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Crosby Eames–a birth story, part 4.

I’ve been anxious to tell this last part of your birth story, baby boy, wanting to be right back in that space with you on the day you were born. I pulled up our hospital playlist to bring me closer to those hours before you came, and I hit shuffle, my headphones in as I sit here in the coffee shop pounding out keys to you. The first song to come streaming out: “Good, Good Father.” A holy, sweet reminder that God is always good, no matter what. It’s who he is. It’s every bit true.

And now? “No Longer Slaves.” He never ceases to amaze me.

“I am surrounded…by the arms of the Father. I am surrounded…by songs of deliverance. We’ve been liberated…from our bondage. We’re the sons and the daughters…Let us sing our freedom!”

These words. These faithful, beating words do take me back. I sang them out, loud, on the day you were born, and my heart sings them again now:

“You split the sea so I could walk right through it! My fears are drowned in perfect love. You rescued me and I will stand and sing, ‘I AM A CHILD OF GOD.'”

Freedom. Deliverance. Drowned fears. God making a way for you. He did that very thing, and in doing so, he made a way for me, too.

The hours carried on that morning, your birthday. Around 11:45am, I looked at the clock and summoned my inner doula to make note of how my body was transitioning. This happens when a mama is very close to delivery, somewhere between seven and ten centimeters along. I remember that moment well. I was kneeling on the floor, arms propped up. Your daddy, behind and to my right, was supporting me through the next contraction. I made note of the time and thought to myself, “So close now. You’ll meet your baby by 12:30pm. 1pm at the latest.” I felt like I had so little left to give in labor. The thought that you were so very close was motivating, but my body was beyond tired. I asked your daddy to pray, and he did. Those words moved me through the next wave, and I begged God for help as another round came.

At that time, I also asked to be checked, and our nurse confirmed that I was completely dilated. Surely you would arrive so soon! She called our doctor, who made his way from the office to the hospital quickly. His presence in the room was a welcome addition–it meant we were very, very close.

For the hours that followed, I wandered–mentally, spiritually, physically, emotionally, through every possible feeling. I tried everything I could think of to work through contractions and help you to arrive. Nurses brought in a squat bar. We used the birthing ball. We tried walking, dancing, squatting, rocking and anything that my body moved to do naturally. You felt so close and so far away.

Something beautifully spiritual happened to me in that space of desperation and waiting–a moment I still can’t do justice to if I try. I had trusted God with ALL of me that it was possible I could deliver you without pain, but instead, I was in the most intense pain of my life. This is a hard part to tell, and I say it carefully, but I really did believe that I might die that afternoon. I had never felt so close to something out of this world as I did then. Maybe that feels dramatic now, or maybe I had a sense of what God was doing in a story that would have gone another direction without Him. I was alone in that room in the most powerful way. Your daddy was there, and Becky and our doctor and the nurses, too. But there was a space in time when it really felt like it was just you and me and God laboring together. Everything else fell away. I felt so broken, so in need. It was one of the most sacred moments of my life.

I moved from the floor after those seconds or minutes, trying as best I could to push through what was obviously not the end. I lay in the bed so drained of my own capacity, and I can say with confidence that God brought us through every single moment from then until you arrived. I was not under my own power at all, but His. God delivered you into this world, not me.

After several hours without much change, our nurse suggested that I try moving to the shower. She thought that might give me a sense of relief that would be enough to move us forward. I felt so weak and so discouraged, but in a moment of clarity I remembered that you had always moved so fluidly in my belly whenever you felt warm water on my skin. There was no reason not to try it, aside from my unbelief in my ability to move safely from the bed across the room. Your daddy and our nurse supported my walk there, and once we reached the shower, I tried to let go of my own thoughts and allow our bodies to do the work. I could hardly squat or stand. Maybe two minutes into this new scenario, I felt you move. And I mean, move. The sensation of you being stuck was suddenly gone, and now I thought I might just deliver you right onto the shower floor. I yelled in that moment–a yell that caused our nurse to pull the emergency cord and sent half a dozen nurses, our doctor and our photographer all into the room in one instant.

My feet barely touched the floor as arms gathered around and supported me back to the bed. I imagine now how ridiculous it all must have looked, had I been a fly on the wall. I didn’t care at all. I just wanted to meet you, and also not to deliver you onto the floor. My sense of urgency was valid, but perhaps alarmist. There was time to get me back into bed and positioned to deliver you, with maybe ten to fifteen minutes to spare.

Our doctor was calm, careful and patient, as he’s always been. Your cord was wrapped around you and up over your head, your hand was tucked snuggly in a fist up against the side of your face. As you stretched out into the world, that same arm reached out into the sky like a victorious punch. I felt exactly that way, too, precious boy.

I couldn’t have you in my arms fast enough. We have dozens of pictures to prove it. I’ve never been so relieved, maybe ever. You were here, safe. It took some time for your color to change, but all I could think was how miraculously you’d arrived. When everything seemed to stand in the way, God had brought you the way I had begged and pleaded he would–whole, healthy, without intervention. I am still in awe and amazed of His goodness in all of it.

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Daddy announced your gender, then cut your umbilical cord after a few minutes while I fixated on every last detail of you. All nine pounds, seven ounces of resilient, peaceful, mysterious you were now tucked in, skin to skin, with me. I thought I’d broken already, but the truth is, I had more breaking to do.

After you were born, we waited to tell anyone your name until your gramma could bring Henry and Eloise to meet you. We wanted them to be the first to know. “This is your new baby brother,” we told them. Henry cheered at the news of a boy. Eloise melted at the sight of you. I’m pretty sure I just cried and cried.

“His name is Crosby Eames,” we told them. “Fwizbee?” Eloise asked. “Crosby,” your daddy and I smiled.

You entered the world every bit your name that day, Crosby Eames. Crosby means “one who goes to the cross” or “goes to the city with crosses” and Eames means “prosperous protector.” Together we had gone to the cross, sweet baby, and our Prosperous Protector delivered us both.

I will never forget the details of your birthday, precious boy, nor the journey we traveled to get to it. God hasn’t stopped using you to refine me since that day, and I suspect He never will. I love you more than I could possibly say. I love the God we serve more freely and fiercely because of you. Not only did He answer every prayer of mine in the way He knew best, but He wove in sweet surprises and deepened joy at every turn.

As I finish telling your birth story, a new song is playing from your playlist, and it’s perfect:

“For the danger in these waves, for the thrill adventure craves, for the safety found in laying down our days. For a hope that’s on the rise, for the clearing of the skies, for the way that you delay and then surprise…

Oh you were so kind to answer my prayer. So good, so loving, so aware that you would move heaven and earth…

And I sing a hymn of praise for all you’ve done for me, and your love is in the wind and tumbling o’er the sea. So kind to me…”

God has been so kind to me. Your life changes ours and makes it better. It always will.

love you forever and ever, and then a little bit more,

mama

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crosby eames–a birth story, part 3.

On the morning of your due date, I woke up early-ish after a night of on and off contractions. My forty week appointment was scheduled for 10:40 that morning, and I had really hoped I wouldn’t make it to the office, but we were still just biding time. My contractions continued to challenge me and felt more and more intense. Still, I told your daddy to go ahead to work, assuming the feelings were more of the same and not wanting to slow down another day for everyone around me.

Twenty minutes after we’d said goodbye, I texted your dad and asked him to come back home. Suddenly everything was kicking into high gear, and I was sure your arrival was imminent. Everything about those first few hours seemed so much like the morning I delivered your big sister, so I started to feel like things could move quickly. I messaged our photographer, who moved heaven and earth to get her five kiddos covered so that she could join us at home. Daddy rushed into the driveway. Gramma took care of Henry and Eloise as they woke up, while I took a shower and got ready; surges were coming every three minutes, growing stronger all of the time.

To say I’d anticipated the contents of your birthday would be a great understatement. I had dreamt about each phase of those hours for so long—to have them upon us felt surreal and beautiful. I wanted to soak in every detail, and I’m so thankful we have images that capture what we were all feeling and doing that morning as we waited for you. I can look at them now and bring myself back there, savoring the sacred space between you being tucked safely away inside and your skin brushing air and meeting light for the very first time.

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I knew you were near, but I didn’t know what was coming. You felt close enough that I decided we should relocate ourselves to the hospital, thinking we might be meeting you in a matter of an hour or two. There, I’d have to have IV antibiotics during labor if time allowed, and honestly, I was hopeful to avoid them. I did my best to gauge what my body was telling me—what you were telling me, and we said our slow goodbyes to your brother, sister and gramma between contractions. At some point, daddy loaded the car and helped me in. The looooong trek to the hospital was actually a very short drive ;), and I was preparing myself to get from the car to the maternity floor on foot, assuming we’d arrive and meet you shortly after.

We stopped for a contraction or two as we headed down the hospital corridor. The elevator ride up felt long. I was bracing myself for both the good and challenging parts of a hospital birth. Of course there were monitors, a *brief* debate over a hospital gown (just not my thing), and papers to sign for IV treatment, etc. I hadn’t looked forward to any of these elements, and I tried hard just to focus on breathing you closer while the room picked up speed around me.

Much to my chagrin (and surprise), I was not as close to delivery as I’d hoped. I resigned to the IV setup and our first round of medication for Group B Strep—a decision I didn’t take lightly. The silver lining was my ability to unhook from the machine once the first full round was administered. I moved around the room as best I could with the IV line in tow, and after a while, was so grateful for my (our) detached freedom to roam. We’d been admitted at 9am on the nose, measuring 5-6 cm.

I haven’t touched on this much in your story to this point, but a month or so before your due date, your daddy and I decided we’d be welcoming you into the world without a doula—a very hard decision for us to make. Our friend and doula from previous births was no longer going to be in the area, and we landed on trusting our combined experiences birthing Henry and Eloise to equip us for your birth as a team on our own. It was a leap of faith, really, as it is with all things related to birth. I knew I could rely on your daddy to be very supportive in that space, and he knew that we could trust my body and my instincts to guide us through to your delivery. Becky, our photographer, provided a calm, gracious presence to us a well, offering her peaceful spirit and words of encouragement to fill spaces where needed. Details were falling into place as we got to know our incredibly supportive nurse, who was also integral in facilitating the environment I’d hope to cultivate as I labored with you.

So now, the hard part. I’ve known for months that I can’t put adequate words to the story that God had woven for us on the day of your delivery. I just could not have imagined the way things unfolded. His stories are always better than ours, even when they seem far from what we’ve drawn up in our minds. God taught me that again on the day you were born—a lesson I didn’t know I really needed. He has done that so faithfully through you time and again, sweet babe. Truly, laboring with you is one of the greatest honors of my life…

My contractions came like the constant pulse of a freight train driving forward and picking up speed. I couldn’t slow it down if I tried. We listened to the playlist I’d prepared for your arrival—eighteen songs in total, but to my amazement, only six or seven repeating themselves over and over as hours went by. We slow danced then. We swayed near the bed, your daddy and I, me belting out lines to “Trust in You” as a declaration—an anthem—over you, over me, over that room and as an outward confession of my hope and brokenness and desperation when it felt like the moment to meet you might never come:

“When you don’t move the mountains I’m needing you to move, when you don’t part the waters I wish I could walk through, when you don’t give the answers, as I cry out to you, I will trust, I will trust, I will trust in you…”

“I want what you want Lord and nothing less.”

“You are my strength and comfort, you are my steady hand, you are my firm foundation—the rock on which I stand. Your ways are always higher, your plans are always good, there’s not a place where I’ll go you’ve not already stood.”

I meant them. I meant every word. We had prayed for weeks that God would grant us a smooth, quick, uneventful delivery. We had even prayed in boldness that my labor would be without pain if that was God’s will. I know that sounds crazy, but it didn’t feel crazy to me—it made perfect sense. We serve a God who is capable of ANYTHING, and we know a Savior who has redeemed us and overcome the powers of sin and death. Nothing was outside of the realm of possible. Nothing.

As I cried out those words in that hospital room, as we swayed back and forth, rocked on the ball, moved from place to place and position to position, I continued to believe that God could do it. He could grant me a delivery free of pain if He wanted to. He could bring you into the world swiftly, without any hiccups.

But He didn’t.

Now before you go on reading, please put any doubt about what I’m saying out of your head, precious child. Your birth was one of the most incredible, spiritual experiences of my life. God delivered me from doubt and grew my trust in Him greatly as I delivered you. Wait and see. I’ve saved the very best part for last, little bean.

all my love,

mama

(All images in this post credited to BeeTree Studios)

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crosby eames–a birth story, part 2.

Having carried your brother and sister each to thirty nine weeks and one day, and given their sizes at birth (9 lbs. and 9 lbs. 2 oz., respectively), I never imagined carrying you past that timeline. I knew it was possible we’d wait longer for you, but I was telling myself we’d get to mid-September and be ready to go. This is probably how I coped (quite happily) through the heat of summer and the start of a new school year and changes galore. You were coming soon, and surely before month’s end. You were “due” on September 29th.

On the 12th of September, I started laboring with you. I wasn’t confident at first, but when my contractions increased in intensity and grew closer and closer together, I was at least sure that we were making progress toward your birthday. That week, I messaged our friend and birth photographer four days into “contractions on and off since Monday.” “I’m not sure we’ll see any real movement until next week,” I texted her, “but my gut says to just let you know…” It’s easy to doubt yourself when you’re a doula and you feel unable to predict or determine your own labor, and you kept me guessing, sweet boy. My contractions were legitimate–not stopping after glasses of water or laying on my side like Braxton Hicks, and they continued to move closer and closer together each round, every day. They would feel like progress, and then they’d stop. Some days the surges would go on for a few hours, and at their longest, I labored for 16 hours, sure we were nearing our trip to the hospital, only for my contractions to dissipate in a discouraging and uneventful end.

I felt like a roller coaster. I repeatedly felt like the boy who cried “Wolf!” texting the same few who needed to know, almost every time I thought we were nearing your entrance. I was emotionally and physically and mentally exhausted, and I leaned heavily on the grace of those around me to get through the days and nights, trying to prepare for you, trying to be a good mama to Henry and Eloise, and trying to keep myself focused on the things I’d been believing and praying so diligently for as we approached your birth.

It seems worth mentioning that you were breech for a long time in utero, and after trying every possible technique I knew or could get my hands on for about five weeks, you turned obligingly and in your own timing at thirty six weeks. There were many times after that day (I’m pretty sure you turned in the early morning hours while I was only sort of awake to notice 😉 ) that you seemed settled in more of a transverse position–not ideal for a natural birth but certainly still capable of shifting in a matter of days or weeks. I felt so aware of you then, as I had all through my pregnancy. It was beautiful and trying, as I prayed and prayed over you, your alignment and your passage into this world.

I was holding steadfastly to the truth that God could bring us both through your birth without pain or incident. I know it probably sounds crazy, but truly, believing that God could do miraculous things is what I know for certain carried us both through. His promises, read, prayed, spoken, repeated over you, were like manna day after day. I needed something to cling to when I would labor and then not progress, and while I may never be able to adequately articulate what God did in my heart through you in those weeks before you came, I am absolutely confident that my deep, deep place of desperation in the pressing and waiting only drew me closer to our good, good Father. I am so grateful to you for that!

In all of this, there were so many factors playing into the dynamic–and into your story. Gramma Teresa was making her way to us, your daddy was working in his new role over an hour away, we were trying to enter into new fall routines and fitting in as much as we could in the days that came. And did they ever come! I busied myself with your big brother and sister as much as possible, trying to keep things “normal” as I wandered around town having contractions hour after hour, day after day. I was certain my water was just going to break in the middle of things, and I’d stopped caring about that a few days in. All bets were off on timing and circumstances. Thirty nine weeks and one day came and went, and so I carried amazing little you for as many days as God’s grace allowed.

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I have a good many distinct memories of the two and a half weeks leading up to your birth, and for good reason. At night I would sit on the exercise ball in the living room, bouncing gently and rocking back and forth for an hour or more while I talked with your daddy and your gramma about when you might come. I faced adrenaline surges that left me feeling a mile high and then drained to the point of tears. I hashed out worries and silenced fears over and over again. God was exercising spiritual muscles I didn’t even know I had!

What I did know? I knew I was more and more amazed at the idea of you all of the time. You felt close and known, but mysterious and tucked away. I knew I wanted to treasure every bit of time I had with you inside, but also that I felt so beyond ready to meet you and to end the weeks of discomfort and insecurity I faced when my confident mama game wasn’t strong.

While we waited, we continued to stay busy with all that we could. That time with your gramma (my mama) was sweet and sacred. We shopped for fabrics to make you a quilt. (I stood at the counter in labor while they cut samples for us to take home. 🙂 ) We prepped meals. We talked for hours. Gramma was very patient with my impatient self, and she kept up with so much around the house and with your siblings when I couldn’t. Each day, it felt like we were waiting for the most wonderful surprise in the world, and we were! You and Henry and Eloise have all been worth waiting for in more ways than I could ever say.

Does it feel like it’s taking me a long time to get down to your actual birth, sweet baby? It did. Truly. It took a long, long time. But God was so faithful, you know that? All of that work my body was doing, and all of the work you were doing inside to change position and get situated to where you need to be? That was God honoring my every prayer and hope–I just didn’t know it yet!

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As I look back on all of those days in the waiting, I can see where God intervened to afford you (us!) the most healthy, safe birth possible. You didn’t come until you were ready, because you couldn’t physically make your way into position for a long while. I remember telling your daddy and gramma one night that it felt like your head was just completely stuck; I kept trying to press in one exact spot to help you move, but things just wouldn’t budge. For the last week or so that I carried you, I’d get that same sensation over and over again. I can still imagine it now, so distinct and consistent. Little man, you were working so hard!

I don’t know what kept you there for so long, but I do trust that God’s hand was in it, without a doubt. We were in prodromal labor together, working as a team, you and I. As it was, we just kept going, and in God’s grace and timing, there was stamina to move us both through it. There is such a sweetness to it all now as I think on those nights–walking, rocking, pleading, wondering, worshipping, waiting…

Tomorrow, the details of your birthday, Crosby Eames! (And Becky’s pictures…Oh! I can’t wait to share them with you!)

love you deeply,

mama

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crosby eames–a birth story.

Sweet, sweet boy, this is your story. It’s been a long time coming now. There’s so much to share, and I want to do it all justice, so it’s taken me a long time to get to a place of telling it. We’ve been learning each other for a while now, you and I (you are already ten months old!). God has used you mightily to change and shape me–through the waiting and the knowledge of miraculous you, growing; through the wonder of carrying you and the challenge and joy of delivering you into this world. I’ve learned to expect the unexpected on this journey together. You are one of the very best gifts: refining, healing, faith-inducing, freeing, peace-giving, grace-laced, merciful. I pray I’ll tell your tale well…

More than a year and a half ago now, I unfurled my hands. I’d held them clenched, wanting control, for so long. It was nearly Christmas when I finally gave in. Hoping for a new life that might never come, I realized I was missing some of the deep joy God had to offer in our two sweet babes and the dynamic He’d created of our family.

There were four of us. We didn’t feel complete to me, but month after month our story stayed the same. Had I been too greedy? We already had two beautiful children to love, and even on our worst days I could feel and see the good. Still, my heart was begging, pleading with God to meet the picture I had imagined for us. I wanted to trust that this was His picture for us, too, but I was less and less sure all of the time.

One day that in December, something in me broke. This isn’t a lesson I’ve had to learn just once, but many times, as my trust in God’s wisdom grows. How do I presume I know better time and again? I’d finally come to a place of peace about our quad. I gave up on clinging to the idea of you. I still hoped for you, sure, but my will had moved out of the way.

One month later, as it so often seems to be when we lay things down, I felt a shift. We were in Colorado visiting your aunt, uncle and cousins, and your daddy felt a world away as he traveled in Africa for two weeks. I waited extra long, not wanting to get my hopes up, but I could hardly stand it. I made up a grocery list and left Aunt Bridget’s house early that Saturday morning to head to the store, teetering on emotions.

Two lines. I’d journaled to you that morning *just in case* you were somehow already a little miracle growing. And then there you were. Suddenly the you I had dreamed about and grieved over and all but given up was my new reality: a quiet, secret, beautiful reality that came pouring out of God’s grace. The hope that springs up from such a spark, so tiny, carried doubt and pain and wondering away in one beat.

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And so I carried you. You grew in my belly from January to September, teaching me all manners of things about trust and freedom and resting in God along the way. Naturally there were worries, but I had to keep falling back on what my heart said was good. In worship on a Saturday afternoon, only six and a half weeks pregnant with you, I sensed that you would bring freedom. You would be the means God wanted to use to draw me nearer, to drown out fear.

There was plenty of it, actually. That fear we’re taught not to carry, but we do anyway? It crept up at every turn as you grew, and God kept asking me to trust. I had to hold my hands open, even when all I wanted was to bring you close and know every outcome. Nine months is a beautiful amount of time. The weeks fly by, but the days stretch out like taffy. My pregnancy with you was just the same–stretching, yet sweet.

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We arrived at September after squeezing in every possible family adventure and *last* as a family of four. Every weekend drew us closer to your due date, and I anxiously hedged bets on your arrival. How you came was the greatest, most stretching surprise of all…

more tomorrow, sweet love.

mama

 

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ten years, motherhood and a much needed latte.

Ten years ago yesterday, I walked down the aisle as a bride. The world felt like one endless possibility stretched out long in front of us. Today I’m admiring waiting white gowns in the bridal boutique windows across the street through the Saturday drizzle; this hour, the first quiet daylight hour I’ve spent alone in a long while. So much has changed.

I ordered my coffee in a mug, for here. Found myself a seat at the hightop bar at the front of the shop. I propped open my computer to get to writing–the first thing my head and heart long for when daily life takes a tiny pause–and my head filled up with silence. Just silence. No one clinging, no one crying. No one spilling or needing water to drink or asking to have their cream cheese spread on a bagel. No one due for milk or wanting milk even though they don’t need it, no requests for a story or paper to color on, for a game to play or a potty break.

I love our babies. I love them more than I thought I could ever love anything. I don’t take them for granted, and I genuinely enjoy being their mama. But I so deeply need a break. I’m not easily slowed down, but I could sit here just staring out the window for the entire day, I’m sure of it. All of the usual voices are at home, probably loving time with daddy and certainly surviving without me, and we all need it.

When Jason and I got married a decade ago, I had so many dreams of how the future might look. Travels around the world together and a cozy place to come home to. Someday, babies…the chance to be a mother and to love and raise children as I’ve always felt called to do. Time to write, to contribute to the world in tangible ways, to volunteer, to soak in art and culture and the creativity of others…Beach days and rich time with God and everything a girl might dream about on her wedding day. I feel so fortunate to admit that many of these hopes and aspirations have come to fruition in ten years. I knew I could dream, but I had no idea so many possibilities might actually materialize, too.

In the same, we’ve faced our share of hardship. It’s easy to focus on the good things when I write in a public space, and I’d rather spend time practicing a spirit of gratitude anyway. But there have been many hard seasons amidst all of the good; only the good and the hope of good are what have always kept us going.

When God put Jason and I together, He had plans, no doubt–plans for life to come from our union, plans to shape and grow and strengthen us through the sour and the sweet. I am not the same person I was ten years ago, and neither is he. I never imagined we’d have to work so hard to continue to find ourselves and each other in this season of parenting young children, but we do. When the kids have gone to bed at the end of the day (some of them for a catnap), we scramble to meet in the middle and gather up all of the conversations and sharing and life-doing we can muster before we fall into bed at too late an hour. More often than not these days, we both fall asleep before we have the chance to chat or plan or dream, and we postpone “progress” on much, despite the best of intentions.

IMG_4316These little people God has given us? I remind myself often that they are an inheritance from Him. They truly are. And each one of them is beautiful and refining for us in their own ways. Our third little buddy is as sweet as can be. He loves deeply for a baby his age–his affection, both tangible and endless, is sustenance for me in the daily. In the same, he is incredibly attached at all hours. I believe completely in giving him everything he requires, in building his level of security, in nurturing his growth and development as he makes his needs known. He’s faced health challenges these past few months that have caused me to focus even more carefully on him, even as I so deeply desire to spread myself evenly as a mom. It’s not always possible, so I’m learning every single day to depend more and more on God’s grace and covering to get us through.

Parenting begs me to be selfless, while I battle back moments of selfishness all of the time. In the noise and the needs stacking up and the lives around me desiring everything I can give, I’m practicing an art I may never master, but God is faithful to keep refining anyway.

I never thought I’d be the type of parent to spend all of my time with our children, but these days, I do. I’m in a place of acknowledging that this is probably too much for me, knowing that I need to find ways to rediscover myself even as I pour into our family as best I can.

Stepping away, I can see the mom I’m trying to be. It’s easy to be hard on myself for every misstep, until I remember that I’m not the one who fills the gaps. I can’t be. God waits and invites and holds space for me when I probably don’t see it; sometimes in my exhaustion I forget to look.

Sitting here, I can look back see that young bride, too. The couple God started out ten years ago as we pledged to be two of three strands in a cord that’s not easily broken. Two strands on our own would have fallen apart a long time ago, but God stands faithfully as the third strand in a braid that’s stronger than we ever knew it could be. I have a feeling that as the tension has pulled tighter over time, we’ve grown tighter, too. Even when we fall asleep before the chance to dream. Even when the noise is so busy around us that we forget what it was like to be new at this life together.

Ten years. Three babies (and one we never knew). One cozy house. So many travels. Adventures in the good and the hard. So many cups of coffee. So many rainy Saturdays.

God isn’t done here, and that’s always where I hang my hat. Someday there might be time for more self-discovery, more tangible contributions by way of writing or doula work or building into others outside of our four walls. For now, three little babes call me their mama and look to me at every hour to be just that. Today I’m praying that I can rest in God as they rest in me, and that I can look like Christ to my people, even when it’s noisy and hard.

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almost to the bottom of my mug, but never empty,

mm