surprise!

It happens almost every evening.  After leaving the now Middlest’s room from tucking her in, goodnights kissed with breathy prayers together, I spout out my instructions for the Eldest: “Grab your turtle!  Put these books away!  Let’s head on upstairs.”  I spin around, having learned not to expect him waiting for me, but instead knowing that he will pop out of some secret place: squeezed between the arm of the couch and the wall, or hidden in the pile of laundry waiting to be folded.  ”Surprise!” he shouts.  I feign my disbelief and with exaggerated gestures I scoop him up for bedtime.  It is one of his greatest joys, and mine too.

These hidden surprises, these moments to jump out and shout “boo!” to one another, are woven throughout our days.  And then there are the bigger ones: catching us off guard, these surprises may cause us to weep together, or gather inward.  To look to the sky for answers, or to laugh in disbelief.   This weekend was full of surprises in our family.  Joyous surprises, full of exuberant celebration.

It’s Friday morning.  I’m sitting at the kitchen table with the Little Ones, Littlest asleep in my arms, the bigger two turning farm life out of play doh.  I lift my coffee to my lips but before I can take a sip there is a knock on my front door.  This is so shockingly out of the ordinary that I stumble from my chair.  As I approach I see through the window: this visitor waves and smiles wide.  My dear, dear friend from England — here on my doorstep!  Surprise!  My disbelief on full display in the form of teardrops on my cheeks, I fumble with the lock for what feels like eternity.  She is here to surprise me, to surprise us.  To gather in celebration of my new babe; and to honor my sister’s thirtieth birthday.  She is part of our tribe.

Now it is Saturday night.  I am crouched low on the floor of the family room at my mom’s house, little babe tightly wrapped around my bosom, the Middlest balancing on my knee, the Eldest holding my hand.   The room is crowded, and warm, and we all hold our breath. The door opens inward, and in simultaneously erupts with bellows of Surprise!  My sister is launched into breathless tears as she recognizes this gathering of her tribe, this celebration of her years.  I’m not sure who had more fun: those of us intent on bringing about this awe, this disbelief, this unexpected moment, or my sister as dear recipient of it all.

Life is full of these moments, isn’t it?  While much of life comes down to repetition, the tedium of the everyday, it is peppered by the unexpected.  Sometimes this is fun.  Often it can be scary.  We like to exert our control, and things happen that catch us off guard, reminding us that control may not be ours to grasp.  Even in good things, control can be difficult to release.  My sister relinquished control of her birthday by allowing her boyfriend and family to plan the festivities that would honor her.  This alone can be a difficult thing to do, and I have often ruined my husband’s attempts at surprises because I have wanted too much control.  I have not allowed either of us the gift of surprise in those occasions.  I’m sure that if my sister had planned her birthday it would not have been as elaborate, and she would have missed out on the blessings of this weekend.  She would not have known the depths and breadth of love for her, and she would have robbed others of the opportunity to be a part of it all.  There was profound grace throughout every aspect of these surprises.

Life is made up of this balance of the predictable and the unpredictable, the expected and the unexpected.  Too much of one upsets this balance.  My sister alluded to this when, in debrief of all her surprise moments, she confessed that her heart needed time to settle back in on itself.  Similiarly, routines that are not peppered by some shock become dull.  Life catches me off guard sometimes.  Even just this week my husband’s truck unexpectedly died, and now we are in search of a new vehicle.  The timing could not be worse.  Surprise! For now, I’m going to roll with the punches.

And tonight, at bedtime, it will be my great joy to feel the surprise when the Eldest jumps at me from a newly discovered hiding place.

{this moment}

{this moment} – A Friday ritual. A single photo – no words – capturing a moment from the week. A simple, special, extraordinary moment. A moment I want to pause, savor and remember. ~inspired by SouleMama

one word: enough

In 2011 I chose a word, an intention, to guide the moments that would make up my year.  It was my challenge to breathe, to let my body set the pace.  I wrote about it, sometimes.  The breath that pushed me, stretched me.  It also slowed me down.  I learned about mindfulness, about the present moment.  And I learned to accept my needs and limitations.

As January dawned (and now is growing towards February), I’ve been slow to grasp and hold a word for 2012.  I had hesitations, unsure even about my transition to mom of three.  And that is the beauty of the new year, too — we never know all that it will become for us.  But now I have it:  enough.  It has chosen me as much as I have chosen it.

Enough — because what I have, what I give is enough.  Enough — because my house is clean, enough.  Enough — because everyone is clothed, and fed, and loved, yes, well loved, and that is enough.  Enough — because no matter how much I try, and work, and plan, it can seem like it’s not enough.  Because this work of mothering, of being a woman, and a wife, is hard.  Because it’s bigger than me, always.  Because I often feel like I don’t have enough — enough lap, enough patience, enough time, enough tenderness, enough hands, enough of me.

It is acceptance of my imperfection and offering up these failures.  It is my hands full of inadequacies, all the ways that I don’t meet the mark, knowing that it is still enough.  As I utter “enough” it is the intersection of reality and Grace in my life.  It is the loaves and the fishes — it is giving what I have, knowing that in His transforming power, it is enough.  It commands my faith to know what He can do with my “enough”  – Because He is Enough.

 “But he said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me.”  2 Corinthians 12:9

 

birthing

It’s been nearly two weeks since the babe was born, and slowly, I’m coming down the mountain from the euphoria of birth.  Man, there is nothing like it, nothing.  Giving birth, laboring in hard breaths, never being more grounded to the earth than this.  This, that is the most real, most visceral, but still – still being pulled somewhere else entirely.

I find it difficult to write about my experiences with birth because I find that I lack the language.  The words I know, the way my culture talks about this life-giving – this work of pushing limbs and heart and soul from inside to outside – fail.  Labor – yes, there was work, lots of it.  But not like laboring in a field, working the soil.   Deeper, more consuming than that, harsh with edges of light and promise.  Delivery – like a package arriving at my doorstep?  Hardly.  What a gift I hold in my hands, now, though I can’t say that he was delivered unto me.  Caught – yes, caught, of course, caught and grasped tight.  Mark’s hands were there, never yielding, guided by the midwife, to be the first touch away from mama.

Three times now I’ve anguished in childbirth, three times now I’ve given over control of my every muscle, every movement to the greater pulse of life.  Each time has been marked with different rhythms, and I’ve danced a different dance with each babe.  The first, the longest, was dimly lit, quiet and inward, pressed inward to my strength.  The second came quickly, with such ferocity that I roared out loud.  Her intensity made me doubt myself, made me want to quit.  And with this new one, this third, my body knew a confidence that I hadn’t yet known.  Only in this last one did the words “I can’t do it” never cross the threshold of my lips.

And that’s the thing, isn’t it?  The work of birth is hard, but that’s not the full story.  It’s painful, but that leaves so much out.   I’ve made choices in how I experience this, and though I’ve endured what can seem like a small death of my body, it’s given me the complete truth of what this childbearing is.  Without it’s harsh edges, it’s victory wouldn’t be nearly as powerful.  I’ve never felt more alive, more proud of myself, my body, than after giving birth.

There are other physical tasks we ask of our bodies.  We press them into shape, demand performance for one thing or another.  But one trains for a marathon, one practices to achieve goals of perfection.  There is no training for childbirth.  Of course, there are practicalities for taking care of one’s self, being fit and healthy, but there is no dry run.  No practice course.  Similiarly, say you’re at mile 16 of a marathon and your knees give out — no problem, you can ditch out if you need, try again another time.  Let me tell you, there is no ditching out of childbirth.  There has never been a time when you are more committed to a task.  Quitting is not an option.  I have uttered the words, believed them even, “I can’t” but really, did I have a choice?

And so it is that though I approach birth with apprehension, and even anxiety, I glow, hard and bright, for weeks on this mountain top.  And with each passing child, I wonder if that will be last time I ever feel this, do this.  And as I come down, slowly, with hesitation, from this mountain, I mourn a bit for this is behind me now.

 

reflections: upon one week

Fastest week of my life, really.  It seems as though with each subsequent child the tide of life pulls stronger and I can’t seem to shore myself, or my family, up against it.  Already, he has been ours for a week, and I look back and think, where did this time go?  Our week was pock-marked with doctors appointments and preschool drop-offs; introductions and games of Candyland. When there was just one newborn, settling in at home seemed like a timeless eternity, marked not by the numbers on the clock or the days of the calendar, but instead of moments, edged blurred, of nursing, and sleeping; of reheating the coffee and dozing on the couch.  That was a gift I didn’t realize at the time.  Because, really, the bigger kids, though in transition, too, still need meals: three square.  And bedtimes.  And someone to be awake with them in the morning, to play, to read, to snuggle.

And this just makes things go by too fast.

Mark is back to work today.  And I grieved, last night, I did.  I mourned the end of our family nesting time.  I welled up, full of hormones and melancholy.  It’s not that I’m fearful, or anxious.  I’m not overwhelmed, mostly.  I know that we’ll survive these days, and I’m watching deep growth in our family in ways unexpected.  But we won’t ever get back this first week.  The world around us demands that we fall back into line, get back to the grind.  Of course, our budget demands it also, and so we send him off today. My body tells me to be slow, easy, and my psyche echos this pull.  And I have to believe that his paternal instinct tells him the same.  So, though today is hard for me, it is hard for him, too.  I know that he, too, is grieving this.  This.

And as in all things, this is a time of balance.  Balance between newborn needs and bigger kid needs.  Balance between my needs and the needs of the house, the home.  Balancing standards, balancing expectations.  And balance only comes after unbalance – tipping the scales, setting them right again.  I’m especially finding difficulty in balancing this intense call I have to do little else than hold a new babe against my breast, and the sense that the bigger kids might benefit from a return to normal way sooner than I am ready.  The Eldest has school, and I’ve been flexible with him, letting him choose when he wants to go and when he would rather stay home.  Not surprisingly, he has missed his friends and the structure of these days.  Me?  I’d rather have him here with me.

There is an ebb and a flow to this time; a changing rhythm.  Smaller movements, slow and still, but it’s rhythm all the same. Maybe this is why I’m drawn to winter babes:  it is bracingly cold outside; there is no rush to change out of our pajamas to have grand adventures out in the world.  Instead of the daily or even seasonal beats to which we often march, the rhythm I’m tuned to now is the pulse of my heart, inside my body and out.