Guardian

We met as a happy accident.

Backyard breeding and puppies galore.

“You’ll need a guardian,” was the rationale.

Yes, that, too. But he has a sunshine soul.

Carmel, honey coat. Mane of gold.

Scratchy whiskers, and magnificent tail.

He’s a mutt, of no value, But this is the truth:

He’s the best dog I’ve had. When I see him, my heart bursts.

When we load up and drive away, he behaves as the keeper of our world.

He sits quietly, but it’s a trick. For in time to pass the old cabin on our long gravel driveway–

*flash* a blur of fur darts past our vehicle.

He’s running ahead, looking back with a grin.

We live in the woods.

That means he often brings me gruesome heads, hoofs and hides hunters discard.

He is delighted with his discoveries.

I have to load the carnage to the dumpster every few months.

Once and only once he killed 3 chickens.

We made him a collar of shame  (body of one of the dead birds) to dissuade him from killing again.

He wore his tribal attire with pride and pranced around until sunset.

He sleeps outside.

He’s been sprayed by skunks and he killed and suffered greatly because of a porcupine father who was venturing through our woods.

Coyotes stay away because of this great, gentle giant.

Sometimes when I get home late at night,

The stars shine their brilliant song into the dark, and

He’ll lope his way over to me and use his back as an escort for my right hand

as I walk to our doorstep.

More times than I can count, as I breathe relief of home, I’ve thought, “He’s the best dog.”

March Twenty Twenty

We have all been sentenced a final call.

This plague is not our Frankenstein's monster;
No product of man, potioned by neglect.

But a season, cycle of existence.

The fingers jut out remarkably fast.

Who’s fault is it anyway? cough.wash.cough.

Death moves closer by one second or ten.

Never immune. Forever marching on.

Bruised arms cradle those infants who will die.

Old men, too. Have we forgotten our creed:

Memento Mori. Forgotten the grave?

The man who said, “Turn to the Holocaust…”

He was right. 

Pain is an absolute. When buried deep–

It will rumble to an atomic blow.

Same for raw fear, held tight in sweaty hands.

They feed on darkness and want. hide.take.cheat.

Shine bright with sun and truth. They disinfect.

The virus urges the sickness of self.

More than fearsome malady of body. 

As though we arrived here by sweat.toil.sweat.

No, some are born to huts, mosquitoes, dirt.

Some stockpile ramen, tissue paper,

Life-giving water, face masks: fire breathers. 

But we are all just here. Where God plopped us.

Auspicious or challenged in our locales.

We each one gasp for air from the other. 

All determined to revel in this world. 

Oh friend fear, fuel beauty and bravery! 

Instead of your cloaked, clenched, foul stagnation.

If our bliss and safety aren’t held– fastened,

Fear’s subtle, treacherous voice pours poison,

Dreams grim. No visions for eternity.

The decadent choice is not hate or kin.

Condole fear. The planets aren’t stayed by grasp.

Steal joy from the panic and the rubble.

If death comes: our souls refuse confinement.

If death comes: a life explodes its refrain.

A hymn to be heard for a million years.

If cancer, plague, war, suicide, befall–

Death is friend to the mender who absolves. 

That frank tour guide– ever onwards and up.

tend

I'm not great with brevity. 

We had our 1-year- post-placement visit a few weeks ago. I love our social worker. She's calming, inquisitive but not intrusive. Always encouraging.
Harrison was a nervous wreck. Sometimes I don't think he is listening or that he doesn't understand what we are talking about when conversations about China come up. However, he always gets cuddly and quiet. He wouldn't talk to her, and curled up next to me during almost the entire visit. He typically has ZERO interest in talking about China, still refuses to speak in Mandarin, and seems to want with every fiber of his being–to move on from his former life. When I told our social worker that, she said it's actually pretty common. And, that we just need to keep that door open, because he will want to talk someday. I found that relieving. I know many families whose children keep in contact with friends and caregivers from their care centers, who take language lessons in their birth language, and so on...
Things I want for my son.
But,  I feel like it's okay to let him become part of the family wholly in his mind,
and wait for the day when he is more interested in his past and can trust that his past and present can coexist safely in our family.


I still have panic attacks regularly. 
 I started taking an aikido class with a friend.  The sensei has a background in domestic violence work, and victim advocacy. He was going through the stages of losing consciousness and how victims typically react during strangulation. Before I knew it I was fighting a full blown panic attack just sitting and watching him explain the process. Racing heart. Sick to my stomach. Needing to run, right. now.  Tears that turned into sobs before I could stop them. Left the room for a bit. Calmed down. Went back in. Super embarrassing! Ridiculous.
 But, the sensei was understanding and said I was free to leave and regroup anytime I got anxious. I don't even know why I was anxious.

So.
 My life is not going as planned. It's almost been a year, and I'm forced to at least consider this condition as my very unwelcome companion heading into the future. I desperately hope it goes away, but sometimes searching for a cure is just as draining as the disease. I will still probably talk to a therapist, it really helps with expectation management. I will still work on boundaries and guarding my heart.
But, I can't let it define who I am and control everything I do.

I'm learning a few things.

This month for the first time since China,
I've noticed that when I have an episode, I don't plunge into darkest despair during or afterwards. I don't feel as detached, or "depersonalized" (which is a really scary feeling). This month the really scary things didn't happen. I still felt incredibly sad. I still had those thoughts dancing in the back of my mind. But for some reason...they didn't take over. I know those feelings of detachment will likely come again, but I have hope of relief and...hope.

"A man cannot discover anything about his future" Ecclesiastes 7:14

Unfortunately.


I've had this thought in my head all month. I can't quite say why it's helped.
 It's the thought that God created me for obedience, and work, and fellowship...but most of all he created me to delight in me, and for me to delight in his creations. And in him, of course.
This is really hard for my works-oriented, legalistic, shame-filled heart to accept.
Let me EARN your love.
Let me PROVE my worth.
Let me do one. more. thing.

 I'm SO motivated by projects and what's next and next and next that I have to, I must move to the next tier of accomplishment.
And, that often creates this terror that I just might be on the wrong path and it's all for naught.

However, Adam and Eve tended a garden.
And, it was enough.
Jesus made cabinets and ate with sinners, and it was enough.
(And, of course died for the world to know true love, but he was complete even before that.)

 A good friend of mine was talking about how sometimes she will look at kitchens on Pinterest and say, "I hope that is in my home in heaven, Jesus."

 It struck me as the most ridiculous, silly...and then profoundly beautiful thought for a person to trust God with even their most homey earthly desires. I couldn't stop thinking about her child-like faith in God's provision of what was beautiful to her! And while I don't want to live my life for the fulfillment of apple-pie-American dreams–what if I really could trust him with tending to the desires of my heart in even the smallest ways? Did he not create the teeniest of flowers to bring joy? Did he not make my babies soft, squishy,  in love with mama, and bathed in just a little bit of heaven to make my heart strong enough for the days or maybe minutes ahead?



Last month I was going through Genesis because I was wanting to know why the hell God made marriage in the first place. It sometimes seems it was so disregarded by people in the bible, and is just as difficult a concept to grasp by modern day men and women. Something that multiple people mentioned when I would talk about Genesis, was this idea that our job in life is to tend. Not so much arrive. We pick up laundry. We nurture each other's hearts with fellowship and food. We hold our children. We mow our laws, even though the grass will grow back. We clean our animal stalls though they fill up before we can bat an eye. We fold laundry some more. Clean pee off toilets and maybe bathroom walls. We suffer. We will most definitely have pain. We fight it. But we can't avoid it.
We take away the weeds.
And...they all come back.
And, if you think about the end game: it all seems pointless.  You raise up children, and forgo sleep for decades, carefully pick out dresses, and bb guns, search for their favorite books, movies or videos games, make their favorite meals, and one day they scream that they hate you because you took away their iPod.

Or perhaps balk at their latest chore the morning after you helped them into the wee hours of the night with their homework, or after you had, "family pizza night" and had carefully planned the perfect movie that all 10 people in your family would actually like, baked homemade pizza, and cleaned stray popcorn from all corners of the living room. (This is all theoretical of course.) You spend hours cuddling with your trauma kids, you try to remember there is a foundation to lay, lost time to make up, you say you love them every. single. night., you cross oceans and spend mountains of money and wouldn't hesitate to spend mountains more,  maybe even beg, borrow to bring them home, and you worry and stress and are downright terrified of their pain at times. And, then just when you think you've healed every corner of their hearts–they tell you they wish they didn't have a mommy and daddy. Or that they wish so and so had adopted them instead. Because, after all, aren't they a commodity to be traded or laid aside at will? And, why can't they be involved in this transaction? And, you realize you are totally 100% unable to be a healer without The Healer, and it's not YOUR fault things didn't work out in their first families, and it's not THEIR fault they are still angry or sad or confused, and... your life is going to be messy forever.
FOR-EV-VER.
And, even if you had no children. Or married someone else. Or adopted 10 or adopted 1, or earned a doctorate degree, or won a Nobel Prize: we are all in the same quandary, and our lives are all messy.




And we tend. And we tend. And we tend.  And we tend. We go to work. We do our homework. We go to our meetings. We visit the sick. We have uncomfortable conversations with friends or family.

And it's all for naught.

Unless their can be some kind of joy in the being. Just being. Some kind of gratitude in our consumption of space on this planet, in this century, in this moment–today, with these other flawed people, in these short-tall-fat-skinny- imperfect, yet glorious bodies...and with all the tragedies attached to our very existence.

So basically all the clichès about enjoying the journey not the destination.

But it's struck me hard.

No one can tell you to be grateful. Or to feel wonder.
Or to, "stop worrying."
Or to live after death has stolen something precious.
Or to trust and hope after the world has revealed it's insidous mutiny. You have to wander the wilderness, wrestle with dark scary beasts with real fangs and claws, and open your crusted, bleary eyes to it yourself.

I tend my heart, because just like a garden, the weeds will come. The sin and despair will come and try to entangle around everything that is precious.

The weeds come back, but we know the end story.
It ends in victory.

And despite what I felt during these past 12 months or so...I KNOW, know, know that there is beauty and joy to be had. Relationships to delight in. Sunsets to see. Creeks to listen to. Fresh air to smell. Strangers to meet and call friends. Babies to snuggle. Coffee to cup in my hands. Truths to learn. Love to know. I am surprised by joy lately (to steal a very good phrase). I really thought I might not ever feel it again. And, here it is...peeking out.

I have so much pride in being capable.
And bursting into tears and shallow breathing with snot-bubbles in front of strangers is the surest way to feel like you are not so capable. But, that's just it. It's pride.

Suffering isn't exactly a new human condition:

I have had enough Lord, he said. Take my life, I am not better than my ancestors. 1 Kings 19:4

Now O Lord, take away my life, for it is better for me to die than to live. Jonah 4:3

Why did I not perish at birth, and die as I came from the womb? Job 3:11

I have no peace, no quietness, I have no rest, but only turmoil. Job 3:26

I loathe my very life, therefore I will give free rein to my complaint and speak out in the bitterness of my soul. Job 10:1

Terrors overwhelm me…my life ebbs away, days of suffering grip me. Night pierces my bones, my gnawing pains never rest. Job 30:15-17

Cursed be the day I was born…why did I ever come out of the womb to see trouble and sorrow and to end my days in shame? Jer. 20:14,18

__________________________________

He was despised and rejected by mankind, a man of suffering, and familiar with pain. Like one from whom people hid their faces he was despised, and we held him in low esteem.  Isaiah 53:3 

And He said to them, 'My soul is deeply grieved to the point of death; remain here and keep watch.' And He went a little beyond them, and fell to the ground and began to pray that if it were possible, the hour might pass Him by. And He was saying, "Abba! Father! All things are possible for You; remove this cup from Me; yet not what I will, but what You will." Mark 14:34-36

The LORD is close to the brokenhearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit. Psalm 34:18



When I start having a tsunami of soul-emptying thoughts hijack my brain, I've taken SO much comfort in telling myself to just, "...tend you garden." Who knows what will happen? Just tend to today and leave the turmoil that comes tomorrow alone.
There is honor and satisfaction to be had in menial tasks and joy in seeking beauty.




From the looney bin on the mountain.

my portion

October 16, 2016

I am writing hunched over in the shadows. 

Sleeping babes next to me.

The moon is a spotlight, dazzling, radiant, outside my window.

I notice the moon, I pay attention to it.

It's light in the darkness.

One of my three-year-olds says, "Mom! The circle moon is back!!! I see it. It sees me."

I have a new son. He is smart, tender, funny, sweet. When he cries, it fills me with fear. 

I try not to be afraid of his grief.

I pull him close and pray for gentleness when I want to run.

Sometimes I am grumpy and tense and not gentle at all.

But I try. I keep trying.

It's draining to fight your inadequacies and imperfection and gear up for battle anyway. 

To say, "I am his mother. I am all he has and it has to be good enough."

I rub his head while I talk and he acts as though he hasn't been comforted in a long, long time.

It's probably true.

Who has noticed this little boy? Who has loved him?

Sometimes he soaks it up like a kitten.

Sometimes he is shut down and resigned to his loneliness. 

He closes his eyes and pretends to be asleep.

I know soon he will start understanding he isn't alone.

He smiles more every. single. day.

He is awakening to life.

It's beautiful to watch.

But...when he is throwing a fit, or one of the twins is crying (or both!), or when anyone is sad:  it's hard not to panic. It feels like my heart is already overflowing, and I'm not sure how much sadness it can hold.

I want to be brave enough to write or talk about our time in China. I get sick to my stomach when I think about it. I have let our last bit of packed odds and ends sit in purses and backpacks for months. I hate the smell of jasmine. 

One moment I find myself herding children and animals through fairgrounds, dusty and full. Squeezing and squeezing and squeezing down the grip of terror in my neck. The constant awareness of the clip-clopping of my heart that speeds up to a gallop and never seems to slow down. Ignoring the fire and tumult in my belly. Mechanical smiles. Holding hands. Putting kids in cars seats. Just get through. There’s no way out but through.

The next moment I am sitting on the ground in the Walmart parking lot. Sobbing and sobbing and sobbing: feeling like this can’t go on. I can’t get through.  I go to a room in a hospital with no personal belongings; I’m handed paper scrubs.  I'm very embarrassed that it has come to this. One of my younger brothers is making small talk, and sitting next to me, swinging his legs. Kind and gentle. The nurse is nice and knows me from my many trips to the E.R. with one child or the other. Then I talk to the social worker and we make a, "safety plan."

She tells me I am lucky to have so many supportive family members. I agree.

I was not making plans for something permanent. But when your mind, body, heart are all pain, and the pain doesn't go away...you think things you never thought you would think. I am so tired. It is a terrifying feeling to feel like you are cracking and may not be put back together. Tired of the mutiny of my body and mind. Tired of the sadness that follows the days of jittery, anxious, terror-filled hours. It's a sad thing to have life not turn out how you planned– to not be as strong, or good, or kind or capable as you thought.  To not have a body that's as healthy as you expected it to be. But, it's a normal thing, and that's what I am wrapping my brain around now.

My soul is exhausted for searching for hope. God has never felt so far away.

I see him all around. But I can't feel him. I'm trying to honor him. To praise him.
I know he is good.

My body hurts. My mind doesn’t feel the same as before.

"Why won't you take this?"

"When will it stop?"

"It's too much, Lord. You ask too much."

Paul said his thorn in the flesh was left lest he become prideful. That thought keeps ringing in my heart. Maybe I have been prideful. I know I have.  I am gaining empathy and understanding that I never wanted, but that I'm thankful for.  I truly didn't understand heartache and anguish before.

I go to my counselor. I go to a prescriber.  

I even talk to our adoption agency...the scariest thing of all.   It all takes time. 

There's no magic with things like this. Everything seems louder now. Music can be just noise.

Life can be just noise. There's a lot of little people touching me.  It feels like I have three toddlers who have BIG love tanks in need of filling. They need me. It overwhelms me. Because I forget that they need God and other humans, too.

That I’m not the only commodity that is able to provide. 

It seems as though my heart never stops racing. My stomach hurts ALL the time. It pisses me off every time I notice the burning above my belly button. Sometimes I throw up after all the kids are tucked in and sleeping.  I want to be around people I love and never leave. I dread waiting for night to come.  Evening and nighttime are so hard for me.  I'll do almost anything to put off that feeling of waiting. Waiting for something bad to happen. For a call from a doctor or a family member that something terrible has happened. A cough from a little one that means a week or a month in the hospital. A fever. A rash. An accident.  I am expectant of all the hard things.

I have the most responsibility I've ever had, yet I’m totally the most needy and vulnerable.

I cry.

A lot.

I cry on the way into town.

I cry on the way back home.

I cry when I listen to happy music.

I cry when I listen to sad music.

I sob in church.

I can't stop.

My kids ask me, "You okay, mom?"

I joke and say, "Oh, yes. It's just my 2 o'clock crying time."

My older brother says sobbing is just God's way of making you grieve.

But what am I grieving?  Being alive? Why NOW, and not before when the hurt was happening?

It's like all the sad and scary things in human existence hit me. Like I wasn't really paying attention before.

My older brother is an angel.

He tells me things like, "It's just your mind f***ing with you, Sarah. But, that's okay, we're all f***ed-up." 

"Breathe. Go on walks to breathe—not to run away. " 

"Touch something real. Tell yourself all the real things." 

 "You aren't alone.” 

I tell him I'm afraid of the devil. I'm afraid of everything, but most afraid of that dark thing. He says, "No sh*t Sherlock. What else is there to afraid of?"

My younger brother, who knows grief so well. He tells me not to give God ultimatums. 

Just ask him to get you through today.

And today. 

And today.

I find myself telling people I'm not okay. 

Blurting it out on the soccer field. 

Crying in front of strangers.

I see an acquaintance at Starbucks and when she asks me how I’m doing I say, “Oh. Not good. Not good. Have you ever been depressed?!” Just like that. Very awkward.

When I'm weepy, I feel like I have slain so many dragons alone. The deployment. The babies. This last trip. There’s that pride. It’s not true. But that's how it feels.  Lonely. I'm so done. I hate being alone. I never want to be alone again. (Said the woman who bore or crossed oceans for eight children. ha!)

I text people and ask for prayer. They all say, "Call anytime. We are here for you."

Some of the most precious gifts I’ve ever been given, are now texts. Texts that people sent while I was in China. Texts that they’ve sent recently. People boldly pushing past the awkwardness of texting someone they may not even know very well, to say, “We’re thinking of you," or “Praying for you today,” or "Here’s a poem that made me think of you.”

That all feels like love to me. 

I feel embarrassed and guilty.
Shame.

But I shove those feelings away because I want to get better. 

And...I can't do it by myself.

When it feels really dark and scary inside my soul, and Jason is working out of town, I've called my mom or dad. 

"I'm having a hard time. Can you come sit with me?"

Always, "I'll be right over."

Hours into the night. 

My mom read scripture and played lullaby music. 

I eventually stop shivering and relax. 

My dad came over and I watch the meteor shower through his car windows. He speaks truth and makes plans with me. I like plans. "Do all the hard things in the morning," he says.  

With this: my husband has nothing but grace, grace, grace and healing for me. He never judges me. 

He knows what it's like.

Some have said, “Don't worrying so much." Or, "You need to take control of your thoughts." Why didn't I think of that!? I honestly pray that they never have to know what this feels like. And, that it's not so much your thoughts that are rebelling with panic attacks or PTSD or things like that. Although they are, too. It’s your body. Your body is remembering the wrong things. Your body is afraid of the wrong things. Your body is telling you, "RUN!!!" Your body is telling you, "YOU WILL DIE.” And, the trigger might be a smell, a sound, a feeling, a sunset, or something that you aren't even registering. Many, many times, I don't even realize I'm thinking a scary thought, before my body starts telling me I'm thinking it. Many, many times I have anxiety attacks as I'm falling asleep; it's a cruel, cruel irony that when I am most tired and most needing sleep–my body is afraid to give it to me. I think somewhere deep down,  I think that someone will die or something terrible will happen if I fall asleep at that moment. So fight or flight kicks in at 11:30 at night...and it's just as fun as it sounds.

It would be nice if you could just say, "Hey body (and Amygdala). Remember me? I'm the prefrontal cortex. Can we have a talk?" 

My body doesn't listen for awhile at least. I feel like I am going to die, or would rather die than crawl out of my skin for one more minute. It feels like an invasion. It takes anywhere from 2 hours to 8 hours  (or days and days when I was in China!) until my body really believes I'm safe. Sometimes a hug, or a walk make everything okay.

Sometimes I just freak out no matter what. 

It just runs its course and leaves me in ruins in its wake.

So we go one more day and one more day, and wait for joy and dancing.

I look for my portion around me, and in God's words and his people.

He prepares a banquet for me. I know it is coming. Better is one day in his courts than thousands elsewhere. I'm banking on that. I'm learning to play the long game. I'm growing up I hope.

Also. I look for ways to be hands and feet, too. Sometimes I am little and selfish and I hide. Other times I realize there is no point to any of this if it doesn't bring good into the world somehow. Is it possible to bring glory to God in so weak a vessel?

There’s no way to repay all the goodness or badness in the world. 

We just have to look in our circle and find the broken hearts, find joy, search for the God of the universe and let him speak. And be brave.


Very, very brave. 

Adoption again

It took me awhile to get here. 

My blog was so covered in dust and ivy—it took some finagling to dislodge the magic keys that connect to the world wide web. It's been awhile. 

But here I am.

And, I want to talk to you about our second adoption.

But when I think about telling you, it's hard to find a good place to start.

Before we moved back to Eastern Oregon in 2012, we were already planning our second adoption. We had called our agency. We had hopes of adopting through Ethiopia again. As time moved along, it became less and less likely that that would happen. Adoptions were barely moving through the system anymore.

About that time—we got a call from a social worker in another state asking if we would be willing to care for the child of a distant relative. We stopped our process through Holt, and started working with said social worker.

Then she stopped calling.

We left messages.

We called...often.

The social worker never got back with us.

I assume that the parents eventually gained custody and that's why we weren't called. But, it was weird. It was hard. We had made a place in our hearts for this kid. It had put a stop in our international adoption, and now that we were getting ready to move we decided to start the process when we were settled in Oregon.

Durame back in 2010

When we got to Oregon, I was still set on Ethiopia, but the doors were closed.

We started the process with our agency again, in January of 2013 found out we were pregnant with twins.

I have to believe that all of this matters. And, that there is a reason for derailment.
Oh how I love these girls!

Silly Roosevelt and Serious Monroe.

Fast forward through lots of heartache and joy. One of the many things I came away with from my time in the NICU with my girls...was a strong desire to adopt a child with special needs. There had been a few precious babies with special needs that roomed with my girls. One of the babies went through quite a large portion of their time with very, very few visitors. 

It was heartbreaking.

We started to dip our toes back into the process again in January last year. Because we are weird and wanted to keep up our odd year birthdays with our kids—I started searching for kids born in 2011. That was it. Harrison was the first picture on the waiting child list with a birth year of 2011.

Harrison in Fuzhou

I know that sounds terrible. It is. I much prefer getting a referral call and just knowing that whatever name your agency utters from the other end...the answer will be, "Yes. Yes, I'll take him!"

I have a strong repulsion for shopping for kids online like they are commodity...but I realize they have often become just that. And, this is the world we live in today.

So, I typed in "2011" clicked on the little sweet face on the screen, and my heart said,
"Go." "Do it." "Fight for this kid."

When I called Holt, I was expecting to shoot the breeze for a few months. While we hadn't wanted to "shop," the process was different than before. There was so much urgency this time around. When I asked for his information, they told me he was about to time out of their system, and we needed to move if we wanted to pursue him.

Yes. We wanted to pursue him. Of course.

So January and February were a flurry of emails, calls, back-and-froths with a doctor at Doernbecher's in Portland, who was helping us better understand his medical condition, and then before we knew it about this time last year we had a completed home study. Everything felt backwards in those beginning days.

We've knocked out fingerprinting, compiled birth certificates, marriage certificates, local and federal criminal background checks, bank letters, reference letters, physical exams and labs, wrote engrossing autobiographies, watched a dozen hours of online parenting classes, our poor social worker endured a home study visit that involved spontaneous puking from more than one of our children (she was a champ), we've visited our accountant a bazillion times to have documents notarized, read way too many emails or not read too many emails and had to embarrassingly admit I wasn't keeping track of important adoption correspondence.

And now, in a few short months, we will bring home our son.

enough time

Today is Lincoln's eleventh birthday.

 I should say that, "time flies," and wasn't it just yesterday that I labored this plump little eskimo baby into the world? One hour and forty-five minutes in all. From turkey dinner to baby. Jason didn't even make it to the delivery. Our midwife had 15 minutes to spare.  Or wasn't it just yesterday that I was: rocking him to sleep, going on late-night drives to get him to sleep, walking up and down and up and down the hallway in our apartment to get him to sleep, nursing him to sleep, singing him to sleep. (Please baby--sleep!) Cleaning baby throw up. Smelling like sour milk. Waking to his gummy, drooly, s0-hapy-to-be-here smile every morning. Getting him to giggle for the first time. Letting my younger brother feed him ice cream and sour cream alternately--watching him shiver and pucker with the sour cream, but innocently asking for more. Blowing raspberries on his belly. Worrying over his first fever. Fighting over who changed his next diaper. Listening to him wail during the four-hour drive back and forth between Portland and eastern Oregon. Tickling his rolly, soft neck. Listening to him say his first words: ball, Booth (our dog) and dada. Falling asleep with him in our bed, with one little leg and one little arm draped over my huge pregnant belly (hello Jack!). Sometimes feeling totally claustrophobic when his body would marsupial-cling to me, heart thumping against mine, sweaty, sleeping head on my neck--and yet feeling in my gut and bones that this was one of the most important things I would ever do. Watching him sleep.  Watching him sleep-- long eyelashes touching his round chipmunk cheeks,  floppy ears getting squished and red, chubby hands twitching and unclenched, belly full and perfect. Every day filled to the brink with our love, frustration, surprise, weariness and delight over our firstborn son. 

And...it does feel like yesterday. 

However, with every day that goes by, and every birthday that he gets to check off as a milestone in his life. I'm a mess.  I am aware. Ideally? I know he is going to grow up and leave our home.  With every milestone there is a grumbling of sadness. I know that this is part of life. I do want to raise a son who is not afraid of standing alone. 

Jason laughed at me when I cried in our bed after Lincoln's second birthday. "It's going too fast!" He didn't understand. He was so excited with every marker in time. "One step closer to manhood!"  

Then we had our first daughter.  Now, he clenches his jaw when we talk about having teenage girls. Now, he grieves when our girls grow through another shoe size. Now, he feels time passing with a tiny bit of pain.

Consequently, I've been thinking about time a lot lately. 

Instead of, 

"This is your life, it's ending one minute at a time. "

 (Chuck Palahniuk.) 

I'm trying to remember this:

"That in Christ, urgent means slow.

That in Christ, the most urgent necessitates a slow and steady reverence.

That in Christ, time is not running out. This day is not a sieve, losing time.

In Christ, we fill – gaining time.

We stand on the brink of eternity.

So there is enough time."

( Ann Voskamp.)

There is enough time for our children to grow older. There is enough time for their mistakes and mine. There is enough time to be slow. There is enough time to enjoy. There is enough time for him to turn eleven, to sigh and slurp up who he is today, and be fiercely and determinedly loyal to who he will be tomorrow.

"So I am proud only of those days that we pass in undivided

tenderness,

when you sit drawing, or making books, stapled, with

messages to the world...

or coloring a man with fire coming out of his hair.

Or we sit at a table, with small tea carefully poured;

so we pass our time together, calm and delighted." 

My Son Noah, Ten Years Old  by, Robert Bly.

Ruth

Fifteen years ago, in the very beginning of the day, in a room crowded with pillows, blankets, stuffed animals, diapers, wipes, bottles, cozy soft baby clothes, sleeping, messy-haired, drowsy, weepy, expectant brothers and sisters, one beautiful, tiny, snoozing infant twin boy, and two beyond exhausted, loving, shattered and grieving parents–we said goodbye to the tiniest members of our family. 

There was a crystallization of the intrinsic value of human life. Holding her. Experiencing her. Smelling her new baby smell, feeling her heart beat against my palm, her ribs expanding oh-just-slightly as she inhaled and exhaled– lungs and diaphragm working with each breath, touching her soft, translucent cheeks. Watching my parents rock her and will a longer life into her veins. Holding her adorable, tiny, tiny bottom in one hand, and her back in the other, the way you do with all babies. Looking in her eyes and wanting more than anything for her to understand one thing in that moment. 
That she was loved. 
Cherished. Precious.  Known. Seeing her entry and exit in the world. Ruth, with her pale, pale skin. Her sweet, quiet voice. Her broken heart. Her light-as-air frame. Her incredibly delicate, long arms, legs, fingers and toes. Her little rosebud mouth. Her tiny elf ears. Her funny, sparse, sticking-up-all-over, dark hair. 

 It has never been more obvious that behind all our randomly joining, "complex as a baked potato" cells and biological coincidences–that there is a process, a purpose, something more that far exceeds our knowledge of conception, embryonic development and personhood. So much so–that even when our definition of what is valuable or needed in the world, is so woefully not met. When someone is born broken or seemingly useless to society. Oh-such-a-burden. 

That, when we are forced stop,  see, experience, know that person; we cannot help but be silenced by our arrogance.

 Cannot help but be quiet, quiet in awe. 

demon coffee

I may be responsible for single-handedly keeping Starbucks in business since January of 2009.

 I'm not sure how they are going to keep afloat when my husband is home more often and I have more than the voices in my head justifying four-dollar coffees. Who buys those expensive caramel-ball thingies? I do. Who buys a six to twelve-dollar mug every Christmas? I do! Holiday CD? (Remember those?) Yup. Kid's traveling mugs? 

Totally necessary.

 Don't think I don't feel guilty. 

I've added up the numbers a few times. 

It makes my stomach clench.
And that makes me sad.

So sad in fact, that I feel the need for a warm delightful, 

frothy, with-notes-of-smooth-cedary-caramelly-goodness, coffee. 

Tired?  Get a latte. (That one's obvious.)  

Feeling fat? Try the morning bun. 

Feeling fat? Try a, "skinny" anything. 

Feeling fat? Indulge in the 500 calorie pastries, but promise yourself that it's the last time.

 Tight on cash? Aren't we all? Skip buying gas instead. Man can live on high-calorie coffee drinks alone.

Sick of other people railing about American excess? Get a macchiato, AND a bottled water. Five pennies out of that two-dollar purchase will go to help others have clean drinking water.

 (That's like, half a dime! Or one-twentieth of a dollar!)  

On a road trip with five children? Starbucks has the cleanest bathrooms around.

 (Really. They do. Across America, their bathrooms win. Hands down.)

Been home all week with said five children and need to get out, but don't want to get them out?
Two words: drive thru.

 Need some atmosphere? You know where to go. Who else has those cute little worn-wood stools, factory lighting, rad music, and brightly colored poster art of Africa and other countries? 

Want to treat the kids? The cake pops are only $1.50 apiece, and the boxed chocolate milk is ORGANIC. 

 (For me, that's only around $17 in treats for the kids. A steal.) 

Craving humiliation? Take way too long perusing the menu, and then try confidently explaining that you want a 16- ounce specialty-whatever-drink in Starbuck's speak.
Like watching awkward interactions? Watch your husband or father order.
 It's the best.

Then, once you know how to order everything on the menu--just the way you like it; go to the nearest wall and bang your head on it for spending so much of your life flirting with the biggest, baddest, succubus in coffee culture today.

I mean the coffee kind of succubus. Not the sexy-time kind.

Nine Years

    

Nine years of doing the unexpected.

Nine years of thinking outside the box.

Nine years of watching him discover.

Nine years of worrying about his safety. (!)

 Nine years of his ridiculous camera smiles.

Nine years of me having to think outside the box to understand him.

   

Nine years of honor in being called his mom.

Nine years of adventure in experiencing my life with him.

 Nine years.