more of You

Fruit of the Spirit Study - Week of 11/21 :: Faithfulness

2011-11-21T16:17:00.000-08:00

Passage: Hebrews 10:19-25,35-39

¹⁹ And so, dear brothers and sisters, we can boldly enter heaven’s Most Holy Place because of the blood of Jesus. ²⁰ By his death, Jesus opened a new and life-giving way through the curtain into the Most Holy Place. ²¹ And since we have a great High Priest who rules over God’s house, ²² let us go right into the presence of God with sincere hearts fully trusting him. For our guilty consciences have been sprinkled with Christ’s blood to make us clean, and our bodies have been washed with pure water.

²³ Let us hold tightly without wavering to the hope we affirm, for God can be trusted to keep his promise. ²⁴ Let us think of ways to motivate one another to acts of love and good works. ²⁵ And let us not neglect our meeting together, as some people do, but encourage one another, especially now that the day of his return is drawing near.

³⁵ So do not throw away this confident trust in the Lord. Remember the great reward it brings you! ³⁶ Patient endurance is what you need now, so that you will continue to do God’s will. Then you will receive all that he has promised.
³⁷ “For in just a little while,
the Coming One will come and not delay.
³⁸ And my righteous ones will live by faith.
But I will take no pleasure in anyone who turns away.”
³⁹ But we are not like those who turn away from God to their own destruction. We are the faithful ones, whose souls will be saved.

Prompt: Who is writing? Why? Initial thoughts/questions?

Thoughts: The author of Hebrews is unknown, but my dad always says it's clearly Paul that wrote it, not wanting to identify himself, since it was mainly written to the Jews as a plea to come away from the old system. This particular passage was written as a reminder to keep putting out trust in the Lord and to patiently endure in the faith. He can be trusted because He, Jesus, is our great High Priest, whose death, once for all, paid the price for our sin. Knowing this, we can boldly go before the throne of grace and seek His face, and He will not reject us. It's also a reminder not to fall away from meeting together with other believers (the church), but continue to meet with other believers so that we can be an encouragement to one another, especially since the end is so near.

Fruit of the Spirit study - Day 2

2011-09-22T06:42:00.000-07:00

[phone camera shot -- not the clearest thing ever]

Day 2
[Out of order --oops --: see below for Day 3 and here for Day 1 (which will explain this study).]

Passage: Galatians 5:16-26

⁶ So I say, let the Holy Spirit guide your lives. Then you won’t be doing what your sinful nature craves. ¹⁷ The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants. And the Spirit gives us desires that are the opposite of what the sinful nature desires. These two forces are constantly fighting each other, so you are not free to carry out your good intentions. ¹⁸ But when you are directed by the Spirit, you are not under obligation to the law of Moses.

¹⁹ When you follow the desires of your sinful nature, the results are very clear: sexual immorality, impurity, lustful pleasures, ²⁰ idolatry, sorcery, hostility, quarreling, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambition, dissension, division, ²¹ envy, drunkenness, wild parties, and other sins like these. Let me tell you again, as I have before, that anyone living that sort of life will not inherit the Kingdom of God.

²² But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things!

²⁴ Those who belong to Christ Jesus have nailed the passions and desires of their sinful nature to his cross and crucified them there. ²⁵ Since we are living by the Spirit, let us follow the Spirit’s leading in every part of our lives. ²⁶ Let us not become conceited, or provoke one another, or be jealous of one another.

Prompt: What does this passage teach about God? about the author? about who I am in Christ?

Thoughts: The passage teaches us about God in that He (Holy Spirit) is filled with the fruit (love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, self-control), and He longs for us to be; He wants us to follow the Spirit's leading in EVERY PART of our lives, not just on Sunday or at Bible studies, but even when you're sitting your toddler in time-out or spanking your four-year-old for lying (with a little of His mercy and grace for her finally admitting the truth), even when your house is a wreck because your week's been filled with fun, but chaotic busyness, even when every T.V. or toy is blaring and you can't hear yourself think. God wants us to remain in Him each tiny fraction of every second of every day. Hide in the shadow of His wings, so to speak. How hard is this? It takes superhuman ability, truly -- something WE don't have, but only God can provide, but as we pray to abide in Him and He in us (John 15:5 -- my memory verse from my Experiencing God study this week), we will bear much fruit; apart from Him we can do N-O-T-H-I-N-G, nada. I dare say, apart from Him, we wreak havoc on everything. I know I do. I say things and do things I didn't pray about or ask Him about, and BOOM, I find I've failed...because it was from me (what I thought God wanted me to say or do), not Him or maybe not the right timing.

About the author? Paul? He identifies with us. He knew full well how easy it is to fall back on the sinful nature, or he wouldn't have been able to so clearly define each sin. Not that he had to have committed every sin, but he wrestled with his own skeletons. How do I know? He told us in Romans 7:14-24. On top of that, he was human, like the rest of us. Yes, he was a great man of God, used mightily by the Holy Spirit, but he was human nonetheless.

In Christ, I am a NEW creation. I am to be directed and guided, molded, by the Holy Spirit, each and every second of the day. Pray and ask forgiveness for the moments I yield to my sinful nature (because I do!). Seek Him first, His kingdom and righteousness (Matthew 6:32-34), trust Him with all of my heart, lean not on my own understanding (ouch, I do this too much), in all my ways acknowledge Him, ask Him to direct my paths (pray.every.second.because.I.need.to.), and He promises to make His path clear to me (Proverbs 3:5-6).

Lord, do it. Use me. Fill me with you and remove the me that's still there. Be glorified in my humble life.

Fruit of the Spirit study - Day 3

2011-09-21T10:43:00.000-07:00

Day 3
[Oops. I accidentally jumped ahead. Still have to do Day 2]

Passage:
Galatians 5:16-26
¹⁶ So I say, let the Holy Spirit guide your lives. Then you won’t be doing what your sinful nature craves. ¹⁷ The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants. And the Spirit gives us desires that are the opposite of what the sinful nature desires. These two forces are constantly fighting each other, so you are not free to carry out your good intentions. ¹⁸ But when you are directed by the Spirit, you are not under obligation to the law of Moses.
¹⁹ When you follow the desires of your sinful nature, the results are very clear: sexual immorality, impurity, lustful pleasures, ²⁰ idolatry, sorcery, hostility, quarreling, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambition, dissension, division, ²¹ envy, drunkenness, wild parties, and other sins like these. Let me tell you again, as I have before, that anyone living that sort of life will not inherit the Kingdom of God.
²² But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things!
²⁴ Those who belong to Christ Jesus have nailed the passions and desires of their sinful nature to his cross and crucified them there. ²⁵ Since we are living by the Spirit, let us follow the Spirit’s leading in every part of our lives. ²⁶ Let us not become conceited, or provoke one another, or be jealous of one another.

Prompt: What are the promises? Are they conditional or unconditional? If conditional, what do they require?

Thoughts: When I let the Spirit guide me, I won't be doing what my sinful nature craves; the Spirit will give me cravings that are opposite of my sinful nature, and I am not obligated to the law of Moses. Wow. Cool. When I follow my sinful nature, I will be craving/fulfilling every sin known to man. Ick. And anyone living that sort of life will NOT inherit the kingdom of God. Ouch. But the Holy Spirit produces all kinds of amazing fruit in our lives. Oh, how I long for them in every part of my life! And there is "no law against these things!" How wonderful, inspiring -- utterly AWESOME is that??! So when I'm filled with the Spirit's fruit, I'm actually fulfilling the law, the law of Christ. Sweet.

We who belong to Christ (that's me too!) have nailed our passions and desires of the flesh to the cross -- crucified, gone, toast, D-E-A-D. And since we are living by the Spirit, we need to follow His leading in every part (every hour, every minute, every second) of our lives. Wow, that's a tall order.

Do it in me, Holy Spirit. Fill me with You daily, moment by moment, minute by minute, second by second. Help me not to quench Your sweet, convicting presence in my life with my sinful actions. Remove the me that still resides inside. Thank You for all that You have done in my heart already; please continue Your huge overhaul of all things dark in my life. I love You, Lord. In Your precious name, amen.

Fruit of the Spirit study - Day 1

2011-09-20T15:49:00.000-07:00

I'm doing a study with a Christian mom's group that I'm in, called [Lift], and we're studying Galatians 5:16-25 on the fruit of the Spirit. The leader of the group, Katie Bodell, linked us to it, via another mom's blog, and through Katie's example, I was encouraged to write my journal entries on my blog, instead of my usual pen-and-paper journal approach.

So here is Day 1, which was actually yesterday:

Passage:

Galatians 5:16-25
¹⁶ So I say, let the Holy Spirit guide your lives. Then you won’t be doing what your sinful nature craves. ¹⁷ The sinful nature wants to do evil, which is just the opposite of what the Spirit wants. And the Spirit gives us desires that are the opposite of what the sinful nature desires. These two forces are constantly fighting each other, so you are not free to carry out your good intentions. ¹⁸ But when you are directed by the Spirit, you are not under obligation to the law of Moses.
¹⁹ When you follow the desires of your sinful nature, the results are very clear: sexual immorality, impurity, lustful pleasures, ²⁰ idolatry, sorcery, hostility, quarreling, jealousy, outbursts of anger, selfish ambition, dissension, division, ²¹ envy, drunkenness, wild parties, and other sins like these. Let me tell you again, as I have before, that anyone living that sort of life will not inherit the Kingdom of God.
²² But the Holy Spirit produces this kind of fruit in our lives: love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, ²³ gentleness, and self-control. There is no law against these things!
²⁴ Those who belong to Christ Jesus have nailed the passions and desires of their sinful nature to his cross and crucified them there. ²⁵ Since we are living by the Spirit, let us follow the Spirit’s leading in every part of our lives. ²⁶ Let us not become conceited, or provoke one another, or be jealous of one another.

Prompt: Who is writing? Why? Initial thoughts/questions?

My thoughts:

Eric taught a class on Galatians a few years back, so I am excited to study this part of Galatians again.

Paul is writing to the church of Galatia, comprised mostly of Jewish Christians who were struggling with grace. They were used to the old ways, the Old Testament law, specifically circumcision; they weren't very comfortable with throwing out the old way. Paul is talking to them about living by the Holy Spirit's guidance, and in doing so, they fulfill the new law Christ spoke of in John 13:34-35, "So now I am giving you a new commandment: Love each other. Just as I have loved you, you should love each other. Your love for one another will prove to the world that you are my disciples." This new law is centered around loving one another as Christ loved us. With this new "law," there is no need for the old law, the dead way of Moses and his two stone tablets, not to mention the over 600 commandments of the Old Testament. When we are filled with the fruit of the Spirit, we are filled with Him and His love, and this is all He wants of us. Ultimately, we can't earn our way by following the old law, anyway. Jesus wants us to be focused on love, the greatest of the "three things" that will last forever (I Corinthians 13:13).

What hit me most in this passage is the outbursts of anger. I still have my outbursts. They aren't pretty. They turn everyone around into the corners of my life; they shut people out, make them want to run and hide, and I am ashamed to admit it. I am still following the desires of my sinful nature, especially in this.

Lord, help me to be led by the Spirit and filled with His fruit.

Snapshot of Motherhood

2011-06-10T14:04:00.000-07:00

Being held hostage by your seat belt while your two-year-old is madly wailing from the confines of his car seat, with your other kids safely belted into their car seats and shielding their ears for protection, you will do almost anything as a mother to just make it stop. Almost anything. It is like Chinese fingernail torture, only worse because you often can't give in to the demands of your tormentor. It's often because he's dropped some beloved toy out of reach, like between his car seat and door and he can't reach it. And no amount of explanation will help.

"Buddy, I can't reach it right now; you'll just have to wait until I stop the car."

Blank stare, total disbelief, a look that says, You're Supermommy. You can do anything. You've saved my toy from the floor before; why can't you save it now?

And maybe you are on the freeway, and pulling over is just not possible at this exact second. This is where you either make a crazy, reckless decision while driving, carrying the life of your three precious hearts behind you, or you just let him scream.

I have heard a lot of screaming in the last six and a half years.

Lately, I have been convinced that all a girl needs to do to prepare for motherhood [before you have even one child] is to find a youtube recording of a baby, infant, toddler, preschooler, and school-age kid howling his head off and then listen to it for up to 70 percent of your waking day, learn to not let it phase whatever task you're doing or rattle your emotional cage, and you're pretty much prepared to handle the stress of the job. I say pretty much because it won't be your child you are listening to on youtube, and that will make just that extra bit of difference you can't plan for.

There have been times when I have been able to accomplish whatever trick was needed to make the agony stop. I always consider myself to be "safe" in these maneuvers, but sometimes I have to admit they can be on the fringe. Last night, for example, my four-year-old was thirsty and wanted some water. I was on a curve, but I was able to keep my eyes on the road, left hand on the steering wheel, feel for the water bottle beside me, and pass it back to her, all without even a flinch. And this was a nonemergency. My husband would've told her to wait, but I understand the desperate-need-for-it-now-ness of situations, especially thirst, and so I try to oblige whenever I can, as cautiously as needed. I have my limits. When the item is unreachable or I have to contort my body in such a way that I can't keep my eyes on what I'm doing, then I just say no.

But just saying no is not as easy as it sounds.

Pull your heart out of your chest, strap onto it chubby little arms and legs, along with a frustratingly unthwartable will of its own, and you know what it means to have a child.

True Weapons

2011-05-02T14:55:00.000-07:00

I've been dealing with depression on and off for probably the last 18 years. It was set off when I was taking a huge load in college at APU, enrolled in their strenuous 4-year nursing program, plus working part-time, and then driving to and from campus 2.5 hours each way. In a matter of a month and a half, sleep-deprived and stressed out to the max, I lost it. I became unrecognizable to even myself. I stopped eating. I stopped sleeping, and...I went crazy. There's no delicate way to say it. I lost my mental capacities, and my parents had to help me get through even the basics of day-to-day living. They took me to a psychiatrist, who wanted to check me into the loony bin. I'm glad they didn't; I would've been terrified. The psychiatrist put me on horse-sized Xanax pills that knocked me out, and I basically slept through the next month. When I finally woke up, I was me again. I guess they call it sleep therapy.

The psychiatrist basically said what I had was post traumatic stress disorder, which is something that Vets went through when they came home from the horrible nightmare of Vietnam. I let myself get so exhausted and stressed that I gave myself incredible anxiety, which led to sleeplessness and then ultimately to insanity. Scary. I was at a place where I never want to be again. Never. I'd rather die than go through that again. I don't remember much from that time except that I thought everyone had been raptured, and I had been left behind and the only way I could get out of the hell-hole I was in was to look up. Literally. So that's what I would do, look up all day. Yeah. Crazyiness.

But ever since '93, when I lost it, I have struggled with depression in one form or another. I took medication for four years, but the doctor I saw was treating me with medication for manic depression, which is in our family, and I'm not completely convinced it was the correct diagnosis. I was manic after the episode, but I think my body's hormones were out of wack, and they overcompensated for the severe low, which swung me into a severe high. I've never had mania since. Of course, the Lord may have healed me from manic depression (at a random church I went to once with a friend in '96, somebody actually prophesied over me that He would cut me off from the curse in my bloodline), but I haven't been on medicine at all since November 1997.

There are times, though, when I really have felt like I could use anti-depressant medication. I've never taken anything for it, I don't think. I might have been given Prozac, but I think that was during that crazy phase and never since. I'm not against medication. My grandpa was a doctor, and he, of course, was big on medicine, and so we always medicated everything when I was growing up; it was like our default, shoot-from-the-hip reaction to every disorder. My grandpa himself (manic depressive) actually took Prozac and called it his happy pill. I'm just hoping to not have to take medication; I don't want to if I don't have to.

Recently I came across Psalm 143, and it hit me between the eyes. It's a psalm of David, and it's uncanny how the enemy resembles depression in these verses -- "The enemy has chased me; he has knocked me to the ground and forces me to live in darkness, like those who live in the grave....come quickly, Lord, and answer me, for my depression deepens; do not turn away from me, or I will die....rescue me from my enemies, Lord; I run to You to hide me....because of Your faithfulness, bring me out of this distress." All the parallels hit home for me, so I've started to memorize it.

Then the Lord began reminding me that we "wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against spiritual hosts of wickedness in the heavenly places" (Ephesians 6:12) and that the "weapons of our warfare are not carnal, but mighty in God for bringing down strongholds" (2 Corinthians 10:4). And also Ephesians 6:17 calls the Word of God the sword of the Spirit. Our battles are not in the flesh, but in the unseen world that wars above us, and the true weapon is His mighty Word.

Today I read Hosea 1:7, "But I will show love to the people of Judah. I will free them from their enemies -- not with weapons and armies or horses and charioteers, but by my power as the Lord their God." If we rely on His strength, memorize His Word, and quote it when we are fighting those wicked powers in the heavenlies, for whatever "battle" we are facing, then He will help fight the battle for us.

These are the true weapons against the true enemy.

And I have been quoting Psalm 143 when I rise each morning, saying it to Him as my prayer, asking Him to fight the battle for me, and I have been noticing a difference; I am fighting less. In fact, for the past week, when I started this, I haven't been depressed once. I know; it's only been a week, but before that I had been struggling with it day in and day out for the last few months.

I am not advocating that someone walk away from their medication, not without the support of family and medical personnel. But it doesn't hurt to try memorizing scripture even while medicated; let Him help fight the battle for you.

It's now occurred to me that this applies in every area of our lives, and that we are shortsighted when it comes to the power of His Word to fight every battle in our lives. It's truly put a new perspective on scripture for me. And it's not like I haven't heard about the power of memorizing scripture before, but I guess this is where His Word finally pierced to the joints and marrow of my being.

Mirrors

2011-02-24T14:41:00.000-08:00

I was preparing our worship set this week, and while doing so, I read some great quotes by John Piper. I'm so moved by his words; they are always convicting and compelling. Whenever I read him, he makes me want to stop whatever I am doing, sell all of my possessions, and become a missionary to some far-off tribe in Africa or China. He moves me to action, and he makes me want to do something for the glory of the Lord and the advancement of His kingdom. So I love to incorporate his thoughts, along with Scripture, into our worship on Sunday mornings.

Here is the John Piper link I've been reading from:

http://www.goodreads.com/author/quotes/25423.John_Piper

This quote stood up off the page:

"God created us for this: to live our lives in a way that makes Him look more like the greatness and the beauty and the infinite worth that He really is. This is what it means to be created in the image of God."

It struck me that being created in the image of God means that we are like mirrors. We can be turned in toward ourselves, magnifying whatever it is that we are going through or whatever desire we have -- our pain, our depression, our greed, our glory, our hopelessness, our struggles, our *you fill in the blank* -- or we can be turned out and up to reflect Him in all of His splendor and majesty and goodness and power and mercy and compassion and graciousness and faithfulness and holiness and all that He is. Whenever we are tempted to complain or grumble or wallow in self-pity/self-reflection or to magnify our own importance, we are turning the mirror in toward ourselves. We -- and I say this especially to myself -- need to turn that mirror up toward Him and reflect and magnify Him in ALL circumstances, regardless. As Philippians 4:4 says, "Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice!" The more we magnify and reflect Him, especially in the middle of our trials, the more He is glorified, and that is that chief end of man, our chief purpose in life: to glorify God and enjoy Him forever.

As John Piper also wrote, "The really wonderful moments of joy in this world are not the moments of self-satisfaction, but self-forgetfulness. Standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon and contemplating your own greatness is pathological. At such moments we are made for a magnificient joy that comes from outside ourselves."

What comes to mind is the verse after which my blog was named -- "more of You" -- 2 Corinthians 3:18 -- "And all of us have had that veil removed so that we can be mirrors that brightly reflect the glory of the Lord. And as the Spirit of the Lord works within us, we become more and more like Him and reflect His glory even more."

I want to reflect Him more.

Even the Fleas

2011-02-06T16:13:00.000-08:00

Couldn't leave my blog on the sour note of my last post. Life is good. Really, it is. Yes, there are those seasons where I can't seem to see past the clouds, where I am consciously choosing to be thankful when really I'm not. But truly, we are SO blessed. I know this, even inside the sandwich of my life right now, when all three of my babies are sick with colds and fevers, and I feel like I'm recovering from cabin fever. We have our health. Having the sniffles does not qualify as being unhealthy. There are those who are permanently disabled or who have chronic, even terminal illnesses. We have our health.

Really, we have so much for which to be grateful. We have a roof over our heads and a job with which to pay for said roof. We have clothes that keep us warm. My oldest is enjoying the privilege of a free education. We have a means with which to buy whatever we need, whenever we so desire, and my children never go hungry. Indeed, I could stand to lose 10 pounds. Really, we live like kings -- all of us in this country. My husband, who's been to India and China (and 19 other countries), often says that even the poor in our country are blessed compared to the poor in other countries. We are such an affluent nation. We don't even know the abundance of goodness we enjoy, goodness beyond the material -- freedom of religion, speech, the press. We take these freedoms for granted; at least I do.

A good friend called me yesterday and reminded me of Betsie and Corrie ten Boom who were being eaten by fleas in their bunkhouse in Ravensbruck, a Nazi concentration camp in Germany. Betsie insisted on thanking God for everything, even the fleas. However, Corrie initially resisted this. They were being eaten alive in their hard straw beds every night by these tiny bloodsuckers. How could she be thankful for them? It wasn't until later that Betsie found out the reason they were able to hold Bible studies in their bunkroom without being caught; the guards always avoided their bunkhouse because of those fleas.

My rich, full, abundantly blessed life cannot even begin to compare to the abject suffering and torture that these amazing women of faith experienced in these camps. Betsie even lost her life. When I think of how truly blessed I am, I become completely and utterly humbled and convicted. I have so much for which to be thankful.

Even I can praise Him for the fleas.

A Season

2011-02-03T13:33:00.001-08:00

We are currently in the middle of potty training Caleb, our now 2-year-old, and I'm wondering now, Why did we start this so soon? I guess it's because my mom says she always potty trained us as soon as we turned two. But seriously, I'm just about ready for him to go back to diapers!

Following him around everywhere, mopping urine up off of the floor because the pee shield doesn't work (why don't manufacturers test out their products!), giving him baths after he's messed himself, as well as washing dirty diapers in the toilet is all beginning to get a little tiresome. I know, I make it sound like this is my first time potty training a child, and yet we've done this twice before (of course, both of those times with girls). What's super frustrating is, he's not really taking to the whole idea. Almost every time he has to sit on the potty chair, he cries. What's kind of funny is, the madder he is about it, the more likely he is to actually be successful. I say, "Oh good, you're screaming at Mommy now; you'll be going any second. Let me know when you're done."

It doesn't help that our new dog Bailey digs filthy wipes out of the bathroom trash and shreds them up all over the hallway. Her latest trick is to take messy diapers and spread them out all over the front lawn for the whole block to enjoy. Our gracious neighbor even came over yesterday and offered to cover the holey spots in the fence with chicken wire. Bless his heart. Can we just send her back already??? Oh, yeah, the kids are attached to her.

I know this is one of those seasons of life and that I need to stop and savor every moment. I guess this is one of which I would rather fast forward to the end. And I know there is light at the end of this tunnel. My eyes are glued to it.

True Freedom

2011-01-13T20:46:00.000-08:00

I remember when the lure of freedom seemed like such a good thing. I'd lie awake as a child, listening to my parents entertain company, and wonder what it was like to be able to pick your own bedtime, to be able to just DO whatever it is your heart longs to do at any time of the day or night. That's what freedom seemed like to me, and I looked at my parents as the ultimate freedom riders.

I was a slave, or so I felt. A slave to my parents' whims. Life was scripted for me, as it is for most children. Restricted. I had to be at such-and-such a place at such-and-such a time and be home no later than my parents allowed. I couldn't wear make-up until I turned "this"-old. I couldn't go see Rated-R movies or even PG-13. I couldn't do any playing until my homework was done. I had to make my bed. [Hard life, huh? :)]

I also remember playing to my heart's content. I don't think we had many chores. Chores were pretty optional, besides keeping our bedrooms neat and helping with dinner dishes; I think we played from dawn until dusk. I have vague memories of playing out back with my little brother until late in the day. And in the very dark corners of my mind, I think I can see my mom on the backporch laundry room. Working. My dad wasn't even home. He was probably in his pastor's study at First Baptist Church in San Pedro, prepping for Sunday's sermon, or visiting the sick. I never stopped to wonder how the clothes got clean, the dinner put on the table, or the lights came on. We were the ones who actually had every "freedom" in the world. They were freedoms that were boundaried, no doubt, but they came with very few cares or responsibilities. In fact, the few times we were given jobs to do, besides school, I felt robbed, like my parents gave birth to us to be their slaves; my childhood "rights" were being replaced by restrictive responsibilities.

College was the beginning taste of said freedom. I got to pick what I majored in, a lot of my own classes, times, and even the part-time job I took on so I could buy cute clothes. This is really where that allure of freedom seemed like it was finally realized. I picked my own schedule, ate whatever I wanted. I made all of my own decisions. I stood on my own...one, two...TWO FEET! After college bliss, life started slowly. As I moved out of my parents' home and then later got married, bills were like a cold splash of water. So this is why people work for a living. It was only the beginning of a wake-up call to what "freedom" actually meant.

Now as a parent my freedoms include rearing and owning responsibility for three beautiful wills, and with that, three little mouths to feed every morning, noon, and night. And laundry. And house-cleaning. And sack lunches. And homework. And doctor visits. And temper tantrums. And being home by naptime. And still the bills . . .

It's only as a parent where I understand what freedom actually means for us as individuals. Freedom isn't being able to do whatever it is that I want to do in life [although I can't imagine being anywhere else...okay, I can imagine it, but would never want to be anywhere else]. True freedom is the willingness to stay put, be responsible, and do the tough jobs. It is being willing to scrape the food off of the highchair and the poop off of bare bottoms. It's being willing to forgive your spouse when they take your keys to work or forget your anniversary. It's being willing to stand in the gap for those in real financial need. True freedom is the willingness to actually allow yourself to be restricted and to make the hard choices...the right choices.

I Peter 2:16-17 -- Act as free men, and do not use your freedom as a covering for evil, but use it as bondslaves of God. Honor all people, love the brotherhood, fear God, honor the king.

Good Story

2011-01-06T13:58:00.000-08:00

Every time I even remotely think about sitting down to write, my brain almost immediately rejects the attempt. I'm super lazy these days, but I guess I've given myself a perfectly good reason to be. I can only be lazy when the kids are asleep, and that is a relatively small window in my day. Lazy is good.

But today I have something I want to -- no, need to write. It's been on my mind to write for a few days. And no, it's nothing spiritual, although that is where my heart is most of the time, reflecting on the goodness of our great Savior. This is something that happened last summer when we went camping, and if I don't write it down soon, I will forget what happened. It's long, but good, so bear with me.

Middle to end of August (can't remember the exact date, see what I mean?), my parents, our friend Ruby, my brother, and our little family of five headed out to June Lake to do some camping. This is something we do every year, almost, and I'm still not sure why. I guess it's group peer pressure, but the only person who seems to THOROUGHLY enjoy it is my husband. Anyway, this year we decided to go somewhere different. Somewhere with a little less dirt. With three kids 5 and under, you get the idea why. So we headed out to beautiful June Lake on a late Sunday afternoon because my dad will NEVER let us miss a day of church, especially since it's so small, and he and Eric are the pastors, and no one else is qualified to preach (although he and I disagree on this point). Now, leaving late for camping, unless you're camping really close by, is never a smart thing to do, but we tend to ignore smart decisions in this family, often throwing caution to the wind.

Never having been to June Lake before, we didn't know some of the procedures for the campground we were heading to, like the fact that they close down at 8:00pm. So when we pulled in at 10:00pm Sunday evening and everything was shut down and dark, we had NO idea how to find our assigned (and paid for) campsites. We roamed around, even drove around the campground, trying to see if there were any available campsites to snag in the dark (thinking we could always move in the morning). We're toting tent-trailers, and the temperature is supposed to get down in the low 40s at night. Not a good night for roughing it. We needed our electrical and gas hookups for our furnaces.

However, no good spots could be found, so we were forced to camp in the parking lot. No hookups whatsoever. This is bad news for everyone, but especially bad news for our family. Eric snores and has to have a breathing machine or the rest of us will not be able to sleep. My kids sleep with fans (I started this when they were babies), which we brought with us just for white noise. And although we can bundle sleeping bags and down comforters around the girls, Caleb is only 18 months old and doesn't know how to sleep with covers on him yet. In retrospect, I should have tried to make him sleep with me, but even that would have been disastrous. Eric fumbled around with the furnace for awhile. But it's a new (used) tent trailer for us, and he doesn't even know how to work it yet, so he is unable to get the thing working. So we triple-jammy Caleb (three layers), hoping that will keep him warm enough until I can throw a comforter over him when the night really brings on the chill. We dress the girls in their thermals, tuck them in 40-degree sleeping bags, and throw a down comforter over them. They're good, at least. Eric, unfortunately, is forced to sleep in the car. Yes, the car. It's a Highlander, so he laid the back seat flat and was able to semi-recline to sleep, but it was very hard and uncomfortable for him, to say the least.

Right before turning out the lights, I feel our entire trailer wobble, like my dad or Eric had pushed one side of it.

"Dad, did you brush up against the trailer?"

[From his bed in the trailer next to ours] "Huh? No."

"Our trailer just swayed side to side."

[My mom speaks up now.] "I don't think there are bears here, Sara. They don't have bear boxes anywhere."

I'm not thoroughly convinced, but I shut off the light and hop in my sleeping bag. It's about 10:00 pm. A half hour goes by; the kids have all fallen asleep, thankfully; I am just about to nod off when all of the sudden I hear a loud banging sound, like someone is banging on the dumpster nearby. I am jolted wide awake. I listen for a bit and then hear it again. Loud. Curiosity moves me out of my warm sleeping bag, and I crawl over to my window and unzip it in the direction of the noise. To my utter terror, there is a huge brown bear dumping the trash can just 30 yards from our tent trailer. I can see Eric has his flashlight on the bear from his uncomfortable position in the back of the car. My pulse begins racing. We have a TON of food in our tent trailer. We are a veritable jelly-filled donut. Eric has opened bags of cereal in the car. I'm a wreck. The only safety measures I think to take are to lock the door [however little good that will do] and move all the food to the center of the trailer, in hopes that he won't smell what's inside. Yeah, right. Then I just begin to pray [and I don't stop until about 2:00 am].

We've had negative contact with bears and food in the past. One bear broke into some neighboring campers' car a couple years ago when they didn't secure their food in the bear box. It broke the window and took all of their food. All of it. The following morning there were bear paw prints on our car. Bears are known to be incredibly persistent with unsecured human food. I'm not just a little bit scared. I'm terrified. I've got three babies here.

In the meantime, a loud noise jolts me again, but this time it sounds like my parents' furnace to the left of me. Now I'm annoyed. It is seriously high-pitched, like a whistle, and it comes on intermittenly (about every minute or two), lasting about 30 seconds before shutting off. There is absolutely no chance of finding sleep now. All I can think about is how freezing I am and how toasty warm my parents (and Nathan and Ruby) must be in the trailer next door, and I get to pay the price for their warmth by hearing this blasted whistle every two minutes.

At 1:00 am a man comes out to the parking lot, presumably from the campground, and starts talking loudly on his cell phone. I'm thinking, "Who does he need to call at 1:00 in the morning???" He didn't stop talking until 3:00 am. Yeah. The funny thing is, I worried a little less about the bear at this point, figuring he'd get the guy before he got us.

By this time I have to use the restroom, and it is chilly, but I hestitantly leave the comfort of my sleeping bag again to find our little indoor porta-potty. There are more details here from which I will spare you. After using the porta-potty, I grab the flashlight to investigate the noise. I can hear it's not actually coming from my parents' trailer to my left. It's coming from the right side of our trailer. A little investigation reveals it's OUR furnace, and it's doing absolutely nothing but blowing out icy cold air. So all this time I thought my parents were staying nice and warm, while I suffered from the noise of their blasted furnace, when actually it was our blasted furnace which was on (because Eric had turned up the thermostat to 80 degrees, trying to get the furnace to kick on, and forgot to turn it back down to shut it off), but now it wasn't doing anything but blowing out seriously cold air. I fiddled with the thing, but couldn't figure out how to get it to shut off. In desperation I finally called Eric on his cell at about 5:00 am to get his help. He told me about the thermostat, and I climbed back out of my bag to turn that stupid gauge down. We chatted about the bear, too, now laughing in disbelief in the early morning hours.

Needless to say, it was a night of sheer terror, frustration, and no sleep. It definitely sticks out as probably the worst night of my entire life, but it's funny how later you look back on nights like this and just have to shake your head and laugh.

And no, nothing ever happened with the bear. It just wandered off into the campgrounds and left us alone to freeze in the parking lot at June Lake. Oh, and in the morning, there was a note on the June Lake Market door that had been left for us the night before of where our campsites were. Yep.

The Great Cloud

2010-11-13T00:24:00.001-08:00

I'm impressed by Hebrews 12:1 and 2 tonight. We saw "Unstoppable" in the theaters, and on our way out, I was struck by the parallel between the off-camera onlookers, who cheered on the two heroes that effectively stopped a runaway train, and that "great cloud of witnesses surrounding us" from verse 1. We can't see them or hear them, but they are there. I can "see" Paul there from the invisible sidelines, perhaps the greatest evangelist/writer of most of the NT. He is cheering us on. The mere thought gives me chills. The father of all evangelists is watching me now, praying, hoping, emploring me to shine my light for Jesus. I can see my grandparents there, with grins from ear to ear, rooting me on. All of our loved ones gone before us are here, watching us from those unseen stands. It makes me want to run the race with greater endurance, fully fixing my eyes on Jesus, the author and perfector of my faith; to lift my chin higher, dropping the dead weight of sin that so easily entangles me; to shine my light for all the world to see; to be a beacon of Christ, a safe harbor for ships dangerously close to shore; to fully, out and out drop every care or whim and run -- I mean, really book it.

Now is the time to run. Not when I feel ready. Not when I feel capable or strong enough or good enough. Not when I feel like I'm in the "right" situation. Not in hopes of better days. Not someday. Now.

Addictive

2010-11-11T21:54:00.000-08:00

The gleeful giggles I get from this little boy are seriously intoxicating. He has the Ellis laugh. Hearty, loud, and guttural. And though just about anyone can produce them -- he laughs a ton -- almost no one can make him laugh quite as loud or as long as I can (at least in my humble opinion). We have a bond, the two of us, that is undeniable. Walking through the grocery store just tonight, he wanted me to carry him everywhere, just so we could snuggle cheek to cheek and he could mutter nonsensical sweet-nothings in my ear. He knows I understand his little heart, even if no actual English word makes it through the exchange. We played nose to nose for an hour on Wednesday morning on the sidelines of Esther's dance class, and he kept throwing his head back and laughing so loud and so gutturally, I thought the instructor was going to kick us out. Throughout the day each day, he runs to me, wraps his arms around my legs, and says, "Mama, up, up!" just so he can wrap his short, chubby arms around my neck and hold me for several minutes while I take every advantage of his kissably round cheeks.

He is addictive, my sweet little son. Simply addictive.

No Words Left

2010-11-09T20:45:00.001-08:00

Here's the truth: I am tired and talked out by the end of the day. No words left. This is why I haven't been blogging lately. I had no idea being a mother would do this to me. I give all or most of my words to my 6-, almost-4-, and almost-2-year-old each and every day, not to mention to my not-quite-talked-out 44-year-old. :)

"Is that a loving way to talk to your sister, Abby?"

"Be responsible with your shoes, please, Esther."

"We DO NOT hit!! Would you like it if she did that to you?"

"Would you like me to read this book to you, Caleb?"

"How was your day?"

"What did you learn today?"

"Go have a time-out and think about what you did."

"Finish your food, please, Abby."

"Sit down in your chair."

"What was your favorite part of the day?"

"You need to have a talk with God about your attitude."

And on, and on . . .

And then there's being talked at all day. I say "talked at" because many times they don't even look to see if you're listening. And that's good because a lot of the time I'm not; words just bounce off walls around here. It's not that I'm intentionally not listening either. I literally cannot listen to three people talking at once. It's just mentally and physically not possible. And then sometimes I've just had an earful. My listening tank is full, and I'm looking for a place to empty it, or at least a second or two to process. I tell Esther not to repeat the question six times; just give Mommy a second to process her question before answering. She loves to talk. She wakes up talking and goes to bed talking. I gave her one minute of quiet time in the car the other day, to see if she could not talk for one whole minute. I initially started with three minutes, but from the look of shock on her face, I could see this was going to be an impossibility. She was quiet for all of ten seconds (no, probably less), and then she said, "I can't do this."

This isn't forever, I hope. But this is how life is for me at the moment. Very full. Full with life. Full of ups and downs. Full of teaching and training. And absolutely brimming over with words. This sounds like a complaint, but it's really not. It's an explanation of my silence. It's not that I don't love you. It's that I don't have words left for you at the end of a very verbally taxing day.

Captive

2010-08-10T23:58:00.000-07:00

I think I've said this before, but my littlest one is the most challenging, and that's putting it nicely. My wild five-year-old and whiny three-year-old are no match for my not-as-yet-English-speaking one-year-old. I'll take the both of them over him any day and twice on Sunday. He's still in that middle stage, where he understands enough and communicates to a point where he can tell me what he wants, but when he doesn't get it [and right this second!], he can't understand any explanation you give him and throws a mad tantrum. Funny though, stick him in his crib for a one-minute time-out, and he's a totally different creature than the wet, screaming thing that went in. All smiles and rainbows. It's amazing what one minute can do. He can turn it on and off faster than an automatic faucet.

I have to say, however,
that his cavernously deep,
dark brown eyes
are bewitching.
They captivate me
no matter what
mood I'm in.

Motherdom

2010-06-30T22:56:00.000-07:00

When I became pregnant with my first child six years ago, I made a decision, before I really knew what I was doing, that when I had kids, I would stay at home with them. I would be my kids' mom, as Dr. Laura says. I leaped off of a steep high-dive without knowing how high up I really was, nor how deep the water below. But the decision was simple then. I made it when I wasn't holding any screaming babies in my arms or sending Little Miss Tantrum to time-out or knee deep in what we call a blow-out. Life was going to be blissful in motherdom. I had delusions of grandeur, which included the idea of having, at minimum, four well-behaved, loyal, respectful subjects, lovingly referred to as my kids; they would never disobey; would be reading by three; model citizens from birth.

Yeah. Like I said, that was before I even had one.

I've grown up a lot after having three kids. I don't judge other moms anymore. Much. I know what kids look like. All kids. Once you've seen one, you've seen basically all. That's painted with a really broad brush, I know, but understanding my own kids has helped me understand why other kids act the way the do. I found that it is really hard to control them. Even your own. I'm still trying, and I'm amazed at how clever you really have to be. It's not as simple as it seems.

But the one decision I made so long ago is the one thing that I don't regret in all of this. I'm glad I gave up a 5-figure, permanent-contract teaching position and never looked back. Because if I had, there have been many times when I know I would have been easily tempted to run back. I still have moments. But also, on the flip side, I never had to face the battle of leaving even one of these precious little faces every morning.

As hard as this can be at times, I know there is no way I could find the inner fortitude for that.

Dark Road

2010-06-27T22:29:00.000-07:00

I've walked down a pretty dark road this week. It was overhung with the looming branches of doubt. I felt led to pray for something. I thought I could hear the Spirit leading me down a road I've never gone. A road on the fringes of faith. A road not many people travel. But my faith saw no bounds in God's infinite power. I climbed up into His arms and believed for one. huge. miracle. I obeyed that inner voice.

And then . . . nothing happened. What I prayed for did not come about. I was left floundering in waves of doubt. Only moments before I was marching with hammer-toed boots of faith, and now I was drowning in a sea of unanswered questions.

Why did I feel prompted to pray for this? If we have mustard-seed faith, we can ask for whatever, and He will do it. Did I not have the faith -- not even as big as a mustard seed? Aren't we supposed to be able to move mountains? Am I even a child of God?

Big questions came with big tears. I had come to the prayer with adrenaline and action, and I walked away with a broken spirit and my tail between my legs. I don't think I've ever crossed quite this exact road in my Christian walk, and so for that reason alone, it has been good for me.

Sometimes, I think, God calls us to do something just to see if we will do it, just like when He asked Abraham to sacrifice his son Isaac. He wanted to measure Abraham's faith by testing his obedience. He passed the test. I wonder if he felt shaken up a bit afterward? I'm sure he was, no doubt, relieved that his son was alive, but did he have questions for this faith-testing God he served?

I know I did.

Sleeping Beauty

2010-06-22T21:32:00.000-07:00

There's almost nothing quite as peaceful as watching my kids sleep, especially as babies. I almost wish I could tape-record them all night and then sit down with a bowl of popcorn for a 12-hour baby-sleeping marathon. It's that good. I just want to drink in the preciousness. Perhaps it's the fact that when they're awake, they are often a whining, screaming, cranky ball of unpredictability. Little sinners, as my dad lovingly refers to them. So when they're sleeping, they're perfect, the only sinless period of their day. Metaphorically speaking, the lights are on, but nobody's home, but in this case it's actually a good thing. They are doing everything exactly the way they should, and I can't help but think about the beautiful creature they really are. It helps me get a full battery recharge for the next day's usage.

Wish I Could Have 19 Kids (not really)

2010-05-14T23:35:00.001-07:00

I love the show "19 Kids and Counting." There are many reasons why, actually, including (but not limited to) the fact that I can sit (usually while folding laundry) and watch it with my kids in the room and know that they're not going to be accosted by any of the less-desirable slices of pop culture. I should note that I don't fully agree with some of their (stricter) family rules/standards, but for the most part, they are just a clean, wholesome, godly family.

And the main reason why I love the show is the kids. Whatever Jim Bob and Michelle are doing in raising their kids, they are doing it right. They are all such incredibly honorable human beings -- humble, caring, giving, helpful, modest, diligent, understanding...I could go on and on. Even the little ones. And I watch it so that I can glean as much as possible from what their parents pour into them. And I think the thing that shocks me the most (and probably has had the biggest impact on these special kids) is the fact that their parents *never* yell at them. Ever. At least not on camera. And from what other people on the show say, never off camera either. They have devoted themselves to parenting with complete and utter patience, and I know (from experience) that this can only be a God thing. And I know they would say the same. So I study them. And if I were them, I'd probably have 19 kids myself. :)

On a side note, Abby has been begging me lately to have another baby. At first I thought her daddy was putting her up to it, but he's claiming he hasn't said a thing to her on the subject. So this morning I was fixing her hair, and she started in on it again.

"Don't you want to have another baby boy, Mama?"

"No, Abby. Mama's done having babies."

"Pleeeeeeeeeease!!"

"No. And you realize, don't you, that I wouldn't get to pick whether it's a girl or boy, right?"

"Then how about a baby sister??!!! Don't you want another one, Mama???"

I don't have a clue what's prompted this with her lately. So I found myself fire-hosing her this morning with all of the reasons why I really don't want another baby. "Abby, I've had two c-sections, and if I got pregnant again, I'd have to go in and have another c-section, and I am done being cut open (nice graphic picture, huh?). Do you realize that if I got pregnant again, Mama would have to go into the hospital and that I'd be gone for at least a couple days? Recovering from surgery is not fun. And besides that, I really don't like being pregnant at all. I love the outcome, the baby part of it, but pregnancy is not my thing." It wasn't until this last statement that I realized that I was forgetting my audience. It was like I could hear God in the voice of my five-year-old and was giving Him all of my reasons for not wanting to do it again; I was looking up at Him and echoing her, "Pleeeeeeease!!" but with a resolute shaking of the head, "No."

Yeah, I got a little carried away.

I think kids are a blessing. I really do. I can see that in the Duggar kids. I just know (pray) that 3 is enough of a blessing for our family. :)

Life Is Good

2010-04-30T14:51:00.000-07:00

I don't know what writing looks like anymore. Sometimes snippets run through my mind like little news flashes, but I find most of the time what's rolling around upstairs is pretty mushy and domestic, hardly the makings of something I'd want to put to paper. Most of the time I'm either scrambling madly after my one-year-old son with something resembling a fire extinguisher or waiting on bated breath for the world to come completely unleashed as his feet hit the floor in the morning. I measure the difficulty of my kids now from the ground up. The closer to the ground they measure, the more challenging they are to keep up with. Abby's a cinch now. "I'll take Abby to the store with me, honey; can you stay home with Essie and Caleb?" Funny how you forget what having a toddler is like, even though it was only a short time ago that your preschooler was one. Funny also that I'm calling my youngest a toddler. I fully realize that time is whizzing by me at an alarming speed, and I also fully realize how completely out of my control that fact is. It's oxymoronic [yes, it's a word; I looked it up], however, that the day-by-day sometimes can feel snail-pace slow, like babysitting felt at 13 years old. That was when two hours felt interminable, those times I watched the second hand on the clock and kept thinking, "Am I almost done?" The afternoons are like that sometimes, like watching the grass grow, only you're wearing a 26-pound fussbudget while trying to keep your spinning-top of a 5-year-old from clobbering your half-grumpy, just-woke-up-from-her-nap 3-year-old.

Life is good. No, I mean that. I love my little microcosm. It's waking up to impromtu dances and delighted squeals. It's morning devotions with a backdrop of "Max & Ruby." It's dishes and laundry and home-schooling, bikes and scooters and swinging, dollhouse and Polly Pockets and Hide-n-Seek and storybooks. It's meeting God in the cracks of my day and asking for renewed energy. It's sometimes losing my patience and asking them and Him for forgiveness. It's grocery shopping, dinnertime, pick-up time, and bathtime. It's Bible story, songs, and prayer time. It's kissing their sweet, sweaty little temples as they sleep.

Life is good.

His Love

2010-03-30T21:58:00.000-07:00

The freckling of chartreuse clusters

Against a crystal blue curtain,

Cascading branches dance in the cottony breeze

Like long tendrils spilling over a woman's shoulder,

Tiny bud-like seedpods

Awaken as though for the very first time

Every year

The Chinese Elm whispers His love for me

And takes my breath away.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases,
His mercies never come to an end.
They are new every morning,
New every morning,
Great is Thy faithfulness, Oh Lord.
Great is Thy faithfulness.

I'm Yours

2010-03-27T20:54:00.000-07:00

My husband has a wife that's about as soothing as alcohol on an open cut or as reassuring as the bathroom mirror right after you've gotten out of bed in the morning. Yeah, mercy isn't a word defined by any of my actions. At least not with those closest to me. And though I do not negate the usefulness of said alcohol or mirror at the proper time, I serve up honesty at all hours of the day, even the dark and difficult ones, when sometimes honesty needs to be shelved at the expense of someone's heart. Truth, like open-heart surgery, is only effective when the patient is prepped with enough anesthetic beforehand and healing time afterwards to fully recover. Otherwise, the point dies a hard, silent death. I haven't learned this yet. At least not with my family. I don't know how to be anything but brutally honest. I think it's a missing strand in my genetic code. And what is the value of honesty if the person receiving it walks away with more bandages than he had when he came to you?

It all seems so plain and simple, reading it. Stop being so honest all the time. Learn to dish out a little more grace. Why is living it so much more complex?

I think I expect judgment for my own actions. I expect everything I do to be examined under some cosmic microscope. I expect God to rail me with thunder and lightening for the wretched sinner that I am. That we all are, apart from Christ. Perhaps this is part of the reason why I feel the need to hold a mirror to every wrong move someone makes, to shed the ugly truth on everything, whether welcomed or not.

I hold this same mirror to myself. I beat myself up for every imperfection. I forget who I am. I forget Whose I am.

I'm Yours, Lord. Everything I've got, everything I am, everything I'm not. I'm Yours, Lord. Try me now and see. See that I can be completely Yours.

The Moments...

2010-02-07T22:37:00.001-08:00

I drank a little bit of pure, unadulterated love tonight. And my knees are still a bit weak. My baby boy was crying as his daddy laid him down for bed. I heard his cries from my comfortable spot on the sofa, clacking away at the keys in one furious attempt to finish a transcript. I listened a bit regretfully, since I had hardly spent any time with my little guy today, determined as I was to wade through this thick job and hand it back to my mom quickly as possible. Finally, unable to withstand his mournful sobs, I set the laptop down and headed to the kitchen for his bottle. Maybe a little nightcap is all he needs, I mused. Maybe a few kisses on his forehead too.

As I headed through his door, his calculated cries immediately shut off, and I chuckled as I picked him up and brushed his tears away with my fingertips, carrying him over to the rocking chair across the room. I sat and rocked him in the dark, humming "Hush Little Baby" quietly in his ear. The crack of light from the doorway etched an outline of the left side of his face, with the right side nestled down close to my chest. He sucked down the milk gratefully as I whispered love into his eyelashes, stippling kisses across his warm brow and deliciously chunky cheeks. I then intentionally willed myself to soak all of this fleetingness in, so as to never forget what it feels like -- in this right-here, right-now moment -- to embrace my sleepy one-year-old son in my arms. As I whispered, "Caleb, I love you," he looked away at the open doorway and teasingly responded with "Huh-uh," his usual game when he is nursing and playing indifferent.

After several more of these teases, I began to understand he was really telling me something. "You love me, don't you, Caleb? You love your mama." He looked at me then, and instead of his teasing response, he tried to answer with a gurgling, sputtering mesh of sounds, mouth still attached to the bottle. "Yes, you love your mama, don't you?" Again, the same earnest jumble of non-words and the same serious expression. We went back and forth like this for several minutes, and then he pulled his blanket up, and I understood this to mean he loves his "nigh-nigh" too. "Yes, you love your nigh-nigh, too; you love your nigh-nigh and your mama." Again, he responded not with his little game, but with an earnestness of noises that assured me beyond all doubt that he understood what I was saying. When he finished his bottle, I craddled him above his crib and sang our nightly prayer song to him. While I sang, even in the darkness, I could see his round cheeks spring up over his chubby little smile. I kissed his brow one last time before laying him in his crib, and he went down without so much as a peep. Blessed sweetness. These are the moments...

Changing

2010-02-01T15:06:00.000-08:00

I am changing, and for me change is almost always good. I welcome it. I am the type that loves rearranging her living room furniture, just for the change. I love to throw things away, just for the change. If I could, I'd move to a new place (even a new state) every other year, just for the change. So for me, myself, to be changing is good. I know there is such a thing as bad change, but as long as the end comes out good, it's all good. This kind of sounds like a broken record: good, change, change, good.

To get to the point: Being a mother is changing me. I can feel it more and more, day by day. I am losing the part of me that held on selfishly to "me"-things. I'm giving all (and then some) of myself each and every day, especially now that I'm adding home-schooling to the chaotic mix, and I'm learning how to do it with grace and, surprisingly, joy. I make a meal where I don't get to eat. Why? Because I'm feeding the little one or because I'm trying to watch my calorie intake when my kids need to eat. When starting dinner, I stand at the edge of the table for a few minutes after the blessing, just to see who needs what, what I haven't brought to the table, or to see if I missed someone's milk cup. I serve myself last. I'm taking shifts with each of the kids between naps (because naps rarely line up anymore) playing, reading, rolling around on the floor. I'm spending all-nighters with stomach bugs, next to my kids' sides, almost relishing the prize and priviledge of being able to be there in those wee-hours, to be their mom, knowing that they will probably look back on this night and remember I love them. I leave a gathering, letting my husband stay with the older two, because I've got to get my baby down for his nap. I spend my afternoon "free-time," when the two younger kids are napping, playing a game with my oldest. And the amazing thing is, it's good. I like this new role because it's slowly removing some of the selfishness (not all) in me, and it's teaching me how to serve. And the less of "me" that's in here, the more of a servant I become, the more like Christ I am, and that's what brings the joy.

Christmas

2009-12-30T21:42:00.001-08:00

Since when did I stop loving Christmas? Oh yeah, when the point of Christmas got lost on me. When the focus became about presents and "Who got more?" and "Which party are we going to?" or "Why weren't we invited to that one?" Blah!

So this year, I really tried to pull back on parties and presents. Way back. And zero-in on the true meaning. Jesus' birthday. So we celebrated each day leading up to Christmas on an advent calendar, reading verses about His birth and singing Christmas carols, and then opening each little door to reveal some little ornament related to Jesus and His precious gift to us. His life. We made a birthday cake on Christmas Eve for Him and then sang Happy Birthday to Him on His day, blowing out His candle and dividing up the cake for dessert after the Christmas meal. We got each of the kids one bigger gift and a couple smaller ones, focusing on the true Gift of Christmas so that the gift-opening wasn't a jaded wreck, like it was last year. We put the emphasis where it needed to be. I hope we can fine-tune it even more next year. Get away from the commercialized monster it's become and pull even closer toward the true reason for the day. All about Him.

Adjusting to Matter

2009-12-19T21:35:00.000-08:00

Yeah, I haven't written in a couple months. I'm coming back eventually, I think. I can't say anything with too much certainty these days. Except that I'm buried in life. I'm trying to find the joy in being buried, and I do most days. But really, I'm just trying to adjust to the stuff I'm buried in. All of it. I don't know why having a third one roaming around now has made everything in our house come out of its place indefinitely, but I can't seem to make any of it stay where it should be. And on top of being incredibly frustrating for my OCD neat-nick tendencies, I'm also left in the confused state of wondering what I should be doing with all of it. Do I try putting stuff away? I mean, they're just going to get it back out again in a few minutes. Maybe just leave it out until naptime. Yeah, just see how much MORE stuff they'll get out before then. And then just try to get them to help you put it all away so they can go to bed. Right.

And some of the stuff, sadly, doesn't even have a rightful home. It just hangs out in the middle of the floor. Like the playpen. There's literally no available corner to shove it in, so it sits between the crib and the bookshelves in Caleb's room. Smack-dab in the middle of the room. That's its place. And there's plenty of things like that in here. This tiny cave we call home. We're not just running out of space. Space is being shoved out by us. It's like the plaque that builds up on your teeth; you have to go in every six months to get it removed to keep things clean. The stuff is plaque. It builds up and encroaches on the space in life. I'm forever trying to make space for three fast-growing bodies by selling, giving away, or just plain throwing away anything that has shape or takes up space. Solid matter. The plaque of life. If it's not liquid or gas...or breathing, it's [eventually] on its way out of this house! And until then, I'm just trying to figure out [with much prayer] how to manage the messiness with grace. I know, I know; it's GOOD for me.

Grandma

2009-10-02T14:16:00.001-07:00

My precious grandma is gone. She passed away in her sleep, which is what she wanted and was begging all of us to pray for. I don't even have words to express the deep sadness at her home-going.

As a child, I spent almost as much time at her house as I did ours. I remember it like the back of my hand. I can tell you what her curtains smelled like because I hid behind them, much to her chagrin. I can still hear the traffic slurring by on "L" Street, her windows always slightly ajar and the curtains waving softly in the breeze. Her grandfather clock chimed every quarter-hour, and I can still hear the tick of the pendulum. She had these brightly colored bead dolls with parasols that someone had given her, probably one of the patients. I spent hours playing with them on her dining room table. I also remember countless hours of playing Grandpa’s Dice, Yahtzee, or Scrabble with her. She patiently taught us how to play, guiding us with our moves when we were too young to understand.

She had an air conditioner in her bedroom only. It was the most comfortable room in her house, and I slept in her bed many nights when I was a child. I can still hear the hum of that window unit. There was a heater grate on the floor in the hallway that we had to gingerly walk around to avoid searing our toes. Every room had its own distinct smell. Her bathroom, still stuck in the '50s, had a musty smell and the original Pepto-Bismol pink tiles on the counter and in the shower. The dark backroom, the “dungeon,” we thought of it as children, had the strangely intertwined odor of Grandpa and video cassettes. There was rust-colored shag carpet in the den, along with an old-fashioned black rotary-dial telephone. An original. I can still see her pick up the heavy receiver from her recliner and pen something down on drug-letterhead notepad. The TV was always tuned to the news or one of their favorite game shows, like Wheel of Fortune or The Price is Right. When we stayed overnight, we sat with TV trays in the den and ate toasted cheese-and-meat sandwiches with her famous onion-soup-mix mayonnaise, along with a hot bowl of vegetable beef soup or Spaghettios. When I'm sick or down, I still make those sandwiches. It’s comfort food. When I heard about the cancer, I immediately called to get her Swiss steak and teriyaki chicken recipes. I then went into baking mode and made both recipes that week. They are a piece of her, and I want to keep her memory always with me.

Most importantly, she taught me all about Jesus, and I know every story in the Bible because of her Good News Club which she faithfully held in her home for at least two decades. She witnessed to hundreds of boys and girls who sat and watched her teach the message of Christ using nothing but flannel graphs. I can still hear her singing the songs. She taught Sunday school up until three weeks before her death.

She was an anchor to me, a safe harbor. Hers was the place I threatened my parents I would run away to when I wanted to run away from home. There aren't enough words to express the magnitude of her effect on me. Grandma was my home away from home. To think of her being gone is like stripping me of a piece of who I am. She was ours. She belonged to us. We belonged to her.

Walrus in My Kitchen

2009-09-25T09:24:00.000-07:00

There’s a walrus in my kitchen,

There’s a walrus on my floor,

One walrus in the corner,

One walrus and no more.

If you ask him how he got there,

he’ll probably shrug and smile,

he probably won’t remember

because it’s been quite a while.

He’s plastic, I must tell you,

With a red W on his brown chest,

He’s been there several days at least,

a small, brown plastic pest.

I haven’t stopped to pick him up

I guess I just figure, Why?

There are plenty trinkets like him

in every room, from low to high.

And if I go and put him back

in the place where he belongs,

two other toys might take his place

and double the number of wrongs.

So I think he’s found a new home there,

by the fridge upon the floor,

But there’s only one walrus, I figure,

and one, I can try to ignore.

Rearing Years

2009-09-16T21:54:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I lie down with the girls for naptime. Many times – in fact, most – I don’t actually fall asleep. Since they are roomies, even at naptime, I’m just there as the policeman, making sure they don’t keep each other awake or, worse, wake each other up. Today was one of these days. Although they both fell asleep rather quickly, no matter how I closed my eyes and tried to sleep, I couldn’t. Truth is, my mind (and my ear) is always on the baby monitor, knowing he’s due to awaken any second for his afternoon feeding. This is the main reason why I fight sleep at naptime.

So today I enjoyed the rare state of lying still for a couple hours, doing absolutely nothing but staring at the beautifully peaceful visages of my sleeping beauties. A mass of dark tresses is splashed against the sheets. One brazen curl rolls down Essie’s cheek and onto her eyelash. It bounces there, threatening to awaken her. Her pouty lips are crumpled up into a small rosebud. Her chest rises and falls softly with restful repose. Abby’s skin is as pure and creamy as silk. Her eyelids flutter, and a tiny rumble of a snore escapes her lips. One hand slips out from beneath the sheets and falls off the side of the bed. Our world is strangely quiet for a few moments. I am watching two angels slumber upon billowy clouds.

There’s nothing quite like watching your children sleep. In fact, I find it therapeutic. It reminds me of where they came from, those sweet, smiley, cherubic days of infancy, and of where they will someday be, grown-up, on their own, leading there own frantic-paced lives, and yet I will always be striving to pull them close to my heart. Not that I'm not now. But these foundational years are the bricklaying years. This is where the foundation of the house is rather ruddy and unkempt. It’s not the site I want to bring onlookers to see, mostly because I'm a mess with frustration. It is the time for laying the pavement, the slab, and I'm the slab layer. It’s difficult, sweaty, backbreaking work, but it’s critical for the building of a strong house, and these are the years I’m in now. The rearing years. In many ways, it’s not only their rearing years. I think this is where patience will be infused into my soul, by sheer force. He’s shoving it down the hatch. But I so need it shoved.

Stepping Out of Line

2009-09-04T22:05:00.000-07:00

Nobody understands why I’m home-schooling. When I tell people Abby’s in Kindergarten and that I’m home-schooling her, they look at me like I just grew wart-covered rabbit ears and they're trying to avoid embarrasing me by refraining to put words to the first thought that came to their mind. The cashier at our local market, my neighbors, my cousin, my mother-in-law -- heck, even my public-school-teaching husband isn’t quite sure what to make of it, and I feel strangely like I’m disappointing everyone.

I even ask myself why daily at this point. I don’t even know where to begin, really. I wasn’t home-schooled. I went to small Christians schools my entire school career. For a part of one year, my parents pulled me out and home-schooled me. I don’t even remember the specifics of that year, except I was being bullied by one of the girls at our tiny church school, and I would come home crying daily. But I wasn’t home-schooled long enough for it to make a huge impact on my life, not to the point of making me want to home-school my kids.

So why home-school my kids? Besides having a few home-schooled friends growing up and seeing their quality of character, all I can say is that it started as a small seed the Lord planted in my heart years ago to do, even before I had married or had children, and now enrolling my kids in our local public school feels completely impossible for me. I might sooner box up the contents of my house and move to Allahabad, India. I just know in my heart it’s not what God wants me to do with my kids.

But I have to say that it feels like the world looks down on me for this decision. I have stepped out of a long line of parents with Kindergarteners; I'm watching everyone else move forward, amidst strange looks and long silences, and it feels like I’m holding her back. I’m not, though. I want to shout it from the rooftops. I’M NOT!!!!! I’m giving 110% of my day to this effort, and although I do delight in watching her learn new concepts that I just taught her – and can’t imagine giving that to someone else – I am pouring every last ounce of me and then a drop or two more into my already full-time job as a mommy, and I do it with all the wariness of one who steers through uncharted territory. And I frequently make the mistake of looking four years ahead of myself and being instantly overwhelmed with where I will be in 2013, which makes as much sense as trying to see the other side of the mountain while I’m slowly driving around it. And I fight the fear of failure moment by moment.

And all without the praise of almost anyone else. It is truly thankless. But….I think I hear God cheering somewhere near the sidelines...still and quiet. And not because I'm better than everyone else that's standing in line, but because I'm stepping out of line in faith and doing what He called me years ago to do.

First Day Jitters

2009-08-24T16:51:00.000-07:00

Yes, today is her first day of Kindergarten, and I’m the one who’s nervous. But no, I’m not dropping her off at school. Not at the bus stop. Not walking her to her classroom. I’m not dressing her in brand-new school clothes. Not preparing her bagged lunch. I’m not talking to her about classroom protocol (at least not yet). I’m not reminding her to raise her hand for questions or to keep quiet unless called upon. I’m not letting her leave my arms for the day. Instead, I’m taking her for a morning walk and calling it exercise, all the while watching other parents scramble their kids into car seats and hurry them off for their first day. I’m reading her great books and calling them history and science. I’m working on the sounds that little animals embedded into letters say, “Allie Alligator says ah, ah, ah,” hands opening and closing like an alligator, and singing the corresponding ZooPhonics song. I’m pulling out worksheets for pencil-position practice. More profoundly, I’m teaching her the Bible memory verse for the week, Proverbs 4:20, “Pay attention, my child, to what I say. Listen carefully.” I’m instructing her on the wisdom of listening not only with her ears, but also with her eyes and her heart.

It all feels peculiarly anti-climactic for her first day of school. I sort of feel like I’m getting out of line or jumping ship or even parachuting out of a perfectly good plane. It’s a slightly uneasy feeling, like I’m holding her back, keeping her from something everyone else is getting. I am second-guessing myself on this decision. Are we doing the right thing? Is this the best thing for her? It feels like I’m stepping out onto the surface of the moon. I’ve never been here before. Today I know what it means to step out in faith, doing something you feel the Lord’s calling you to do, even though you're tossed by doubts. My head tells me it’s the best thing for my child; my heart is looking around at everyone else.

I’m siding with my head on this one.

Your Heart

2009-07-22T11:24:00.000-07:00

Rip your heart right out from the center of your chest, strap onto it chubby little arms and legs, along with a delightful and often frustrating mind of its own, and you know what it's like to have a child.

Needing a Vacation

2009-06-23T22:14:00.000-07:00

I feel a little bit like a bent blade of grass, smashed from the tread of heavy foot traffic. This is what traveling does to me. A seven-hour drive to the Grand Canyon. Three days of being stuffed into a small tent-trailer at the base of Grand Canyon Airport, with helicopter tours and planes taking off at ungodly hours of the day. One day of huddling inside the close quarters of the camper under nothing but solid rain and hail, thunder and lightening. Turn around. Seven hours back. A whirlwind weekend of laundry, errands, unpacking to get my brain uncluttered enough to figure out what needs to be repacked for the next trip, and then the repacking. A two-hour drive down to my brother and sister-in-law's place for a one-night sleepover. Wake up, hop on the plane, and fly two hours to Portland. A one-hour jaunt into Hillsboro. Three little busy bees in tow. And I am pooped. It's going to take at least a week to recover from the last vacation. Good thing we're going to be here for three. I'm needing a vacation from the vacation.

Nothing of Significance

2009-06-14T23:09:00.000-07:00

I just had a very satisfying half hour of reading some of my older posts. Yes, I'm reading my own writing. Somebody's got to! It's a pretty sad state. With 24 hits on my blog in the last two days, that equals 12 hits a day. And the fact that I just came here, read a few posts, and then clicked the "older posts" link means that it's more like 10 hits a day by anyone other than myself. Yes, folks, I have 10 readers. Just think, you are one of the lucky 10, whoever you are. Maybe. Two of those hits may have been my mom who decided to come back and read it again, which would make it more like 8 hits. I don't know that for sure. I know none of those hits are my brother because he almost never reads what I write, regardless of my unswerving devotion to follow his blog. I had to go back and add "almost" to that last sentence; I'm trying not to use extreme words like always and never, even though I really think never is the actual word I want to use.

I know, I'm just rambling here. We're leaving for a pretty big camping trip to the Grand Canyon in a day, and I'm avoiding all the preparation for it by writing absolutely nothing of significance. But this way, I'll have something new to read next time I come back and visit my own blog.

The Motherer

2009-06-12T23:26:00.000-07:00

I read Joel's blog with ardent passion. I follow every post and comment on practically all of them. There is something about the words he writes that resonates so completely with me. They are the voice of home, of our upbringing, of quotes or phrases I've heard him use again and again, usually from him or someone else in the annals of our family history, words that make total sense to me, even if no one else finds them interesting or funny. Although, I'm not implying that to be the case. I can't imagine that, actually, because I'm glued to every word, so isn't everybody?

Joel is my little brother, and though I haven't always treated him the way he thought he should be treated, I've always been true to my feelings toward him. Forever the motherer. He always hated that I mothered him in everything. And to me it was like the "M" word. I still cringe when I hear his childhood voice echo in my ear, "You're not the mom!" I knew I wasn't his mom. It's just that to me he was like a small, handicapped bird I always felt like I needed to follow around and protect. Not that he had any actual shortcomings to speak of. I just looked at him that way, probably because he was younger and always did things the way a younger sibling would do, along with an age-appropriate slower speed.

Now that he's all grown up, I look at him with the pride a mother might have for her son [sorry, Joel.] Still the motherer, even if not the actual mom. It's at the heart of me -- this instinct to shield, to put him up on some cosmic pedestal for everyone to ooh and ahh. So I read every word he writes. When I see a new post on his blog, I get a slight giddy feeling right before clicking on his link, mentally heading off to grab a bowl of popcorn in anticipation of the upcoming entertainment. I'm that proud of him. And I understand his point of view. In some ways I think I understand him better than he understands himself. I can look at his words with perspective, but still be close enough to his heart to comprehend the intent. Isn't this familial, though? Our siblings, once we grow up and get past the rivalry, can almost finish our sentences. Scary and comforting all at the same time.

So here's a tribute to my little brother, from his fated motherer.

Dental Torture

2009-06-12T23:01:00.000-07:00

Went to the dentist today. There's nothing quite like going to the dentist. It's the only place where I stress out about whether or not my eyebrows have been plucked or my make-up's been applied evenly. Really, the less make-up in that place, the better. It's the only practice I get with allowing a near stranger to invade my personal space. Where else in life does someone come at you with practically a magnifying glass in hand? Frightening. And don't you just love it when they ask you all sorts of questions when you've got suction tubes and laser-scum-removers hanging out of your mouth?

Going to the dentist has always made me cringe. Is there anyone out there that really enjoys it? Except for maybe those few who come away with gleaming cavity-free reports. That should be me, actually. The last few years of my life, I've been brushing with one of those fancy electric toothbrushes that do all the work for you, and haven't had a cavity since. Wish someone would have stuck one of these in my mouth a long time ago and said, "Brush." For me the dentist chair is the equivalent of strapping me onto a rack, you know, one of those Middle Age torture-inflicting stretching boards? It's enough to frighten me into brushing my kids' teeth faithfully every night in an attempt to maybe spare them from my hatred of dentists. And I actually have relatively good teeth. I remember one year when we were kids, my brother Nathan had seven cavities, Joel had six, and I had one. It felt like I had won the lottery.

At least we've arrived somewhat with dental technology. Lasers and fast drills, along with low-radiation X-rays and composite fillings make the whole event slightly easier to swallow. Even if it's ever so slight. Now someone just needs to add a class at dental schools on how to remove tools from a patient's mouth before asking them a question.

Obsessed

2009-06-08T22:35:00.000-07:00

I can't believe it's been five weeks since I last posted an entry on my "just for writing" blog. I'm way behind. But I owe it all to what I call "mommy brain." It's all mush upstairs. Half the time I don't pronounce things correctly, or I switch the latter half of my sentence with the former, or I can't remember even some of the more basic vocabulary words I've got stored up there. It's a sad state of affairs. All I can think of is how in love I am with my precious newborn son or how much I want to tickle my sweet Essie or what new craft I can think up for my furiously artistic Abby. It's to the point where at the dinner table, if conversation goes political or turns to business or some other "nonsense," I'm always bringing it back to home with what is most important in my little neck of the woods, like how clever my Abby is or the adorable smile Caleb gave me today or some cute little saying of Essie's. I don't have many other words to write than these mushy things. They are my all right now, and it is as it should be, don't you think? I'm consumed with them -- no, intoxicated. Even obsessed.

I love my kids.

What more could there be to say?

The Sparrow

2009-05-02T22:16:00.000-07:00

His eye is on the sparrow…and I know He watches over me.

We lost her. In the twinkling of an eye, she vanished. Moments before, my mom and I parted ways, she with the girls and I with a poop-covered Caleb.

“I’m going to go change Caleb’s diaper; I’ll be back in a few minutes.”

“Okay. I’ll take the girls and go to the play area.”

“All right. See ya in a second.”

The girls raced ahead of Grandma into the mall play area, kicked off their shoes, and began climbing up and over the spongy rocks and animals, sliding down slides, and jumping inside the oversized snake. Grandma seated herself on the usual side of the play area, trying to keep an eye on both girls as they busily ran about the playland. She can barely see Essie’s brown curls bobbing up and down on the other side of the spongy plateau just in front of her. Then suddenly, after turning her head away for just a second, her curly head is gone. She stands up and rushes over to where Essie had been playing just seconds before, frantically looking around for the unmistakable pink tie-dyed dress she had on. No Essie.

“Abby, have you seen Essie?!?”

“No, Grandma. I haven’t seen her,” is the unconcerned reply of my four-year-old.

Now her heart is racing, and she’s hyperventilating. Terror is walking quickly up the back of her neck, her worst fears realized.

Still keeping a careful eye on Abby who is playing blissfully just behind her, she heads ten feet out of the play area in urgent desperation. No pink dress.

She runs back to her purse and quickly digs out her phone, heading back out of the play area.

“Sara, I can’t find Essie!” she mutters in a choked voice.

Knee-deep in Caleb’s blowout, phone anchored between my ear and my shoulder, I stammer, “What?! You can’t find her?!? Are you serious?”

“Yes,” she croaks, “I don’t see her anywhere. I don’t know what to do.” She begins to sob.

I have a few excruciating seconds where I can hear my heart beating in my ears, and I’m hoping I’m in the thick of some horrible nightmare and I’m going to wake up in a second and be thankful it was all a bad dream. Then suddenly my mind snaps me back into the horrific truth of it. I contemplate throwing my naked son and all of the soiled diaper paraphernalia into the stroller and running out to the play area in search of my little girl, but something keeps me from going with this first instinct. So I keep my feet planted firmly on the floor and continue cleaning up my newborn son.

“Mom, I’m changing Caleb. I’ll be there as quickly as I can.”

I hang up and immediately think, pray. “Jesus, please help her to find Essie. Help her to find Essie, Jesus.”

My stomach is in knots; I can’t let my mind follow itself down this horrid trail it’s racing.

I immediately think of my husband who’s sitting in a theater just next door. I quickly pick up the phone and call him. Voicemail. Avoiding the urge to swear, I hang up and dial Dad. From his seat next to my husband in Wolverine, Dad picks up.

“Hello.”

“Dad, Mom can’t find Essie, and I’m in the bathroom changing Caleb’s diaper!”

Just then I notice Mom’s calling me again.

“She’s calling again. I gotta go.”

Dad hangs up and looks at Eric, “Esther’s missing. Do you want me to go or --”

Eric immediately leaves his seat and runs to the food court. Nothing is on his mind except to find his missing little girl. As soon as he opens the double doors and rounds the corner to the play area, he sees Essie in Grandma’s arms. Relief pours over him.

“I found her, Sara. She’s with me now,” Mom quickly blurts out as I pick up the other line.

I breathe a sigh of complete and utter relief and tears spring to my eyes, “Thank you, Lord. Thank you, Lord.”

Apparently Esther had walked out of the play area in search of me or my mom, we’re not quite sure. But a kind lady saw the bare-footed escapee, swooped up her little hand, and headed toward the security kiosk. Mom spotted her shortly after hanging up with me the first time and then let her tears give way. The mysterious woman was gone as quickly as she came, and they didn’t even exchange words. She didn’t say, “Is this your little girl?” She silently handed her off to my mom and left.

I feel confident that someday in heaven we’ll meet Essie’s guardian angel and recognize her as the sweet lady who brought her safely back to us today.

The angel of the LORD encamps around those who fear him,
and he delivers them. Psalm 34:7

Centering

2009-04-24T23:18:00.000-07:00

Perched at the top of some steps that lead down into the basement of my Aunt Mary’s house, head in my hands, elbows on my knees, I’d worked myself into a jag, hiccup-sobbing to the point of not being able to quit. My cousin Sandy kept pleading with me to stop crying, but I couldn’t. The floodgates had broken. I was no longer riding the wave; it was riding me. You would think my parents had abandoned me, when, in actuality, they were going out to a quiet dinner with old friends. But young and alone, in a different state, in a strange environment, around unfamiliar family, it felt like I had been orphaned. My parents were my centering. Safety. Still are in many ways.

So today when Essie clung desperately to me in our driveway, despite several persuasive attempts on my parents’ part to take her and Abby around the High Desert for the day, I just couldn’t bring myself to force her to go. I tried at first, but as much as I was practically salivating at the idea of having the day almost completely to myself, the memory at Aunt Mary’s hung above me like a heavy cloud, and I couldn't make her go. I wouldn't let her go.

“Do you want to go with Papa and Grammy and have fun, or not?”

“Not!”

[Long sigh] “Okay, little one, you don’t have to go; you can stay here with Mama.”

And if there were a way to make her stay with me forever, I'd find it.

Under the Rug

2009-04-03T14:56:00.000-07:00

We are swept under the rug today, curiously peeping out from behind safe windows at the wind-swept desert around us. We are like the Eskimos with many names for snow; we have many names for the wind. Today is an angry gale. My soul fights against days such as this, forced to hole-burrow all day, sometimes all week, until the chaotic atmosphere lies down for a respite, however brief.

Yet I know there is a purpose for all this wind. God wouldn’t have created it in futility. So I reflect that it must be God's cosmic broom. It’s His divine sweeper, clearing away the debris that pollutes the heavens. My only desire is to avoid becoming mixed up in the ferocity of the cleansing; hence, I stand behind closed windows and doors and watch with cosseted curiosity the scurrying madness of sand and sagebrush flung to and fro by the pervasive sweep of Wind's mighty hand.

The Birth of a Mama

2009-03-20T16:41:00.000-07:00

It’s taken three babies to finally birth me. I haven’t taken to this whole mama thing as quickly and as innately as I thought I would. When Abby, my first, was born, I tiptoed around in the hallway and hushed everyone who entered my doorway whenever she was napping, trying to ensure they wouldn’t wake the sleeping giant. My time was my time, and whenever she was awake, my time was hers. The fact that she was building up my milk supply, nursing for good 45-minute stretches, completely underscored my Nap-Nazi nickname.

When Esther was born, I was utterly and completely overwhelmed. I had thought one was pretty challenging, and I tried to dig my nails in against the downward trend of this new slope. My time was rapidly fleeting, and I fought against it as much as I could. When Essie was down for her morning nap, I’d sit Abby in front of a cartoon so I could have 30 minutes to check e-mail or surf the Internet or merely to fold a basket of laundry or finish a transcript. When Essie was down for her afternoon nap, I demanded that Abby nap, too, regardless of whether or not she really needed it, because, as my Aunt Karen says, let’s face it, naps are for you, not the kids.

Now that Caleb is here, I’m realizing I can’t avoid this mama thing anymore. My time is almost a thing of the past. I get snippets of time, here and there, and I value it and cherish it, but I don’t begrudge not getting more. I can feel my hands surrender the grip I’m holding on it and discovering that I’m actually enjoying being a mama more. Abby rarely naps anymore, and I’m not only getting used to the cacophony of boisterous activity all day long, I actually look forward to my time with just her; after all, one child awake is far easier than all three.

I know it sounds crazy. Mamas are just supposed to love being mamas, right from the start. Before I had kids, that’s what I thought, too, and I just knew I would immediately take to my new role easily. It’s been a longer delivery for me, longer than I expected, but I think I'm finally making my way through the birth canal.

Adjustment Period

2009-03-14T14:46:00.000-07:00

I really want to get back into the stream of writing again or even keeping up with other blogs. I know it will happen eventually. I go throughout my day and think, that would make a great post, or I wonder what she's up to on her blog, and then I run up against the end of my day, completely spent after running around after my two busy bees; I sit down to nurse Caleb his last feeding at 9:30 or 10:00, and I don’t want to do anything but veg (how come my spellcheck doesn't like the spelling of that?) out on HGTV or hit the hay. At the moment, it’s easier to post quick little vignettes on our family blog, with pictures that say a thousand words, than it is to sit down and compose any thoughts of coherent value. I know I’m missing some indispensable writing inspirations, what, with being a new mom of three, but I have to give myself some room to adjust to it at the moment.

I’ll be back, I promise.

Winds of Change

2009-02-24T15:11:00.000-08:00

We've outnumbered ourselves, and here are just a few ways you can tell:

I have ten minutes of free time, and I have to carefully weigh which task to do first – dishes, laundry, pick-up, shower, vacuuming, etc…
Nursing takes on the average of a three- to four-hour chunk of my day, and I have to figure out what to do with my two older kids in the meantime.
Changes of clothes happen on both Caleb and myself every feeding due to his spit-up or
other bodily excretions.
I’m learning how to nurse while walking around the house; it’s an art form, truly.
I’m also learning how to wipe my older kids' bottoms left-handed (because my right arm is holding the baby to my right breast), or call for help when I can’t figure out how.
Laundry is an everyday thing now, sometimes more than one load.
The den (Caleb’s nursery) is closed due to a napping baby or toddler, so the laundry has to go in shifts, which means that some days it sits in the dryer, waiting for someone to wake up so I can go through the den and into the garage, where the washer and dryer are, and retrieve them, or it sits folded in the laundry basket, waiting for a child to wake up so that I can put it away in the drawers in their rooms.
Dishwasher runs every day also, sometimes twice a day.
Essential pieces of my purse have now found their new home in the diaper bag.
I look forward to when the girls will be able to wipe their own noses.
Building conflict resolution into my children's character is now a huge part of my job title; doing it with patience is something being built into my character.
I’m overcome with joy when I see an adult walking to my door, especially if they’re coming to help.
I find myself praying that all three children will nap at the same time.
In general, I pray a lot more than I used to.

In the Hands of a Great Big God

2009-02-18T22:24:00.000-08:00

It’s like awakening from the dead. I can barely open my eyes for a few seconds before some unseen lead-like quality forces them closed again. Florescent lights blaze harshly above me as I’m jostled down a long hallway. Phones are ringing, and people are talking all around me, shouting, it seems. I open my eyes here and there, but I can’t make much sense out of what I see. Everything around me is a blur. Suddenly I hear my husband beside me. He says something about the baby, and I am relieved, but then, instantly, I can’t remember why. All I can remember is his saying, “Your mom went home.” I have no idea how long time has elapsed since I was abruptly whisked into the OR nor where they are taking me now. I am shuttled into a cavernously dark room, where the effects of anesthesia tackle my consciousness back into desperate sleep again.

Moments later I am awakened by voices calling out next to me, “Brian, wake up! Can you hear me? If you can hear what I’m saying, squeeze my hand.” I briefly pry my eyelids open to survey my surroundings. The room is pitch black, lit only partially by the open bathroom door. There is a curtain on my left, and the voices continue from the other side of the curtain. “No, no, no. Stop thrashing about. Stop pulling at your tubes, Brian! Wake up!!” Ultimately convinced I am not the one being yelled at, I try to find sleep again. My body will not allow me to will myself awake; I am heavily exhausted. The powerful anesthesia being pumped into my veins is overtaking my consciousness. But the shouting continues in the bed next to me every half hour or so, and there is the loud clicking sound coming from some machine just above my head on the right, with the occasional beep at the end that jars the stillness every few seconds. I cannot see the offender, but I wish I could reach it so I can shove it against the wall. The door to our room is wide open, and the nurses’ station must only be inches away; it sounds like some wild party is being crashed. Even now, after major surgery and trauma, I cannot shut out the interruptions enough to find sleep. I look around for the call button, but it’s too dark to see anything. I poke around with my left hand, the one without the restrictive IV, looking for the elusive call button. Nothing.

Finally I call out, “Excuse me. Help. Help.” A small, raspy version of my voice escapes my throat, and I wonder if I can even be heard.

Soon the nurse is beside me, “What do you need?”

“Can you please find my husband and tell him I need my earplugs.”

I can’t make out his face, but I can tell he’s wearing a smirk, “Well, I don’t know if I can find your husband, but I’ll try to find you some earplugs.”

He’s off, and I wait. I'm very aware of a large bandage across my lower abdomen. I think about last night’s events and wonder how my little Caleb’s doing. Who could have known that anything was going to go wrong.

The labor was progressing fine. I had been given an epidural, which didn’t take, so after several hours of waiting, it had to be readministered. The wait was well worth it, however -- sweet relief for a time, until the peace was broken. We were sitting down, watching “American Idol,” when suddenly half the floor came rushing into my room in a panic. Dr. Sawyer’s face was dark with concern. “What’s wrong, little guy? Why is your heartbeat dropping?” she muttered under her breath. I became suddenly very aware of every movement, hanging on every word. How had we not noticed his heartbeat drop? Dr. Sawyer flattened out my bed and lowered the bottom half. “I know I told you we were going to wait, let you labor down before beginning the pushing phase, but I was wrong. You’re going to push right now.” She reached in to check me. I was dilated to 9 centimeters. “You’re not fully dilated, but we’re going to go for this. Baby needs to come out now.”

The nurses pulled my legs back, and the doctor instructed me to push. My heart was racing as I sucked in a deep breath of air and began the uphill climb of pushing. Everyone was fervently yelling at me to push, “Harder. Hold your breath until the count of ten. Push, push, push, push, push. Okay. Deep breath again. Hold it, and push, push, push, push, push.” I began to think back to when I delivered Esther, frantically trying to employ Nurse Marla’s tactics for pushing. Breath in. Hold your breath for the count of ten, and push down the center of your body, on top of your uterus. Aim toward the point where the wall and ceiling come together. “Again, take a deep breath and hold it. Push, push, push, push, push, push.”

Dr. Sawyer reached in to check his station. He hadn’t budged. I watched as she balanced on the fence of her decision.

“We’ve got to get him out. Get the OR ready,” she ordered.

“No!” I groaned; I did not want another c-section.

Immediately I began confessing the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwich I ate earlier in the day. I knew if an emergency c-section was called for, they would have to put me under general anesthesia, and I shouldn’t have eaten, but I had been so depleted of energy just a few hours ago and thought I needed to eat something to maintain some reserves for the pushing phase. No one seemed to hear me or care that I had eaten. They were frantically disconnecting all the wires and heaving my bed quickly out of the room. Dr. Sawyer and a nurse stumbled over the gurney wheels and hit the floor as I was quickly rushed through the corridors of the hospital toward the operating room. Their panic elevated my fears, and I began to hyperventilate. One of the nurses could see my terror and tried to calm my fears, “Everything’s going to be just fine. Calm down, Sara. It’s going to be okay.” I knew she was just trying to make me relax; it had little effect on me.

As we reached the OR, everyone was darting around the room in preparation for surgery. In an effort to move me to the operating table, some of the staff were madly trying to untangle the heap of cords apparently connected to various parts of my body. After a few frustrated failures, they finally asked me if I could move myself from the gurney to the table, numb legs and all. With a bit of assistance, I managed to make my way across. I closed my eyes and listened to the bustle of the medical staff around me. And prayed.

“Arms out to your side, Sara.” I obeyed. An oxygen mask covered my face next, and I waited for the moment when all would go black. Seconds ticked away, a seeming eternity. All I could do was silently cry out, “Jesus, keep Caleb safe. Keep Caleb safe, Lord,” laying my little son’s life in the hands of my great big God.

Blackness.

And now, as I wake up again in the ICU, hearing the shouting going on with the man in the bed next to mine, I keep wondering what’s happened to my little boy. The nurse returns with earplugs. Without even cracking my eyes open, I take his hand in mine and say, “Thank you so much.” With the earplugs, I’m once again plunged into desperate sleep.

Soon I am awakened by the voices to my left. “Brian, wake up. Can you hear me? Brian. Brian.” I listen and can’t help but wonder what’s happened to Brian. I say a prayer for him. I squint at the clock across the wall from me in the dimly lit room. I can barely make out 5:30.

“Excuse me. Nurse?” I call out.

“Yes? How can I help you?” is the reply.

“Is my baby okay?” I can’t remember the events of last night. I don’t recall now anything Eric said to me.

“I think so, but I don’t know for sure. We don’t deal with the patients on that floor. I only work with ICU patients.”

This is frightening to me. He thinks so? I wait patiently for word from Eric, drifting in and out of fitful sleep.

The nurse breaks my slumber. “Sara. Sara. Your husband is coming. He’ll be here soon, and he’s bringing your son. He can’t stay long; they don’t usually let people bring babies into the ICU, but you can see him for a few minutes.” Relief floods over me. Caleb is okay. The Lord protected my little one.

Seconds tick off the clock like hours. It seems an eternity until Eric’s smiling face rounds the corner into my room; I can tell he is tired, but his eyes are brimming with wordless joy. In his arms is a little burrito. Caleb is wrapped snugly in a hospital-issue receiving blanket. His face is red, his eyes closed. He is the picture of perfect tranquility. As Eric sets him in my arms, hot tears sting the edges of my eyes and spill liberally down my cheeks. I am so thankful for his life, that his little heart is beating normally again, that he sleeps so serenely in my arms. Eric explains that the umbilical cord was tied in a true knot and that every time he inched his way down the birth canal, it cinched the cord and cut off his oxygen supply; that if he had been born vaginally, we probably would have lost him.

It’s unfathomable knowing what we could have lost; I dare not even allow my mind to think it. I kiss his soft, round cheek and rub my hand across the top of his head, squeezing him closer to my heart. “Thank you, Lord” is all I can manage.

We later found out that Brian was a young man who had been in a horrific motorcycle accident and was left paralyzed and in a coma. My mom, who later visited me in the ICU, asked the staff if she could lay her hands on him and pray for him. I remember her face as she walked over to his side of the curtain, her forehead creased with vivid concern. I never had the chance to lay my eyes on him, but I didn’t need to; I could tell from her expression that it was tragic. This man was on his way out of this world as my newborn son was entering it; my little boy was given the second chance that this man perhaps would not be given. As relief spilled over us for our little Caleb, prayers for Brian were being offered up. I’ll never know what happened to Brian, only that he is in the hands of a great big God.

Midnight Feeding

2009-02-11T22:37:00.000-08:00

Out of palpable blackness, piercing through my ear plugs, comes the small wail of my newborn son in the bassinette near our bed. Instantly I’m awakened from a drunken stupor, leaving tranquil dreams in the ashes of jealous yearning. I lie still for a few moments, mournfully picturing myself leaving the delicious warmth of my down comforter, musing that the ravenous little stomach might forget about his needs and possibly even drift back off to sleep.

No such luck. Another shrill cry breaks the peace of night, and I’m forcefully persuaded to expose myself to the frigid elements of our bedroom, tiptoeing hastily to the edge of his bassinette to retrieve his warm, wiggling sweetness and bring him back to my bed for his nightcap.

I lay his tiny body close to my breast and guide his searching mouth to my nipple, trying desperately to float back off to sleep again to catch a few more rare minutes of rest until he’s satisfied. As he rashly sucks down the milk, his breath makes little screeching sounds, like the slamming of brakes as he tries to avoid a collision between his need for food and his need for air. I twinge in pain as he shifts and misdirects himself to the tip, and I shove my pinky in the corner of his mouth to loosen the vice-like hold he has upon me. Quickly he is rooting again, desperate to find the source of his last drink, and I gently relatch him.

After he empties one side, from a lying position, I prop him up across my chest and firmly pat his back, waiting for the burp that signals the okay to lay him on the other side. After he’s had his fill, I timidly leave the warmness of my bed again to change his diaper, kicking myself for not planning the births of any of my children in the warmer seasons of the year. His little legs quiver from the chilly night air, and I make hastier task of the unpleasant process. I dutifully swab his circumcision with triple antibiotic ointment and cover him with a dry washcloth in an effort to avoid the inevitably recurrent missile practice of late. While I lube his rashy little bottom with Balmex, he frowns at me, squinting in the light and holding clenched fists closely to his chest. His feet are cold, and I quickly zip up his sack pajamas, carry him back to my bed, and bring him close to me again for one last top-off of milk.

I hear a plucking sound as he unlatches, tilts his head away from my breast, and pulls slowly away from me with a smug little expression of sheer satisfaction. Sleep engulfs him again, and I wrap him snugly in a soft blue cloud of chenille, whispering sweet nothings in his crinkled little ear as I lay him back to bed.

Refining

2009-02-01T17:28:00.000-08:00

Just when it doesn’t feel like the furnace could get any hotter, He turns up the heat. And it’s okay, just as long as He never leaves me nor forsakes me. I confess I don’t always carry this same tune in the midst of my darkest minutes, when I’m swirling around in the middle of the flame. Sometimes I even need to be sent to time-out…permanently. This is when I know that He is doing a work in my heart. He is refining me. And though refining is never pleasant in the middle of the process, when the dross is slowly, painstakingly heaving its way upward to the surface, it’s something from which I never want to be exempt. I want to grow closer to my God in this life, and I know there is perhaps no better way than being forced into needing His closeness, longing for His cheek next to mine, for His fingers to wipe away my tears.

It’s a hard road, but if it means I will be more like Christ at the end of it, I hope to always want to be the first to traverse it.

Update

2009-02-01T17:09:00.001-08:00

For an update on what's happening around our house these days, click here to view our family blog.

Caleb

2009-01-28T15:25:00.000-08:00

Time has frozen still in our little country,

at extremely high speeds,

shuffled around by the shrill cry of maniacal banshees

cleverly disguised as our two older offspring.

The clocks have turned their backs to us now,

while we await the next cat-like wail from our ravenous infant

whose burpless meanderings turned disastrous have helped

to create the avalanche of laundry next to the washer.

And life goes on still, even as we linger for news from my doctor

on the possibility of post-operative pneumonia or worse,

but somehow, even so, time has stood still in our small microcosm,

scandalized by the sudden entrance of one small little creature named Caleb.

He's Arrived

2009-01-19T13:38:00.000-08:00

Well, I figured I should at least leave a brief update on my status or many of you may think I dropped off the face of the planet. Baby Caleb Jon was born Wednesday, January 14th, 2009 at 9:21 pm. He was 8 pounds, 10 ounces and 19.5 inches long. Here's a brief story of what happened; it's what I wrote for an e-mail announcement that I sent out to friends and family. I will write a more in-depth post on this later. I need a week or two to recover.

This is love...

Mommy and Caleb

Sleeping Angel

Caleb Jon

He's finally here!! We are praising God for His grace and deliverance during a very treacherous labor and delivery. We went into Loma Linda University Medical Center Wednesday morning at around 9:30 am; I had been having heavy contractions since 3:30 am. When we arrived, I was dilated to 5 cm. I was given an epidural shortly after admittance, but the epidural didn't take, so they had to reinsert it (ouch). I had a working epidural about 6 hours after admittance. Things were progressing fine, and all was going well. Then at about 8:45 pm, after I had dilated to 9 cm, the medical staff were rushing into our room because the baby's heartbeat was dropping. Unbeknownst to us, his cord was tied in what's called a true knot, and as his head was heading into the birth canal, it would get tightened and cut off his blood/oxygen supply. They had me push for about 5 minutes and then quickly decided a c-section was necessary due to his sudden drops in heart rate. As they rushed me to the OR, both the doctor and one of the nurses got knocked over and fell to the ground. They were in such a rush to get the baby out. They were both saying, "I'm fine; just get her to the OR!" Minutes after entering the OR, I was administered general anesthesia (so I was out cold the entire surgery) and I was given a classical incision (so now I have 2 incisions on my abdomen that form a cross). Caleb was born at 9:21 pm. As he was pulled out, he was screaming bloody murder. Poor guy. He had gone through a lot. They tried to suction his head out while I was pushing and then they shoved his head back in when they were trying to pull him out during the c-section and then suctioned his head AGAIN as they were pulling him out of me during the c-section. His head was bruised for days afterwards. I was in surgery for 5 hours. I was bleeding, and they couldn't find where the bleeding was originating, so they had to call in an oncology specialist to find the bleed and stop it. He finally found the spot and stopped the bleeding. Praise God I'm alive and the baby too. He is our deliverer!!

I will be leaving more pictures on our family blog soon.

Still Holding

2009-01-13T15:49:00.001-08:00

I’m still in a holding pattern here. I thought for sure I was going into labor yesterday morning, when I was rudely awakened by persistently strong and consistent contractions for several hours, but a trip to the bathroom later in the morning warded off all signs of labor, for the most part. Eric took the day off, unfortunately, because we were so sure I was going into labor; as punishment for not going into labor, he took me on a brisk-paced three-mile walk, hoping to force my uterus into submission. The only thing that punishment did was ensure I slept for two hours solid in the afternoon. Sorry, honey. No baby yet.

I have been having lots of prelabor contractions, where I actually have to stop and do some breathing and relaxation techniques to stay composed. They come about three times an hour. It’s amazing how strong Braxton-Hicks contractions get with each pregnancy. Some friends have recommended natural herbs, black and blue cohosh, for getting labor started, so we actually went out and got the stuff, but after doing some Internet research, I’ve decided to talk to the doctor first. Though Native American midwives have been using the herbs for centuries, it’s still such an unknown, and I’m not ready to throw my child under the bus, so to speak, just to have him out. Really, he’s not even late yet; he’s just late in my mind. He should’ve made his entrance three or four weeks ago, I’m thinking.

So I go in Thursday morning for my last OB visit, and this is where I’ll find out whether or not she’s going to recommend starting me on a bit of pitosin for induction purposes. There’s a small risk with induction for starting labor, too, like herbal-induction methods, as well as a small risk with c-section and with VBAC. I guess labor is a small risk, period, no matter how you look at it, so I better just get used to it. This might help you understand why I start making premortem funeral arrangements with my husband in the days before delivery. I begin reminding him that if something were ever to happen to me, I want our kids to have a mommy…that is, a good mommy. I know the humor is a bit dark here -- sorry, Mom -- but anytime I go into the hospital for an extended stay, I lean a bit heavier on the foreboding side of the coin. I mean, look at the Biblical example of Rachel. You just never know. I trust in His sovereign will for my life; I trust that He’s numbered my days and that I cannot change that number; I just don’t know what that number may be.

Has anyone else ever experienced this premortem phenomenon right before going into labor? It’s probably just me.

Finalizing the Nursery

2009-01-11T18:12:00.001-08:00

As promised, here are the nursery pictures. It's not completely finalized, but it's almost there.

I'm still waiting for his name in letters, which I just discovered I can order from eBay for relatively cheap. They match the letters I've stenciled on his wall, and I can't wait to see them up above his crib. I'm also waiting for some more baskets which we've ordered from Michaels, which will go where the small baskets are right now that you can see on the shelves. The smaller baskets are for under the changing table, but I'm using them on the shelves for now until the larger replacements come (like the ones you see on the third set of shelves).

So this is not technically a post. It's more like what you might see on my family blog, but I had to include the after pictures to update you on the whole nesting thing. :)

We are still working on what to do about the fireplace, so if you have suggestions, please share!

Trying to See Past My Belly

2009-01-10T16:44:00.000-08:00

I’ve been so self-focused these last few weeks (okay, months). I can’t really seem to think of anyone but myself and how much discomfort I’m in. It’s pretty pathetic. I need to be thankful and think of others and their needs. That always seems to be the cure to self-pity. If I put others’ concerns first in my thought and prayers, then, my own concerns become minimized. That’s why I wanted to lift up a few people who are in need of your prayers. So as you go about your day, please remember my church friend MaryEllen. She has an aggressive tumor that is growing on the backside of her neck, attached to her spine. She has undergone two surgeries and several chemo treatments, and the doctors haven’t given her very good odds for going into remission. She needs your prayers, dear brothers and sisters. She has decided to forgo chemo because it is taking every last bit of strength she has left. Without God, her healing looks slim. With God, all things are possible.

There are also several people in our church who are currently or soon-to-be unemployed, and they desperately need employment; please pray that God will provide jobs for them amidst this slumped economy. With God, all things are possible.

Another friend you can pray for is one who almost lost her son. She is a blogging friend I met recently, and her little boy Charlie lies in a hospital bed right now, on the mend. Little Charlie's story is gripping, and if you have time, go and read it; it has several parts, so be sure to read the whole story. Praise the Lord for His faithfulness to her and her family during this brush with death. Little Charlie also still needs our prayers for recovery and the rest of his treatment during his stay. He’s afraid of the blood tests (the “vampires”) and the bandage changes. Charlies' story is pure evidence that with God, all things are possible.

I’m trying to see past the end of my belly. With God, all things are possible.

Primary Mommy Job

2009-01-08T21:52:00.001-08:00

As I wait to pop or be induced or whatever it is I need to do to get this baby out, I’m making plans to cover all the bases. Every night I make sure the clean dishes are emptied out of the dishwasher and dirty dishes in; the clean laundry is folded and promptly put away (as opposed to my I’ll-put-it-away-in-the-morning philosophy toward clean clothes); the girls are both bathed and have had their hair fixed up in some fashion, since I know my dad and grandma (the two on call) know nothing about fixing little girls’ hair; the girls’ clothes are laid out for the next day, and the house is left in ship-shape order. I don’t know why this last base is so vital to me, other than the fact that I’m already anal about things being put back in their place at the end of the day.

My mom asked me the other day if I had written out the girls’ schedule, and I jolted in horror at the fact that I hadn’t done this yet. One more thing yet to accomplish as soon as...yesterday. In the state of affairs with my parents both working during the week and my mom’s schedule being unpredictable, leaving detailed plans out for my girls and their replacement mommy is a must. I just don’t know who will be available within my church family in a possible emergency moment of need.

So last night, even though I was already hitting the hay at an indecent hour, I took an extra 20 minutes and made out my own emergency mommy-replacement sub plans. I got as detailed as how many ounces of milk Essie gets at what intervals, what to make the girls at each mealtime, what time to take them outside to play, and what times naptime and bedtime fall, including the no-nap caveat, hastening the bedtime hour. I think the most important piece of information I included, though, is what I scrawled in bright orange lettering across the top of the page: Don’t forget to potty them! I then carefully highlighted specific potty times every two hours throughout the day. Yes, I’m still reminding my four-year-old to go potty. I guess that means she’s not officially potty-trained, huh? I’m the one who’s potty trained. If I don’t remind her, she goes hours without going, and when she finally remembers to go, she’s a wiggling mass of move-out-of-my-way-or-I’m-going-to-burst-all-over-you. I guess I should leave her alone in this struggle; eventually, she’ll understand that waiting too long is simply not the smartest thing. But I also have to constantly remind my just-potty-trained two-year-old, so I figure, why not have Abby go at the same time? And this is all very apropos because I’ve been saying for several months now that I think my primary job in mothering is to wipe little bottoms. When you do it as much as 15 to 20 times a day, not including my own, you’ll understand where I'm coming from.

Imminence

2009-01-07T16:31:00.000-08:00

Along the lines of the plane-landing analogy comes the creeping panic of landing. Am I ready for this? Will we land smoothly? Will the labor take hours? Will I have to have a c-section again? The doctor is hinting that by next Wednesday, after she checks my cervix for ripening (whatever that means), that she may recommend a tad of pitosin and breaking of my water. This was such a shocking discovery since they wouldn’t let me go near pitosin to start out labor when I was pregnant with Esther; I guess I was far too big of an unknown, a risk for possible uterine rupture. Now that I’ve proven I can actually push these gargantuan creatures out of my body successfully, they are more willing to toy with fringe labor tactics. I’m not altogether willing, of course, but it’s good to know that they are more confident in what my body can do.

I’m still looking out the plane’s window, though, anticipating that first touchdown on terra firma; it’s imminent, no more than 14 days away, literally, as my doctor won’t let me go past the 21st, yet it feels more like 14 months away. Why is that?

Hope

2009-01-06T16:28:00.000-08:00

I spent 20 minutes today, just sitting in the nursery’s rocking chair. [I haven’t posted the nursery photos at this point because it’s not quite all put together yet, but almost.] I think I’m hoping that staring blankly at the crib, changing table, and swing will jar my brain into gear, start cajoling the oxytocin to kick in and, therefore, labor. I can hope. It’s all I have left these days. In fact, I find it’s what I do most days at this point. I start fantasizing what my body will feel like with this little guy on the outside of it. You would think I’d be dreaming about holding him, but no, I’m imagining how much more comfortable I will feel when he’s in my arms as opposed to in my belly. My mom always says it’s God’s preparation for the pregnant woman in the last days of her pregnancy. He makes it so incredibly uncomfortable for her to bear that she is willing to undergo the most excessive torture imaginable to have out with it. You could say I’m there. I’m already talking about having him cut out, with or without the anesthesia. Don’t all pregnant women start talking like this at the end?

Still Waiting

2009-01-05T15:40:00.000-08:00

I’m still waiting. I had two hours’ worth of fairly regular contractions last Friday night, and I was sure I was going to be heading for the hospital in the middle of the night. I even had my folks convinced. We were all making last-minute plans, charging cell phones, setting out changes of clothes for the girls, Eric tutoring my dad on how to set up the sound system for recording the message Sunday morning. And there I was, finishing up one last transcript for my task-master court-reporting mother. An expedite. What is an expedite, you ask? It’s a transcript that has a one- or two-day turnaround period, versus a one-week turnaround. Yes, as I was pounding frantically away at the keyboard, adding dashes, commas, and semicolons and looking up the spelling of obscure words like “myofascial,” I was freezing every so often to breathe through a contraction and then record the time on a Word document on my desktop. Just so you can see what I’m talking about, here’s how evenly they were coming.

5:20
5:25
5:31
5:36
5:42
5:48
5:54
6:02
6:05
6:10
6:13
6:16
6:26
6:29
6:34

Contractions are funny things. They take such a grip on your torso that you actually have to arch your back backwards so that your lungs have enough room to expand, at least that’s how they affect me. Most of the contractions weren’t painful, very much like Braxton-Hicks. But this was exactly how my labor with Esther started – regular, nonpainful contractions that increased in interval and intensity throughout the night. Abby’s labor was like the breaking of a dam, literally. My water broke, and then very heavy contractions immediately ensued. I was sure I was having a repeat of Essie’s labor, but I was wrong because…I’m still waiting.

Waiting for labor to start is much like waiting for the plane to land. I’ve been away on a very prolonged nine-month flight, where it feels like the flight is never going to end. Now, in the last nine days before my due date, I can see the runway just below me when I look out the window, but there’s a breath-holding hush just before we hit the actual ground. It’s the hitting of the ground that I have yet to feel. I’m still waiting for it, and the anticipation is so close I can taste its aftershave.

My Inheritance

2009-01-03T21:58:00.000-08:00

Wow, I’m so long overdue for a post, it’s almost ridiculous. I tend to take looooong breaks over the holidays, kinda like my Sunday siestas; I look at the holidays as a way to unwind, relax, hang out with the people I love most in the world, and use it as a time of spiritual renewal, a time to draw closer to the Lord. Oddly, however, it’s a time when I get out of routine. I let my almost-unfailing daily-Bible-reading routine slip between the cracks somehow. Doesn’t sound like I really can draw closer to the Lord in such a Word-hungry atmosphere, I suppose. But my family is what does it, really. The more time I spend with my husband, my parents, my grandma, my brothers and their wives, even my kids, the more I come to a closer faith, a closer walk with Him. I see the struggles they are going through and their unswerving devotion to the Lord, and I am inspired to press on. They are my inheritance -- a rich inheritance in the saints – along with all of my brothers and sisters in the Lord, and I am ever blessed to call them family.

I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and his incomparably great power for us who believe. Ephesians 1:18-19a

Wee-Bit Busy

2008-12-30T17:00:00.000-08:00

No, I haven't gone into labor or dropped off the face of the planet. Yet. :) The holidays have been full of family get-togethers as well as, ironically, lots of lawsuits, which have kept me busy with editing transcripts. I'm a wee-bit busy at the moment, but I'll be back in a few days.

Far Less than Electronic

2008-12-24T23:29:00.000-08:00

Gotta love Christmas for the things it forces you to do that you would never do in your day-to-day life. Today I braved the electronics section of Wal-Mart – something unheard of for me. I liken it to walking into Michael’s with my craft-happy mother. My eyes start to glaze over; I feel completely lost among the flashing lights, booming stereos, and black cords. It’s where I know I must go to get something even remotely close to what my husband might want for Christmas. But I’m a foreigner to this region of the store, and I think everyone else knows it too. I walk down the Wii video game aisle, realizing I’ve made a navigation error, and a couple of 15-year-old boys look at me like I’m threatening to tag their billboard. I turn and head the opposite direction.

Even in the electronics department, I still don’t manage to pick a gift he will actually have to plug in. I contemplated getting a TOM-TOM or a Bluetooth, but I well realize this will only force him to come back to the store after Christmas and fight the return lines, as I know absolutely nothing about either of these gadgets to actually purchase one he’d want, one he’s probably done hours of research on anyway. So what do I buy? I buy an iPod Body Glove. What’s that you ask? That’s the equivalent of an auto bumper bra. It’s a sleeve that hopefully will protect his new iPod from bug guts, or at the very least from the impetuously violent grasp of two-year-olds. I know; this is pretty pathetic for braving the electronics department of Wal-Mart. I actually thought of heading to Best Buy first, but knew I would be way out of my league in that store; I’d stick out worse than I already do at nine-months-pregnant, and I would still exit the store without anything electronic.

To ease the disappointment, I also bought him a couple DVDs – it appears he can never seem to have too many of these – as well as some socks and a shirt. So I’m hoping he actually appreciates the sacrifice I made today in heading to his favorite part of the store, even if it means I came home with something far less than electronic.

Dreaded Immunizations

2008-12-19T18:22:00.000-08:00

The girls had their two- and four-year-old well-child checkups today (I've been postponing it for weeks), and I dutifully gave them the appropriate dosages of Tylenol beforehand to ease the after-shot side effects. After prepping them with the news that they’d each be getting shots and that it would feel like a pinch but the pain would soon dissipate afterwards, they both bravely faced the doctor’s visit with stoic grimaces. All throughout the doctor’s questioning, Esther kept asking, “Give me pinch? Give me pinch?” Anticipating the inevitable with little fear, she was astonishingly cooperative with every request.

Once the immunizations arrived on their own little serving tray, the panic began to heighten, I think mostly for me. Abby generously offered her sister to the sacrifice first, but we thought it might be better to let her go first, since she tends to handle pain better than Esther, on the average. I had the fun job of holding her hands down on her chest while they stuck her with the first blow. We soon realized it might have been better to let Esther go first. Abby started fighting it before it came. “No. I don’t want it in my arm. There’s going to be blood, and I don’t want my arm to bleed! No. Don’t put that in my leg!! Ouch! Oooouuuuuuuuuucccccchhh!!” Tears filled her steel-blue eyes, but she bravely held them at bay, even after the second round (there should have been three rounds, but they were out of the MMR). All the while, I’m whispering in her ear, “It’s almost over. It’s almost over. It’s okay; Mommy’s here.” Then after Band-Aids were slapped on and she was righted, she was almost instantly back to herself again, with the occasional pointing to her leg and suggesting she can't walk.

Esther was another story. She didn’t fight me as I held her on the table. She stared blankly at the nurse who held up the sharp instrument; she watched quietly as they brought it down to her thigh. With her I tried quietly reminding her that it would only be a pinch and that it would hurt for only a second, but as soon as it hit her leg, her wailing began, and it didn’t stop until about ten minutes after we left the office. And she didn’t let us forget about it for the two hours we remained in town either. “My boo-booooooooo!” she whimpered while we zipped quickly through Lowe’s returns to exchange a too-small Roman shade we bought for the nursery. She kept pointing to it, even at McDonald's Playplace where we took them for some after-shot appeasement. She milked it throughout town and all the way home, "I want T (her word for TV or the new DVD player we got for the car)," she'd moan every time we buckle her back into her car-seat.

I realize now that I also need to administer myself the appropriate dosage of Tylenol to ease the onset of a stress-imposed migraine.

Nesting in the Den

2008-12-18T11:46:00.000-08:00

I’m getting that nesting feeling, you know, the one women get soon before they plunge into full-blown labor -- not that I’m close to that yet, although I’ve been attacked with Braxton-Hicks up the wazoo lately. I’m ready to hunker down and start getting our little boy’s room ready. My sister-in-law Carol said, “What? His room’s not ready yet?” when I told her we’d be turning the den into his bedroom, and it’s kicking my rear-end into half-frenzied gear here. Really, though, as an old third-timer, I kinda feel like saying, “What’s the big rush? He’ll be sleeping in our room, on my side of the bed for the first few months anyway.”

But actually, I am looking forward to making the den into a more useful part of the house. Right now it acts as Esther’s nap room and not much else. It doesn’t share space with the rest of the house at all, but making this unusable room into another playroom/nursery for our kids will definitely open up the unused square footage. The one problem, however, is the fact that it boasts a large, rocky fireplace in the corner, and I hate the idea of my little boy sharing a room with a fireplace, but unfortunately, that’s where they put the darn thing in this circa-1970 house. It really makes almost no sense toward usability either. How are we going to build and enjoy a fire in the smallest room of the house? So we’ve used the space as everything but. It’s gone from being our office to our office/guest bedroom to guest bedroom/Essie’s bedroom to solely Essie’s nap room, and now it’s becoming our son’s nursery. It’s what we’ve got to offer him in this two-bedroom-with-a-den home, so I guess he’s going to have like it.

[So I am including some before photos, hoping to do a post on the den after it's done up right, including the after photos as well; aren't you excited?]

I’m excited to really do it up right, though. Bookshelves align one entire wall. They are packed from end to end with my husband’s seminary books, and unfortunately they will be taking up residence in storage, but what can I say? A baby needs his space! So my first order of business over Christmas vacation is to box up all of the books and put storage baskets up – soft, cute cloth-bound baskets that match the faded primary colors of his room (or something similar). These will store his already-brimming-over layette, replacing the lack of much-needed closet space in this closet-less den. These baskets will take up the middle-shelf region of the bookshelves. The lower shelves will be storage for kids’ books and toys. The top shelves will hold the breakables, like pictures and model airplanes (airplanes will be the theme of the nursery; can I just say I’m so excited to be decorating in a boyish theme around here!!). Adjacent to the bookshelves, over in the corner by the window, where the piano currently resides, will go my current rocking chair. I was really hoping to replace the uncomfortable beast with a plush rocker/recliner of some sort, but I don’t think that dream’s going to come to fruition any time soon, so the rocker will just have to do for now.

Across from the bookshelves, where the trundle bed and end table are now, will go the crib on one wall and changing table on the adjacent wall. Over the laminate pine flooring we’ll throw a large taupe-colored shag rug, something soft and comfy for dimpled knees and elbows.

The biggest problem in this nesting project will be disguising the fireplace somehow. Even now it is a big, dirty, no-no distraction to my two older ones who are always climbing up and into it. We basically need to scoop out the ashes and old logs and then board it up somehow.

But how do we make the useless monstrosity disappear without taking a sledgehammer to it? Any ideas?

Dreaming of a White Christmas...

2008-12-17T16:17:00.000-08:00

Forecasts can be very deceptive. I notice the snowflakes across Wednesday’s weather forecast on my Google homepage. The mere hint of snow teases us bewitchingly as we face yet another blindingly blue desert sky Tuesday morning. Yet the icy chill of winter’s breath haunts us with tantalizing sighs of the near-locally-foreign substance. It’s been Abby’s wish for Christmas for a week now. We’re ready, if the chance presents itself, to don snow boots and parkas in the wicked-early hours of the morning in a last-ditch endeavor to grant her seemingly impossible wish.

And then, just like that, the impish defrauding is over; the dawn of a Wednesday morning sky is suddenly filled with a brilliantly gray-white haze, and Eric kisses my cheek to wake me from an early morning dream, whispering softly, “It’s snowing.”

The Santa Dilemma

2008-12-16T15:34:00.000-08:00

[Saint Nicholas of Myra; photo credit: wikipedia]

What to do about Santa.

Yeah, this has been swirling around upstairs ever since the storybook lady down at the kids’ rec room asked Abby what she was asking Santa for Christmas last week. Abby stared at her blankly with a face that seemed to say, “Santa who?” Eric and I decided long before having kids that we would talk about the true meaning of Christmas with them, and Santa would be something we could share with them as they grew old enough to understand the true story of Saint Nicholas. I never gave it a second thought up until now. I guess I never anticipated the reaction we would inevitably get from those outside of our little niche.

I was never told about Santa as a child, at least not the North Pole version. I learned about it via osmosis, through watching claymation classics like “Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer” or “Santa Claus is Coming to Town” on television once a year. I don’t even remember having any kind of discussion about Santa with my parents or grandparents. My dad was also never taught about Santa Claus as a child. My grandparents wanted their kids to know who the gifts were actually from every Christmas, not from some fat fairytale figure smocked in a red-velvet tunic, donning a white beard and mustache; they couldn't relinquish the gift credit to some mythical legend known only in children's tales. On top of that is the fact that they couldn’t conscionably conceive of lying to their kids, only to later have to tell them it was all a big hoax. These are some of the same reasons why my parents never celebrated Santa.

Consequently, we always learned that Christmas is celebrated every year because of the birth of the incarnate Son of God. If it hadn’t been for Jesus, Santa wouldn’t even be the huge legend he is today. I truly think Nicholas of Myra (the original Saint Nick), if he were brought back from his third-century grave, would be ashamed he’s taken over Christmas as unabashedly as he has. After all, he was a believer, obeying Christ’s command to the rich, young ruler to sell all he had and give to the poor, and it was this Christ-following generosity that apparently became heralded over the years, along with grandiose truth-stretchings that sprouted mythical wings in the years after his death.

So what do I do about Santa Claus now? When the storybook lady asked Abby once again what she wanted from Santa, Abby looked at me and then quietly answered (probably trying to appease the curious questioner), “Snow.” Seeing that the lady was a bit bamboozled by the whole exchange, I used it as an opportunity to share my faith, saying that we mainly talk about Jesus with our kids at Christmas. She replied, “Oh, that’s good, too,” but looked at me like I had just stepped off a spaceship from Mars. Of course, being a Christian, I’m almost immune to this look by now.

I seriously am not sure what to tell Abby, though. I don’t want to tell her he’s become a legendary icon over the last 1700 years; how do you tell a child that anyway? I also don’t want her to go tell her Santa-Claus-believing friends that Santa is all a big joke. Can you imagine the flack from that? This morning, as I was fixing her hair, I gently broached the subject, “Do you know about Santa Claus, Abby?” She was intently playing with her Cinderella figurines and had little-to-no interest in knowing what I was mumbling about, so I gave up.

For now I guess I’ll remain in my default position, basically silent on the issue, talking only about the nativity and the true meaning behind Christmas instead; this has always been our stance. I figure she’ll ask me about Santa eventually, when she’s curious enough. I just want to be able to answer her effectively, both without the grandiose legendry and without smashing the whole idea of Santa Claus for everyone else in her little life. It seems an incredibly fine line, though.

Small Little Accomplishments

2008-12-15T14:52:00.000-08:00

As a mother of two little ones, I praise myself every day for small little accomplishments, like today I entered my addresses into my Print Shop address book so that I can make labels for Christmas cards. Yesterday, my accomplishment was babysitting my printer as it furiously spat out my Christmas letters, sometimes requiring a trash toss or ten, first when the color ink gave up the ghost and then when the black ink took its turn. The day before that, it was editing the Christmas letter, and before that it was writing the letter. You see, these small little accomplishments can only happen about once a day, sometimes every other day, with little ones around, because the dishwasher still needs to be emptied and reloaded; shifts of laundry still scream at me from the washer and dryer; bare cupboards’ tummies loudly growl, waiting to be filled; the girls still need quality play time with Mommy, and oh, they also need to eat, be bathed, be monitored at all times, swept and straightened up after, and so forth. Life with little ones still has to function like it does the other 364 days a year, even with the holiday rush of last-minute online shopping, candy making, gift wrapping (ha! think I actually had time for this yet?), attending and planning Christmas parties, preparing Christmas Sunday school lessons, and whatnot.

Although there is also something about little ones that rings true as well: Holidays just aren’t quite as fun without them.

Random Ramblings

2008-12-13T23:04:00.000-08:00

I’m probably the only one who’s been enjoying the run of expository pieces I’ve posted for the last week. I must admit they’ve been pretty dry and dull, full of facts and details that only I will probably ever care to remember, but it’s been a relatively easy week of writing for me. I could throw words on the page because I had the goal of laying all of the information on paper, but do very little thinking about it in the process. All memory recall, no creativity. Creativity is challenging for me. If I’m not in the mood to be clever (which is pretty much a lot), I can’t seem to bring myself to force anything remotely interesting down on paper.

The blogging world has kind of ground to a screeching halt. I’m not getting many hits on my blog, and I know of many other bloggers who are complaining that comments have slowed down quite a bit. I’m thinking it’s the season. The holidays are filling up everyone’s calendars (I know it’s happening with me too), so people don’t have as much time to lazily browse blogs for random reading enjoyment. It could just be me, however. I notice I dropped people when I took a 10-day hiatus from the blog.

Back to Christmas, I keep thinking I’ve got a ton of stuff to accomplish, but I’ve decorated, made my gift candy, and I’ve even done a little Christmas shopping. My mom’s doing most of the cooking this year, so I’ll probably just tag alongside to offer my pathetic, “Need help?” line every once in awhile. With all that nailed down, I can’t imagine having that much more to do. I know we need to still do a bit of Christmas shopping, but my side of the family has kind of pulled away from gift-giving this year, due to the fact that no one has money; we’ve made it all about the kids this year. I’m still getting something for the folks, though; that’s already done. I still can’t seem to shake the nagging feeling that I’ve got a ton of stuff left to do before the big day.

Are ya’ll ready for Christmas?

Esther's Birth -- Part V

2008-12-12T15:34:00.000-08:00

Introduction

Part I

Part II

Part III

Part IV

Before the fated pushing hour began, Eric and I discussed the naming of our little girl. We had been vacillating between Anna and Esther for months. So while I was in labor, as a way of finally deciding between the two, I said, “How about, if I have a c-section, we’ll name her Esther; if I have a VBAC, we’ll name her Anna,” with no particular meaning tied to the outcome. Eric argued (as he usually does), “Or how about, if you have a c-section, we’ll name her Anna because God will give us the grace to get through it, but if you have a VBAC, we’ll name her Esther because God will have miraculously revealed Himself to His people, like in the Biblical story of Esther.” That made perfect sense to me, so this is how we finally settled on her name.

So then came the part I was most fearful of: pushing. It was time for me to begin pushing, and even though I had no urge to push (mostly because I was so deadened to feeling because of the epidural), I obeyed orders. They did let me go as long as possible before beginning the pushing phase, but now it was time to face my fears. Dr. Gollin came in again to announce it was time for me to begin pushing and that she would only give me an hour before they would begin c-section preparations.

Nurse Marla was key at this point in my labor. She had been in labor and delivery for over 25 years and was exactly the coach I needed. She explained different techniques for pushing with an epidural. She explained that I should push starting from my diaphragm and work that push down the rest of my body and that I should aim my push toward the point up the wall where the wall and the ceiling meet. Weird, I know. She also devised a contraption using a u-shaped rod that attached to the end of the bed and a bed sheet which basically gave me something to pull on so I could use upper body strength as I pushed. About an hour into pushing, as the baby progressed down the birth canal (+1, 0, -1 stations), Marla went out to fetch the doctor. When she captured the doctor's attention, she said, “Doctor, we’re ready in here.” Dr. Gollin, who was standing at the nurse’s station, replied, “Ready to go this way (pointing to the OR) or that way (pointing to the delivery room)?” When Marla pointed her to my room, she was genuinely shocked to know that the baby was crowning and that a VBAC was imminent. None of the labor and delivery staff believed it would happen. Marla told me that all of them took one look at me when I entered the ward and said, “No way. She’s huge. She’s not going to pull this off.” Well, I didn’t. God did.

An hour and 20 minutes into pushing, Esther was born. She was born into a room of about 25 medical residents, doctors, and nurses. I looked up at Marla as I was pushing Esther out and said, “What’s the party for?” Apparently, they thought maybe this would be a case of shoulder dystocia, where the baby’s shoulders are too wide for the birth canal, and since it’s a teaching hospital, everyone was invited to witness this phenomenon. Instead, God brought them to witness His miracle. Where everyone knew I wouldn’t be able to deliver this 9-pound-11-ounce porker, God confounded them all by revealing His miraculous power and strength in midst of my weakness, in the midst of my fears. He revealed Himself to His people in our beautiful little Esther.

Happy 2nd birthday, Esther!

Esther's Birth -- Part IV

2008-12-11T15:25:00.000-08:00

Introduction

Part I

Part II

Part III

There are so many details to this miraculous story, and I don’t want to forget any of them, so although some information might seem trite or irrelevant to you (and you may be ignoring this section of my posting altogether due to the fact that it’s all expository and not much else), I’m including them because they fit into my story like a magnificent puzzle. Each piece coordinates with the other piece.

As contractions began late Thursday evening, I hit the treadmill in hopes of increasing their frequency. After a 30-minute workout, I went to bed in a vain attempt to get a little rest before the big event. I’ve heard of women who have done this and actually slept a little. Ridiculous. The contractions were becoming very intense, and my adrenaline would not allow me to lie down for long. By 3:00 am Friday morning, I was heading down to the hospital with my husband and my mom. And let me just say that I was terrified. I wasn’t scared of the pain; I had endured so much pain with Abby’s labor that I knew I could handle whatever my body threw at me in that arena. I was scared of failure. I was scared of a repeat of Abby’s birth. I imagined the baby getting stuck in the birth canal, with her head out but the rest of her body wedged inside of me. I didn’t know what the doctor could do in that circumstance. I was afraid of death. After wading through all the warnings that every doctor had given me along the way, I wondered if my uterus might actually rupture and if I might be one of the rare patients who would suffer fatal consequences. I feared for my baby girl’s life as well. For me it was like facing death itself and still continuing along this uncertain path. I knew He had me in His hands, but what did He have in store for me? For this particular path? We can’t predict what He is going to do and for what purpose He does it.

When I got to the hospital, I was already dilated to 5 or 6 centimeters. I was also very dehydrated, hadn’t had a whole lot of water that day (unusual for me), so they pumped me with tons of fluid, and my epidural had to wait until I was well hydrated. This wasn’t a big problem for me, though. Unlike during Abby’s labor, I had no pain in between contractions, so I wasn’t in very much pain comparatively, at least in my opinion. I remember the nurse was astounded by this; she asked me several times if I have a high pain tolerance because mothers who were this far along were usually complaining of more pain. By 7 centimeters they gave me the epidural. It made me shake uncontrollably for about an hour, and it completely deadened my lower half. It also impaired my judgment; it was almost like I was high on street drugs minus the actual high feeling (not that I have any experience in this area to even know what I’m talking about). I was having trouble following conversations and keeping up with all that the nurses were telling me.

My entire labor and delivery road the fence between c-section and VBAC. My doctor came in several times throughout, and every time, she brandished a different conclusion on what she recommended. Most of the time she leaned heavily in favor of c-section, wanting to be as cautious as possible with two lives hanging in the balance. I told my nurse, Marla, I had read an article in a La Maze magazine that the hospital gave me weeks ago that recommended if I was going to have an epidural, that I should request to “labor down,” which basically meant, I would wait until my body was completely dilated and until I was completely ready to have this baby before pushing. No premature pushing. She and my doctor both gave me a thumbs-up on this.

The epidural-induced shaking actually brought my temperature up a little, which also caused the baby to get a bit of a fever. It also seemed to slow down the dilation. I hadn’t progressed more than 8 centimeters in several hours. Dr. Gollin suggested 1 cc of pitocin. I was fiercely opposed to it at first because of a transcript I had completed for my mom of a Loma Linda nurse who was testifying in regards to a woman who had delivered via VBAC with the administration of pitocin, and she had ruptured, causing permanent damage to her baby. So Dr. Gollin left to order the OR be prepped for c-section. However, that same nurse my mom had met at the deposition weeks before happened to be in the hospital the day I delivered. My mom actually called to see if she was there; she had just gotten back from vacation that exact morning and came to see me in my room. She disarmed my fears with regards to pitocin and said that a little wouldn’t hurt anything, as long as the doctor monitored it very closely. So Dr. Gollin called off the c-section and ordered the administration of 1 cc of pitocin with the intention of increasing it 1 cc every half hour or so and not to exceed 4 ccs. I never had another dosage of pitocin. With that 1 cc of pitocin, my body was kicked into gear and fully dilated within the hour.

Esther’s Birth – Part III

2008-12-10T17:05:00.000-08:00

Introduction

Part I

Part II

After the infamous ultrasound, I was scheduled to meet with my OB, who I knew would have a c-section appointment scheduled for me immediately. However, he was providentially on vacation during my appointment, so I saw another doctor. This doctor was more encouraging, more favorable to the idea that I should try a VBAC. With his uplifting words, I was moved to ask if I could start seeing him as my OB instead. He was not going to be available, however, during the time of my due date, but he recommended another doctor in his group, Dr. Gollin. So I immediately made the necessary changes and began seeing her.

A couple days after this appointment, the one where my first OB was on vacation, I got a call from the hospital saying that I was due to come in for my pre-op appointment for my scheduled c-section. After seeing the results of my ultrasound, my first OB had actually scheduled me to have a c-section without my actual presence in his office. The nerve. I am so thankful to have been able to cancel that pre-op appointment, stating that my new OB would be allowing me to have a VBAC.

Dr. Gollin had tried unsuccessfully to have a VBAC herself, so she knew how important it was to me that I at least have a crack at this. She was also very heartening in the first few appointments I had with her; she had confidence that I should be allowed to try for a VBAC. Her tone began to change a little when my former OB returned from his furlough, however; she became much more hesistant, listening to his cautionary diffidence. She still wasn’t swayed from the idea of my trying to have a VBAC, though, yet she was very insistent on implementing every precautionary step known to medicine: no more than one week past the due date before a c-section would be scheduled, epidural during labor, mandatory internal fetal heart monitor, staying permanently planted in the bed during the entire labor. It appeared that although she would allow me to try to have this baby on my own, she really had very little faith that I could actually pull it off.

As my due date advanced and then passed by, my worry transformed into full-fledged fear. I really didn’t want to go under the knife again. I had been there, done that with Abby, and recovery had been extremely difficult. By the third day past my due date, I was heading down for yet another OB appointment. It’s a funny thing when you go past your due date; you suddenly feel strangely in limbo. You shouldn’t have to still be seeing the OB because the baby should now be in your arms. At this appointment, because I was at almost a week past my due date, they scheduled me to have my pre-op blood work done in preparation for my c-section. My pre-op appointment was on Friday, November 17, 2006. As ironic as our last-minute God often is, I went into labor on Thursday night, November 16, 2006. As He apparently saw fit, I was going to be attempting a VBAC.

Esther’s Birth – Part II

2008-12-08T17:57:00.000-08:00

Introduction

Part I

So my next priority became finding a way to switch doctors and medical facilities. I had to find one that would allow me to attempt a VBAC, and none of the hospitals where I live do them anymore. At about 6 months’ gestation, I was going back to my general practitioner for a referral. This, of course, presented its own set of challenges. The insurance didn’t quite understand why I wanted to go to a hospital so far from me, and my GP thought I was crazy for wanting to put my baby in “jeopardy.” Getting him to agree to it took some time, but after two months, and with very little time left until my due date, I was finally allowed to see doctors down at Loma Linda, adding VBAC to my preferred method of delivery.

I was referred to the at-risk OBs there, however, and my particular OB wasn’t very favorable to the idea of my succeeding at having a VBAC. He gave me very little hope of being able to deliver this baby vaginally. He was sure that because I had such a big baby the first time (9 lbs, 9 oz) and wasn’t able to deliver her, that my second baby would be no different. He told me that I would have a sonogram one month before she was born, and if that sonogram predicted the baby would be as big or bigger than Abby, he would recommend another c-section. Even though my reading had informed me that even having had a large baby, my body was designed to accommodate whatever size baby it made, I didn’t question his expertise. That’s one resolve I made at the very beginning: I would try for a VBAC, but if the doctor I was seeing cautioned me against having one, if they slammed the door on this option, so to speak, I wouldn’t question it; I would submit to their expertise, to their sound wisdom and authority.

So I had the called-for ultrasound, and of course, as even I knew, this baby was big. At the time the ultrasound was taken (about 4 weeks before my due date), the technician was estimating her to weigh about 8.5 pounds. Babies can gain a half-pound to a pound a week in the last month of gestation, so this put her easily at 9.5 to 10 pounds at the minimum by D-Day. I could hear Beethoven’s Fifth pounding across the keys in my ears; c-section here we come. I hadn’t yet seen the doctor, but his words – “If this baby is as big or bigger than Abby was, I will not recommend a VBAC” – laid grounds for the inevitable.

Esther's Birth -- Part I

2008-12-06T17:10:00.000-08:00

Introduction

As some of you may recall, I shared the saga of Abby’s birth and the emergency c-section that it required. After that traumatic birth episode, I remember my OB/GYN saying to me, “That’s okay, Sara. If you want to have a VBAC (vaginal birth after cesarean), just talk to me about it next time you get pregnant.” This was certainly good news, especially when, in days gone past, once a woman had a c-section, that became the only method for delivery thereafter. So when Abby turned 16 months and I found myself expecting again, I went to my doctor to take him up on his promise. However, in the months after Abby’s birth, all of the hospitals had changed their policy. No more VBACs anywhere in the High Desert. “It’s just too risky, and none of the hospitals up here are equipped with the required personnel, namely a 24-hour anesthesiologist and a backup OR team in the case of uterine rupture” was the reason I was given. I was told that having a VBAC was like playing Russian Roulette with my baby.

That sealed the deal for me. I thought, “Well, there you have it. God must want me to have another c-section.” And I went about preparing for the inevitable, resolved that I would again have to recover from major surgery, weighing the possibility of this being my last child. With every c-section, the risk of complications increase, which could mean this would be it for me, no more babies because the risks would be too great.

Eric wouldn’t let go of the idea of a VBAC, however. He continued to bring it up, listing possible ways to make it happen. We thought we might need to switch insurance from an HMO to a PPO to allow me to see pro-VBAC doctors and facilities down the hill, like Loma Linda University Medical Center. I was frustrated at times by his tenacious pursuit of a VBAC, but he wasn’t the only one who was pushing for it. There was a midwife at my church who also continued to bring up the topic, constantly bringing in literature for me to read at my leisure. She was sure I wasn’t intended to go through another c-section as well. As irritable as this made me at her and at my husband, I read every piece of material she handed me and then some. I also did my own research on the Internet. It was only then that the Lord began to change my heart. I was scared, really. I didn’t want to go through what I had endured with Abby’s birth, and I just knew a c-section would be short and relatively easy, minus the difficult healing time afterwards; I certainly wasn’t ready for a repeat of Abby’s birth scenario. But the more I read, the more afraid of having a repeat c-section I became. I read the statistics, and I knew more than the average doctor on the statistics of uterine rupture during VBAC deliveries (very rare) and the even rarer chance of a uterine rupture killing or permanently maiming either the mother or the child, and I also knew the risks of complications during c-section. The risks are fairly minimal either way, with greater risks during a c-section, so I figured I had nothing to lose and everything to gain by trying for a VBAC. So I surrendered to His desires, whether it be a VBAC or a repeat c-section; I was willing to do what He wanted me to do.

Esther's Birth -- Introduction

2008-12-05T17:34:00.000-08:00

A year ago I was asked to speak on the story of Esther’s birth for a Christian Women’s Fellowship group where I live, and somewhere I’ve got a four page, single-spaced account of the event, one I certainly will never forget and yet another testimony to His goodness in our lives. The person who asked me to speak knew Esther’s name came about through special circumstances, and so she asked me to "give a little talk" about that, but I think she got way more than she bargained for. I started my talk out with something like, “I’m going to begin by giving you a little history about me. I was born in 1973 to Pastor Dale and Judy Bergman…” I remember one of my friends in the crowd yelled out, “Wow, Sara, that’s going way back!” When I tell a story, I tend to go back to the start, like where I was born and raised and other insignificant details like that. I think I’m always wanting to make a bosom buddy with whichever victim has succumbed to my friend-thirsty heart, so I unleash the flood of words I often save up for just such an occasion.

All that to say, I’m going to try to pare down the story of her birth somehow or maybe give it to you in short increments. Either way, expect that eventually those four pages will wind up somewhere posted on this blog, even if I break it up into Part I, II, and III, just so that I may have it forever chronicled on the pages of our family history, a constant reminder of yet another miracle the Lord did for us.

So...more on her miraculous birth to come.

Behind

2008-12-03T15:58:00.000-08:00

I’m behind. I’m still not decorated for Christmas. I really like getting the tree up the day after Thanksgiving; I like to have Christmas in my home for the entire month, even the two or so days of the month before Christmas month…November, that is. I watch my neighbors string lights across their eaves, and glowing snowmen (“mo-men,” as Essie calls them) and Santa Clauses wobble lightheartedly across their lawns, and I feel this growing pressure to not be the only house on the block not in the festivities.

I’m a fraction ahead in the making of our traditional toffee “gift” candy, but as my mom, hubby, brother, and family have been nibbling slowly away at it, the minimal head-start window slowly evaporates on that corner of the month as well.

I haven’t started my Christmas letter yet. Haven’t even taken a family picture. I’m thinking about using our family 4th of July picture, but I realize that with the absence my rotund belly, that one gives itself obviously away as outdated.

I walk into stores and am slapped in the face with oversized Christmas ornaments and bulbs dangling from the ceiling, an ugly reminder that my Christmas tree still lies on the floor of the garage, still waiting to be removed from the bag and assembled from a skeleton of mashed synthetic branches into the shockingly spurious image of a nine-foot fir (does anybody buy real ones anymore?).

I’m behind in posts too. I have several posts whirling around in the dark recesses of my thoughts, struggling to make their way out, like the post commemorating Esther’s birth (since I missed her birthday in my holiday postlessness) and the post honoring my hubby on his also-missed-posting-about birthday. And the longer they whirl around upstairs, the more likely they are to find a permanent home and begin gathering dust.

I don’t like being behind, but I’m afraid this has become symptomatic of every December for me; I think with the addition of a new member to our growing family, I better just get used to it.

Body Sharing

2008-12-02T17:34:00.000-08:00

So the OB says the baby seems to be pretty crammed into my abdomen. “Not much room in there for him to move around; he’s pretty packed in.” If there is anything that can be said of how I feel at this very moment, this would be it. I have the urge to throw my arms around her and ask how in the world she knows this, along with posturing myself into a contrite stance and pleading with her to help me find more room for this little calf of mine. You hear of women who refer to their growing girths as shelves; for me it’s only because this is exactly what it is. My uterus juts up and out, standing at attention as much as my no-nonsense, get-down-to-business personality does; it is not laying casually low and around. And though this is not exactly table topic, the shelf-like position of my uterus causes some grievous occurrences north and south of its location. It hogs up all the room in the middle portion of my torso, pushing up on my diaphragm and lungs, wreaking havoc on my breathing and giving me indigestion at various odd hours of the day, as well as sitting heavily upon my upper and lower intestines, causing me to have to use the restroom every hour or two and producing those famed hemorrhoids.

I look mournfully at the pregnancy countdown ticker, and I cannot fathom another seven weeks. “I’m 33 weeks and 4 days old; only 45 days to go.” ONLY?!?! No way, Jose. Not happening here. Is it possible my uterus can extend another 45 days into this crammed cavity? It hardly seems able. I’m so replete with its expanding presence that even external land-lockings make me feel claustrophobic; when my girls sit on either side of me at night to read their bedtime story, I begin hyperventilating. I’m locked in on all sides.

On top of all that, let me just say, he’s quite the kicker.

I’m really done with this whole body-sharing experience, and I’m only writing it all down so that I’m NEVER tempted to try this whole pregnancy thing ever again.

Biblical Submission

2008-12-01T21:56:00.000-08:00

I’m back from my much-needed hiatus, feeling energized and renewed. Spending time with my loved ones, especially those I haven’t seen in awhile, always leaves me this way. I’m not sure I’m ready to get back to one-post-per-day blogging, but I’m stepping back on the mat for some more swings.

What’s been on my heart lately -- oddly enough in the middle of this glorious holiday season -- is the issue of Biblical submission. It’s one area of my faith with which I tend to bristle. Not that I disagree with the wife’s role or with the idea of submission in general. I don’t think I’ve read a sufficient-enough treatment of the topic. In all of the books or commentaries I’ve studied, the authors tend toward one of two extremes. On the one hand, the submission tub is thrown out along with its bathwater; it’s touted as merely a norm of that former New Testament culture and not true or necessary today. Outdated. Of course, my issues with this are obvious. Where do I, then, draw the line on what in the Bible is true for today and what is not? This is far too slippery of a slope for my footing, especially when my faith is grounded on the inerrancy-of-Scripture foundation. On the other side of the fence, you might find books like Created to Be His Help Meet. I first must tender the caveat that I haven’t actually finished the book. In fact, my mom gave it to me to read, having not read it yet herself, but thinking I might find the time to crack it open before she did (I guess this was her reasoning). And since the only time I can seem to find to read is on the toilet, after nearly two months I still hadn’t gotten past Chapter 4. Notice the tense: past perfect (at least I think that’s what hadn’t is). I hit Chapter 4 and could stomach no more. I promptly surrendered – no, threw the book back at her (not really), asking her to read it first, since she missiles through whole books in mere hours, and I can only plod through them in hopelessly endless months and years.

This book takes submission to the opposite end of the spectrum and seems to imply that women are to be doormats, not voicing our dissent in any form whatsoever, even if it means that our husbands are allowing our children to watch inappropriate, adult-themed TV programs. We are to be merry, thankful, never-with-a-frown-or-critical-spirit angels who promptly remove our husband’s shoes for a much-deserved foot massage at the end of his laborious workday. As my mom retorted, “What about our foot massage?” Again, I haven’t read it all, so I’m no expert, but I couldn’t swallow any more of this book without someone else’s critical perusal of it first. Not that there isn't some good to be gleaned from such a book, just that the hair-raising on the back of my neck was happening a bit too often to allow me to placidly continue.

There is one Pauline passage in I Timothy that I’m still wrestling with in this regard, despite having a deep discussion on it with both of my personal Biblical concordances – my dad and my husband. It’s I Timothy 2:11-15, “A woman should learn in quietness and full submission. I do not permit a woman to teach or to have authority over a man; she must be silent. For Adam was formed first, then Eve. And Adam was not the one deceived; it was the woman who was deceived and became a sinner. But women will be saved through childbearing—if they continue in faith, love and holiness with propriety.” If I were going to brag about my faith or our God, this wouldn’t be the first passage I would be citing as evidence of fair treatment of the softer sex; this is a pretty harsh statement on my part, I realize. I don’t doubt that God has a very good reason for including this text in His written Word. I just doubt man’s interpretation of this passage as I haven’t heard or read a settling interpretation of it yet. Any other perspectives out there?

I can’t wait to ask Him about it when I walk into His throne room someday.

Reruns

2008-11-25T16:38:00.000-08:00

I don't know what it is about having company, but I can't seem to pull out my writer's voice. I think I tend to be very all-or-nothing, so when people I love being around are here, I tend to give them the lion's share of my attention. Once Thanksgiving is under my belt, I'm sure I'll be able to start up again.

While you're waiting, here are a few reruns from the archives, a few of my favorites.

Test Tube Subject

Devouring Time

Blueprint in Your Back Pocket

Cary Avenue

Grandpa's Old Movies

Regularly scheduled programming will resume next week, but for now, enjoy some oldies-but-goodies. :)

Silent

2008-11-17T13:44:00.000-08:00

Going to be a little silent for the next couple weeks. We have family visiting, and I'm away from the blog for a bit. I'm sure this will be of little disappointment to anyone minus my mom! :)

What Hangs On

2008-11-14T14:10:00.000-08:00

We cleaned out the garage yesterday evening to make room for the newly boxed-up hand-me-downs, and I discovered something about myself as I looked around at what we own; what hangs on to us is utterly practical in nature, if I have any say in the matter, strollers that we'll use for the next baby, clothes to pass down to the next kid, cleaning supplies I bought too much of at Costco. And if it’s not practical, then it found its sentimental grip on my husband, like his letterman jacket or an ornate tea set he picked up during one of his mission trips to India.

In the process of combing through the stored mess, I realized something about myself that I can say with absolute surety: I will never inherit a large fortune from some hidden treasure left in my keeping over the years. When it comes to saving anything, consider me a spend thrift. Not that I’m prone to spending sprees, just that I don’t save anything for any length of time; it tends to leave my possession in short order, and therefore, things don't become antiques in my home. I think it’s my tendency to prioritize space wherever I happen to be. Space is soothing to me; it clears the fogginess in my cluttered brain, just as it does my home.

I think it’s my understanding that when I was knit together in my mother’s womb and popped out into this cluttered world, I came with nothing, just the skin on my back; maybe I’m attempting to leave this place in the same condition I entered it, empty-handed. After all, you can’t take anything with you, so why make everyone else do something with the heap of nothing you currently own after you’ve gone? I figure I’ll help my children out now by continually leafing through my junk and sporadically shoving stuff off the edge of the canyon, let it go to someone else who appreciates chaos.

It’s incredibly freeing to be rid of the baggage that claims a large portion of one’s space. I think freedom is more important than great wealth, which is why I probably will never be the executor of some large undiscovered fortune unknowingly hidden away in my limited storage space, some priceless antique that has held onto me throughout my life. It might try holding on, but my grip is rather loose.

Green Sacrifice

2008-11-13T15:31:00.000-08:00

She lays offerings before me,

Freshly torn stems

I’ve asked her countless times to leave whole

In a vain attempt to defend my dying garden,

Marigolds and daisies and alyssum sprigs

Crying out to me from the guillotine fingers

Of my tittering elfin creature

Who displays her undying fancy

In these small, wild gestures

Of green sacrifice.

Beanstalk Brood

2008-11-12T23:22:00.000-08:00

Just finished wading through six large boxes of clothes, a process I want to commemorate in the chronicles of our family history, to preserve and pull out for a day when any member of my beanstalk brood might possibly deign to doubt my love for them. These six plastic boxes are chock full of clothes that we had stored away in the cavernous recesses of our garage, clothes that used to fit Abby, and now Essie’s growing into or soon will. What a task. I think of all the jobs I have to do as a parent, this oddly is the most overwhelming; good thing it only happens four times a year, with each changing season.

What it entails is, first, a weather change. When the cooler weather hits, for example, warmer clothes are obviously a necessity. For Abby there is one less step in the process since almost all of the clothes she wears have to be purchased with the onset of new weather. There are exceptions to this, however, as some of her birthday and Christmas gifts include clothes she hasn’t managed to fit into yet; those clothes get stored in a special “A” box as Abby’s grow-into clothes. Essie has this very same box, brand new clothes that are gifted to her that she has yet to grow into, the “E” box.

In digging out new-season clothes for the hand-me-down kid, however, the process is more complicated. First, I go through her drawers and closet (I do this with Abby as well), and I weed out all of the cool-weather clothes, for example, sorting them into two piles, the maybe-this-will-fit-in-the-spring pile and the this-is-definitely-the-last-time-she’ll-fit-into-this pile. The clothes that may still fit come next season, I load into a plastic tub and hand off to my husband to put up in the garage (his one job in all of this). The clothes that have seen their last wear, I load into a large cardboard diaper box and decide their fate – off to cousin Riley, if the in-laws are visiting and can haul them the 17 hours back to Portland; off to future garage sale if not; or – no, they’re pretty hideous – off to the goodwill.

After this initial sorting process, I then begin the process of pulling out Abby’s old clothes from the garage and sorting through them. Some are spring clothes that are too cool to wear now, so I sort those into their own pile in the hopes that maybe Esther will get a few wears out of them come spring – that is, if she doesn’t grow much between now and then – and some are clothes that she can wear now, which will go into a hit-the-washing-machine pile. Once they go through the wash, or, for fancy dresses, the dry cleaners, they can now make their way into her freshly cleaned-out drawers and closet area. In this process of making it into this cut, I will glean from those pieces that still have their original match, top and bottom, or at least from those pieces that can still be paired with jeans or some other generic-enough item of clothing.

In addition to this very bland, arduous process of clothes wading, I keep two drawers in their closet to continually go through their shoes and clothes during the season we’re currently in and tuck away the ones that are now too small.

Once spring peeks around the corner, this exciting process begins all over again. It’s at least a one-week enterprise from start to finish. When we reach the precipice of each season, their crammed drawers cry out to me, and I can’t avoid a feeling of having eaten too much or of not being able to breathe. This is when I know it’s wading time.

If, in the future, any of my beanstalks have any doubt of my loyalty to them, let this process alone warrant my genuine ardor.

Fans

2008-11-11T22:51:00.000-08:00

It’s obsessive, I realize, but I’m committed to at least attempting to post something every day (minus Sundays, of course). It’s a lot harder than I thought it would be, especially when I’m running behind the clock, like I have been the last few days. Again, I should be heading for bed (or finishing the last 9 pages of the transcript for my mom – it’s almost done, Mom; I promise). As I ruffle through the last 24 hours of possible writing material, I’m hard-pressed to find anything even slightly interesting or newsworthy. I’m listening to my husband snoring in the other room (where I really should be, nudging him to put his CPAP mask on). But this reminds me of something I’ve been meaning to write about: fans.

For me fans have been woven into my fabric from infancy, so don’t blame me or mock me in derision when I tell you that I sleep with one on, every single night of the year, even when it’s 20-something degrees outside. I have even thrown it inside my bathroom on super cold nights, propping the door open so that I still have the comfort of its fuzzy rumbling in the background. My mom is to blame here, though. When I was a baby, she turned on the window air-conditioner fan during my naptime, just to muffle the outside-play noises of my older brother and his friends. From that day on, I’ve been a fan junkie. I’m addicted for life. And I have actually endured several days at a time without the use of a fan, but only because of some absurdly paranormal circumstance, like the power being off or camping in the middle of Timbuktu. I can tolerate it, but it’s painful to be without that soft humming sound that lulls me instantly to sleep.

Some have criticized my addiction to fans, including even my now-choicelessly-fan-addicted husband (and I know choicelessly isn’t really a word, but you get my drift). However, when the neighbors complain about so-in-so’s loud all-night bash or the trains blaring endlessly at wicked hours of the night, I simply smile and think to myself, “I heard nothing; my fan masked all outside interruptions; I slept like a baby all night long.” The fact that my husband came with snoring and I came with this irreversible fan addiction has definitely proven we were destined for each other, a match made in heaven.

This fan addiction also worked like a charm when our girls slept in our room as newborns; I didn’t jump out of bed every 10 minutes when they turned over or made their strange little grunting noises. I was oblivious to anything but their furious wails for milk, the only really important points of the night I needed to be awakened anyway. This addiction has been, thus, translated to my children. They sleep with one every night and every naptime as well. It’s been a blessing, especially with all of the construction going on around us during the day. I’m always at peace with the knowledge that the roofers next door can pound their way across the house, and my girls will still remain blissfully unaware in La-La Land.

The only flaw in this system is when the power surges or when Edison decides naptime is the best time to get their work done or when a thunderstorm takes down a transformer. When the power goes out, I begin to sweat bullets, dreadfully anticipating their awakening, which is almost a given. Translation: it’s a crutch, a sleep aid; I realize this. It’s probably also the reason neither of my girls will sleep in the car or in someone’s arms; there’s no fan.

Not Always Sunshine and Roses

2008-11-10T23:52:00.000-08:00

I really need to go to bed; it’s late, and I’m getting the hubby pull of, “Are you coming to bed?” I don’t blame him. I always hate to be the first one in bed; I like knowing that we both are snuggly folded under the covers and that I’m not going to be awakened by a later bed intrusion. But I’m also feeling the pull of writing something to post. I went postless yesterday, since Sundays are my self-prescribed day off, a day I’m hoping to let be His alone, with my mouth sealed tightly shut while I try to glean from anything He might want to say to me; this hasn’t yet trickled into my Sunday conversations or the rest of my life dealings, but maybe if I start somewhere…

So now is the only time I’ve had to sit down and write a bit. I’ve had two very sick, very tired, and thus very grumpy children to take care of all day, and when I wasn’t doing that, I was editing a transcript for my court-reporting mother, who I’m paranoid will read this and be thinking in the middle of the post, “Now, why isn’t she working on my transcript?” Yet despite the paranoia, I write on. I figure I can spit something out in 10 minutes here before I go hit the hay, and therefore keep the both of us happy, my harassing writer voice and my taskmaster mama.

Unfortunately, the only newsworthy item I have to offer is my two-year-old’s bout with diarrhea. There is nothing that will prepare you for this terrifying occurrence in your child’s life (and I use the word terrifying because your first instinct as the parent in this situation is to run far, far away). I remember when Abby had her first episode of it. She was about Esther’s age now, and I was also pregnant at the time, and not just pregnant….overly pregnant, like now. The most vivid part of that event was taking Lysol and a damp rag to the contaminated hallway carpet on my hands and knees while bawling on the phone to my grandma about how my world was crumbling down around me. Of course, I was also sick with the same stomach bug at the time, and from that perspective things obviously looked dismal. Added to that was the fact that she wasn’t potty trained and her bouts were like machine gun rounds, no warnings, no time to run for cover, no pausing to reload. Wham!

This time around I definitely feel more like the seasoned professional in the game; I know the steps that have to be taken, when to take them, how to move from step to step and stay relatively composed about it, and also the appropriate places to panic (like when your half-naked toddler is roaming freely about the house instead of sitting on the potty chair where you last put her). There is the added bonus this time of a four-year-old who can open doors and trash cans for soiled-hands Mommy. And this bug onset, as compared to last, has been a relative breeze. Esther has only had one episode that required any subsequent sanitizing ritual (Lysol has found permanent residence here; we should look into buying stock). She’s almost fully potty trained now, and I can’t tell you the relief this has been, especially at this exact moment. There’s nothing that makes a person happier than knowing their offspring can put all of their biological waste into the communal sewage pipes, along with the rest of civilized society.

So I’m sorry this post isn’t more uplifting. But really, you have to know the full story behind what goes on around here because parenting isn’t always sunshine and roses.

Soul Feast

2008-11-08T23:24:00.000-08:00

One of the many perks of motherhood – of parenting, in general – is snuggling. I’ve only recently discovered this, as my oldest isn’t a snuggler; she’s more of a wiggler and a “get-down-and-go-play”-er. My baby, however – or the one I’m currently still able to call my baby for a couple more months – is a puddle of snuggly warmth, not all times of the day, mind you, but sometimes, and those sometimes count for a lot; it puts cents on the chart, as my little brother used to say – the Mommy chart.

Today, after Essie got up from her nap, I had her alone for a few minutes, as Daddy took Abby to go do an errand. The first thing Essie says every day when she gets up from her nap – besides “Milk, Mom” – is, “Monkey, Mom, monkey,” which I’ll translate for you as, “I want to watch Curious George, please, Mom.” So being thus charged, I plopped her down next to me on my bed and scanned through the 18 DVR recordings we have of this show, found one she hadn’t yet viewed, and pressed play. While she sucked down her milk, I sat about a foot away from her, both of us outstretched and propped up on the bed pillows. After awhile, when the milk was consumed, she scooted over toward me, laid her head against my chest, rested her right thumb-sucking hand on my protruding “shelf,” and kicked her right foot over my right leg, all the while cocking her head in such a way as to be able to still watch her program. For Essie it was probably little more than lay-my-head-on-something-warm-and-comfy-and-have-a-shelf-for-my-thumb time. For me it was a moment of soul feeding. I had my right hand curled around her little rump as my mouth brushed the top of her curls, kissing her crown every so often – just frequent enough to drink in her soft sweetness yet infrequent enough to prevent her from getting annoyed and pulling away.

It was a one of those moments of holding sand in your hand and trying to keep it from slipping through your fingers. Even now as I type these words, I can feel the imprint of her little form perched up next to mine. How can I freeze time? How can I keep her near me like that, forever filling up the Mommy bank? I guess the best I can do is write it down and remember it; I know these soul feasts – at least in this cherubic baby stage – are fast fleeting.

Age-Old Battle

2008-11-07T11:29:00.000-08:00

Are you married to a messy? I think it’s one of life’s age-old battles, the messy married to the neat freak; I can picture Eve in some sort of makeshift tent (is that what they lived in back then?), asking Adam for the umpteenth time to leave his sandals outside of the tent. So I’m the neat freak, and he’s the messy. It used to bug me WAY more when we first married than it does now; I’ve been immunized to his piles for awhile. It’s probably good for me, really. It’s a little bit of get-rid-of-your-OCD-neatness training. It has also prepared me for motherhood; I don’t think I need to say much more about that; it pretty much speaks for itself.

So aside from the everyday leaving of used household items wherever he happens to be -- his clothes, his socks and underwear, whatever magazine he picked up to read last night, cereal boxes still sitting on the counter, waiting to be put back in the cupboard, the used towel on the closet floor, a blanket he uses every morning on the couch, which I sometimes get to fold several times a day -- my messy is also apparently afraid of throwing anything away. I mean anything. Junk mail is often left sitting around until I come along and make the bold move of throwing it away. Underwear will boast gaping holes sometimes for months until I finally take a second look at them during the folding and sneak them to the trash. Boxes of items we've just purchased, especially electronics, are saved for years. I know it’s good to save these little guys for awhile, in case the item ends up breaking, but years? The funny thing, too, is that after a few months, we forget we have the box, since it’s been stowed somewhere up high in the rafters of the garage, so it doesn’t do much good keeping it in the first place.

The messy also comes out in cyberspace. He saves various documents directly to the computer desktop, not to a folder, the four-dimensional equivalent of leaving stacks of paper all over the desk. Folders of any sort are foreign instruments for my guy. So I tend to spend late hours at night every couple of months going in and organizing all of the cluttered desktop files, which are covering the beautiful family photo in the background, and tuck them neatly away in folders, hidden somewhere else in the drawers of our computer, much like I do his clothes and books.

The DVR is another area that manifests his fear of the trash can. We should have 150 hours of recording time; however, because he doesn’t delete things after they are watched (this is autonomic for me), they remain on the DVR for months, even years, until I come in and go through them and figure out what can go and what needs to stay. So consequently, we had around 13 hours left of recording time (until I went in this morning and deleted another 20 hours).

Receipts are about the only thing he forgets to keep, usually due to neglect, and this is unfortunate. We often buy something for home repair, and it goes unused, or we find it isn’t needed for a particular project, so we go to return it to Lowe’s or Home Depot, and we have to take a store credit. I think this might be intentional on his part, since he LOVES to shop at these home improvement stores. Losing the receipt enables him to maintain an ongoing, unused balance, a veritable never-ending spending spree.

The messy side of him is probably his worst flaw, so I can’t complain too much. He’s a very laid back, gentle man who rarely loses his patience with his family, and he sees the big picture pretty clearly, often juggling multiple large projects at once, never getting uptight or overwhelmed about whether or not they’re finished, for leaving them unfinished goes along with the rest of his laid back, messy style.

For this messy, life is for enjoyment. Projects are completed according to his availability, his priorities, time spent with his loved ones. People are more important than order. Order doesn't run his life.

I guess this neat-nick can learn to battle less with this messy (or complain a little less about cleaning up after him).

Brownie Button

2008-11-06T15:06:00.000-08:00

So I’ve decided I officially deserve a brownie button. I have been getting up routinely since Monday (when it all started), dragging my bottom out of sleepyland and onto the treadmill for 30 minutes, really, before my day even begins.

This is quite an accomplishment for me. I don’t usually get out of bed early unless a near-disastrous, earth-shaking emergency rudely shocks me out of sleep, like the other day when Esther swallowed glass. Yes, glass. It was a Saturday morning, and Esther was playing with one of those snow-globe toys, the kind with snow and water trapped underneath a glass ball. She apparently dropped it and then went hungrily after the shattered glass; it’s amazing what kids think is candy. So Eric, not knowing what to do and not wanting to leave Esther there in the middle of all the glass, tells Abby to come get me out of bed. I don’t remember much, the groggy state I was in, but I know I was mentally rumpled when she barged quickly into the room and danced around carelessly, not sensing the perilous nature of the event, saying, “Mommy, Daddy needs you.” These abrupt awakenings are a frequent thing on Saturday mornings, ranging from, “Abby, what are you doing in here?” to “There’s no more toilet paper in the bathroom” to “Esther messed her pants,” so when her presence didn’t get me up immediately, the next thing I heard was Eric’s usually placid voice screaming, “SARA! COME QUICKLY!” This was the near-disastrous, earth-shaking emergency that kicked me up out of bed recently, and rightly so. Initially I was a little peevish about it, though, like, “What’s the big deal? So she ate a little piece of glass.” Yeah, so my brain takes a little longer to wake up than the average person’s, and yes, sleep is a little too high on my priority list. Thankfully, after several pieces of toast and lots of orange juice, the doctor said she would be just fine.

But back to the brownie button: I’ve obeyed my alarm every day so far this week – no near disaster, no earth tremors – got up early, and even managed to hoist my bulky girth onto the treadmill, then into the shower, and be spit back out almost before Eric’s left for work.

Aren’t you proud?

Fairytale Land

2008-11-05T09:43:00.000-08:00

While the rest of the country flocked to the polls and then waited on bated breath to see who would be elected the next president yesterday, I was reenacting the dance scene from Cinderella with my four-year-old. Oh, to be four and carefree again! Sissy was down for a nap at around 2:00, so Abby begged to be smocked in her blue princess dress and Essie’s new Snow White heels, even if for only 20 minutes or so before it was her turn to hit the nap-wagon. So I relented, and there began our dance in the middle of the kitchen. I think I started singing the forest dance scene from Sleeping Beauty – I’m can’t be positive – but Abby squelched it by immediately humming the correct tune from Cinderella’s dance scene. Well, excuse me, Little Miss. Being, then, coerced into singing “So This is Love,” we danced shamelessly between the fridge and the dishwasher, and here we were, the strange couple, little Abby in her goodwill rendition of Cinderella’s ball gown and me, the mama prince – pregnant and barefoot. Frightful image. But I guess it was good enough for Abby.

We reenacted the full scene all the way down to Cinderella’s lost slipper, and then I swept her away to naptime so that I could take a few minutes to snap back into reality and check the poll data.

By evening, I was ready to escape Adult Land and return to fairytales again with Abby, to be anywhere but where I currently am.

A New Leaf

2008-11-04T09:44:00.000-08:00

Hoping I never reach XL, I just handed a big box of Size XL maternity clothes to the goodwill yesterday. I wore many of them in my first pregnancy, where I gained an abominable amount of weight and had crazy water-retention issues anyway. On top of all that, most of those clothes were hand-me-downs from a lady at my old church who had something like eight kids, and she apparently wasn’t too concerned with fashion by her eighth child because every piece closely resembles something Paul could have made in his second job, you know, tent-making. Big. Loose. Stretchy.

So clearly, I think I’m not going to get that big; I mean, I gave them all away. There was no way I’d have worn them even if I do blimp up again, but I’m hoping, praying, keeping my fingers -- “X” -- crossed that maybe I can keep the inches off. With Abby’s pregnancy I think I actually weighed…well, doing the math, I’m having second thoughts about writing that number down for all the world to see. Nah. But let’s just say I’m 26 pounds from that point now with elevenish weeks left. So maybe, just maybe, I’ll never get there. It’s a possibility, but you never know.

In order to attain this goal, I’ve turned a new leaf. With the one-hour blessing of the time change on Sunday (actually, I can’t stand the time change usually; it’s the two times of the year I seriously weigh the risks and benefits of moving to Arizona), I’ve decided I would set my alarm for 7:00, which I realize is not all that early, but it’s getting up with the roosters for me. So I got out of bed, immediately made it (so I wouldn’t be tempted to jump back in it), and stepped on the…[insert drumroll here]…treadmill! Yes, the first thing I did after making my bed was exercise. Hard to believe for me. I didn’t head for the coffee pot or the refrigerator. I exercised for about 30 minutes and then showered. I was ready for my day by 8:00. I know this is what those working outside the home do every day and even moms with older kids, but when you stay at home and raise babies for a living, you can sometimes get out of the everyday habits of the rest of society. Well…so now I guess I’m officially hired.

Let’s hope new leaves don’t fall off this tree like the one out in front of my house.

Where God Put All the Funnies

2008-11-03T09:17:00.000-08:00

www.joelbergman.blogspot.com

If you look at me and want to know where all of the humor went in my family (or rather, if there is any anywhere in my family), then you’d have your head divinely grabbed and forcibly turned in the direction of my little brother, the one who always seems to eclipse me in every other thing I’ve tried to accomplish in my life! No. Seriously, now. When God was handing out qualities up there in the process of molding us Bergman kids, all of the funniness genes were dolled out to him. Now, I can appreciate humor; I know it when I hear it or read it, and I know how to laugh in all of the appropriate places (even if I’m ten seconds behind everyone else); I just don’t have a single speck of it in one chromosome of DNA.

But whenever he’s around, I simply can’t stop laughing. He’s got one of those dry wits, where he quickly mumbles something tersely comical or sarcastic under his breath at just the right moment, and you have to stay tuned to it, or you just might miss it. I love when he’s around; laughter is good medicine. That’s why I’m so glad he’s begun his own blog; I can take daily doses of him, even though he’s several hours away. Actually, I started it for him and pushed him into it, but now he sees why; as he says, it’s addictive. So if you don’t have a blog yet (hint, hint: Chris), you just might think twice about it. It’s great fun.

So at the risk of losing my own readership (yeah, all four or so of you, including my mom and best friend), I’d like to introduce you to my little bro. He’s funny. God completely favored him in the funny category, leaving me high and dry in the process, so you know you can’t disappoint the Big Man upstairs. Go check him out. Seriously. Go.

Oh, and he geniunely does have an angst against inanimate objects. Really.

Thankful Month

2008-11-01T22:37:00.000-07:00

What a great idea! Thought I'd join the bandwagon. See my sidebar for one thing I'm thankful for every day this month. :-)

Heading for the Light

2008-11-01T17:07:00.000-07:00

What is it about the current passion for Halloween? As I look around my community, I notice that it’s become almost more celebratory than Christmas, orange lights spread across bushes and along rooflines, glowing goblins and witches hosting doorsteps, webs and black cats lining the alcove of someone’s entrance, and menacing organ recordings echoing darkly in the background. And the parties – they last until all hours of the night. It’s the glorification of the darker edges of life that makes me shudder. Each Halloween the tribute intensifies. It’s become a huge market, and it truly boggles my mind. And yes, I realize that my daughters’ participation in neighborhood trick-or-treating further patronizes the growing hysteria, but somehow I’ve justified it by dressing my girls in cheery princess costumes and steering widely clear of the spookier homes, looking for the homes that are brightly lit, where the pumpkins countenance happier expressions instead of visages of fear and dread.

But why the rising obsession for this increasingly sinister holiday? A teenager from church says she loves this day because it allows her to be someone different for just a day; she can escape the reality of her present existence momentarily. Why this desire to be someone else, to flee reality? Perhaps, it’s a prophetic intuition that we aren’t supposed to be this way; we were created for a greater purpose; we were created to be glorious creatures, ever reflecting the image of our supreme Creator. We have had the veil of obscurity removed so that we can brightly reflect His glory. It’s the hope that we find this greater purpose, this reflection of our Creator, that is key, the search for a perfect life, one unspoiled, untarnished by sin and corruption, a pure reality that only comes from knowing and bedding our faith in the only sinless Man to have ever lived. It only comes by living a life apart from the cavernous ruins of sin, the darker corners of existence shadowed by shame and guilt, a life only obtained by relinquishing all control to Him. So often this purpose is lost in the drive to magnify the darker side of Halloween, the desire to be closer to what this world is and what it has to offer.

Halloween is one day out of the year when we, as believers, have a chance to remind ourselves that we are foreigners, pilgrims on this earth. It is not our comfort zone; we aren’t meant to stay because we do not belong. Earth is not our home. We are heading for the Light.

And all of us have had that veil removed so that we can be mirrors that brightly reflect the glory of the Lord. And as the Spirit of the Lord works within us, we become more and more like Him and reflect His glory even more.
2 Corinthians 3:18 NLT

The Puzzle

2008-10-31T08:22:00.000-07:00

She is a puzzle. Actually, she loves puzzles, too, so it’s quite apropos. One of the small gifts we picked up for Abby at Toys ‘R’ Us the other day was a puzzle, an upgrade. We figured after mastering 25-piecers for the last few years, maybe she should be racing up against the 100s. So we picked up a 100-piece Disney Princess puzzle for our puzzle queen.

And I discovered something while joining my little queen in her puzzle verve. I also like to sit and figure out puzzles. It was rather magical, sitting down at the table with her, hunting for that one piece with just the right splash of color or the right straight edge to complete one more section of the mystery. For the most part, we sat quietly, which my now four-year-old almost never does of her own cognitive volition. Occasionally, I would encourage her not to give up, and she would return the cheer, neither of us ever actually considering failure; we are both so engrossed in the light-hearted serenity of this moment, but our mutual campaigning vocally underlines how much we are enjoying this quiet time together.

Of course, when we dropped the last piece of the puzzle into its rightful place, I knew what she would say, as she always does when we do anything remotely fun together – “Let’s do it again, Mommy.” And for some odd reason, putting a puzzle together for the first time is like waiting for a story to unfold and delightfully anticipating its ending, but the second time through, it is much like eating leftovers or watching the same movie twice in very short order; it holds little joy for me. But my dim spirits wouldn’t think of dampening the expectations of my puzzle lover, so after a still shot or two to at least verify to Daddy that we did successfully put this thing together, I begin the seemingly pointless process of undoing the done.

And then, shortly after beginning the puzzle again, I working on the outer edges and Abby on the pretty inside pieces, she begins to lose interest. You would think this is my salvation, my out; however, there’s one more facet to my personality that you should know: Once I begin something, I don’t like it to go unfinished. I realize it’s a tad OCD, but that’s also consistent with my personality, so it all fits. So while Abby has now jetted on to the next activity – calling for me to come join her – I vote to faithfully plod along this dull course to its dreary end.

I guess I’ve proved less that she’s a puzzle and more that I’m the puzzle. Well, at least now it’s clear where she got it.

Chuck-E-Cheese Birthday

2008-10-30T15:32:00.000-07:00

Our little family unit went out to Chuck-E-Cheese’s last night. It was such a fun, relatively inexpensive event for our newly turned four-year-old. It was her birthday yesterday, and we’re holding off on a combined party for the two sisters in a couple weeks (since their birthdays are only three weeks apart, and they still don’t mind sharing it), so last night was just a small tribute to Abby and her special day.

She was all over it. We’ve taken her there one other time, when she was just under two, and the experience was all a little over her head, to probably state the obvious. Most of the games they had at that time were geared for older kids. This time, however, they had added games and rides for younger kids. It was so fun watching Esther’s large, round eyes capture all the colors and characters around her. It was also rather funny that she wasn't big on any of the moving rides. She visibly shook whenever we put her on one. She takes after me this way; I was never big on theme parks for this reason. Abby absolutely loved every minute of it, moving rides and all. With 30 tokens to blow and each game/ride for only one token, she hopped from game to ride to video, hardly stopping to eat her one slice of pizza. I so wish we had taken the camera, but we forgot. We did have two “sketches” done at one of the little booths, so I’ll try to scan and upload that, but really, I haven’t been too faithful with our new scanner. I don’t even know how to use it yet, so we’ll see.

After Chuck-E’s, we took the girls to Toys ‘R’ Us, where Abby was allowed to pick out one birthday gift. I don’t think we’ll try this trick again. With literally thousands of toys to choose from, it was, needless to say, a little overwhelming for her. She wanted everything. I kept prying her away from nothing little trinkets, saying, “Okay, I know you want the Dora bubble set, Abby, and maybe we’ll get that, but let’s keep looking because you just might see something else you want more.” Yeesh! What were we thinking? It sounded like a good idea at first, but it was really like trying to force her to drink from a fire hydrant. So anyway, she picked out a Loving Family SUV that goes along with her Loving Family dollhouse and paraphernalia already at home. Perfect.

All in all it was such a sweet evening with our little family. I know there’s nothing super special about this post. It’s rather bland, but my spirits are so uplifted as I still savor the intimate moment we shared with our baby girls. Such a delight!

Happy Birthday, My Little Burrito!

2008-10-29T09:48:00.000-07:00

My water broke four years ago today, and it was four days too early. I sat on the couch, crying to Eric about something inconsequential I can’t recall now, when suddenly I felt an internal pinch and an audible pop. I quickly rushed to the bathroom for the flood that would rapidly inundate the toilet. I wasn’t prepared for this baby to be coming today. I was told that most first moms go a week or two past their due date, so that’s what I was expecting. My new home, my nest, the one we just bought and just began renovating, was nowhere near being ready. I wasn’t mentally prepared for her entrance into the world either. I was completely awed and terrified of the whole birthing process. Couldn’t they just knock me over the head and wake me up when it was over?

And for some crazy reason, I had determined to try the au-naturel way, at least the first time. Having read The Bradley Method, I wanted no medication whatsoever. Yep, I was mad. I have no idea how some of you moms do it every time with no medicine. Hats off to you. But I gave it the old college try. It may have been what actually lead to the c-section, however, because after five hours of pushing (yes, you read that correctly), I was utterly exhausted, not just from the whole-body workout that pushing undoubtedly is, but also from the relentless pain. She was sunny-side up, as they say, and the pain was ruthlessly unremitting, even between contractions. Longest night of my life.

After thirteen hours of labor (eight with hard labor and five with pushing), they finally had me in the O.R. for an emergency c-section where I had to be put under because they couldn’t get the spinal block needle into my back; I was too tense. The whole thing is a relative blur, but the pain of it will probably never leave my mental chalkboard. Written clearly across it are the words, “Never again will I refuse medication during labor!” I remember holding onto Him alone in the last half hour especially, while I suffered, stiff-backed, on that cold operating room table, waiting for all the surgical preparations to finish. It was just me and God. I remember calling out to Him with every excruciating contraction, every urge to push that I had to squelch, every back-aching second until the next contraction attacked. Eric wasn’t allowed into the room because of the circumstances, so He alone was my rock. I clearly remember crying out, “God help me!” And for my make-no-waves personality, even hearing my own voice scream these words out was a bit chilling. In an out-of-body kind of way, I was trying to silence my own cries, agreeing with the nurses who tried to shush me from a distance. I don’t even remember the blackout of the anesthesia.

My next memory is like one of waking from the dead, which is pretty close to where I just was, considering I was in surgery for over three hours due to a torn cervix and massive blood loss, and death warmed over is pretty much how I looked. The first memory I have is of her flushed, round cheeks and blonde hair. I didn’t even register anyone else in the room for several seconds; it was just the two of us. She was wrapped tightly in a hospital blanket, a little burrito, warm and asleep, safe.

Four years ago today. It hardly seems possible. The memories are as fresh and current as only a week ago.

Happy birthday, my little burrito. Mommy loves you so much.

Worth Their Weight

2008-10-28T16:30:00.000-07:00

I killed three incredibly long hours yesterday morning at a Westcliff blood lab for a gestational diabetes test, having failed the one-hour test, and now I look like some kind of druggie. The crooks of my arms are bluish with tiny red puncture marks, having been pricked five times in three hours. Can I just say, Ouch?

My parents are gone, and normally I would have called upon them to watch the kids for this sort of marathonic event, but of course, as many of you already know, they are in Europe. So I called upon my sweet 90-year-old grandma to come assist with the insanity, to at least keep an ever-present eye upon my two wiggly buggers while I pop in and out of each blood-sucking session. With Great Grandma in my back pocket, I came prepared for the long haul. In tow were two large toy/book bags, a diaper bag, two kid water bottles and baggies of cheerios, a portable DVD player, and my purse. I think back to a day when I would have brought my purse. That’s it. Wow, how things have changed. On the way out, we added two jackets to the must-haul list; you know how the weather warms up by midday in the fall, at least in SoCal. There wasn’t a whole lot I could saddle on my four-year-old either; most of it weighed more than 30 pounds. But we managed…somehow.

During the blood-drawing episodes, the second time I heaved my rotund belly into the little white chair, the one with the funny crossbar – like, “What, you’re afraid I’m going to book it outa here when you pull out that needle for the fifth time?” – for a fleeting moment, I asked myself, “Is all this trouble really worth adding another one of these little buggers to the family?” Then Esther popped her delectably chubby cheeks and bouncing round eyes around the door of the room and said in her flirtatiously bubbly two-year-old voice, “Hi, Mum! What'cha doing?” and all of my momentary skepticism disappeared.

These two adorably quirky buggers, saddle attire and all, are worth their weight in blood! :)

[Oh, and the test came out normal...praise God!]

Polar Opposites

2008-10-27T19:55:00.000-07:00

He’s not perfect, but he’s perfect for me. We’re about as opposite as the first letters of our names, hanging out at almost polar-opposite ends of the alphabet. I’ve always heard opposites attract, but seven years of marriage is the proof. Opposites definitely attracted the two of us.

I remember the first time I saw him in the student lounge at the university; he was talking with an elderly gentleman, and all I could think of was how genuine and sincere he was with this man…and friendly. He gave him his entire attention, not distracted by the pretty girls or various friends sitting around him. He was respectful and courteous and incredibly magnanimous. I was immediately drawn to him. Not that I’m such the opposite of all of these qualities, but the smoothness with which he exhibited these qualities – it was evident that they were so very much him. He wasn’t trying to be magnetic; he just was. Whenever I interact with people, even today, unless it is with my close family members, it is often with awkward bumps, coached pleasantries, and messy silences. It doesn’t often run smoothly. I’m always more self-conscious than I am self-confident. For Eric conversation and friendships, whether close or casual, come easily. I love this about him. I can hang back at parties, be a wallflower if I so desire, and watch him add new friends to his ever-growing list.

He's the tortoise, and I'm the hare; he almost always seems to win the race.

God has used this opposite outlook in our marriage. Where I am stressed out, trying to check off the details on a huge to-do list, he is looking at the bigger picture and giving me clarity. When I am injured with a friend who’s hurt my feelings, he steps back and adds perspective. When I am clueless as to how to raise our oldest, the personality most duplicated after him, he amazes me with simple techniques that work well with her.

In him is balance. In him is rest.

I am blessed to have married this polar opposite.

Freezing Happiness

2008-10-25T10:50:00.000-07:00

Sometimes I could almost swear I’m living with a teenager, but then I look up to see that – nope, she’s still only four. She whips up the attitude at times, and it strikes out of nowhere. It’s such a puzzle to me; I was a fairly compliant child. Really. From where did this strong-willed creature birth? Oh, that’s right; I am rather strong-willed, and so is Eric, so that’s probably where.

Before going to the harvest festival a couple nights ago, I prep Abby with, “Okay, Abby. Now, we’re going to take a family picture tonight, and I want you to smile, or you won’t be getting any candy.” I know; awful, huh? Why don’t I think to state this in the positive, like, “Okay, Abby. If you smile for pictures tonight, Mommy will have a treat for you as a reward.” I don’t know. I guess it’s my strong pull toward the disciplinarian side of the coin, gotta pull out that negative reinforcement. I can’t seem to shake it. Anyway, she responds with, “But I don’t want to smile, Mom.” Have I jaded her so much to the camera that one little smile might kill her? Apparently.

So even after five takes, this is the end result:

I want to capture the happy memories of the event, but she couldn’t care less about the memories; she is so in the happiness of the moment, the one I’ve just squashed by trying to freeze her adorable fourness into one unforgettable snapshot. How can these two goals be reconciled? I’ve never been a great compromiser; I’m definitely an all-or-nothing type. Of course, it sours my mood for the rest of the evening. I can’t seem to get past the personal injury of her bad attitudes at times, even though she’s only four. I’m hoping my issues stem more from the fact that I’m pregnant and not that she’s hitting a four-going-on-fourteen phase.

I should probably just put the camera down for the next few years; maybe then she’ll be ready to spread the sunshine around more whenever it appears! ;-)

Calming the Crescendo

2008-10-24T09:18:00.000-07:00

We committed the ultimate crime with our daughters last night; we put them in separate bedrooms. They started out in the same bedroom (they’ve been sleeping together for well over six months now), but Abby hadn’t had a nap yesterday, and Esther did. This meant there was a disproportionate need for sleep between the two, and Esther evidenced this by squealing and talking incessantly for over 20 minutes. We tried the warnings, you know, going in and saying, “Go to sleep, Esther. You need to settle down, or we’re going to take you out and put you in the Pack-n-Play in the den,” but warning a two-year-old of impending doom is like telling the sun not to shine because clouds are coming. Pointless.

After several varied warnings, we finally broke down and removed her from the room. This, of course, resulted in her immediate wailings, “No, Daddy! No!” But she was not the true victim, for Abby was the one lying quietly in her bed, trying hopelessly to sleep, and Abby didn’t want Esther to be removed from the room any more than Esther wanted to be. So Eric put Esther in the den and closed the door. Abby then picked up with the tears, “I want someone to sleep with me! I want someone to sleep with me!” Between the two of them, it was an overwhelming crescendo of woe. Both of us stood in the kitchen, frozen in space and time, staring at one another for several minutes, contemplating what we should do.

Then Eric lifts his hands in mock-conductor form and pretends he’s leading the sad choir in its final mournful profundities. We, then, both break out in nervous little laughs; the situation, stressful as it is, presents humorous ironies. Esther is the culprit, after all, not us. We are following the course of natural consequences; it seems, however, that we will not be able to maintain the strictness of it forever. Neither of us wants to permanently separate the inseparable; it becomes grievous even for us to think about parting these two sisters who take such great comfort in sleeping with each other.

But of course, as all good parents do, we wait for the despairing crescendo to dissipate before heading back in to again reconcile the forlorn pair, and after another helping of cautionary admonitions, we leave their room with everyone’s spirits back intact, including ours.

Did we fail in this moment, or did we impart grace? Sometimes the line is a little fuzzy.

Attached at the Hip

2008-10-23T13:40:00.000-07:00

My parents are apparently uncontactable (and if you look that word up in Webster's, you won't find it, but "un" is a prefix that always attaches, and contactable is an adjective, or at least Word allows it), and after years of living with them or a couple miles away and hearing from them at ALL hours of the day, this is quite disturbing. Okay, granted, they have left for a 40th-anniversary trip to Europe, and they have never taken a trip of this magnitude before, and when will they ever have a 40th anniversary again, and Europe IS, of course, halfway around the world; their current time zone is approximately 9 hours ahead of mine, so as I write this at 2:30 in the afternoon, they are sawing logs. This, however, is not an excuse! My mom has been updating her blog fairly regularly. She’s been on the Internet three or four times since she’s been there, but she has not been replying to my e-mail in the last few days. This is very frustrating, especially because the first time they e-mailed me, they gave me a couple tasks to complete, calls to make, and some of the calls had responses, and now I can’t relay the responses, or if I have relayed them and no further response is necessary, I would have no way of knowing because there is nothing but silence on the other end.

So anyway, this is all to say that I am NOT coping very well with their being gone; their absence echoes resoundingly, especially with my little ones. Abby is always telling me how much she misses Grandma and Papa…oh, and – randomly disconnected as it may be – the neighbor boy, Jacob, who recently moved away. This is compounded with the apparent fact that I also have no way of contacting my always-have-cell-phone-by-my-side-even-when-I’m-asleep-or-in-the-bathroom Dad. I suppose I could pull out their itinerary, find the hotel where they are staying, go to my grandma’s (since we don’t currently have long distance, or at least our card won’t place international calls), and make a call to them, but I was told that that should only be for emergencies, and my circumstance hardly qualifies.

You can see we are a little too attached at the hip, folks. This is what happens when you have the “Everybody Loves Raymond” family, and they are living just down the block from you.

So Dad, Mom, if you read this, please e-mail me....NOW! :)

Ruling My Spirit

2008-10-22T09:50:00.000-07:00

He who is slow to anger is better than the mighty,
And he who rules his spirit, than he who captures a city.
Proverbs 16:32

Abigail Charis Carmichael, don’t tell me that you picked up the painted pumpkin without asking!

By my cross expression and cutting tone, I’ve forced a look to cross her face that resembles that of a cat with its ears turned backwards. This won’t be the last time, I’m sure. It certainly hasn’t been the first. I dread the scared-kitty look; it immediately pours on the guilt. This isn’t the first shirt she’s smothered in paint today, and this shirt is brand new, a gift from her grammy. We’re in the car, ready to pull out of the driveway, but I’m buckling her into her seat when I make this discovery.

Moments earlier I had prompted her memory of the cherished pumpkin by asking her to tell Daddy what we did today. “We painted pumpkins at Grace’s house,” she giggles excitedly. So on her way out the door, she spots her pumpkin sitting on an old paint can out in the garage (a far-enough-away place, or so I thought, to avoid further painted-pumpkin blouse stains) and hugs it close to her body, bringing the prize up to show her daddy. “See, Daddy. Here’s my pumpkin!” I, of course, don’t know any of this, as I’m still in the house getting last-minute tasks done before we head to Victorville for the evening. All I’m aware of is, when I open the back door to the car, Abby’s new shirt is covered in splashes of orange, green, and red pumpkin paint…again.

After shouting her full name and sending her ears back with my sharp pitch, I quickly remove the shirt and head back into the house to soak it in water and retrieve a new shirt (Shirt Number Three). Stain-removal technologist is one of those patches I’ve been sewing onto my Mommy Scout uniform for the last few years; I’m always on the path for new stain-fighting tricks. While muddling through her drawer for another top, I begin to weigh the cost of this blouse against the cost of Abby’s damaged psyche. Is ten dollars worth my child’s lowered self-image?

All I know is, sometimes in my haste to do all the really-needed Mommy chores, I forget to be the Mommy my children really need. I spend most of my time figuring out ways to get back to what I really need to do, when my children are what I really need to do. It’s a shirt, for goodness’ sake. It can be replaced, but her memory of this browbeating maybe never will be.

As I open the door to the car, I hear, “I’m sorry, Mommy.” Daddy and she had words to the effect of asking first before making rash decisions like picking up paint-covered pumpkins. “No, honey. It’s okay. You were excited to show Daddy your pumpkin, and Mommy overreacted. Forgive me.” It’s never too late to ask for forgiveness; this is one lesson my dad has taught me over years of making parenting mistakes. It’s probably the main reason why I haven’t been left emotionally damaged in life. My parents certainly weren’t perfect; they made their fair share of blunders. However, they could always admit when they were wrong, and they knew how to ask for forgiveness.

Lord, help me to rule my spirit; make me better than the mighty or than he who captures a city.

Your Vote

2008-10-21T09:05:00.000-07:00

How will you vote this election? Whether you comment below and tell me or not, I pray that you will carefully and prayerfully consider your decision, reflecting deeply on the gravity of your vote. I warned you I'm getting more political.

A candidate could promise me health care coverage and a hefty rebate; he could promise me to turn the economy back on its feet again; he could promise me peace in the Middle East; he could ultimately promise me the world, but if he lacks moral fiber, if he lacks the principles upon which this country was founded, if he lacks what God deems love, he is a sounding gong or a clanging cymbal. My vote cannot be bought; it must be earned.

How do you make your decision for whom to vote? Will you vote what you think will benefit your pocketbook most, or will you vote your moral conscience? Maybe you claim to be doing both, or maybe you actually are. Will you vote for the candidate that supports alternative marriage, adoption rights for gay couples, and teaching alternative lifestyles to children in public schools, or will you vote for the one who wants to uphold the traditional definition of marriage as between one man and one woman? Will you vote for the candidate that wants to bolster Roe v. Wade, is for partial birth abortion in some cases, did not sign legislation for children born alive from failed abortions, and supports crossing state lines to allow abortions for minors, or will you vote for the candidate who stands behind the sanctity of all human life, no matter the stage? Will you vote for the candidate who says he “promotes” tolerance (as long tolerance of Christian values isn’t required) or for the candidate who thinks religious freedom is key to the foundation of our great country?

Maybe you haven’t even gotten into the heart of these issues; the media has backed off from them for the most part, which is so typical of mainstream these days, so why should we be any different? Maybe you’ve only focused on who argues his point best or who appears to have the better promise to boost the economic downturn or who might bring the soldiers home sooner. But maybe you should look a little closer…

Whichever candidate you vote for, please vote prayerfully. And once the vote is said and done, please pray for the man who takes office; whoever that may be, he will desperately need the fervent prayers of those chillingly few left in this country apparently willing to do so.

Squeeeeeeezed!

2008-10-20T09:19:00.000-07:00

I don’t want to forever complain about this pregnancy thing (I know y’all are probably sick of it, and I also know that my overtone is often one of complaint…working on that one…sorry), but I have to say that I can’t wait until I have my body back, my space back, room for my organs to expand comfortably again. Everything inside of me is completely squeezed, making room for this watermelon-sized uterus. It elbows its way around in here, pushing aside my lungs, my stomach, my bladder, and my intestines until nothing functions normally. Literally. Hey, could I have a little more room, here? Thanks. My uterus is the man who should have purchased two airline tickets to fit into his seat, the one who made everyone else look around for another available seat. It feels a little like I’ve consumed a gallon and a half of water which has gone nowhere but to my uterus. On top of that, it sits too high on my body, pushing up on my diaphragm. My lungs are working at half capacity, I’m convinced. I huff and puff even doing minor daily functions, like walking down the hallway or reaching to get a cup out of the cupboard or even merely singing. I get heartburn after eating even the smallest meals. I am heading for the bathroom at all hours of the day and night. I mean, I just went twenty minutes ago, and now I have to go again? It’s a conspiracy, I tell you! And my uterus is the linchpin in all of it. And I’ll just refrain from going on about how it’s affected my intestines. Let me just say, the gas I can produce could clear a room. Even saying that, I know, is way too much information. Sorry. Nothing is functioning normally anymore.

I honestly hate being pregnant; this is probably not news to most of you. I mean, I love the ends, but the means are just so completely otherworldly. There is nothing more alien than growing another human being inside of you, sharing your space, the exact square-inch area you call yourself, for 40 weeks. I have a hard time understanding how some women enjoy, even prefer, this form of existence. Apparently, some women are designed to do it well, and others…well, you get the point.

Not sure I could ever enjoy barely being able to recognize myself, but I can’t wait to hold this precious little guy in my arms…outside of my body.