MollyMadonna.com

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not for my own sake.

If gratitude is an art form, I am a complete novice. I was thinking this over today as I sat down on the couch for a few minutes of quiet once the little one was down for his nap. We’ve had a cold (and now croup, in H’s case) around here for a few days, and while I’m not dealing with anything even remotely awful in the grand scheme, I’ve caught myself grumbling a little bit in my own head. Being sick means staying home. Missing out. Not passing around germs. The third part I’m great with–the first and second parts, not as much.

Today was the first meeting of the semester for our mom’s group at church, and I’ve really been looking forward to the weekly opportunity to see some of the loveliest moms in my life. Enter croup, and instead of dropping H off to play with his friends and joining a room full of beautiful women for a few hours of mom time, we’re at home on the couch this morning, handing off germ-free (I promise!) brownies to a gracious friend who picked them up for me on her way to church. I was bummed. Really bummed. Especially because this morning was my chance to send off a friend who is moving in a mere two days, and I missed the boat. I know I’ll likely see her when she visits sometime, but today, my head and heart were more full of complaints than gratitude as I stacked up all of the things I was “missing” to stay at home and be mom to a sick little kiddo.

Do you know what I would have given three years ago to be confined to home on a snowy day with my little one?

This was before we had Little Man, before I was ever even pregnant, when I could only dream about the BEST possible scenario in my mind. At home. Nowhere I had to be. A mom. All the time in the day just to look after my sweet boy. It’s true. That’s all I ever wanted. And when I’m really honest with myself, it’s still almost all I ever really want. If you’ve been with me long enough, you know that I adore being H’s mom. So why is it that I let myself get to this grumbly place in a matter of days just because I couldn’t keep my plans?

I can say this. Entertaining a toddler who is not feeling well, has less energy, whines through much of the day, and desperately needs you to “Pick. Him. Up!!!!” at every moment is not easy. But it isn’t terrible, either. It is such a beautiful thing to be wanted. And I typically hold my breath for the times when H asks to “snuggle,” so snuggling for an entire day (or two or three) shouldn’t really seem so bad, should it? No. It shouldn’t. But holding and coddling a wee one for the entirety of the day (minus one, not-so-long-when-he’s-sick nap time) also means letting life pile up…dishes, laundry, todo’s, rescheduled plans, MY life. Oh, how much I hate it when my thoughts on how the day should go are so far flung from reality.

And yet, this is largely what parenting is about. A shifting of priorities and self in order to make room for and care for something (someone) far more important than any (ok, almost any) of our own day to day needs or desires. Yep. We still have to eat and sleep and get cleaned up and feel human and nurture a few essential relationships, but most all else can fall to the wayside when the care of our little ones is at stake, and we are called to figure that out. It’s fair to say that I feel called, not just to figure it out, but to figure it out well. When I start to experience that creeping, ugly side of my selfish nature that leaks into my communication or translates into a lack of patience or grace for our boy, I pray for the strength to cut it off quickly. This kind of behavior seeps (un-rightly) sometimes into our adult relationships, but as adults, we can sort out the emotion or drain behind the communication and come to terms. Does my almost two year old translate my ugly side so graciously or perceptively just yet? No. And he should not. He can see the tired or sad or frustrated or run down side of me without being exposed to the baggage that comes with those moments…after all, I’m his mama. And I want to be the safest place for him to turn to, next to Christ.

So what am I trying to say, exactly, at the end of this long day when I was needed so greatly and all I really wanted was a whiny, self-imposed break? I’m trying to say that I do need a break, yes. But more than that, I needed a little time this afternoon and tonight just to ponder how gloriously blessed and grateful I am, and to recognize that the thing that had me in such a funk for a few hours this morning was the very same things I so prayed for and desired only a few years ago. The grass is always greener, or something like that.

The grass is always greener isn’t my conclusion. My takeaway is that I’m being called to the hardest, most rewarding job I’ve ever had to manage, and that today was one of those, “in the trenches” days that reminds me how fortunate I am to be doing the thing that I love. Sometimes I look at our bug and I still can’t believe we have him–healthy, whole, exuberant, growing strong. I consider the circumstances of the day for so many others who would give anything to walk in someone else’s shoes, and I am once again humbled. Today I curled up on the couch with a recovering kiddo who just needed his mama, and I was able to be here–fully present, amidst the snow and the dishes and the canceled plans that could all wait. Not that many years ago this was all just a distant possibility for “someday.” A hope I clung to for the future and prayed about with my whole heart. God was actually answering this prayer of mine today–and again, if I really think about it. How many other answered prayers and God-ordained moments might I miss, if I’m busy grumbling about what I think I need, instead of serving the need that He has provided for me to fill, right here under my own roof? With my own sweet little boy? With my own two hands?

tomorrow, my eyes will be wide open. you can count on that. and i pray that H will feel perfectly back to normal in the morning, but not for my own sake. so thankful for that,

mm

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so this is Christmas…

(Disclaimer: I always aim to commemorate every 25th, but in the midst of holiday celebrating and traveling, I didn’t post this to you on time, HD. I love you six days more as a result;)

Henry David,

It’s Christmas Day and you are dressed in little red pajamas with petite Christmas light bulbs scattered all over your pants. Your shirt made you take three steps back in excitement when you opened it up this morning: all red with a bright orange pickup truck toting a gigantic, lit up Christmas tree in the back. You love pickup trucks, and I love you. You can be confident that this is true, because I would never have fathomed buying you pickup truck pajamas for Christmas otherwise. Somehow, you make them darling, as you do with most things.

This time last year, you were a mere eight months old and wearing your first Christmas jammies: red and white velour stripes with a reindeer on the behind. In my heart it was the best Christmas ever–our first Christmas with you, your aunt and uncle visiting, all of us tucked warmly into the little blue house and celebrating so much love…

And then this year rolled around. It’s true it’s not the same without Auntie B, Uncle Teddy and your sweet cousin Emmelia here, but it’s equally as good in a different way. (Doesn’t hurt that we’ll get to see them in a mere TWO days!) We’re celebrating Christmas somewhat quietly, with Grammy Susan visiting, our usual brunch and dinner on the menu, and a mostly modest exchange of gifts that we’ve hoped will delight you (and one another). We barricaded you from the living room this morning so we could all go in together–daddy with the camera rolling to capture your little face as you noticed the presents waiting. Your big gift from us this year is a play kitchen. I am probably the most excited of all about this particular gift…so much of our world is cars and trucks and things that go, and I just know you’ll grow into your imagination as you create and cook and bake us through the coming winter months at home. In true Henry fashion, you’ve already declared the oven a garage for your newest matchbox cars, and I’m good with that. At twenty months old (today!) you’re a stinking riot to watch.

When you discovered the pile of gifts this morning your shouted, “robot!” as you ran towards the stuffed character we’ve been eyeing for weeks at the toy store. It took you mere seconds to come up with a name for him (“Moses!”) and to declare yourselves fast friends. It is a joy to see you come into your own, and to discover that your opinions are pronounced, decided, consistent. In moments like these, we best realize that your busy mind never stops–you are always processing something, and certainly soaking everything in. We consider it sheer luck to have landed you, not-so-little one. As your parents, we get as much out of loving you as we possibly could out of any other endeavor.

I don’t know whether this will be a Christmas you remember, or if it might be one that’s tucked into the hazy recesses of your toddler years. If you do remember it, I trust you’ll recall all of the fun we had–cozying up in the house, munching on Christmas cookies, and watching The Snowman before tucking you in for a nap. And if not, well, we’ll certainly remember it…the way you stayed in your jammies and played and played for hours with all of your new things, the way you loved the washcloth I pulled out of the kitchen drawer just as much as all of your wrapped up gifts, the way we prayed over Christmas dinner and talked about baby Jesus while the music played quietly and the candles burned bright.

So this is Christmas, my little love. Baby Jesus has been born in a stable and He is lighting up every corner of the world. Mary and Joseph take Him in in wonder, pondering the Miracle of His coming and not yet knowing the impact of His presence here on earth. Watching you, I understand this sense of marvel–this reverence for the unknown and the beauty of it all in the making. You are filling up our own little Bethlehem on this Christmas night, warming a space in our hearts that means more than we could comprehend, bringing joy and hope to our corner of the world.

praying you’ll always know, deep in your heart, the reason for all of this holiday pomp and circumstance.

love you forever,
your mama

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i have something to say.

I’d had a hunch amidst party-planning and birthday chatter, but decided to wait. If I was right, I wanted the celebrations to be separate–each their own wonderful expression of our life at this stage. We wrapped up a weekend honoring Henry’s first year in our world, and when the dust settled, I snuck quietly away that Monday morning to take the test. Two lines. Inside, I was beaming. Life felt rich, full, incredibly good as I whispered the secret to Henry that morning. “You’re going to be a big brother!” I told him, as quietly as I could. I laughed as the words became real in my mouth–he smiled at me as Henry would, as if to say he was celebrating right along. That day, we wandered downtown to find the perfect memento, and I carefully wrapped our selection–a soft, giraffe-shaped rattle for Henry to give to his daddy that night at dinner. We were sorry for the early Father’s Day present, we wrote on the card, but we thought he might need this new toy to ring in the New Year. A baby brother or sister was on the way!

For a short time, we exchanged knowing looks as we encountered friends–too early to share of course, but oh how we loved the secret! We talked about baby at the dinner table, both quietly pondered necessary changes to the house, a second nursery, holidays with a little one due in the midst of them. A New Year’s baby! January 2nd was the bullseye on the calendar. Not quite eight months away. Our chatter was pure bliss to my mama heart.

And then what you never want to have happen, happened. And what you dread as an expectant parent became tangible. We didn’t have to wonder what it felt like anymore. We knew. We weren’t having a baby, and it was raw and hard and heart-wrenching and terrible. We called our parents to tell them two sets of news: “We were pregnant yesterday, but today, we aren’t.” We sat on the couch and looked at each other and wondered how in the world we were going to come to terms–with this outcome, with our sadness, with the days ahead.

It really does feel this bleak with you’re in the midst of it because a child–your child, is no longer going to born to you a living, breathing, beautiful soul. Still beautiful, yes. But in an entirely different way than you ever imagined, and when it happens, you don’t want to think of all of the beautiful right away. You just want to grieve. To throw in the towel. To know that it’s all going to be over. And that’s exactly how we were left processing that day.

Millions of families go through it, and far fewer of us believe it’s ok to talk about it, and far fewer of us still actually do talk about it. It’s not easy in the least bit–not for a moment. I’ve never wanted to pretend that it was, and so this story has had to unravel itself slowly, until it was ready, six months down the line. We had a miscarriage and lost a baby, and some days, it is still hard and raw and painful to think about. But now I can see some of the beautiful in it, too, and I’m here telling the story because I think it’s important to share our aches as much as our joys. Our life is so full of joys. This year, it has been riddled with its share of heartache, as well. And God has been generous and faithful and abundantly gracious in the midst of the ache.

By now, I would be seven and half months pregnant, seven weeks from my due date, taking weekly photos of my exponentially growing bump. We would probably have the tree up, envisioning a shorter-lived holiday stretch in anticipation of baby #2, hustling around putting finishing touches on a new space for the little one–another re-working of our cozy home to make room for more cuddling and cozy. Instead, we are fully embracing the growth of a gentle-spirited and chatty eighteen month old who reminds us daily that life is still blessed, beautiful, essential. Our days as parents remind us that it is also challenging, wearing, imperfect. We don’t have any more figured out than we did six months ago, but we’re weathering it better and we’re expectant for God to move in His timing. There are plenty of days when this knowledge of God’s sovereignty doesn’t make our humanity feel any easier.

(I know that for a dad, losing a pregnancy has its own set of emotions. I respect them, pray for them, grieve them alongside Jason. But I won’t pretend here to know entirely how he feels or what he thinks about in this strange season of our lives. I say this just to recognize that I’d be remiss to attempt classifying his thoughts on this subject here in a blog. And I want to honor his privacy here, so to speak. Where I have said, “we” I mean we. And from here, the rest is me, knowing that our hearts are similar, but not the same…)

Since May, my world has often been consumed by my own thoughts, riddled with broken and pleading prayers, and compounded by everyone else’s questions. I don’t say this to offend, but perhaps to create an awareness if it isn’t already there. When someone isn’t pregnant, you never know the circumstance. Maybe they don’t want to be, and that’s ok. Maybe they desperately want to be and aren’t. Maybe they were, and they’re not anymore, and there’s no easy way to say it, so they just answer as politely as possible and add the question to the pile. I would put myself in categories two and three. And some days I weather it better than others.

When you’ve had a miscarriage, I’m not sure you want to explain to everyone in the world that you’ve had one. You don’t necessarily want anyone’s pity–although you might require a few amazing friends and family members to be lifting you up, encouraging you, and praying for you on a more than regular basis. This was me, and still is to a great degree. We shared our news with a handful of trusted prayer warriors and loved ones. I leaned harder into those relationships, drew away from others, avoided some social settings because I knew it would just plain be too hard. I challenged myself to still show up to moms groups and play dates and baby showers and church events for two reasons: first, because I needed to feel normal, and second, because I still wanted to celebrate the good in the lives of people around me. It’s been a harder fight than I’d like to admit, but God’s grace over me still swoops in at every exact right moment. I still assist births in this season with great joy, as though there is a protective shield guarding that part of my life. I still delight in new babies being born, new pregnancies announced. I just wish that mine was among the bellies gaining momentum in my life, and I have to slay my dragons as they appear. It’s a very ragged-edged kind of healing that I don’t understand.

But I don’t need to.

God is crafting my story–our story, out of the good and the bad, and still making all things new. I have faith that our family will be added to in God’s timing (which I confess to questioning somedays, even though I somewhat grasp the process). When we want things, we want them now. We can only see a small, narrow field of the greater picture He is crafting for us. It promotes us to fight impatience and to trust more than we are humanly capable of. It urges a sense in us that we didn’t know before great pain, and strengthens our muscle to hope when we apply the hurt as it fits with faith and our knowledge of a Savior. At least, at this stage of life, it does for me. I am learning to get a little better at this “peace in the midst of suffering” business, although I don’t pretend to want to. Not really one bit…

more to share…

mm

But with you there is forgiveness,
    so that we can, with reverence, serve you.

I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits,
and in his word I put my hope.
I wait for the Lord
more than watchmen wait for the morning…
Ps. 130.4-6

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520 wondrous days later.

520 days. 17 months. Today’s milestone and a little bit of my own disbelief, all at the same time. You are growing, growing, growing, my dear boy, with no sign of slowing any time soon. I knew this was the risk we’d inherit; having you of course meant watching you take flight from day one, just the same as it means 519 days later. I cringe at this a little bit sometimes, but I love being your mama so much that it hurts, and I’d take the growing pains over anything else, any day.

I’m not so much “Mama” these days as, “Mommeeee!”, and oh, how you squeal my name with such energy and delight, it’s contagious. I liked being, “Mama,” for certain, but “Mommeeee!” comes with a sense of intention–a need expressed, attention wanted, sheer joy at the discovery of something new, love for this person who loves you more than anyone else ever could (although I’m sure if you checked with your dad on this one, he might argue, and that’s fair.) Your shift from mama and dada to mommy and daddy comes at the exact same time as a verbal explosion under our roof and you, Henry D, are at the helm. Your little voice fills up the empty spaces and wafts over and under our daily everything, heightening our senses to the sweetness that you are and the enjoyment you have always been. “Flower,” “hop top,” “bippo,” “Elmo!” “Go, Go, Go!” “Kwoo-guh (Kruger),” “Pease!” “Emma!” “Amen!” You are abuzz with chatter.

This past month cradles so many firsts…your first sentence (“That’s a cow!”), your first gondola ride in the mountains, your very first and oh-so-adorable cousin, Emmelia! Not the best month yet health-wise, your first split lip, hospital visit, CT scan, and tummy bug, along with new bumps and bruises from all of the running around you’re doing at this adventurous stage. You’ve taken two airplane rides, traveled to Chicago, Milwaukee, Denver, Breckenridge, Boulder, and back, and you’ve mastered the art of art-viewing at ArtPrize 2012. As of late, you’ve taken to leaf picking and rock collecting and Kruger chasing, too…all of the things I’d expect from a boy and all of the dirt and scrapes to go with them 😉 You are so very good for my soul!

Henry, as I watch you grow, I’m reminded over and over how our Great God knows exactly what we need, when we need it–and how He meets us there in all of His power and love and gentle compassion at every turn. We are so small, Henry, but the God we serve is Mighty and Big and Powerful and Attentive, and He will always guide us on the path He has set for our lives if we seek Him and desire His presence in the daily. I pray this for you, sweet child. That you will seek Him in the daily. Being your mama has taught me this–more than anything else ever did before you came. I need God so that I can be the best mama I’m able, for you. And I need God so that I can love and serve your daddy well, and so that I can continue to become the woman that God intends for me to be. I hope that as you grow even more, this will be apparent and encouraging to you. God has amazing plans for your life, and I get to watch them unfold every day. Even now, while you’re still so small, His hand upon you is evident in every bit of who you are.

I loved you before I knew you, and today I love you 520 times more. I pray that my longings–to keep you small and to protect you always, never get in the way of your growing and changing and adventuring in all of the ways that God will call you to on this earth. You are a miracle in our world, Henry David. Nothing will ever change that, I am sure.

to infinity and beyond,

mommeeeeee!

 

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entering in.

The house is quiet. The rain keeps coming, moving me this afternoon to a cozy spot on the couch…computer on my lap, coffee in my cup. A perfectly perfect way to spend Friday afternoon, and honestly, a much needed chance to reflect on the contents of these past few weeks. Despite challenges and a few nicks to my spirit here and there, I’ve been in my element as of late. And I don’t want to forget how I feel when I’m in my element. It’s an amazing, fulfilling, realizing feeling–a piece of the puzzle of “me” that I’ve needed to know.

Nine mornings ago the phone rang, and I went into doula (birth assistant) mode. My energy was up, my enthusiasm cup, full. The call meant that I’d soon witness a miracle–the birth of another precious babe and the ever-changing dynamic of a growing family, blending together. For a matter of hours or days, I was about to enter into the fold of one of the most sacred, personal, beautiful moments in life, and somehow, I would be an active participant.

In a way, I have to blink extra hard and consider quietly and carefully how this role–my role, came to be. Certainly inspired and ordained by God to become a part of my contribution to the world, I still don’t get it. The fit is nearly too good to be true. It’s the most humbling thing I do (outside of parenting, which falls into a category all its own;), and yet, besides being a mama, it comes the most naturally. Not so much like riding a bike, but almost. Very much like sitting down to the keyboard and sharing my heart in words. Being a doula, supporting a mother and her partner as they usher their baby into the world…every fiber of my being grasps this differently than so many other things that I have done or tried to do. There is effort in it, most certainly, but an effort of a different kind. It wells up from somewhere deep and pours out from all that I have learned about grace and embracing the moment, sharing in beauty and celebrating the good. Everything about me comes alive. How crazy is it when we discover one of the things that we are absolutely meant to be about?!

I hope that I am doing this calling justice when I enter in. I pray that my heart and my contribution, while in it, is holy and pleasing to God. I dream that this will ultimately empower, encourage, love, protect, sustain, and serve the mamas, dads, and babies who entrust this sacred time, in part, into my care. I long to be gentle, to bring grace, to share strength.

It will be a matter of days (if even) before the phone rings again and news of another babe will come my way. Again I’ll ready myself as I am able. Again, I will pray fervently for the grace and wisdom and endurance to honor another family in an effort to provide help–however, whenever, and wherever appropriate and useful. Again I will offer up what I am capable of to God, asking Him to fill in the rest.

When we find the spaces we are most suited towards, what do we do with that new level of comfort (or perhaps, discomfort), clarity, and understanding? When we discover our “elements,” how do we use them to glorify a Most High God who is calling us to great things–things outside of and beyond our own capabilities? Things that require us to bow down, to be dependent as we press in, to listen closely as He guides us to the places where our hearts, our hands, our spirits can be of best use?

I will do my utmost to give of myself in this way, and I will look up for the rest. In my element(s), I suddenly feel as though I can most closely experience God and reflect Him back to others.

may it be so.

mm