kind. The hard-to-welcome kind.

Today is Ash Wednesday. It's the first day of Lent. I honestly don't know much about Lent - it was not part of the Christian traditions that I grew up with. But from what I can tell, if there is ever a time in the year to do some honest, determined self-reflection, this is the time. This is also the time to think deeply about the ways my God is calling me to serve the world around me. And this is the time to remember that we have each been given a "cup," and that we are called to share in the sufferings of Christ, just as He bore the suffering of the world.

I don't have a good way to end this post except to add two thought-provoking verses that I stumbled across when trying to find the prayer Jesus prayed about His "cup" in the Garden of Gethsemane. Good meditations for Lent, I think!

"And if anyone gives even a cup of cold water to one of these little ones because he is my disciple, I tell you the truth, he will certainly not lose his reward." --Matthew 10:42

"Woe to you, teachers of the law and Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence. Blind Pharisee! First clean the inside of the cup and dish, and then the outside also will be clean." --Matthew 23:25-26