January 5, 2011
On Being Scared of the Dark
In all her 3 and a half years, Hannah has only found her way to our bed in the middle of the night because of feeling scared twice. Last night was the most recent episode. She joined us at 3:30 am, Richard told me later, and slept soundly with us for the remainder of her sleep. There were four in the bed and the little one said…
Tonight after a song, tucking in, and kisses, she informed me that sometimes she feels scared in the night because she thinks of “the mean people.” I know all about feeling scared in the night. As a youngish child, I was too frightened to use my own bathroom so I used my parent’s bathroom instead for my nighttime pottying and helpfully informed my mom of my coming and going each time. Occasionally I would snuggle in their bed, but my mom spun a delightful line about my own sheets feeling so cool and fresh and how she would tuck me in like an envelope. I never lasted long in their bed.
Partly because I envisioned a crowded bed again tonight and partly as an attempt to quiet her fears, I said a special prayer to ask Jesus to come near and to send his angels to help Hannah sleep well and safely. Her eyes lit up and she grinned. “Are the angels already flying close?” Yes sweet girl, they are.
Sleep Tight
Last night I cradled my baby’s warm body close to mine and we went down the hall together. Pushing open the door, we stepped into the pink glow of her Christmas tree lit room. I crept close to the bed until I could hear the harmony of their breathing. Big sister and little sister. Both asleep, both dreaming, both pulling my very heart from me.
Washing
It’s no problem to sort the dirty laundry and dump it in the washer.
It’s easy to pull wet clothes from one machine and shove them into another.
Hauling baskets of clothing, warm from the dryer, to their respective rooms is not a chore.
But the folding, the endless folding of an assortment of tiny garments (not unlike doll clothes) gets me every time.
Still, I picture myself pushing wiggly limbs into soft cotton. Chasing down the preschooler with a fresh outfit in my hands. Counting my blessings with each load.
December 30, 2010
Perspective
When you wake up crying moments after I put you down, I count it a privilege to scoop you up and rock you back to sleep.
When you fuss and cling to me, when you won’t let me get anything done, I am blessed to keep you happy in my arms.
When my nights are interrupted several times over by you searching for milk, I am honored to provide your meals.
When I watch the rise and fall of your chest as you sleep, I am relieved.
When you smile and flap your arms, when your eyes look into mine, I treasure all that you are.
When others experience a tragedy of unthinkable proportion, I hold you a little tighter. I love you a little stronger. I find your interruptions to be of no inconvenience. Because somewhere someone would give anything to be holding their baby. And miracle of all miracles, I get to hold you.
The Boy I Never Met
It’s the unthinkable tragedy.
On the day they buried their not quite 8 month old, the heavens cried with them.
The next morning a fresh blanket of snow covered his grave, sticking to flowers and the Sesame Street balloon. I saw the grass and dirt, dug up and placed down again. By spring the earth will heal.
Created in His image- made for loving and life. Their hearts will never heal. Why God?
“For the Lord Himself will descend from heaven with a shout, with the voice of an arch angel, and the dead in Christ will rise first.” 1 Thessalonians 4:16
They beg you, Lord. Come quickly!
November 30, 2010
Joy
Today while I was baking, Hannah scurried around the kitchen, full of her usual chatter. “You’re going to be covered in joy, Mama” she told me. “I am? What does that mean Hannah?” “I’m going to be covered in joy, too” was her only reply. I have no idea where this came from or even what it meant coming from her three year old perspective, but I must say I love the concept. To be covered in joy… doesn’t God promise this to us?
November 28, 2010
Chosen
Mary must have loved him best
raising a king, but holding a child.
Her child born unto us
but to her mother’s heart a son who
nuzzled close for comfort and for milk.
She delighted in first smiles and answered baby coos.
Three years, thirteen years, then thirty.
Always she was his mother.
A savior to her, but also a son.
And when his earthly mission was complete,
Mary must have missed him most.
November 22, 2010
Journey
I’m not going to the mission field anytime soon. In fact, I’m pretty sure I’m not even going shopping for longer than 2 hours before my babe’s hunger meter reaches empty. So I’ve decided to make an intentional effort to make spiritual connections in the every day, child-centered, and often tedious (and apparently mind numbing as I had to look up the spelling of tedious) realm of my work. Welcome to my mission frontier: my home.
October 30, 2010
On Preserving Memories
I vow to never ever procrastinate on making photo albums again. A few days ago, I finished making a digital album of Abby’s birth story and the first few months thereafter. While I felt a tiny twinge of nostalgia when looking at her very new newborn pics, I was able to move swiftly forward because, after all, the same sweet babe was sleeping in my arms.
Now I’m working on Hannah’s album. Gulp. Big gulp. Heart skips a beat. Eyes sting. Three years ago she was my tiny baby. Picture after picture shows that. Thankfully, I can still hold her on my lap, but she’s a big girl. This strong pull of sentiment makes it very difficult impossible to choose wisely when selecting photos to include. I have to be harsh with myself and omit pictures that really are not that good in comparison to the (literally) hundreds of other choices. She was our firstborn, you know. And what they say is true: people take more photos of their first child. All these choices and the fact that my baby is now three makes this album hard to swallow and equally hard to complete. But how she will glow when she reads it. So I move forward.
October 29, 2010
Here
When you whine, cry, shout “no,” and melt into another raging tantrum, I’d rather be anywhere but here. I can close my eyes and go backward to hear your baby cries. Cries that signaled a real need: food, diaper change, comfort. Babies are supposed to cry, I told myself.
I try not to internalize your feelings, but when you’re upset I experience it too: disgust, sadness, discouragement, exasperation, helplessness.
I know this phase will pass. I can close my eyes and go forward. Hear the attitude creep into your sweet voice. See you pulling away. Hear our arguments during your teen years.
And then one day, silence. No tantrums or crying, but no sweet children either.
I take it back. Right now, I don’t want to be anywhere but here.
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