Grief, Lived

No man ever steps in the same river twice – Heraclitus

“The giant climbed down the beanstalk chasing Jack, and when Jack got to the bottom, he ran into the house, and what did he get?”

I can almost see myself as a child, thinking hard, focusing on remembering the right word. “He got...a shovel?” I hear my tiny three-year-old voice say on the tape recording. My dad laughs. I imagine tears in the corners of his eyes – his eyes always glistened when he laughed fully, rich with pure delight.

“No,” he says. “An ax!”

As I listen to this treasure from the past, I picture us sitting in my grandmother’s living room, where she used to tell me, “I love you the most,” and where my daddy and I made this recording. I think of night sounds of the country coming in through the open window as the wispy curtains blow. I made mud pies in that yard. I once picked my grandma’s yellow tulips and brought her a bouquet. She was so disappointed but tried not to let it show. I hear the voices from my childhood, and I cling to the innocence and joy. I imagine who my father was before the iron grip of addiction grabbed hold. I hear the gentleness in his voice and wonder how the years could have been different. I look at my son and think about how my grandma must have loved my dad, her youngest, her baby boy. Oh, the dreams she must have had for him.

Years later I sit on my bed and hold the phone to my ear as I listen to the end of a dream. “He’s been down for some time,” the coroner says.

It’s the one piece of information that I’m not comprehending, that just isn’t processing. I keep thinking, “No, wait. I’ll just go back. If I just go back...” Even though whatever rationality is left in me knows that can’t make any sense, it’s the strongest urge, the loudest thought. I’ll just go back. To the last phone call. To a few days earlier. To before he drew his last breath, alone in his apartment.

Heart attack, the death certificate says. Was tobacco a factor? Probably, it says. I once tried to hide his cigarettes. There was so much more to him, though, than the struggles he faced. He was compassionate. He saw the best in people. He gave even when he didn’t have enough. He loved animals so much because he saw in them what human beings were lacking. He was fun-loving and adventurous, despite the fear that sometimes kept that hidden. He wanted better for himself. He learned lessons. He taught others. His life held meaning and purpose beyond a scope any of us could ever envision. If only we all could see that every time we looked into someone else’s eyes.

I experience God in the days that follow. I see clearly how he has led me through these trials, feel His presence, and have a peace and assuredness that I don’t know how to explain. And all of it leaves me just as quickly when darkness consumes me once again. This is the course that mere mortals take.

A couple of weeks after my dad’s funeral, I am home alone when Monte knocks at my door. He happens to be in town and says he just wants to give me a hug. We talk in my kitchen, and I am somehow aware of the significance of this moment, of how much it means to me that the skinny, goofy little boy I used to know grew up to be one of the good men, a role model for my children as they grow up. I am thankful for this brother I gained when I married my husband, for his presence and influence in our lives. We’ve hiked trails together, climbed mountains, talked about the deep stuff around campfires. He’s a comfort and a constant. I find myself thinking forward to years down the road, as we all grow old together. I’m so glad he’ll be there to the end.

Four months later, on the morning Monte dies, I drive the hour and a half to his house in disbelief, struggling to piece together what to say to Jessica – just in case it’s actually true, on the off-chance that a perfectly healthy 31-year-old can truly die in his sleep, with no warning. Of course, that’s ridiculous. I’m sure it’s a mistake – they’ve revived him, and no one has told me yet.

I pull up to a yard full of cars where people in shock are inside the house looking for things like his wallet and his wedding ring to make sure they are safe. Except for him. He isn’t here, because his body has been taken away. I go outside to Jessica and try to think of words. What words would I want someone to say to me?

I stroke Jessica’s hair as the scorching July sun bears down on us with no remorse. “Amadeus won’t remember his father,” she says, broken. I say nothing. There is nothing to say.

At Monte’s funeral, his four-year-old daughter runs over to me during the final worship song. I stretch out my arms, and she grins and leaps into them. I hold her to my chest; she leans back and beams up at me, our eyes locking. I’ve always loved her daddy’s eyes – the deepest brown, a gentle humor twinkling in their depths. Do you know you have your daddy’s eyes, sweet girl? I can’t bear it and put her head to my shoulder. Why can’t he be here? Why? I weep as joyful praise music fills the room; the throb of aching hearts pulses louder.

We cling to one another as we wrestle with a plan that we do not understand. We say we want to go back, but the only hope we have is that of reunion, of dreams restored and realized, of love eternal and oceans of tears parting. I will have my dad whole again. I will hug my brother again. I will know that blessed peace again, and one day it will never leave me.

Two years to the day we laid my dad to rest, I think about how cold it was that morning and how today holds signs of spring, with warm sunshine and wild wind left over from this morning’s storms. The sky is so blue; all the gray has passed. My children are roaming in the woods by our house on legs that are getting longer by the day, their features growing and changing minute by minute – their speech, their voices, their smiles. I want to bottle them up and keep them as they are today – ripe with joy and innocence, their lives spilling over with possibility. And yet I know that what I really want is the moving forward, the unending flow that never keeps us stuck in one place. On this day next year, not one will remain the same. None of us remains as we are now, forever.

The river is not the same, and neither am I.

Advent

She's not asking me why yet. She's a mighty little chatterbox who has lots of words in her vocabulary – functional words like shoe and milk, typical words like bye and outside, unusual words like tickle and clock, and fanciful words that only make sense in her toddler mind – but 'why' isn't a part of her life yet. She's still focused on the concrete, the names and the things and the places. The why is a detail that's harder to reach because we don't know to ask the question until we've run out of answers. The why requires a journey, and many times these broken vessels we call our selves never arrive at the destination.

And that is why faith can be so hard. 'Why' is not an easy question to answer. The expectation of hope can be beautiful, but the expectation of an arrival that has yet to come can be like a tiny flame in a dark winter night, waiting in peril for the slight draft that will blow it out.

For those of us who are experiencing a season of so much anticipation, so much expectation, while suffering through all the hurt and disappointment of the seasons before, guarding that candle's flame can feel like a lost cause. What's the use in protecting a fire that doesn't appear to give enough light or warmth?

To everyone who is broken this season, to everyone who is weary and tired, to everyone who has battled loneliness or loss or addiction, fear of the unknown, unfulfilled dreams, illness, financial hardship, painful relationships, or suffering beyond what is even imaginable –

There is hope on the horizon.

That is what this season is meant to represent. Though much of our experience has taught us that joy is hard to come by and pain will inevitably prevail, what we've come to expect is not always what arrives. Joy is coming. We hold the candle to invite Him in so that the peace of His presence can fulfill what the flame cannot.

When she's older and asking me harder questions than “Cookie?”, she may find that at times, the answers don't fulfill the longing. They aren't meant to. There is more to seek beyond answers, beyond expectations. My prayer is that asking why would always point her back to 'who'.

We celebrate. We prepare. And we wait with yearning for the joy to come.

Why I'll Be Rejoicing In November

Oy, this election. You're killing me, Smalls.

Election seasons are hard. This is nothing new, and yet every time one happens we seem to act even crazier than before. I will admit, however, that this one is particularly bad, for reasons of which I'm sure some of us are all too aware.

Beginning long before this outlandish spectacle began, I have often found myself under the spell of discouragement, and even at times, of despair. As the world appears to spiral more and more out of control with each passing day, I get caught up in the horror of it all far more often than I should. It's like a disease that flows over into other parts of my life, affecting even the areas that are supposed to be filled with joy.

That is complete and utter insanity.

Given all I know about God and His promises, and His incredible grace and love, I am nothing but a great fool when I give myself over to the pain and confusion this world has to offer. Why do I hold this redemptive hope in my hands and still walk around like it doesn't exist? I have everything and act as though I have nothing.

Every obstacle should be viewed as more opportunity to grow in grace, to fully understand that my life does not end with my departure from this earth. If it did, I'd have every reason in the world to fret, throw my hands up in disgust, and give up. Instead, I have every reason in the book to celebrate.

God is sovereign. “I know that you can do all things, and that no purpose of yours can be thwarted” (Job 42:2). “The Lord has established his throne in the heavens, and his kingdom rules over all” (Psalm 103:19). None of this has changed. Just because I feel as though everything is completely out of control doesn't mean that it actually is.

He is good. “And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose” (Romans 8:28). It doesn't look good. It doesn't feel good. In fact, I'm willing to bet that most of us would describe the past several months (and longer) as awful. But we trust in Him and all His wisdom and might and love because HE is good. Even when we're surrounded by the bad, we're enveloped in the good.

He wins. “I have told you these things, so that in me you may have peace. In this world you will have trouble. But take heart! I have overcome the world” (John 16:33). We are already victorious. In spite of ourselves, all that is messed up in this world will not defeat us. We will not remain in the wilderness forever.

I am vowing to remember these points as I set out to change my approach. I've lived far too long under the blanket of defeat, missing out on the peace held out to me just on the other side.

I will rejoice because I still have the abundant life, and I carry blessings with me in each and every step I take.

I will be thankful for that knowledge and remember that until my dying breath, I will fight for what matters.

I will not allow my sense of worth to diminish because I feel as though my voice hasn't been heard.

I will not forget that there is a plan and purpose for it all, even when it hurts, even when it sucks, even when I am in fear.

I will seek to live in the light of glory, praising Him with every breath.

I will not throw my hands in the air and give up and quit fighting and close my eyes and wait for it all to be over. I will not let the fire in my soul burn out. I will walk this weary road, but I will not forget where it leads.

Laid Bare

I don't belong here. I'm worthless. What's the point?

I felt it when I held my sick, teething baby and wondered why I couldn't be any better at this. Upset and frustrated, I cried along with her, telling myself I didn't deserve children because I couldn't handle the hard parts. Not like other moms could. I didn't have patience, I couldn't handle sleep deprivation, and what kind of mother is angry because she is exhausted? I'm bad at this just like I'm bad at everything else, I thought.

I feel it when I want to write encouraging posts for other Christian moms, so I delve into the latest from other bloggers and writers I've enjoyed, but I can't relate. Their posts are progressive and provocative, and I am not. I question if I even truly have a platform or if what I'm doing even matters or makes a difference. If this is my calling, then why do I get the sense that I don't belong? No one even cares what I have to say anyway.

I feel it when I've spent months working out hard and eating right and doing all the healthy things but still not getting completely rid of the tummy that housed three little souls until their births. It's not enough that I lost all the baby weight and then some because there are other women doing it better. She's had kids too – how did she get that flat stomach and those abs? If she can be that fit, why can't I? It's useless for me. I guess I should just give up.

I tell myself that I'm telling myself lies, but for some reason it's harder to believe myself then. The lie is more comfortable, more convincing. It has been a companion for far too long. It has grown roots and taken up shelter in the depths of my soul like a weed that won't die, and I let it because I've never lived life without it. I know I'd be better off to dispose of it, but I still keep it around, hidden like a secret treasure, because I can't figure out how to let go of something I've held on to for so long.

All we have to do to see how easy it is to believe lies is look at the world around us. We think everyone has gone mad, but it's more than madness; it's the enemy. When the world has been led to believe that lies are better than the truth, we can't be surprised when madness ensues. It's no wonder we are in this place we don't want to be, in the midst of insanity. But if I can't let go of my own lies, what makes me think I can fight the rest of them?

The mind is the easiest place to attack – at least, I know mine is, because I'm already attacking myself in there. I don't matter, I don't measure up, I'm not good enough, not doing enough, not funny enough, smart enough, wise enough, pretty enough, successful enough...I am vulnerable...discouraged...wide open to pain and hurt...and wide open to MORE lies.

I don't want to be here anymore, held captive by thoughts. And quite frankly, I don't have the luxury of being here anymore. There's too much at stake. 

If I could give people on this earth anything at all, it would be to give them the truth – that they are loved by the creator of the universe, more than they could ever possibly imagine. If each and every human soul could feel the love and hope that rests in the promise given to us on the cross all those years ago...if they could see that the lies they've filled themselves with all this time have a purpose, and that purpose is to prevent them from reaching that promise...if only they could see that we are at war in unseen ways…

But I'm speaking to myself. Because I forget all of it when my mind is filled with all the wrong stuff. I can't fix the world, but I can get my head right. I can't convince the world that it's wrong, but I can remind myself and anyone who cares that we don't belong here – and that's precisely why we feel it. We can feel it together.

I can no longer live under the weight of the lie that the enemy is not that big of a threat. It's certainly more comfortable under it – like a child's warm blanket pulled up in the night when sounds get scary. But those sounds are real. The enemy is not just toying with me – the enemy seeks to keep me underneath the covers. Only I can decide what I am going to do with that truth.

You Have So Many Things To Love When You Love Everything

It doesn't take much for our children to get us thinking, does it? My oldest draws pictures all the time to express what's in her heart, and although my boy doesn't care much for drawing, he loves to tell us stories and make silly analogies that give us a little bit of insight into the way his mind works. Children are often so much more clever than we 'grown-ups' give them credit for, but what I treasure the most is how they challenge me to get back to the basics, to a simplicity that I lose when I have my head in 'the world' for too long.

You have so many things to love when you love everything.

Ever since she drew this picture, I've had her words rolling about in my head from time to time. There's so much to hate in this world. There's so much to fear. There's so much to wonder and worry about all over the place.

And yet she wrote about love. That is what sticks with her, and I'm so thankful. It's not what sticks with me anymore after innocence lost and years of words that don't match the actions. That's the reality of life as we get older and find that we have to return to love...to recall its power...to fight to remember its truth and beauty. It's far too easy to get caught up in everything else.

I am wanting, simply, to love well. I could hate that I'm not always good at it. I could be afraid that I might cause another to forget its true meaning. I could worry that I'll never be able to do it well enough. But those thoughts are NOT the ones that should stick with me.

I have so many things to love.

In The Desert

+-She can tie her shoes now. She's lost four teeth, makes her own snacks, and has better handwriting than many adults I know. No one can make her baby sister laugh like she does. I look at her sleeping, long limbs stretched out across a twin bed, and try to remember how small she used to be, like the baby I have now. And even though I know it was just as hard back then, I also know that it was long ago.

This is an interesting place where I am – at the beginning again with a new child, but knowing all too well how quickly I'll be five years down the road. So I keep asking myself why I still get so irritated. Why do I let the little things add up? Why do I allow the baby's mood to determine how my days go? Why do I still get weary even though I love them so much? The answer, I'm aware, is simply that I'm living in humanity. Perspective goes a long way, but it doesn't make the living any lighter.

When we first decided to move to Arizona, I was convinced that I would hate it. I had never been in a desert environment, and having grown up in a wet climate with lush green all around, I assumed I'd feel completely out of place in all the dust and heat that awaited me. A desert had always held negative connotations for me, like isolation and bleakness.

Surprisingly, I ended up loving the desert. It holds its own beauty not found anywhere else on earth, and there's something about its solitude that can give a sense of freedom. I can understand why U2 named my favorite album (The Joshua Tree) after a desert plant. In an interview Bono said, “Spending time in Africa and seeing people in the pits of poverty, I still saw a very strong spirit in the people, a richness of spirit I didn't see when I came home… I saw the spoiled child of the Western world. I started thinking, 'They may have a physical desert, but we've got other kinds of deserts.' And that's what attracted me to the desert as a symbol of some sort.”

Metaphorically speaking, we've all lived in many deserts. All too often I've walked paths in which I've had to reach really hard for that richness of spirit, and sometimes I just couldn't pull it off. I know deep down that there's beauty to be found, even there, but that doesn't mean I can always see it. Even in the dry path I'm walking now, with the scorching sun at my back, a cactus blooms. And I may miss it if I'm too focused on the rest.

And if I'm being completely honest, I've been missing it a lot lately.

My third child teaches me daily about the importance of letting go of expectations. It has been a recurring theme for me throughout her little life thus far – reality not matching up with my ideas for how things should go down. Babies are like that anyway, you know – always thwarting your well-intentioned plans (like naps and leisure time). This third go-round for me has revealed just how much of my hangups in life have to do with holding tight to what's comfortable and safe, of how much my joy in life is dependent on everything it shouldn't depend on. I'm still living in the expectation of what should be, not what it truly is.

Those unreasonable expectations hold disappointment on the other side. When I convince myself of how my day will go. When I make a choice, believing I already know the outcome. When I fold the laundry and expect all the socks to match up. (I'm a silly creature – you'd think I'd have learned by now.)

I believe we're meant to crave the unknown wild, but instead I run from it, afraid of what I might find there. I'd rather it all work out. I'd rather have control. I'd rather not feel so small. Or so I think.

Spend just one night camping underneath a starry desert sky, and the smallness you feel is unlike any other. It envelops you...embraces you. It can be an amazingly freeing feeling to realize how tiny you are in the vastness of the universe – but only if you don't allow it to overwhelm you first.

If only I could remember my oldest every time I look at my youngest, and think about how soon she'll fill up that bed instead of being overwhelmed by her smallness. If only I could always see that the worn-out-cranky-kid-chasing days will soon give way when the sun sets just up ahead. If only I could stop caring about lost socks. If only I could fill up on that richness of spirit instead of running on fumes and frustration.

After all, I can't spend too much time in the desert if I haven't quenched my thirst.

How Can I: A Resolution Of Sorts

Six months in and she's got my heart. She did from the beginning, of course, but that heart is only getting more deeply embedded in that fragile place where parents' hearts go, where it shatters at every story on the news and thunders with panic at every feverish night, and yet somehow keeps repairing itself at every wide-eyed grin.

Oh, Cora Ivy. I gave her that name because it means heart of faithfulness – my prayer for her – but how can I dare long for such a treasure when my own faith is ever-waning?

It's the season of faith. The ornaments hang from the tree so confidently, and those lights flicker with abandon, while inside my heart is a wrecked mess of sadness and fear and longing that's within all of us, but no one seems to talk about anymore.

How can I look into those beautiful little eyes without thinking about all that they will see?

Thinking back on my own trials, I can't help but wonder what hers will be. What theirs will be. I

know not what it is, just that it is to come. Living life in a fallen world, no one escapes the battles that overwhelm the soul. Has my path prepared me? How can I help them through it all when my own search hasn't always turned up answers and has too often left me brokenhearted?

How can I teach them about their worth when I struggle with my own? How can I tell them to be bold, that they need not worry about what anyone else thinks of them when their own mama has never learned how to do it? How can I give away patience when I've run out of it?

How can I teach them how to love when the world will never cease to throw at them every false version of love it can come up with?

How can I...how can I...how can I…

How can I sit there and tell my big girl not to be so hard on herself when Lord knows I do it to myself too? How can I encourage my boy to be strong when I feel weak? How can I give this tiny baby who strokes my face as she curls up against my body the security that she truly needs?

I sing along with the Christmas carols - “the hopes and fears of all the years are met in thee tonight” - and the feelings come and go. Here comes the hope. Here come the fears. And so on it goes as it has since the beginning of time.

Before bed I read them The Little Engine That Could, and I dwell on those words more than they will ever know – I think I can, I think I can – turn out the light, and keep chugging along. I keep chug-chug-chugging. It's all I can do.

Then when all has quieted down and I retreat to that place within that can get messy and harsh and fearful, I force myself to fill it with hope. I think about the story my clever little girl wrote and illustrated for me. I think about my energetic little boy proudly bringing in the chicken egg he collected from the hens all by himself. I remember the first heartfelt, unprompted 'thank you' and the last big hug I got, and I let my thoughts linger on all the laughter and joy in between. Because that's the place my heart needs to go.

It's more than how can I. It's why can't I. It's how can I not.

So I'll keep chugging along, but I'll change the rhythm of the engine. I know we can. I know we will. And we will indeed, because what more could be worthy of yearning for but the faith to carry us through?

I must pull my heart from the trenches and place it on the mountaintop. It belongs to them, after all. They need their mama's heart to soar above the oceans so they can fly too.

Grace.

One evening while we were on our beach vacation back in April, we came across a young couple who were chasing around their three small kids on the shore. Our kids started running around with theirs, so since I was expecting our third at the time, I struck up a conversation with the parents by asking, “So, what's it like having three anyway?”

The dad joked in his country accent, “Well, I woulda advised you against it, but I can see I'm too late.”

I laughed, and even though I wasn't quite there yet, I knew what he meant. It's always a little crazy adding to the mix.

My two big kids are growing up so fast, and I want to give them all I can, yet I have spent so much time in the last year unable to be at my best for them. I was too pregnant and too nauseated or too tired or too uncomfortable for several months, and now the new little one requires so much attention that I feel like this summer completely ran away from us. I think about how I want to be doing more with them right now and how guilty I sometimes feel that I have to divide myself up even more, but they don't even notice any of that. They are loving every minute of each day. They are loving their baby sister. And they hug me and tell me how much they love me every night.

Those kids give me grace.

My 2-month-old is a great night sleeper (fingers crossed it stays that way) but is a fierce little nap fighter during the day. I think my butt is permanently imprinted in the recliner from spending so much time nursing. It gets better each day, and I'm figuring her out, but I don't always know exactly what she wants. As I forge ahead, trying to meet the demands of a newborn without getting too frustrated, I don't always succeed. But at night I lie in the dark and listen to her little squeaks and contented sighs coming from the bassinet next to me as she drifts off, satisfied, and I know she loves her mama.

That baby gives me grace.

In the midst of all this activity, I often feel that I've forgotten how to pray. I struggle to put into words what I want to say to my heavenly Father and don't often enough remember to talk to Him. I brush that communication aside to meet the many needs around me and manage just fine, or so I think, until I remember that I need guidance and wisdom in order to do any of this life stuff right. Of all the frustrations I face, I have the hardest time with the ones that come from within. But He knows every one of them and loves me just the same.

That Father gives me grace.

As this little family travels along its path, I hear the clock ticking along with the steady pace of the kids' growth. I want to keep them small enough to fit in my arms, to keep them close enough to rest their heads upon my chest. I want to know what lies ahead so I can prepare them for it. But I can't, so I savor the sweetest moments, the ones I'll always have to hold on to.

Even time gives me grace.

I wouldn't advise anyone against any of it – because even in all of the messy madness, the fleeting failures, and the crazy chaos, grace surrounds us. Grace carries us through.

I wish I knew how to give it as freely as it is so often given to me.

Welcoming Cora: A Home Birth Story

Lately I've been a little out of sorts – sleepy, foggy brain, worn out, and pretty much just tied up in one job, unable to do much else except try to remember when I'm going to feel normal again. But it's all for a good reason. Our third child, a beautiful and healthy baby girl, entered the world on June 25.

This pregnancy was by far the hardest and weirdest of all of them. My morning sickness lasted well into the second trimester, despite my continued expectations for it to end 'any day now', and my energy level was awful the entire time. I developed pregnancy ailments that I didn't even know were related to pregnancy, such as nosebleeds, drooling like a Saint Bernard in my sleep, and all-night snoring that often led my poor husband to seek refuge on the couch. Add to those the typical pregnancy issues like acid reflux and fatigue, and you can sure bet I was beyond ready to have this baby by the end. But, of course, I did things backwards, and my pregnancies have gotten longer each time instead of shorter, so this little girl decided to stay safe and cozy inside Mommy until five days past my due date.

She was worth it. Cora Ivy was born at 9:47 a.m. on a Thursday after a 6-hour active labor and what felt like weeks of early labor. I had been having so many Braxton Hicks contractions for so long that I joked with Clint that I wouldn't notice when I finally went into real labor and the baby would eventually just fall out one day. Ha! Would be nice if it actually worked that way...

I felt strange the whole day before she was born. The contractions seemed stronger and even more frequent, but I had given up on this baby ever actually coming out of me. I felt as though the big event was close, but I didn't want to get my hopes up like I had so many times before. I had fitful sleep all night until around 3:30 a.m, when I realized that I kept waking up in pain. I finally got up and walked around for a while, timing the contractions with an app on my phone like I had so many other times before. They were definitely closer together, but still not very regular - 6 minutes, 2 minutes, 8 minutes, 4 minutes. This labor was so unlike my last, but these contractions definitely felt 'different', so I knew it was (finally) the real thing.

I called my midwife and woke up Clint around 5:00 a.m. He started getting the birth pool set up while I walked around and nervously timed contractions, wondering if I'd waited too long to call the midwife since some of the contractions were so close together. I felt much better once she arrived, and my mother-in-law arrived soon after to pick up the kids. Poor Hannah teared up a little as she hugged me before they left, but we reassured her that she would have a new baby sister soon and it would all be worth it. I would continue to tell myself the same thing throughout the morning.

They left around 7:00 a.m, and it took a while longer for the birth pool to get filled, but once it did I settled into the warm water, Clint put some Josh Garrels on the stereo, and for a while it really was like taking a relaxing bath in my dining room. I used the same method I had used in my last labor – breathing through the contractions and picturing in my mind my favorite photographs of my kids. It helped me to take the focus off of what my body was doing and instead focus on the reward at the end.

At some point though it started getting much harder, as labor tends to do. As the pain got more intense, the water began feeling much hotter, probably just because I was having to work harder, and my midwife and Clint took turns giving me sips of ice water and putting a cool washcloth on my forehead. I remember wondering how in the world this pool could stay so hot, and I sat up out of the water occasionally to cool off – in between contractions, of course.

I've seen many water birth videos, and most of the time, it seems women prefer to squat or rest their arms on the side of the tub. That DID NOT work for me. Gravity made things horribly painful. What worked for me was actually lying back in the pool with my hips lifted up. I let my legs just float in the water, and it seemed to take away some of the pressure I was feeling. Clint held me up with one arm, and I gripped his hand with the other as I focused on the music and thoughts of my kids.

I can't recall which song Cora entered the world to, as I was rather distracted (and in lots of pain) at that point, but the song that I remember hearing most clearly during labor is called 'Morning Light'. I was facing our back patio glass doors where I could see our backyard bathed in sunlight, and I was struck by the relevance of the lyrics.

“It's gonna be alright

Turn around and let back in the light

And joy will come like a bird in the morning sun

And all will be made well once again.”

And also -

“But every good gift comes down from above

From the Lord of light like a labor of love

Upon the child who waits for Him."

I would recommend to anyone in labor to have some soothing music playing. I didn't have that in my other labors, and it truly helped me to keep calm and maintain a relaxed atmosphere, in spite of all the intensity involved in delivering a baby.

When it came time to push, I remember thinking it seemed more painful than my last labor. At the time I had no idea she would end up being as big as she was. My midwives (the second one arrived at some point during transition) remarked that my water still hadn't broken yet, and soon after, there came the baby's head, still in the sac! I heard the midwives comment on it, and I remembered having read about babies born that way and how rare it was. Cora was born “in the caul” - still completely enclosed in her amniotic sac. I wish we had been able to get a picture, but the four of us were all pretty busy!

After they laid her on my chest, one of them commented that she was big and had to definitely be over nine pounds. I think I said something like, “Really? No way!” because I had never had a big baby before. Hannah was just under seven pounds and Abram was just under eight. Sure enough, once we moved into the bedroom and some of my family arrived, my midwife weighed Cora and announced to us all that she was 9 lbs 12 oz! I was in complete shock.

Nothing was as to be expected with this pregnancy, which just serves to remind me once again that life rarely meets expectations. Cora is also a typical newborn who doesn't meet expectations and eats more and sleeps less than her parents would prefer, but that just brings me back to the song lyrics of her labor – joy comes in the morning, and it's gonna be alright.

Hannah and Abram adore their baby sister, and although I admit that I am anxious for the time when she is a little older and they can enjoy interacting with her more, I am trying to soak up these baby days and remember how quickly they go by. Before we know what hit us, we'll have three big kids. For now we'll keep cuddling this tiny (though bigger than expected) little girl.

  

The Sea Could Bring You A Sail

Changes are a comin'. Lately I've been thinking about one of my favorite scenes from the movie Castaway when Tom Hanks' character returns home and is talking to a friend about how he stayed alive on the island. He says, “And I know what I have to do now. I gotta keep breathing. Because tomorrow the sun will rise. Who knows what the tide could bring?” So much great insight to take away from that movie, and you know a film is good when it holds your attention despite only having one actor throughout most of it and when it makes you cry over a volleyball floating away (Yes, I admit, I mourned Wilson, okay? I had imaginary friends as a kid. Give me a break.), but the reason I was reminded of that particular scene is because I've been focusing quite a bit on the future.

I'd forgotten how hard it is to feel so tired all the time. I'm thankful we got to take a beach vacation this year because I needed the rest. Oh, how I envy those women who consistently work out and have plenty of energy throughout their entire pregnancies. All three times I have had grand plans of doing just that, and all three times I've had to laugh at myself when I have to go sit down after climbing a flight of stairs. I'm still getting stuff done, just not at the pace I'm used to. I'm being forced to remember that slowing down isn't a bad thing. It's making me see what's right in front of me and letting me know that it will be gone tomorrow. 

It's more than just the fact that we have a third child on the way, though that's definitely enough to get a person thinking about how things are about to change...A LOT. It's that life is always changing. The slowing down has at least allowed me to notice how much the little ones I already have are morphing.

 

 They are maturing.

I offered to get Hannah her cereal one morning:

“No, thanks. I like to get it because it makes me feel like a big girl.”

“Ok.”

She paused and looked at me shyly. “But thank you for serving. I don't want you to feel like I don't want you to get it anymore.”

How did she know? Does she sense how hard it is for mommies to let go sometimes? Does she also see how happy and proud I am to see her growing up, even though I want to keep her little for as long as I can?

She's my big girl, bigger every day.

They are learning.

Abram has been interested in rhyming words lately. “Mommy, what rhymes with zag? Jag?” “Yes.” “Does bag?” “Yes.” “Does Jean-Luc?”

(No, and perhaps we should find Daddy something else to watch on Netflix besides Star Trek...)

They are both learning so much every day, and I love seeing the world through their eyes. Do they know how much they also teach me?

They are growing up. They are loving each other. We're building this life one day at a time.

Hannah will start school in the fall. Abram will be a big brother soon. I'll (hopefully) get some energy back, but my hair will keep graying, our kids will keep growing, this life will keep spinning, and as long as we're on this earth, nothing remains the same.

Uncharted territory lies before us - that's what all of life is. I don't know what the future holds, but I know that I gotta keep breathing. Today only lasts one day. Tomorrow the tide could bring something that changes my course forever.