The one where I say yes.

There is only one man in all the world

and his name is All Men.

There is only one woman in all the world

and her name is All Women.  

There is only one child in the world

and the child's name is All Children. 

~Carl Sandberg

In early February, despite lots of hand sanitizer, breastmilk and frequent reminders to, "Cough into your elbow, please," all three of my girls got RSV.

Upon getting the diagnosis, I covered my daughter's ears, so that I could utter desperate and cathartic prayers/curse words, and break down crying in front of my pediatrician.

And then this:

More desperate and cathartic swearing/praying as my sweet six-week-old, Ruby, landed herself in the hospital.
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I'm pretty convinced that on the inside, we are all whiny, selfish three-year-olds.

I actually have two whiny, selfish three-year-olds, both inside and out. One thing I really love about one of them, my daughter, Brynne, is her honesty about what she needs. After a good ole RSV- coughing-fit, she would scream say things like:

I'm sick! I'm SO sick! Please hold me, Mama, I'm SO sick! 

I have no idea where her flair for drama comes from....

Anyway.

When Brynne asked to be held in her helpless, whiny, sick state---sometimes I would be filled with compassion, and hold her. And, sometimes my own inner-whiny-selfish-three-year-old won out, and I just could not muster up any grace for my daughter. I just can't be a rock-star parent all the time!

But.

I think God sorta digs the whole whiny-selfish-three-year-old thing, in fact, I think that's why he said, Let the children come to me...:

I'm tired! I'm SO tired! Please hold me, Jesus, I'm SO tired!

Jesus is a rock-star parent all the time. He wants to hold me anytime my whiny three-year-old self needs him to. And he really wants to hold you too.  

So, through this whole RSV ordeal, I've learned a few things. Jesus really can hold you. I mean, really, physically hold you. You just need to do two things:

1. Do not, under any circumstances, use any variation of the phrase, "I'm fine."

That terrible "f" word. F-I-N-E

People love to give. We are all constantly fighting our inner whiny-selfish-three-year-old. It's hard some times. No one wants to be a jerk all of the time. One of the best ways to fight that inner jerk is to serve others. Please, please allow people to serve you! Think of it as doing your civic duty to keep jerks at bay.

We belong to each other. Mr. Carl Sandberg got it right---we are All Men, All Women, All Children. We were designed to be in community to serve one another to love one another---you should not walk through hard things alone. Embrace community---let community love you and serve you.

Nothing squelches community more than the "f" word. Swallow that word and pride and...

2. Say yes.

When people offered to bring me good coffee, non-hospital food, a shoulder to cry on, arms to hold Ruby, so I could take a shower or sleep---I said, "Yes!" I mean, really, who can say no to good coffee?!

This wasn't, and still isn't easy for me to admit that I can't do it all. That I'm not God.

But---that's a good place to be.

I'm actually thankful that I was in that place of desperation.

Not because my girls were sick, but because, when I said yes, I felt God's arms wrap around me tightly through each generous act of love. I felt others carry my burden.

Sleep-sacrificing, good-coffee-bringing, burden-carrying---this is what Jesus was talking about when he told us to love one another. That is community. 

And. When you let your community love you like that---that is what it feels like when God holds you. 

I want to challenge you. Be in community. Let yourself be known. Love. Be loved. And. Say yes! You'll feel God holding you too.

Linking with Jen.

When Satan Tempts Me To Despair

The morning of January third dawned early. I breakfasted and prepared to go welcome Ruby into the world.

It was a little overwhelming. With a push, life was going to change. Dramatically.

I found myself weepy, and despairing. My very unreliable, pregnancy-hormone-driven feelings were ruling my head and my heart. No matter what truth I told myself, I worried and feared and grieved.

Sometimes grieving the old is necessary in order to welcome the new. But it's not healthy to wallow in that place. Especially not on your kid's birthday.

As I was leaving all choked up, I told my friend, who was watching Brynne and Hadley for us, that I was struggling, and to pray for me. She told me she would pray, and would love to give me a hug, but she hadn't brushed her teeth yet. Ha! That's one of the many reasons I love her. So thankful for the levity she offered in that moment.  

This is one of her favorite verses:

The Lord will fight for you; you need only be silent. ~Exodus 14:14

 Easier to listen to God when you're silent.

Silence requires the discipline to recognize the urge to get up and go again as a temptation to look elsewhere for what is close at hand. It offers the freedom to stroll in your own inner yard, and to rake up the leaves there and clear the paths so you can easily find the way to your heart. Perhaps there will be much fear and uncertainty when you first come upon the "unfamiliar terrain", but slowly and surely you will discover an order and familiarity which deepens your longing to stay home...whenever you come upon this silence, it seems as though you have received a gift, one which is "promising" in the true sense of the word. It promises new life. It is the silence of peace and prayer, because it brings you back to the One who is leading you. ~Henri Nouwen

It was a gift, this silence. As I welcomed endured those blasted pitocin-induced contractions, my head and my heart were full of truth. Fear and worry melted away. I was thankful---especially once I had an epidural.

(And can I just say---if you labored and delivered naturally with pitocin, you are my hero. I just couldn't hang.)

In that place of quiet. I was able to see the gift of welcoming Ruby into the world. 

If you've had twins, you know how crazy the birth can be. If you haven't, here's a glipse at our experience: we delivered in the sterile, very cold operating room. There were at least 10 people (nurses, my doctor, pediatricians, respiratory therapists, and others) waiting to welcome our 35 weekers. The girls got whisked away right after they were born to regulate their temperatures and to help them breathe better. Then, EVERYONE wanted to meet our girls---it was a circus in my hospital room non-stop from morning till evening, and we had no time get to know our girls. They discovered that Brynne had a heart defect, and her beautiful lips kept turning a scary shade of blue. Then, Brynne was transferred to the NICU at another hospital. Brad went with her, and I stayed with Hadley. 

I don't know what I expected, but that was hard and overwhelming.

Ruby's birth was different. Peaceful. Beautiful.

• We delivered in a normal delivery room. 

• There were only three medical people in the room. 

• They put Ruby on my chest the second she was born. (I had no idea they even did that!)

• And, more. They didn't whisk her away anywhere. They let her stay and hang out for awhile before they cleaned her up. 

• I got to breastfeed her right away. 

• The heart defect she had in my belly was gone. I asked every.single.time a nurse or doctor checked out Ruby, just to make sure the last person hadn't missed anything. Her heart is perfect.  

• Hardly anyone knew we were in labor, so there were no texts or facebook distractions. We were fully present to the miracle of Ruby's entrance into the world. 

• We had no visitors (other than Brynne and Hadley). So we enjoyed lots of newborn snuggles.

The whole experience was so redeeming for me. Silence allowed the full weight of that to soak in.  To revel in joy and thanksgiving. To rest. To bond with sweet Ruby.

A slow stillness of the new. And a joy of this most precious gift. 

A friend from church, quite unexpectedly, took this picture of me and Ruby. Ruby was just a little over a week old, I'm quite sure I was sleep-deprived. I love this moment he captured! It's real. It's beautiful. I don't have on makeup, my hair isn't done, I forgot to put on earrings. But I got in the picture, and I'm really glad I did. There's a joy, a glow that he captured that is sacred and lovely. 

Brynne and Hadley have an announcement...

...they are big sisters!

Ruby Edith 

03 January 2013

9 pounds

20 inches long

I've wanted to put something up here for days now. It's a challenge when I don't often have two free hands, so I'm going with short and sweet. 

There's the hope that I'll be able to write more soon---we'll see.

All is well. Our three little girls are adjusting better than I could have ever imagined, largely due to the overwhelming love and support we've received from our community here. We are blessed to do life with some amazingly generous people, who love us well---what a gift.

Our hearts (and our hands) are full of good things.

Now throw your hands in the air and wave em like you just don't care

If I'm completely honest, there are moments when I'd like to be a toddler.

You know. Those moments when some stranger looks at your pregnant belly and your pigtailed twin daughters, and says that he "...really hopes there's just one in there this time."

Really?! They can hear you. Jerk!

Oh! To be a toddler in those moments! I would pick up the nearest plastic toy and bop him on the head.

There are other, more joy-filled moments of toddler hood that I would love to embrace too. 

Recently, the girls have taken to having dance parties while I'm getting supper ready. They dance and sing unabashedly around the living room. I love that there's no holding back, no reserved self-awareness. They go all out.

You know when you hear that song you just love, there's this physical feeling in your chest? The music literally moves you? You want to dance, sing and just rock out to respond to that feeling?

Toddlers do that.

The other day, Brynne brought over her cat, sat in my ever-shrinking lap, and played a song. Since sitting impeded dancing, she just raised her arm up in the air. She was fully present, reveling in the music. I mean, who isn't completely overcome while listening to an instrumental version of The Farmer in the Dell?!?

This got me thinking about worship.

My church background has consisted of worship through the singing of hymns and a mostly serious (liturgical) worship service. If the music moved you, there was typically no outward expression---my people are also sometimes referred to as the "The Frozen Chosen". My label for the folks who responded to music through dance or raising their hands in worship was "Holy Roller".

It's interesting how our experiences and learning change our perspectives sometimes, isn't it? 

For the first time in my church history, we're attending a church with a tradition that falls somewhere between "frozen chosen" and "holy roller". Our pastor calls it being pentecostal with a seat-belt. There's no jumping and dancing down the isles, but there definitely a few arms raised in worship during the music portion of the service. 

Brad and I have had lots of conversations about how the music at our church moves us, and we feel compelled to respond by raising our hands in worship, but it's so outside of our comfort zone. So, we don't. Or didn't.

After my sweet Brynne sat on my lap, arm raised in response to her music, I was struck that at some point, she will practice restraint. Sometimes that's appropriate. If her jam comes on the radio when she's she's driving, approximately 14 years from now, she better keep her hands at 10 and 2!

But.

I want her to dance, I want her to raise her hands in worship to her Jesus, if she feel so moved.

And.

How else will she know that's okay, acceptable, and even pleasing to God if she doesn't see it modeled?

So, this past Sunday, when I felt moved by the worship music, instead of practicing my usual restraint, I raised my arm. It felt freeing. I felt like how Brynne and Hadley look dancing around our living room.

Maybe my ice is melting. 

When it really just comes down to an aardvark

Someone recently told me that they enjoyed reading my blog. In the same conversation it was also mentioned that there hadn't been much to read lately.

True story.

I told this person that I was busy napping instead of writing. That's partly true. 

Here's a small glimpse into my life lately:

The girls thought that Mary, a shepherd and his sheep from our nativity set would enjoy reading a different sort of Christmas story---A Pirate's Night Before Christmas. [If you haven't read this book, you should---it's very entertaining, and way better if you read it in pirate speak.] Arrrguably the best Christmas book we own.

As countdown to Baby, and moving, and every aspect of my life changing draws closer, I had a bit of an epiphany:

This kid is going to be born, and I don't have one thing to decorate the nursery!

It's the important things, friends. The important things.

So, amidst our bare walls, and our stripped-down-ready-to-move home, there are random piles like this:

My poor husband. Good thing he tolerates embraces my friend, Crazy.

I realize it's not essential to have nursery decor. The kid isn't going to wake up at 2 A.M. wondering why there are no thoughtful sentiments or coordinating canvas art on the walls.

It's just...hard, I guess (??) But I know it will be okay.

The baby will be okay if there's no art in the nursery. 

The move will happen with the help of our amazing church community---I can't even tell you how overwhelming it is to know how many people have volunteered to show up, two days before Christmas, to help us. Unbelievable!

There are even people who will house and help me take care of the two (or three) children I might have while everyone else moves us.

I just don't have control over any of it, right down to the number of children I'll be parenting; therefore I craft, because at least I can pretend that I do have control over that.

And, if nothing else, my mom got the kid an aardvark, and nothing completes a nursery quite like an aardvark can, I mean just look at this guy:

So that's something.

The one where Baby Jesus was denied a ride on the bus

So. We sold our house.

Remember when I was complaining about the 8:30 A.M. showing? Yeah. I still don't think early morning showings are okay, but these early morning visitors bought our house, so I sort of still like them.

So. Hooray. We're moving on December 23rd. I'll be 38.5 weeks pregnant, or I'll have an infant. Either way. Crazy.

With a few minor things up in the air, our Christmas decor is simple. No tree, no stockings hung by the chimney with care. Our Christmas decor comes down to this:

 

The Little People Nativity Set. 

If you're not familiar with The Little People---they're toys, and the "Little People" are interchangeable with other Little People toys.

For instance, this morning I found the "angel" rockin a sweet mustache, necktie and holding an apple: 

Later, I found the real angel driving some kids, a wise man and his camel to school:

It was this motley crew that caused a bit of a ruckus this morning. Brynne thought Baby Jesus should get on the bus, and Hadley vehemently denied him entry. Maybe she was confused, because Baby Jesus has blonde hair and pale skin. I don't know.

As plastic people and animals flew everywhere, I tried, amidst shrieks of protest, to make it a teachable moment,

You know girls, this isn't the first time Baby Jesus was denied entry. His mama and papa weren't allowed a space in a house or hotel, which is why he was born in a barn. Can you believe that someone wouldn't let Jesus come inside their house?!

Admittedly, timing has never been my strong suit. 

Hadley would have none of it, despite my brilliant impromptu recap of the Christmas story, I mean, everyone knows Jesus doesn't have blonde hair, right?  This Baby Jesus was NOT getting on her bus.

Brynne cried. And I did what any mother of toddlers would do (after taking a deep breath and rolling my eyes)---distract and redirect.

A little bit later, a camel drove by. I noticed little Baby Jesus, cradle and all, had managed to get himself a ride, like a second-class citizen, with a bus full of sheep, donkeys and a cow.

Maybe Hadley knew that Baby Jesus would be more comfortable surrounded by animals. Or maybe she conceded to let her sister give him a ride, despite his historically inaccurate blonde hair.

Welcome to the Christmas season, friends.

It all just comes down to a pair of jeggings

Awhile back, a twin-mama-friend asked me to write about the difference between my twin pregnancy and this singleton pregnancy.

Here's a moment of honesty, friends: I really don't like being pregnant. At. All.

Twin pregnancy? Singleton pregnancy? It all pretty much ranks right up there with getting a cavity filled. 

I'm glad I've figured that out, actually. I think it gives me a lot of grace for other friends of mine who struggle with being pregnant too. It seems like it's often implied, or maybe just directly communicated to women that they're supposed to love every single glowing moment of carrying a life in their wombs. And, Heaven forbid, we utter something about not loving one of the many not-so-glowy moments, of our heads hanging over the toilet, or battling the ugliness of depression, or the in-opportune time when we don't make it to the bathroom on time. 

If you've seen the movie Steel Magnolias, Olympia Dukakis' character, that sassy southerner, Clairee says:

Well, you know what they say: if you don't have anything nice say about anybody, come sit by me!

 

I feel like I'm Clairee for pregnant people. You wanna talk about how much it sucks be pregnant and then how the hormonal-aftermath makes you a sweaty, crazy, smelly mess? Come sit by me!

Don't get me wrong, friends. I'm thankful. I'm thankful for the life that's incessantly beating on my bladder. I'm thankful for the life in my belly causing my ass to take up residence in two counties, despite the many squats I attempt in between the contractions that I've had since 15 weeks. That's right----15 weeks! I have the most temperamental uterus on the planet!

Thankful, but if I'm honest, I'd just assume get it all over with already. It's hard to be thankful for this time of largeness and multiple bathroom trips.

[A note about the following picture: I didn't love this movie, in fact the twin pregnancy in here was laughably, eye-rollably, annoyingly unrealistic, but Liz's character here, is pretty funny, because she's a hot-mess the entire time. (I can call her Liz, because my husband's co-worker's wife grew up with her, and calls her Liz, so it's almost like I know her, or something)]

 

So, I'll tell you about the one thing that makes this all just a little bit better (other than the baby at the end of the road). 

Probably the biggest difference for me is that at this stage in the game, I'm still up walking waddling around. With the twins, at 26 weeks, I went into preterm labor, and was on bedrest for the rest of my pregnancy. I never went anywhere, except to the doctor's (went there a lot), so I didn't really worry too much about cute maternity wear.

With this pregnancy, I've had some generous friends who have lent me some maternity clothes, and I've put the ones that fit to good use. The aforementioned ass-largeness has been a tough pill to swallow. At almost 33 weeks, I currently weigh almost as much as I did when I delivered the twins. It's hard to feel very attractive with those numbers swimming in my head.

So, a couple weeks ago I decided I wanted to have a pair of maternity jeans, and ordered some jeggings from Old Navy. When they arrived, I tried them on, and even though they were, jeggings, afterall----those are leggings that look like jeans for those of you who haven't yet been introduced to a jegging---- I thought they were too tight/small, and I shoved them in the closet. 

I did lots of self-talk about how a pair of jeggings, the numbers on the scale, or even the size of my arse don't define me, because I'm a daughter of the King, I'm a loving wife, I'm a good mama, etc. And friends, I know my jegging size has nothing to do with anything truly important, but whew! It's been hard.

So, this morning the girls and I had to hightail it out of the house at 8AM, because someone wanted to see our house (yes, we're still trying to sell our house---and an 8:30 showing---seriously?!), and I got out the jeggings to wear. I tugged and wrestled those suckers on (because really, with jeggings, I think there's a bit of a workout involved in getting them on, at least when you're pregnant, or maybe they really are just too small---if it's the latter, just don't tell me), and you know----they actually looked pretty good, and I felt pretty good. I think I might just be able to make it to the end of this pregnancy.

Thank you, Jesus for jeggings.