One More

This Valentine's Day, I'm reflecting on my relationship with my husband. The anniversary of our first date is tomorrow.  This year marks eighteen(!) years since he asked me out for coffee and I arrived to pick him up.  Since he was still fifteen, I had to drive.

I've shared some of the writing I did while we were on our honeymoon here in the past.  Here's another one.  Ten and a half years ago now.

One More...

"We do not remember days, we remember moments." 

Cesare Pavece

August 2005

The other night  A. and I watched "Meet Joe Black," a movie I had seen before and he had not, and this time I found it strangely moving.  I was struck by the portrayal of relationships, father and daughter, lovers, husband and wife. A great quote..."True love is when you know the worst there is to know about each other and it's OK. You love each other anyway."

After the movie we grabbed a sleeping bag and drove out to Blue Mesa Reservoir to look at the stars.  The reservoir is huge, and in the dark, parked on the sand, we could not see the edge and it was almost like the ocean.  No end.  Someone had left the last embers of their bonfire glowing in the fire pit on the shore.  The air smelled of smoke and fishy water.  A. made a nest for me in the bed of his truck and started the "honeymoon mix" Lauren gave us as a wedding present.  I'm not sure whether she knew it or not, one might say she couldn't have known, but I believe it was created expressly for this moment.  This moment in the truck A. proposed to me in, on the empty beach with the smoke and the millions upon millions of stars.

The sky was perfectly clear--clear in the way that only the Colorado sky can be, in the mountains, with no lights to compete with the brilliance of the stars and the moon.  They reign alone.

"Did you see that!?" A. exclaimed.  A shooting star.  I had missed it.  But another, and another, and yet another were to follow and we watched, afraid to breathe, afraid to move, as though we could make them stop.  Two tiny humans--specks of sand.

A. went for a walk along the beach; I lay in my cocoon, soaking in the music, the smells, the cold air on my face--trying to memorize it.  I was filled with joy, but a profound sense of sadness as well, and longing.  I was aware of my love for my husband. Strong and raw and aching in me.  The movie had stirred a lot of memories in me, and I remembered the time in my life when A. and I had been apart--the pain and the humiliation of a broken heart.  It changed me, and changed my love for him. I am thankful for that time, thankful for the life it brought to our story, and I know it made me a better actress, sister, and friend, and some day will make me a better mother and counselor as well.  But while teaching me that God would protect me through any loss, it made me afraid to suffer loss again.  I thought of my sisters, Janna and Danette, and hurt for them, missed them, and was afraid for what lay in store, terrified that I cannot protect them, wishing I knew how to let go.  And I wanted to weep, even as another shooting star took my breath away.

These were my thoughts as A. returned, breathless and happy from his walk.  I made room for him in the sleeping bag and his leather jacket was cold against my sweatshirt and his nose ice against my cheek.  "Can you believe," his breath warm on my ear, "these are the same stars that Abraham and Isaac and Adam and Eve and Jesus looked up at? They're still here. It's unbelievable to me."  Unbelievable to me as well.  Somehow his conversation led us to heaven, and in my romantic frame of mind I said, "I don't want to think about heaven right now, because I know that when we're there, I can't be your wife and that makes me sad."

"You can be my friend."

My eyes and nose itched with tears.  I don't want to be your friend.

Ever since I first understood the concept of marriage, and then of heaven, I have been sad that we cannot be married when we die. The sadness and frustration only grew stronger when I met someone I wanted to be married to forever.  I see myself as a child, bargaining with God, If only I could still be married then I... Maybe marriage is my idolatry.

Time stood still in silence.  The CD had run its course and no one moved to start it again.  A.'s arms were safe and strong around me and he loved me in my melancholy--in my broken joy.  He loved me and let me be, until I was too tired and too cold to enjoy the sky anymore.  We drove home, singing quietly together with Iz, "What a wonderful world."

Thank you for reading, and Happy Valentine's Day.

Midnight Musings

It is late.  A. is sleeping next to me and I’m pressing the keys on my keyboard down as lightly as I can in the hope that I won’t disturb him.  It doesn’t seem to make my typing any quieter.  Our door is open and I can hear the sound of the noisemakers from the girls’ and Logan’s room coming from their open doorways.  I like being awake at night when all the doors are open and I know my kids are asleep.  I feel close to them even though I can’t see them.  Someday (soon) they’ll be teenagers and sleep with their doors closed.  I won’t have to wonder if Reagan will wake me up at 11:00 p.m. or 4:00 a.m. or anywhere in between, because she won’t be six anymore, and will no longer climb into bed with us.  I’ll hold onto their being little while I can.

The baby is moving in my belly as I write this.  I wonder if this little person is a girl or a boy?  I almost can’t believe we didn’t find out.  I think part of me really wondered if we’d cave and go ahead and ask the technician what we’re having.  I’m glad we didn’t.  I think I would have been really disappointed, even though it is going to be soooo hard to wait another twenty weeks to find out.

It was such a relief to me when the doctor at the imaging department told me that everything looked okay.  There are so, so, so many things that can go wrong.  I actually felt a little sick with relief as we were leaving the ultrasound.  And then I cried because so many of my friends have lost sweet babies.  It breaks my heart.  All my happiest moments seem to be tinged with sadness.

Our sermon at church today was about suffering and why it is something that we have to deal with, dating back to Adam and Eve and their choice to eat from the tree of knowledge of good and evil, allowing sin and sickness to enter the world.  I was reminded of the time when Avery was four-and-a-half and I had briefly explained that concept to her.  A few days later we were talking about something else and she said, “Mom, why did God start with just two people?”  Before I could answer she said, “Adam and Eve were kind of naughty.  They ate that bad tree.  And that makes me angry with Adam and Eve.  And kind of sad.  And a little bit scared.”  Me too, kiddo.

A thought I took with me from today’s sermon was that sometimes, we want to look at God and say that if He is all loving and all powerful and bad things still happen, then He must not exist.  But taking God away doesn’t remove our problems or our suffering, it just removes any possible solution to them.  Knowing that God has an ultimate plan for us that is bigger than our troubles on earth helps give meaning to our lives.  The pastor reminded us that we are not alone in our sorrows, and that God enters into our suffering with us.  Jesus suffered for us.  He quoted the writer John Stott as saying, “I could never myself believe in God, if it were not for the cross….  In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it?”

I’ve been reading Bonhoeffer for part of a reading challenge I am doing with my sister.  (Next week I’ll tell you all the details of the challenge and how you can participate if you want.)  The book hasn’t even begun to scratch the surface of the atrocities perpetrated by the Nazis yet, but Bonhoeffer’s mother just lost one of her sons in the First World War and was almost undone by her grief, in spite of her deep faith.  I thought again of my friends, and of my mom who lost my brother five years ago.

We are not guaranteed comfort and safety in this life.  We are living in uncertain times, in a lot of ways, and even if there were nothing to fear from terrorism or mass shootings, there would still be cancer, car accidents, and stillbirths.  I am thankful that everything looked good on the ultrasound, but I know that there is still so much that could go wrong.  It’s comforting to me to listen to the quiet of my family sleeping, to feel my baby moving in my belly, and know that right now, we are okay.  I don’t know what will happen tomorrow, but I do know that God is with us in our joy and in our suffering, and He is not immune to pain.

Small Moments

Photo by Suzanne Tadros Photography

I'm sitting on the couch reading a book while my crazy kids are playing “monkeys” in the other room.  There's a lot of "Ooh ooh! Ah ah!" going on, and the clanging of toy pots and pans.  I am tired.  I'm twelve weeks pregnant and have been struggling with morning sickness for the last six weeks.  For me, “morning sickness” is a misnomer as I start feeling nauseated in the morning and get increasingly worse all day until I finally just have to go to bed early and try again the next day. 

But I love the sound of my kiddos laughing and playing, and I’m thankful that I can get lost in a good book and forget about the dizzying nausea for a while.  I love being pregnant, sick or not, and I love thinking about and praying for this new little life inside of me. 

My three-year-old son Logan is convinced that the baby is a boy.  I guess he’s decided that two big sisters are all the sisters any guy needs.  Every time he talks about the baby he says, “my little brother” or “him.”  I always remind him that the baby could be a girl, too.  One day, after we had that discussion several times, he sighed and said, “Mommy.  I just want to think about the baby is a boy, and I don’t want to talk about this anymore.”  It was so hard not to laugh.  I nodded and gave him a hug, deciding to give him a break from reality for a while. It was an ordinary afternoon.  We were sitting on the couch together because I was too tired and sick to do anything else, and yet we made one of my favorite memories of him so far.

 

I've been thinking a lot about the small moments of motherhood lately.  A few weeks ago, my friend Suzanne came and took some pictures of my kids and me at home.  We were just doing the things that we do every morning, having breakfast, getting ready for school. I didn’t even change out of my yoga pants.  The pictures are perfect.

I love the reminder to pay attention.  That the days of motherhood, which can seem monotonous at times, are made up of a million little opportunities to stop and notice.  To breathe in my kids and who they are, right now.  To breathe out gratitude.

Sometimes, when I get off my computer or stop worrying about the next thing on my to do list, when I remember to pay attention, I can drink it all in and just be still.

The anticipation of my first sip of coffee in the morning.

Photo by Suzanne Tadros Photography.

A tea party with my daughter.

Photo by Suzanne Tadros Photography.

A photo shoot with my son.

Photo by Suzanne Tadros Photography.

Then life speeds up again.  I get back on my computer, or I have to rush the kids out the door to go to school.  But I notice that the more I stop to pay attention, the less chaotic it all seems.

Here’s to finding joy in the little things.  To remembering to stop and pay attention.  To being in the moment--not all the time, but more.  Happy Sunday, friends.

Forever Young

My mom's high school yearbook picture.

My mom turned sixty-five last week.  She looks and seems so much younger though, and I've been trying to pinpoint exactly why. Besides good genes (here's to hoping she passed those down to me, right?) I think a lot of it is her attitude.

She's never had a problem admitting her age, and she enjoys her birthdays. If anyone ever asks her how she feels about getting older she says, "It sure beats the alternative."  She laughs a lot, loves her grandbabies, and will often sit down on the floor with them to play or read books.  She is more focused on other people than herself, and she is happy to be where she is.

Just the other day I was talking to my dear friend Rachel and I asked her, “When did we get this old?”  Even as I said it I knew that we're still young.  We’re both only 34, and Lord willing, we still have a lot of life ahead of us.  But a whole lot has happened since we became friends when we were fourteen.  Sometimes we both worry that this season is the best yet, or ever.  Our kids are young and cute and at home.  It's easy to worry that the next stage in life will be different and therefore not as good.  But when I look at my parents I don't worry as much.  

My mom and dad do foster care full time.  They pour their hearts and lives into the kids they work with, and they love what they do.  When I look at the way they live their lives I’m not afraid of growing older.  They make being grandparents look good.

  
As I was getting this post ready this week, and thinking about my mom's birthday and aging gracefully, I opened a piece of chocolate with this message:

Thank you, Dove. :)