they run around like pirates “arg!”, “ahoy!”, “treasure!” paper hats and eye patches askew, winking and squinting, play fighting while together mapping treasure. how come some children are only ever captured by imagination, while others are captured by the realest of terrors? oh that perils were only always minor setbacks, on a crayon crinkled map, playfully overcome - instead of deadly serious, written in crimson… (at the store, at school, at a parade… anywhere, everywhere) go through the motions of playing – smiling, laughing, creating, charting courses throughout the seven seas, joining little pitter patter feet, making joyful exclamations. inwardly navigate dark stormy waters - the heartache, the fear, the questions, the rage… the heaviness. how much longer? how long until all of our children are safe? how long until all can go out, to learn and play and work and imagine… to live? how long until all can come home to loving arms and be tucked in to cozy beds to rest? how long until all can then awaken and do it all again today, and tomorrow? //in response to the uniquely american problem of gun violence and mass shootings (buffalo, uvalde, highland park… 2022)//
Category: Family
threshold
welcome to the world, bright and shining little one - in your coming, you've opened a profound window to my soul. holding you in my arms, i cross the threshold into the mysterious unknown, forever changed.
welcome
welcome to the world, bright and shining little one, threshold to my soul.
Walls
I just feel so much. I say, with a tear-squeaky voice. I know. You say, holding space. You’re not alone. My carefully constructed walls continue to crumble. Have courage, my vulnerable, beating heart. I’m flooded with the joy, and terror, of love.
Pails, Tails
Fuzzy costumes
Lion, cow
Halloween, finally
Starting now
Pitter patter
Little feet
Running, jumping
“Trick-or-Treat!”
Squishy fingers
Filling pails
Sticky faces
Trailing tails
Looking, looking
Eyes wide
Here, there
“Spookies” glide
Skeletons, pumpkins
Spiders, bats
“Oh-no-run-away!”
Scary, that!
Laughing, crying
Fun, frights
Overall filled
With delights
Unwrapping candy
Crinkle, crunch
Hooray! Hooray!
Time to munch
Full day,
"Monster Mash"
Now, slowly…
Candy crash
A Moment of Joy Together
This weekend—on the first lovely, warmish, and sunny weekend day that we’ve had in what feels like ages—we went on a little walk as a family of four around our neighborhood, to the river, and through the local downtown. We were all delighted and a bit amazed to be out after weeks of subfreezing temperatures, and to simply enjoy the sun and fresh air on our skin as we wandered about on clear sidewalks and noticed signs of new spring life.
This was my toddler’s first opportunity to actually walk on the sidewalk (!!!), as he learned to walk this past fall just as the weather started to turn. Soon snow and boots and puffy jackets made it too challenging for him to be able to get about outside apart from standing uncertainly in the snow—looking like a stuck marshmallow in his snowsuit!—and being carried and riding on the sled as we pull him around the backyard. Some of these outdoor activities seemed to be at least a bit fun for him, but also left him without the opportunity to enjoy moving about on his own two little feet.
So, getting to take his own steps by the river, following his big brother, seemed to amaze my toddler’s little heart. As he held tightly to my hand, he let out peals of delighted laughter and flashed bright smiles, trying to keep up with his older brother who was bravely and excitedly running ahead to lead the way.
Later, after a bit of time in the stroller and being carried, I set my toddler back down on the sidewalk again nearer to our home. I held one hand, and his big brother held his other hand, while Daddy pushed the stroller along behind us. Whenever his big brother let go of his hand to go check something out, my toddler reached out his hand towards his big brother, calling “moh, moh!” (for “more”).
And so we all walked along for a few minutes, enjoying being in one another’s presence, alive together in the same moment experiencing the same simple joys in the same lovely sunshine. It was one of those precious, rare, fleeting moments, where I was flooded with such a sense of pure joy and contentment.
It was a simple moment, and yet a profound one too, and my heart swelled with love for those I hold dear. This small moment is probably one of my favorite times I’ve gotten to share with my little family. And it was lovely.
(Of course this moment did not last forever. Just a few minutes later one of the boys was throwing a tantrum. And then we were faced with the awful, wonderful chaos of getting everyone herded back up the steps to our home and inside, taking shoes and gloves and coats and scarves and hats off. Hands needed to be washed, snacks and diapers and potty breaks and attempted naps needed to be faced. And on and on—all the little normal and hectic and ceaseless moments of everyday life.)
And yet that sweet moment as our little family of four on our walk was very precious, and was such a gift, reminding me of the deep joy that sometimes comes unexpectedly and unforced, in little moments of togetherness in life. And I felt so grateful.
I know I can’t hold tightly to my sons’ hands forever, just as I can’t hold on to time and freeze moments eternally. And I suppose I wouldn’t truly want to, as a part of the beauty and heartbreak of life is growth, change, movement. But I can soak up these moments of love and joy and presence as they come, and I can hold them in my heart.
Yet Another Goodbye
I think I nursed my baby for the final time last night, as tonight I ended up skipping our nightly nursing and instead just sang to him and gave him a cup of milk. While I didn’t plan it in advance, I’ve known this day was likely coming sooner rather than later, as my baby is 16 months now and in recent days has been barely nursing before I tuck him into bed.
For the last month or two, I’ve stopped bringing my phone with me when I rock and nurse him, so that instead of being distracted by scrolling (ever more disheartening) news stories, I can just be mindful of him. I’m thankful for this, for these extra moments of singing to him and noticing the warm weight of him in my arms, the shape of his cheeks, the sound of his breathing and swallowing, the smell of his freshly shampoo-ed hair, what it feels like squeeze his warm, pajammied squishiness close.
But these last couple of days he has hardly nursed at all when I rock him, although he still has wanted to snuggle and sing bedtime lullabies with me. And tonight it just felt right to forego nursing altogether, even though a part of me didn’t want to believe the time to say goodbye had truly come. I suppose this is yet another lesson in the complexity of holding multiple experiences, of how even something that is good and right can also feel sad and hard.
I’ve been putting off ending nursing with him in a way that I didn’t with my first. I’m not sure exactly why. I think a part of it may be because this time I don’t know if I will ever nurse again. Will I have another baby, or will my second also be my last? Right now I don’t have an answer; I really don’t know. And yet from this space of not knowing I still need to live, to love.
I think another part of my reticence also has to do with not wanting to say goodbye to yet another precious thing, after a year of what has felt like loss after loss and sorrow upon sorrow—globally, nationally, and personally (even though I realize I’ve lost far less than many). All of these layers of grief make one more loss—even a loss that is a healthy and even joyful part of my baby growing into toddlerhood—feel sad.
Losing nursing reminds me of other losses, of things that are gone and can never be again. And it goes against my desire to freeze time and hold everything close and familiar, as it is, forever. I realize, intellectually, that a part of life is that it is always changing, growing, shifting—with loss and joy intermingled. But my heart still feels sad for now.
I suppose sadness and loss are fitting reflections and feelings to be experiencing during this first week of lent, a time when we are called to remember and honor and enter into suffering (Jesus’, others’, our own). I want to be brave enough to make space for grief, even while holding on to the hope of life—life offered in the full by Jesus, but also in the little everyday experiences such as how my boys grow and play and laugh and cry, fiercely feeling and present even amidst the sorrows of the world.
Goodbye, Grandpa.
Grandpa,
You died a couple of months ago now, and our first holiday season without you is fast approaching. I know that we lived far apart, and yet you were dear to me and always had a special place in my heart and impact on my life. I always knew that you were there, such a steady presence in the background of life; your presence was so comforting, and seemed like it would be there forever. It has been hard to imagine life any other way. I’ve cried many tears over the last year and a half, since your diagnosis first signaled the fading of your permanency.
The sort of goodbye that we had was long, ambiguous. Brain cancer has a way of doing that, of creating many small goodbyes along a winding, painful path that leads to the final GOODBYE. Your tenacious spirit, your optimism, your fierce desire for activity and productivity and movement—all of these you held on to for as long as you could, even as slowly you slipped away a little more each day. And then, one day this fall, you were gone. I hope you are finally at peace, that you trusted in Jesus the way you assured me you did when we had a phone call shortly after you were first diagnosed.
That call that I had with you and Grandma nearly two springs ago, right after your diagnosis, was such a gift. You were still yourself, the Grandpa that I’d always known and loved. We both cried at the thought of the end that we both knew was eventually coming, but we also celebrated love, life, connection, hope, resiliency. And through the summer months that followed, when you were still more yourself than not, I treasured getting to exchange emails and calls with you, pictures of my growing family, and even a short visit where I got to see you in person for the last time. I know that days are always a gift, but these days felt especially precious as we knew time was slipping away.
I’ve been finding memories of you have been floating across my mind recently, weaving in and out of my days. It seems fitting for me to remember them, and YOU, again here in writing, on the blog that you, in your characteristic manner of helping me feel quietly supported, read faithfully.
Here are some of my favorite memories of and with you, in no particular order:
How you had such a dry sense of humor, although you often followed your jokes up with your quick wink and mischievous smile.
How I laughed often when I was around you.
How you said “And that…” a lot, and spoke infuriatingly quietly on the phone, so that I and just about everyone else had to constantly say, “What???”.
How you and Grandma visiting felt like Christmas regardless of what month it was, like the start of an adventure, like possibility, like playfulness, like fun.
How childhood summers visiting you and Grandma made time feel like it was slowing down, like the days were meant for playing outside, going on bike rides and boat rides, chasing bugs, eating food, talking about everything and nothing.
How you loved learning and being active and enjoying the little things, especially in nature—I really do think you could have been a nature guide and photographer, as you rarely spoke so freely or poetically as when describing flora or fauna from your travels and adventures.
How you saw me, made space for me, were willing to hear what I was thinking and feeling—and even sometimes shared some of your feelings and experiences.
How you helped me get extra support when I needed it, especially during some of my harder early adolescent years.
How you listened to and encouraged my dreams, including about what I wanted to study and where I wanted to go to school. (I may not have even met my husband if you hadn’t helped me go to the college that I did..!)
How you listened to and supported my passions, including in growing a family and in being a therapist and in writing.
How you were hardworking, and generous—you’ve given me and my little family so much.
How you were incredibly resilient—I know you hardly spoke about your early years, but the little that I am aware of makes it clear that you were courageous and perseverant and resourceful.
How much you liked to eat ice cream.
How you and Grandma shared much encouragement with me and my husband as we transitioned to being new parents.
How you were in better shape than me up until your diagnosis—I still remember the hot, waterless hike we went on as a family several years ago, which I struggled glumly through but which you charged joyfully ahead on; this experience was an apt illustration for how you approached life in general.
How you liked to tinker around with things, even though your fixes were often unique.
How you especially liked to bike ride, fly, and cross-country ski.
How you were always involved in my life, from the time I was a tiny little girl all the way up to when I was a mother of my own tiny boys.
How you delighted in your family.
Last summer, when I got to see you in person for the last time, you got to see my toddler, almost two, full of new words, of wonder for the world, of laughter and playfulness. You joked with him, and did a trick with his cup that he thought was so funny, and as he laughed I was reminded of how many times you made me, too, laugh when I was small. I’m glad we got delight together in him—he was just starting the first chapters of his life; you were finishing the closing chapters of yours. I wish that you could have met my baby, though I’m glad that you got to see me as I was nearing the end of my pregnancy, and that you heard of his eventual birth via phone calls. I’m glad that we got to play games in the evening before bed, eat dessert together, and just be together. I’m glad that we got to take pictures all together, and to hug one another one more time, and to enjoy just being together in the world, alive at the same time in the same place.
And now, life continues on here for me, and for my husband, and for my small boys, for as many days as the LORD allows. And life on this earth has ended for you. I miss you, and I love you. Thank you, Grandpa, for being you—I’m so grateful for you, and for your life. Even as I miss you, I will continue to live and to remember you, my own life and the lives of my family indelibly shaped by yours in ways big and small.
I love you, Grandpa.
A Note of Love to my One Year Old
And just like that, my littlest love, you are 1, and you are walking..!
In what has been a dark year in the world and in my own emotional life, you have been such a beam of light. I’m so grateful for you, and I delight in you and in getting to know and love you more each day.
I’m so thankful for your joyful and resilient spirit, how quick you are to smile and laugh, how you’re not afraid to show your feelings of sadness and anger, how you get back up when you fall, how you face your fears with a growl and a show of curiosity, how you seek out relationship and also know how to be independent, how you know how to make the best of things, how you insist on your voice being heard, how you delight in learning new things, how incredibly busy you are, how you love to give kisses.
There are many things you (and your big brother) have been teaching me this year, but one lesson in particular that I’ve been reflecting on is about love. You have been showing me how love—and the context in which love occurs—does not have to be “perfect” in order to be “good enough”, and that there is joy and grace and unexpected resilience in this (less-than-perfect) space that is messy but still beautiful.
When you entered the world in 2019, none of us had any idea what 2020 would have in store, and the first year of your life definitely did not look like what I had imagined. But amidst many tears and worries, this year has also had so much love and hope, and we have shared many dear moments amidst the difficulty. I wouldn’t trade you, or the time we have shared together as a family this past year, for the world.
And now you are walking bravely ahead into a new year of life, falling down and getting back up, toddling here and there and everywhere. When you took your first steps a few weeks ago, you looked so very happy and full of smiles. We all bore witness to your accomplishment, and were so proud of you. Your big brother exclaimed, “Our baby is growing!”—and indeed you are. I cried—tears of joy (for your obvious delight, for how you are growing just as you are meant to), tears of sadness (don’t grow too quickly though, my little one).
Already you seem less like a baby and more like a toddler. Sometimes when I am rocking you at night, and you are still and calm, I just gaze at your precious, round baby face and your little open mouth. I feel your warm, milky breath puffing softly on my cheek; I soak up the warm weight of you in my arms. And I love you, and will always love you.
I hope you always know how wanted, loved, cherished, and delighted in you are—by me and your Dada, by your big brother, by your extended family, by Jesus.
I love you, my littlest love, my one year old. May you be brave, be kind, and grow, my little one. And as you grow bigger, may God grow your faith and keep you ever in his love.
But you, dear friends, by building yourselves up in your most holy faith and praying in the Holy Spirit, keep yourselves in God’s love as you wait for the mercy of our Lord Jesus Christ to bring you to eternal life…To him who is able to keep you from stumbling and to present you before his glorious presence without fault and with great joy— to the only God our Savior be glory, majesty, power and authority, through Jesus Christ our Lord, before all ages, now and forevermore! Amen.
Jude 20-21, 24-25
Thirty
Last night, while doing dishes, I listened to Risen Motherhood, one of my favorite podcasts. The episode turned out to be particularly timely for the eve of my thirtieth birthday in that Laura, one of the hosts, mentioned that she loves growing older because doing so is an opportunity to love Jesus more and become more like him. She finds there is a joy and security that comes in growing in relationship with him in this way, and that this growth and maturity can only be accomplished over time. Emily, the other host, added that loving God and doing great things for him often looks like being faithful in the everyday moments of our lives.
Then this morning, I turned thirty. And I was encouraged by the thoughts Laura and Emily shared on their podcast because, as I reflect on my life thus far as well as on my hopes for this new decade of life, I find that I most want to be faithful and to live a life that matters. The most significant thing I can do with my life is to love Jesus in increasing measure, which will also lead me to more faithfully love those around me. And these things are possible wherever I am, including quarantined with my little family for the indefinite future as the pandemic continues to ravage the globe.
Prior to thinking about the possibilities for meaningful love and growth that exist even now, I was feeling a bit discouraged. As a 1 on the Enneagram, I am constantly seeing ways that I and the world around me could be improved, and I love to dream and plan for the future. But now, in this time of pandemic and quarantine, life feels so uncertain, and so does planning. What will this new decade of my thirties look like? I honestly have no idea, as my illusions of control have been largely shattered. So many things have been stripped away, and I am left with the present—which, I suppose, is all I ever really had. I don’t know what tomorrow, or next week, or next month, or next year will look like.
Yet here, in the present, I still have a myriad of opportunities to devote myself to what really matters: to loving Jesus more, to becoming more like him, to pointing to him, and to growing in faithfulness in how I love my husband, my boys, and the friends and family in my life. If anything, this drastic restructuring of life as we know it gives me even more opportunities than before to grow in sanctification and maturity, for the testing of faith through trials produces steadfastness and patience, which lead to increasing holiness and even unshakeable joy in the Lord (see James 1:2-4).
This season might not look like what I had expected or even hoped. I’m still afraid of suffering, and often wish I could just make a plan that will “solve” everything. But this season is also precious and meaningful and has eternal significance. I pray that the Holy Spirit will be changing my heart, making me more trusting and open to God’s refining process even when this process is hard. As I now enter into my thirties, I pray too that God will be growing my patience and steadfastness, that he would be maturing me even when refinement comes through suffering, that he would give me the grace I need to be faithful, and that he would be growing me in love for Jesus and those around me until I am ready to someday stand before him and hear that I have indeed been faithful.
In closing, I will include the prayer from Colossians that my husband, who knows and loves me so well, wrote on my birthday card. It has always been one of my favorite prayers, and this is all the more true today as I look ahead to a new decade of growing:
“For this reason, since the day we heard about you, we have not stopped praying for you. We continually ask God to fill you with the knowledge of his will through all the wisdom and understanding that the Spirit gives, so that you may live a life worthy of the Lord and please him in every way: bearing fruit in every good work, growing in the knowledge of God, being strengthened with all power according to his glorious might so that you may have great endurance and patience.” — Colossians 1:9-11