The Nine Days

Rose came into this world on a rainy morning in April. She was pink and beautiful and precious. Dave was in the room and so was little Avonlea. Avonlea was six at the time, nine days from her 7th birthday. She had prayed for years for her sister Rose to be born and I thought she might want to be in on the action in the delivery room. 
As she held her new sister, I asked her, "So what did you think of little Rose's birth?"
She thought for a moment before replying, "It was very....private."
Later that day, I had the realization that in 2020, for nine days, I would have 4 teenagers. Rose would turn 13, and 9 days later, Avonlea would turn 20.
Of course at the time, I didn't really believe that day would ever come. If they grew up that would mean that I'd have to grow up, and I had no intention of doing so. I loved my babies being babies. I loved kissing soft little faces, holding grimy hands, and listening to their hilarious thoughts. 
Sometimes I wish life was a book that I could read as many times as I liked. The chapters have flown with adventures and heartache, laughter and pets, and it's 2020. 
Last week we ushered in the Nine Days.
Dave and I had made all sort of plans. We were going to Hawaii, a Victorian Tea House, a hike, 2 restaurants, etc. It was going to be a huge party, a celebration of 4 teenagers, all of whom we think are absolutely amazing people. But alas, COVID19. 
So the Nine Days that would have been spent in celebration are spent in isolation.
During the Nine Days we found out that the government ran out of money for small business loans and we had to lay off all our employees. Our business is considered essential but we do our business to "non" essential businesses so we had no work. 
Rose had kind friends who drove over and sat on blankets 6 feet apart from eachother to celebrate her day. Her grandparents stopped by with a present. We went on LOTS of walks with the dogs. We played games, did puzzles, went to a protest, prayed, and watched old movies. But the Nine Days looked nothing like I envisioned it looking. 

This is what a birthday party looks like during COVID19. We are doing a Bible Study. 

One of the things I did during the "stay at home" order was read through all my old journals starting with my marriage. I was constantly being surprised in my journals. Marriage was way more work than I thought it was going to be. Babies were surprisingly challenging. Homeschooling was alarmingly unvaried. House cleaning never ended. But even though so many things were not as I had anticipated them being, I still dove right in and enjoyed what I could and endured the rest (like diapers). 
So with the Nine Days. Another chapter. Another journal entry. Another surprise that I wasn't expecting but that I dove into anyway, thanking God for the good and enduring the rest (like Rose's zoom ballet class for 7 hours a week). 
I woke up this morning and knew the Nine Days were over. Twenty years ago I gave birth to a beautiful baby girl. It was as if Dave and I had planted an unlabeled seed and we've had such pleasure in watching her become herself over the years. Avonlea is a delightful surprise and she has bloomed in extraordinary ways. 
I'm pretty sure my kids haven't stopped surprising me and life isn't done surprising me and I guess I should just dive in and enjoy what I have to endure because this is it. And I suppose the biggest surprise is that the kids have managed to grow up....but I haven't.

Before

After

Before

After

Before

After

My Pumpkin Baby Turns 14

My belly and the garden squash grew round together. 

Rowan was dubbed "my little pumpkin" and came in October like a good autumn baby should. 

He was a deceitfully quiet and sweet baby, saving up all the talking, debating, and story-telling for later years. 

At 2, he was a terror, the pumpkin became a jack-o-lantern and gave us many scares. He caused me to be on a first name basis with the poison control center. 

To sum up in one word the first few years of his life....SCARY.

 Every year at his birthday, he asks for the implements for his latest obsession. We've been through wood-cutting, hide tanning, carpentry, photography, drones, coin collecting, and so much more. 

This year he asked for a motor to make an air glider or a glass bottom boat.

I.said.no.

I suggested a cupboard for the garage to organize all his past hobby paraphernalia in.

He said no thanks.

He has been in a bee keeping class for a year now and asked if he could have bee keeping accessories instead.

We said yes, because at least we'll be able to eat the honey.

He's still kind of disappointed about the engine. I told him he can get one after he gets married. 

Rowan is the most like me in the sense that he turns everything that happens to him into a story. We can't help it anymore than a spider can help spinning a web. It's just the way we're made. I coach him through it, telling him what to cut out and how to make the most of the climax. I tell him how to be aware of when he's losing his audience, and then I demonstrate, repeatedly.

He sees the humor in everything and gloats over it, finding joy in the people and situations around him. 

He is full of dreams and plans and ideas. The majority of which are extremely expensive. 

Sometimes I'm utterly surprised to realize how much I love him. He exhausts me and delights me and tolerates me by turns.

We will never be bored as long as Rowan lives with us. This summer he raised pumpkins. He planted this field with 100 seeds and then marveled in the drama of raising crops. Who knew a pumpkin field could yield such stories?

Rowan, we love you. You are an original, one-of-a-kind gift from God. We know that whatever you do for the Lord, you will do whole heartedly. And then you'll tell a story about it (making sure that everyone is maintaining eye contact). Because that is just who you are. 

And we love it.
Most of the time.

Surprised

Avonlea was born in April. The end of March I had pretty convincing false labor. I went to see my doctor and I said, "Um, I hope that's not what labor is going to feel like, because that really hurt!"

She looked at me like she was trying to figure out if I was joking, I wasn't.

She didn't really have to say anything because I had my answer a few weeks later.

Yes, it really hurt. But I didn't care! I rejoiced in spite of the pain, I enjoyed the wonder of the birth of the most beautiful little girl!

To make up for my lack of preparation for the pain involved in birth, I tortured myself throughout the next pregnancy. I anticipated the pain and so it came as a shock when Grant shot out quickly and almost painlessly. I am captured on video, holding my son seconds after his arrival, exclaiming, "That was easy!"

And that's me in a nutshell, always surprised by the best and the worst.

Parenting the teen years has had something of the same feel to it. I am still grappling with the fact that this is hard. It's labor to raise these children through their hormones and my own. It's agonizing to search the faces of my teens, trying to find something familiar, something sympathetic.

I watch them stretching past me, yearning for the light and air of freedom and independence. I see them make their own choices and I feel the tearing of separation, even though they are often making good choices.

Throughout the labor, throughout their ache and mine, there is profound gratitude. I was blessed to be able to carry them inside me for nine months. I was blessed to be able to wrap my arms around them all these years and train them. I am blessed to have them always, embedded in my heart, twined into the person I am.

I stood at the window and waved this morning as Avonlea drove off to school. She didn't look back. And the pain of that surprised me.
But I rejoiced in spite of the pain, as I watched in wonder at the maturing of the most beautiful young lady.

A Time to Say Yes

I'll admit. There were times when the concept of "18 years" overwhelmed me.
Not at first. Not when I held their soft, wet bodies for the first time.
But later. Around one and a half.
Eighteen years stretched out before me as a vast uncharted sea inhabited by diapers, Prom dates, pink eye, shaving, hide-and-seek, bubble baths, Algebra, and Barbie.

There were nights I remember falling to sleep with one prayer repeating itself over and over in my mind, "Oh Lord, tomorrow, let me be nice."
Because sometimes I felt that I had reached the summit of insanity by having four young children and attempting to educate them. And feed them. And keep their bodies sanitary. (Note I didn't say clean).
And the number kept me numb, eighteen years, eighteen years with each of them, on this uncharted, unpredictable sea.

I survived.
I learned to use a compass. I learned to notice trade winds. I became the essence of "nautical".
And I loved it.

Then Avonlea left for her 2 month mission trip.
It felt as if I had gone to bed 7 months pregnant and woke up not pregnant anymore. I knew my daughter existed, that she still was, but I had no tangible proof of it.
I felt like I had taken my 14 year old daughter, who legally I had until 18, and prematurely sent her off in a life boat alone.
I panicked.
What in the world was I thinking?

 My preemie was adrift.
Were her lungs developed enough; could she breathe on her own?
What if a storm came up and she was alone?
Her skin, was it ready to protect her little body?
Could she manage her oars, she only weighed 93 pounds?
Her eyes, were they ready for light?
And I couldn't know. Not for sure.
I got several letters and they only served to increase my doubt.
"Joel is so hilarious mom. He makes the funniest faces."
How do I interpret that? Is Joel a cute boy or an orangutan?

Then there was the letter who's back was covered only with the words to the whole song of "I love you a bushel and a peck." which I haven't sung to her since she was approximately four.
Was she telling me that she too, remembers. Was she letting me know her life jacket was on, that she was coping with the sea on her own?
The hardest part about all this was that I shouldn't be whiny or bitter (this is not saying that I'm not, just that I shouldn't be).
These babes watched me as I floundered in the sea of "many little lives". They saw my failures. My sea sickness. My dismay at being caught by storms I should have seen coming. They heard my prayers. They met Jesus through their Daddy and I. And they fell in love. With us first, and then with Him.
Because the Love of Christ compels.
So when my daughter said, "Can I go serve the Lord?" it would have been rather inconsistent to plead eighteen years.
There were times for "no". But I knew it was time for "yes".

So she left, went forward to tell people about Jesus, to help those in physical and spiritual need.
And I felt the vastness of silence.
I learned that the most terrifying sea is not always the sea in storm, but the sea in silence. Vast and lonely and stagnant. No shore in sight.
But there is a shore, I just don't know what it will look like, I can't see it.
She'll come home in a little over a week.
She'll have sailed alone, on her own. Without me.
She'll describe to me her experiences and I will employ every ounce of my imagination trying to experience them, too.
The same baby that metamorphosed to missionary in my arms, I will hold again. But differently.
Loosely.
Giving her space to splash about with her oars. Space to learn adulthood like I learned motherhood.
Space to grow up.

Grant told me recently that he's praying about going on a mission trip next summer.
"Would you be okay with that?" he asks me timidly. He's watched me all summer. Praying for Avonlea. Missing Avonlea.
"Absolutely Grant. Always go when God asks."
Because whatever boat He puts you in, He will teach you to maneuver.
Because whether the sea is stormy or stagnant, He is faithful.
Because I trust Him with this life's most precious cargo, my children.

Many years ago I stopped falling to sleep praying, "Oh Lord, tomorrow, let me be nice."
It has altered to, "Oh Lord, may they all love You, may they all love You, may they all love You..." It's the lullaby of faith, the splay of water on the hull, the heartbeat of new life; soft and wet.

Harvest

The fall season has hit. Work wise, Dave is running busy, running fast.
I get left in the dust as he charges ahead.
I gear myself up for labor. The birthing of another school year, another round of seasons and growing kids.
I stay home with them all day every day and I wage a war to keep my focus on the Lord, and on these kids.
Busyness beckons and I say no. I want to be here. This home that God has given us for this space of time. Here, as much as possible.

So on Saturday when the urge to escape to the zoo, or the mall, or OMSI yells, when the mouth of mundane yawns and the tonsils of boredom wiggle, I pray.
Not audibly, just a soul yearning upward, as only a soul that has just played hide and seek, Uno, Skippo, and puzzles in quick succession, can do.

I get up and sit at the piano. Fingers move over keys I once knew intimately, mind reaches backward to remember songs I once sang. I start to play. There are some songs that I knew well, and they assert themselves. And I remember that there is joy in creating music. There is joy in creating.
Posy wriggled onto my lap and sat content. And then she did it.
She took her hands and placed them on top of mine. Her little voice blended, followed my pitch.

Again, and again, I'm reminded, they will do what I do. They feel life by putting their hands on top of mine.
There are enough busy people in the world.
The world does not need me or mine to boost it's numbers.
We mamas and daddies are doing something so much more than entertaining.
We are creating.

"Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up." Galatians 6:9

The Greatest Moments of a Girl's Life

I sat alone in bed last night.
Dave was still downstairs and I had a moment of silence.
After a depressing day of disciplining bickering children, Dave and I proceeded to bicker for an hour before I went up to bed. Failure followed me up the stairs, it lurked behind me in the shadows of the hall. I could sense the tangible presence of evil in my bedroom as I sat there. My soul felt like an incline that Satan was scaling, an incline with too many toeholds, an easy conquer.
My body sat alert, rested, why did I feel so utterly exhausted? I had slept all day, why this lethargy of spirit? My soul was tired. For weeks I had been on guard, taunt and watching. Now, the company gone, the painful situations resolved, I collapsed internally.
I tried to pray and found my eyes roving the room, unsettled.
They landed on a picture entitled, "The Greatest Moments of a Girl's Life."

When Dave and I were on our honeymoon, I had seen this picture and loved it. It would have been awkward to travel with, so I just assumed I could get it later. Incorrect. I searched high and low for it and never could find it again. My loving husband never forgot how much I lamented not buying that picture and he kept his eyes open on ebay until it came up and he bought it. He gave it to me last week for our anniversary.
I was so blessed and delighted.
My eyes caressed the beautiful pictures that represented the "greatest moments." The engagement, the wedding day, the honeymoon, the baby's birth etc.
My smile broadened into laughter as I realized my "greatest moments" were very different from the ones represented in the picture.

The engagement was romantic, but it wasn't Dave I was engaged to first. And when that ring was ripped off my finger the loss made me howl with pain. As I writhed on the floor I said, "God, I'm going to keep trusting You even though I don't want to. I'm going to trust that You know what You're doing." And He did. That was a great moment.

The wedding day was wonderful, but more wonderful, was the moment Dave and I realized we were completely incapable of sacrificial love. We cried out to God to change our selfish hearts. We established a prayer time together. We asked God to teach us how to love like Jesus.  And he began to, right then. That was a great moment.

Having babies was delightful (I had epidurals mostly), but the moment the nurses told us that the 9 hour blood transfusion they were giving our four year old was his main hope, was much much greater. Dave and I locked eyes across the room, and in the heavy silence after the nurses left, said yes, yes God you can have Grant back if you like, he's Yours, Your will not ours. That was a great moment.
I was amused when I looked at the picture again that the last "greatest moment" was the birth of the first child. Meaning, my great moments would have been over at the ripe old age of 25. Thankfully, I am still a growing girl, with lots of great moments before me, lots more opportunities for God to work.
The thought was vaseline to my soul and I felt the oppression slipping off me. Toeholds filled in with trust.
Yes, these weeks have been difficult, but really, they were full of great moments.
Maybe not quite as picturesque....but great nonetheless.

KITTENS!

It's a long story. The ending is happy.
The barn cat that we borrowed came through and both of our persians got pregnant in March.
Sunday morning we awoke to Avonlea bewailing a dead kitten left outside our bedroom door.
Guinevere had had one baby. It was cold and lifeless and abandoned outside our door.
I knew she hadn't given birth there because there was no blood or birthing liquids. I had a vague idea that maybe she had more kittens somewhere else. We searched the house and found nothing. No kittens, no mess. Emotionally spent, I gave up and got back into bed.
I found where Guinevere had her kittens....between Dave and I....on our bed!
GROSS!
And we didn't even wake up.
After this mishap we were determined to watch Jane like a hawk and make sure we knew when she was in labor.
Monday night she started contractions.
We lost the first kitten that came out (as in it died, we didn't misplace it). Dave was down getting the alcohol to sterilize the scissors and we didn't get it out of the sac fast enough.
Grief. Tears. Determination.
The second kitten came. Dave grabbed it and rubbed it down with a warm towel. I cut the umbilical cord. No response.
Prayer. More rubbing. Dave did everything but lick it.
Movement. Sides expanding with breath. Rejoicing.
Another kitten came 2 1/2 hours later. It's now the middle of the night. We're tired but determined not to lose another kitten. Jane actually takes an interest in this one and helps us warm it. She cuts the umbilical cord herself. Yes!

We watched Jane for another couple of hours and realized she was done. We got to sleep for a bit before we had to get up for a busy day. And we were so thankful for two healthy kittens......
Monday night 18 HOURS after the last kitten ....Jane delivered another one. Avonlea found it and screamed loud enough for the neighbors to share in the joy.
Two hours later when Dave and I checked the kittens before bed we noticed that Jane was contracting. You guessed it, another kitten! Grand total....4!

We can't express how thankful we are that everything went as well as it did. We knew that persian cats needed help birthing, but we had no idea they needed that much help!
Grant asked the next day about selling them and I replied, "Would I sell one of you guys! I birthed these kittens!"
Perhaps this reaction will soften.
Maybe.
We certainly don't need nine persian cats.
Hmmmmmm....................................

Roses in Green Pastures

As we drove away from the church on Sunday, I asked Rose a simple question. "How was Sunday School Posy?" She replied with an answer that gave me an instant headache. "Okay. I didn't hit anyone." Pause. "I shoulda hit someone." So she reigned herself in, and this is progress. A few weeks ago, on her way to a friend's house, I told her to behave herself and be polite. She replied, "I know mama. I won't bite or hit or slap or pinch or scream or call her fat." Sigh.

And this is my Rose. You lean close anticipating a sweet fragrance, and you get it, just not before a thorn or two are lodged in your epidermis.

(birthday morning hugs)

When Dave and I were dating he asked me what my favorite age of child was. I answered without hesitation, "three." I love the age three. I love the big eyed wonder and whimsy, the creativity, the hilarious misuse of words. Today my last three year old turns four. (Emphasis mine, all mine). I know that the days of her beating up her peers are limited. I know that her lisp will probably fade ("Yeth mom." "Thure!"). I know that she won't be panting in my face after every single jelly bean so that I can guess the flavor, for much longer. And I will miss it dearly.

She awoke this morning to sibling joy and singing which produced punches in the air by little fists with blue fingernails.

This morning at her birthday breakfast I randomly opened to Psalm 23. It struck a chord and for a moment I could only stare at the page. My dad died on June 23 and I had read that Psalm the morning he left and didn't come home. "Even though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death..." Somehow in the grief of the month following his death, I got pregnant with Rose. "You anoint my head with oil, my cup overflows..."

Today I thank God for the precious beautiful daughter He gave me amidst my heartache. I thank Him for the fragrance of Christ she has brought to our lives. I thank Him that His promises to me have been Yes and Amen in Christ and that beauty has come from ashes.

I thank God for Rose....

After all, what's a thorn or two in the epidermis?

"Surely goodness and love will follow me all the days of my life and I will dwell in the house of the LORD forever."

Flash

It's been an aging week.
Not a week in which I aged alot but...
A week in which I realized how much I've aged.
My sister became a grandma this week...
My mother became a GREAT grandma this week...
Making me Great Aunt Annie...which sounds like something out of a horror movie.

Rowan got angry at me on Thursday for denying him jelly beans.
He stomped out of the kitchen and muttered, "Big old mommy!"
Ouch.
One minute he's swearing to die by my side, the next he's casting my age up to me under the influence of jelly bean depredation.

A dear friend knit me a shawl for Christmas. I modeled it for my husband and he said I looked just like his kindergarten teacher in it. I dimpled for a moment, and then I asked, "Not your Kindergarten teacher that was 80?"
"No, she was only 70."

I was haunted by dreams last night. Reams of reels of my past, and in every single one, I was young. Now I realize that I am comparatively young. However, 17 was twenty years ago....and I liked 17.

We went to a wedding today. The slide show at the end always swells my heart to overflow. They were just babies! Who's letting these babies get married! It dawned on me that one day it will be our family pictures flashing over the years.
Avonlea in her Raggedy Ann costume.
Grant's toothless grin at six.
Rowan and Rose snuggled up with the cat.
Sob.
We knew no one at the reception except the bride and groom, and they were busy. So I sat and I thought and a little Rowan came and laid his head on my lap. He spoke my heart, they happened to be words that we heard in a song on the radio as we drove there, but they were still my heart.
"It happens in a flash, mom."

And I thought of my little flower girl, my niece, who just yesterday sauntered up the aisle before me, and is now a mommy.
Making my sister a grandma...
Making my mom a Great grandma...
Making me Great Aunt Annie...

Which actually kinda has a nice alliterative ring to it.
I suppose I'll grow used to it after a while...
Or maybe, it will happen in a flash.

Disguised

There is no birth without the death of something. I realized this for the first time on my wedding day. A new life of marriage and maturity and independence was given birth to as I crossed the threshold. But there stood my family, who had loved and laughed with me for 22 years, I was no longer theirs, and the pain of it took my breath away. But only for a moment. At that moment I understood, to gain anything, we must lose something.

Fast forward 8 years.

Rowan was born 3 months before my Dad was diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer. The first time, of many, that I walked down the long, sterile hospital corridor, Rowan was with me. I held him tightly in front of me, shield-like, as I walked past the moans, the sobs, the breathing and beeping and voices. When we got to the room I offered him to Mom. He was the only thing I had to offer. Hope personified.

Dad was sent home to Mom's care and we visited and tried to encourage. Through months of exhaustion and emotions and monitoring, I would come and share and be. And I would bring this babe who would inevitably reach fat arms for my Mother. He seemed to know that he could somehow, somewhat, alleviate the suffering. And he did.

So there is this love between them, this child that thrived in her arms as her husband weakened.

And this is life, the joy and the sorrow and the death and the birth, all jumbled into one Holy mess. The pain of it takes my breath away on a daily basis. But only for a moment because..."the lamb at the center of the throne will be their shepherd; he will lead them to springs of living water. And God will wipe away every tear from their eyes." (Rev. 7:17) forever is on the way, and death, after all, is really only birth in disguise.