Seconds

Sometimes I feel like the kid who was accidentally served a second helping of dessert and no one has noticed yet. There are momentary thoughts of sheer thrill at such good luck, followed by a nagging conscience wondering if I should admit that I've already had my fair share at the risk of having it taken away.

Because, seriously, if God knew how happy I am and how well-loved and cared for and treasured, surely he'd have to make the decision to spread the joy around a little bit more. This tiny apartment we live in? Yes, it's crowded sometimes but I am perfectly content here. Our business is sometimes stressful but Warren loves his work, and we spend the majority of our hours together every day. At this very moment there's a baby that's kicking me from the inside. Earlier this year we miscarried for a second time and I honestly wondered if I'd ever be able to carry another baby full-term. Today my womb is full of life -- a healthy, vibrant life that we will get to meet in just a couple months. And there's that little boy who is so.very.inquisitive and observant and full of joy. Some people never know what it's like to be a parent, and here I am with my arms full of toddler sweetness and a belly quite literally filled to the brim with an infant. I could stop with all of this and anyone would agree that I've had way more than my share of dessert. But the icing on the cake? That Lover-man who is astonishingly wonderful and cares for me even more exuberantly than the year I fell in love with him, and invests so much in my heart. Our marriage is a safe haven of conflict-free bliss.

I'm not bragging. I have no intention of writing something that portrays my life as perfect, stress-free or immune to the real world with the result of arousing jealousy in a cyber crowd. I'm just writing what's been going through my head for weeks.

For weeks I've been afraid to put these words on paper because I might as well be a five-year-old calling attention to the distracted adult who just gave me seconds on dessert. And as much as that adult loves the five-year-old, the second helping will inevitably be taken away in the name of health and fairness. Or, at the very least, it'll be split with the other half-dozen children at the table and two extra bites will be the final portion.

It occurred to me the other day that living in fear of having my unexpectedly wonderful life shadowed by tragedy, poverty or some other catastrophe, is not God's ideal. It's possible that he is actually aware of what he's given me, and even gets a kick out of watching me enjoy it. I know, the concept is hard to grasp--at least for me, who has always struggled with an inaccurate view of God. Nonetheless, it seems like I'm giving God an unfair shake to react to this kind of abundance with fist-clenching fear.

I'm not really sure how to sit back and enjoy all of this. How to soak in the sheer happiness. How to relish each bite of o-so-sweet goodness as if a second portion isn't actually an accident. But somehow it seems like that will bring God the most delight. 

And if God is anything like the person he says he is, I have a feeling that he might just really like that. 

Thanks, God

These little babies are due just one day apart. 

I love it when God shows off! 

Of gray hair and silverware

There's no household chore I hate more than washing silverware.

I may be a year shy of thirty years old, but washing silverware makes me feel like a four-year-old with an empty crayon box and 1,000 crayons that have to be organized right-side-up and by color, and I just want to throw them all away and start over.

I will gladly wash every other plate, cup, tupperware, pot, pan, skillet, cookie sheet...I can turn a mountain of dishes into a clean kitchen in no time. I even enjoy dishes most of the time, despite the fact that I don't have a dishwasher.

But I.despise.washing.silverware.

It takes so much time for so little accomplishment.

The other day, that Lover-man came in from the barn and said he was going to wash dishes for me. I, of course, was thrilled, and watched him organize the dirty dishes on the counter and run water in the sink. Then he said something I will never forget as long as I live: "I always start with the silverware because I love washing silverware."

WHAT?! I couldn't believe my ears.

 First of all, what kind of person loves the tedious and completely unrewarding task of washing silverware? That's like saying your favorite job as a four-year-old was arranging 1,000 crayons into a tiny box with all of the tops up and the colors in the right order.

But second, how did we make it three years into marriage with me slaving away and sweating and striving and growing gray hair while I washed all the silverware when it's his favorite job?

And third, is there anything more glorious than to find out three years into marriage that your husband's favorite job is your absolute worst one?

Hmmm...you made us like that that on purpose, didn't you, God?

Happy birthday, Owen Wesley!

He loves to drive the tractor and Bobcat, play in the rain with his "puddle boots," and go swimming. 

He can eat more macaroni and cheese than Warren and I put together. 

And Curious George...there's just nothing in the world that compares to Curious George! 

He always wakes up singing to himself in the morning, and his life can be utterly shattered if he doesn't get to sit on our bed and read books at night. 

He is particularly attached to his "mainke" (blankie) and he still hasn't forgiven us for selling the paint pony that belonged to a client when he thought it belonged to him.

He loves his cowboy hat "like Daddy," balloons, and holding up two fingers to say "I'm two!"

He's got that contagious giggle and face-engulfing smile.

Two years ago we never could've imagined how much personality and joy this little guy would bring to life. We're so thankful for our Owen Wesley!

all photos copyright In the Blink of an Eye Photograpy

Big Enough!

We were told the filly is supposed to be broke. At least a little broke, and relatively rideable. But do you know what she did? The day after we bought her, Warren saddled her and she put her head between her legs and snorted and bucked until she ran dead into a fence and flipped herself over, splitting her head open. She jumped up and continued her bucking escapade, completely oblivious to her surroundings and the blood dripping in her eyes. She almost barreled over Warren. Almost hit another fence. Didn't stop until she could hardly breathe.

The next day she did the same thing again. 

And the next day.

I wonder if she'll ever learn?

Last night we came in from the barn late in the evening to a messy kitchen, a messy living room, a messy bathroom, a messy bedroom and not a scrap of clothing clean. Summertime calls for long hours in the barn and I've been putting in my share of them lately, eager to be with Warren and help him. When we came in the house, the first thing out of that Lover's mouth was, "It's okay. It's really not that bad." (I wonder if he read the panic on my face?!) I laughed at him and commented that if his barn looked like this, he wouldn't be able to sleep. I did the dishes and left the rest for tomorrow. 

When I laid in bed I thought about the fact that I didn't read to Wesley as long as I wanted to today. I should've sent a note to a grieving friend. I meant to say goodbye when Sterling and Natalie went home after riding with us. I wish I could do perfectly on this never-ending (or so it seems!) trek of treating hypothyroidism. I want to be kinder, more attentive and a little less likely to want to accomplish, instead of just wanting to invest...   The thoughts swirled and raced and I could almost feel blood dripping in my eyes from the constant running head-long into a fence of self-condemnation.

I think I might have something in common with that filly.

In the darkness, that Lover-man said something about wishing he had been able to ride a few more horses today, instead of dealing with all of the little interruptions that came up. And I told him to give himself a break; that he's doing a great job; that he's excellent at what he does.

Why oh why is it so easy for me to give grace and approval to others...so easy to teach it to my son and extend it to my husband...and yet, when it comes to me, it's the hardest thing I've ever done?

I remember vividly one afternoon on our family vacation in Estes Park last September. Rain was falling outside, and from our cozy mountain cabin you could barely see the bottom of a fog-covered valley and an occasional pair of headlights traveling slowly down the highway. It was too wet to go outside so the family was crowded in the cabin talking, playing games, watching movies and making food. I was sitting on the floor with Wesley and our (then) two-year-old niece Josalea, trying to entertain them through the long hours of being housebound. We had already played hide-and-seek, built puzzles, stacked Legos and read books. Trying to stay ahead of the toddler energy, I decided to play a game that Aunt Havilah had recently taught Wesley. 

"How big is Wesley?" I said. His eyes sparkled and he threw his hands as high as they would go over his head. 

"So big!" I exclaimed. Then I turned to Josalea. "How big is Josalea?" I asked. 

She grinned, threw her hands over her head and she said, "Big enough!"

I froze, staring at her. Her wispy hair was dancing around a grin the size of her face -- a face that is almost identical to mine at that age.

Big enough.

Tears came to my eyes. The bright butterflies on Josey's shirt sparkled on a round belly and her little skirt covered roly-poly-toddler legs. Her fantastic brown eyes were full of pure delight in herself.

And I wonder...when did it change? When did the complete acceptance of myself and the willingness to extend as much grace to myself as I do to others -- when did it start to fade away? 

There's that Bible verse about becoming like children to gain the kingdom of heaven and for all I'm worth, I want to become like little Josey Kate. I want to be as grace-engulfed as her...so all-believing and delighting and approving of myself. At the end of the day, with my best effort given and all of me poured out to my husband and son and all the people who make up my life, I want to lay on my pillow and say,

"Big enough!"

Because, for goodness sake, I don't have enough blood to spare to keep splitting my head open on this same da-blame fence. 

And besides, it just really hurts.

It's not fair.

I don't think I have been fair.

Not to myself, my husband or our son.

It's just that I forget what's important and I "can't see the forest for the trees," or however that saying goes.

I was reading back in an old journal from last year and I felt like I was listening to a broken record. That day I was worried about money, worried about the business, worried about not making budget. Last week I wrote a journal entry that was almost identical to that one a year ago. And today I'm kind of tired of those sort of words cluttering my journal.

You know why? Because last year the issue of coming up short resolved itself. It's called a new business...some months are abundant, some are lean. The similar situation from last week is already taken care of. I could write those exact words in my journal today and they would be insignificant by June.

Insignificant.

Do you know what's not insignificant? The pearls my husband gave me yesterday as an anniversary gift. The look of ecstatic anticipation while our son waited by the gate to ride the carousel in the mall. The smell of the bright pink peonies Mom sent home. The progress in getting healthy and the doctor who has helped me so much. That patient Lover-man who introduced our son to fishing. The letter from a friend who talked about our miscarriage and made me cry all over again. The laughter we shared with our friends at Bible study Friday night. And God -- that all-surrounding Man who has been showering me with an overwhelming amount of grace and revelation and a new kind of understanding of who He is.  

In comparison, journal entries worrying about budgets and business just don't seem fair. Or right. Or righteous.

My life is much too full and glorious and crazily God-blessed to waste time with words other than the ones to describe the extravagance that surrounds me and the feelings of my heart. Everything else is just earthly clutter.

There, I said it.

Now to live it... 

It suddenly occurs to me.

I scroll through my phone looking for a text message conversation with him. I can't find one. There's inquiries about horses for sale. Someone wants to sell us hay. Our employee texted her hours and the sister assured me our little man slept fine last night. A brother needs information for the website, the cousin is praying for us. Someone wants to know how their horse is taking to training. The conversation with Lover is at the very bottom of the list.

I pause.

Have I texted all of these people but not him? Of course not...he's been beside me; hasn't budged through two days of severe hemorrhaging, two emergency room visits, a dozen nurses and doctors and another ultrasound of an empty womb. He was holding my hand when the doctor decided on another D&C. His face was full of compassion when he told me he was sorry I hurt so.very.badly, like the pain of giving birth to a baby but there's no baby, only some part of it left in me that my body is desperate to be done with.

The nurse turns up the pain medication and I ask him to stay with me in case I lose my bearings. He promises he won't leave and I know he won't because he never has.

I'm wheeled back to surgery and the doctor asks how I am and I can't stop crying from pain. That blessed anesthesiologist gives me oxygen and makes me too tired to feel anymore and I wake up to the sound of that all-familiar husband's voice. I can't force my eyes open. He squeezes my hand, tells me it's ok. The cell phone is beeping with new texts. The nurse writes her number on the board and tells us to page her if we need anything. But I don't have to page him because he's always here.

And it suddenly occurs to me.

The only time you need someone's phone number is if they leave you. Only if they aren't sitting inches from you, holding your hand, soothing you with their voice, stilling the chaos with comfort.

The nurse tries to help me up but I collapse and she catches me. The doctor says I need to stay overnight. That Lover-man settles into a nylon-covered recliner with one pillow and a flimsy blanket, still wearing his jeans and t-shirt. Another text rings on the phone but it's not from him because he's close enough for me to hear him whisper that he loves me.

And the whole world is silent and I hear God say, "I don't need a phone number because I never leave."

Suddenly, that verse about God never leaving me -- the one I memorized as a child over two decades ago -- it travels from my head to my heart with a sigh of relief. And I know I can do this. I can grieve a child, I can make it through surgery, I can bear the pain and survive the recovery. Just so long as God never leaves. Just so long as he's here, as close as that all-faithful man; close enough that I can touch his skin while I sleep and hear him breathe next to me. 

I pull the blankets up to my chin and close my eyes and thank God for all I'm worth that he never needs a phone number.

There's that moment when you don't think you can handle one more day of being nauseous from morning 'til night.

That one day when you listen to his deep, familiar voice talk about baby names as you drift to sleep beside him.

The morning you force yourself to cook for the toddler even though you may throw up at the smell. And you tell yourself one more week and it'll be second trimester and the sickness will fade away.

Then there's a spontaneous ultrasound just to see the little sick-causing, wreaking-havoc, can't-wait-to-hold-you little one who doesn't have a heartbeat.

And the waiting. Waiting for the joke to be over, the next ultrasound to prove technology isn't always right. 

The day you're still so sick that all-compassionate man is giving you water while you throw up, and all for nothing. Because that little baby's heart stopped beating and it's not growing and there's not going to be a newborn at the end of this.

There's the sister who cleans the house, the mom who washes the laundry, the friend who visits, the cousins who cheer up the toddler. There's phone calls and texts and "any news?" and "don't lose hope" and somewhere there's God, but I'm not sure where.

Then the second ultrasound and that tiny body that didn't grow and the heart that just.won't.beat. and you look away from the screen. 

There's the day for the surgery to deliver the baby and the doctor who calls it a tissue. Text messages with "let us know how it goes" and "praying for you" and I wish God would send a text. 

There's "all went well" and "next time you get pregnant" and tears on his shoulder because this was supposed to end six months from now with a bundle in our arms and that special name we can't wait to use.

The toddler doesn't understand and he cries at night so we let him sleep with us.

People bring food and Mom stays overnight and Grandma sends a card with memorial money. There are notes on Facebook and texts and calls and I wish God had a Facebook.

The day comes when you buy quilt material because you always make your babies a quilt and your sister goes with you because you know you're gonna cry.

And there's that little sunshine who still wants to play and giggle and sit on your hip even though you're not supposed to pick him up.

That engulf-you-in-comfort man feeds the animals in the bitter cold and tells you to give yourself a break and takes the day off so you don't have to pick up the toddler. He gives you your medicine and compliments that body that is now a little softer with an empty baby bump. Maybe he's a glimpse of God.

All those Bible verses and scripture promises and everything you know you believe come back to you but you're not sure how to get them from your head to that aching heart.

Maybe there's a reason the baby died or maybe it's all part of the fallen world because Jesus promised comfort, not immunity.

Someday maybe you'll understand and maybe you never will. Maybe the clean house and the meals and the visits and the laundry and the texts and notes and calls and those arms that hold you at night when you start to cry...maybe those are God making sure you're okay. 

At the end of the day, the tears still fall and the womb is still empty and the heartbeat is still gone. There's no spiritual answer, no magic healing, no churchy phrase to make everything okay again. 

For all I'm worth, I wish God had a phone number. 

Thanks, God

Photo copyright In the Blink of an Eye photography