Snow Days

Everyone in Michigan is talking about snow days, cold days, ice days and all the other type of days that keep getting school cancelled. I think we are up to 8 or 9 now, days where the phone rings at 5 am and you hope the kids remember how to sleep in.

I've been reveling in them more than I thought I would. Slow mornings with all of my kids at home haven't been a reality in months. The absence of afternoons with epic amounts of driving that see me home past dark, just in time to put little ones to bed, is like a gift of the one thing I can't make up: time.

I've been so all in with this new life, so dedicated and determined to make it work, that I've quickly left behind things that are still so very much a part of who I am, part of what and how I love. A friend told me the other day - your life has changed so much. And I felt it then, a tug at my heart for all the things that cannot be.

The blessing of a snow day is rediscovering with joy the things buried under the drift of my current reality, not gone, not destroyed, just biding their time. I knit while the baby snoozes in my arms. I teach my tween to bake biscuits. I invite the neighbor kids over who run through the house with my kids and fill it to the brim with laughter. It's familiar and bright, like recognizing a familiar face in a crowd where I least expected it. A reminder that it is always the good things survive in refining.

I watch my oldest in a rare moment, lazily flopped across the foot of my bed, making the baby laugh. And I think of the gift of him, of her, of this day together. Outside the salt trucks scrape along our street and I know that tomorrow we'll be back on track, but right now? Right now the warm center of us is all I see.

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A New Day

I hear her before she cries, with that magical sixth sense mothers of babies alone seem to possess. I open my eyes to the soft blanket of grey morning light hanging like a veil over her cradle, kissing the top of her downy head. She squirms and I lean over, scooping her into my arms  and pulling her beside me in bed in one fluid motion, melting around her chubby frame and inhaling her sweet baby scent. My day begins with gratitude at 4 am. She is all gift.

It's hard to believe it has been four months. Four months since I brought her home to my childhood bedroom. 5 months since I packed a few possessions and turned up on my parent's doorstep with 7 children and one large swollen belly signalling the 8th on her way. There is so much to say. There is nothing to say.

In the last few months I've picked up and processed thousands of pieces. Of hearts and memories. Of hopes and fears. False accusations and hidden truths. I've held the pain of my kids and I've been inspired by their resilience, their forgiveness, their loyalty.

Mostly, I've been required to go back to the very foundations of my faith about God, about how He sees me and about who I am. I've hurled myself headlong into His arms and have taken every worry and hope and fear and plan I have and handed them over. Tearing through the facade I clothed myself with for years to expose the painful truth about what really happened and why.

It's something I may never fully share. It is mine and mine alone.

One thing I will say is  - nothing is ever as simple as it seems. Nothing is ever as smooth as it appears. Nothing on this earth, in the human heart, can ever be easy. God is the only one who sees and knows all.

For a long time I felt unworthy to continue writing. That without something positive to say, a way to uplift those who faithfully read the words I wrote here, that I was no longer able to serve God in this capacity. I know now that is untrue.

I know I can trust God to use all of this for good. I've seen it already. He is all mercy and grace. Always. Every moment of every day, for every person. Those fighting back tears in the pew with their seemingly perfect family, and those collapsing under the weight of a life they weren't meant to bear.

If I can be that for someone, that signpost that says, oh, love! I've been to rock bottom and there is hope yet!

If I can offer my broken heart, family, dreams - up, for you? Well, that's redemption right there. See, He's got this. All of us. Me, you, my bonus baby waking me up brimming with smiles and hope. We belong to each other just as we are. And He is faithful to use our meager human lives to spread His goodness far and wide.

A new day dawns and I start the only way.

Giving thanks.

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Clearing A Way

The wipers scrape hopefully across the windshield, dramatically flailing while I push the button, hard. Uh oh. I try it again, just to be sure. Again they spring to action, whipping wildly back and forth. Nada. Out of washer fluid. The dirty sludge sprayed on my windshield remains. "Can you even see what you're doing?!" My 12 year old daughter beside me squints. "Barely," I respond, teeth gritted.

******

It's been 6 long, scary, dark and desperate months since I last dared tap out words in this space. In that amount of time, I've watched my world change in such a way that I hardly recognize it, or myself. Each time I thought I'd reached rock bottom, bloodied fingers scraping seemingly immovable obstacles, more of life seemed to crumble.

I look back on these pages and remember the days of baking bread and blocking wool and warm afternoons in the sunshine pushing my babies on the swings. I remember the hard a bit softer, I'm sure, and the bright much shinier, but that is the nature of hindsight. Now I'm tossed into the world of searching for daycare, looking for Mama-friendly work, navigating the world of "real school" that I am woefully ignorant in and spending hours a week driving carpool. All of it is outside of my experience. All of it feels like some colossal mistake. So much is continuing to unfold in our lives, changing and challenging each one of us in ways we feel unprepared for.

Still, at the very center, a spark. A knowledge that leads to a choice. And a choice that leads to radical action.

This year, I know God is calling me to deeper gratitude, all encompassing faith, more complete reliance. This year, I know that beauty might be harder to spot but God is still in this, with me, each step of the way. Not my way, no, not at all. Not according to my plans or dreams or hopes, really. But His way - can I trust it's really best?

He is still at work, even here, even with me, even in this family. There isn't a moment, a challenge, a fear He doesn't hold; own. It's dark and it's cold and I'm afraid I've lost my way and my vision is blurred and I'm so far off course I could never possibly find my way back, but maybe that's the goal here? Never back. Always forward. Allowing Him to lead me through places I have never been, choosing to trust that He's got it, all of it. Setting aside my pride and my preconceived notions of what my life should look like, and letting Him lead instead.

It's really all I have left.

*****

Dinah leans over the hood of the car. "I think it goes there," she points. Together we fill it up, blowing our frigid fingers at intervals before slamming the hood shut and hopping in the car. Inside, she nods and again I press. Nothing. Again? No. Heart sinking with the thought that something might really be wrong, I lean my forehead on the icy cold steering wheel. "Maybe it just needs a few tries? Do it again," she says.

Once more, then. A sparkling spray and we're clear. And just like that, I can see where to go, what to do, and how to get there.

****

Some gratitude for my new life:

~Wonderful schools where my children are happy, learning and safe.

~A community of families who help them get there.

~Moments each day with each one of my precious people

~A family committed to supporting and helping when and where they can

~A flexible work situation

~Weekly worship, which feeds my soul

~A warm home, a working vehicle, all needs met

~Grace, forgiveness, redemption.


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Never Easier, Every Day Better

Monday morning and I'm knee deep. Every day just flows right on into the next. If at one time I felt like I had a bit of time to take a breath each evening, a stop gap between one full day and the next - yeah, those days are behind me.

That's the thing no one tells you about the kids growing older. In a great many ways, the benefits are huge. Yes, I have a child old enough to babysit - something my friends with only littles look to enviously. I know, because I've been there. I know because I remember being awestruck at a friends home when her teen made our kids pb&j with a baby on her hip while we visited and sipped lattes. I thought wow - you've arrived. She assured me, though I doubt I believed her - Ha! No. I haven't. It's still difficult - just a different sort of difficult.

I feel that these days where my kids aren't all tucked in and fast asleep at 8 pm, and I'm not getting that "break" I spent years getting used to. Where the school days are longer and much more intense, where we roll into 5 pm barely done with schoolwork and I still have a 9 person family worth of housework ahead. Where the concerns aren't so much a toddler losing their mind in the middle of the grocery store half as much as how this culture is affecting my kids and what on earth I can do about it. There's a lot less knitting, sewing, baking and writing for me these days. I haven't arrived. Not by a long shot. But I'm beginning to embrace that maybe that was never really the point.

This life, it's never been about "set it and forget it." I can know this intellectually, but in practice it still smarts a bit. It starts in the beginning, where we want a baby to sleep through the night - and maybe they do. For a while. Until they don't. On and on with parenting we go, ironing out this or that issue, thinking - yes! There! Done! Until it's undone. Or something else crops up. On and on and on. Add more kids, and it's that doubly, or triply, or x7 more. We want that because it seems easier. Less work. We want to be done with difficulty so we can just sit back and relax.

But, as He always does, God gives us all these maddening opportunities along with a gift. The gift of growth, of sanctification. Instead of allowing us to stagnate, to atrophy in our lives - He uses life to invite us further. Deeper. Beyond what we could have ever fathomed possible.

It's that hook that I can hang my hat on. How I can look out on a Monday morning, with yesterday's laundry in a pile at the foot of my bed, with last weeks bills on my desk, with tomorrow's unfinished homework looming, next week's lesson planning untouched, today's toddler tantrums ramping up and 7 kids worth of Halloween costumes in the back of my mind - and believe that He is present in this chaos.

It's never going to get easier. But every day is better.

He has a plan here.

Every day. For His glory and our good.

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Love Letters

Today repairs on our house required that we vacate the premises. Not for the first time I was relieved that my parents live right behind me and were gracious enough to give us the run of their place. We packed up schoolbooks for four kids, snacks and lunch things, knitting, baby carriers, art supplies, read alouds. All the things that a day with my crew requires - and made our way over.

 Although we are doing our normal things, the change of location is actually a welcome reprieve from another frigid winter day inside, battling boredom and cabin fever. The big kids are looking forward to a game of "life" after school is over. The littles helped me mix up a batch of sugar cookies for Valentines. The baby is blessedly napping after a long night and I'm just happy to be here. Playing house in my childhood home where my seven kids remind me so much of what it was like back then. It's almost like peeking into the past, except I'm no longer one of those kids. Entering my mother's world, I get a birds eye view of what her days were like - and gain a new appreciation for my own. 

For all the scuffles and noise and, goodness, humanity that we mamas put up with - we are the witnesses to such glory. We witness fledgling humans figuring out just how this life thing works in the best school there is: family. Our work is merely the crafting of home, which is the cultivating of love. And whether that takes place in my mamas sprawling 200 year old Greek Rivival home or in my little cape cod right behind, the work is the same. Echoing God's heart means putting people first, always. Welcoming each one like the love letter they are into our lives. 

Valentine's is around the corner and we're cutting out paper hearts and I'm wondering at how the Creator knew how to craft a mamas heart to expand and expand and expand endlessly, able to wrap around each and every one of these gifts. 

This day, these precious ones. All glory. All grace. 

Wherever You Are

Hospital room thanksgiving. It seems like a misnomer, but I've been feeling it since we were admitted. My wheezing, sad eyed girl sitting up in bed watching the nurses like a hawk as they connected her to all the things. 

That was yesterday. 

Today I'm watching the snow swirl away out the window when the doctor gently breaks it to me that we won't be going home today - as if I couldn't tell. My baby is still struggling, something as natural as breathing a task she simply can't complete on her own. 

I'm in yesterday's clothes sipping a poor excuse for coffee after a long uncomfortable night, but I'm glad we are here. Magnolia will get better. We will leave, maybe not today, maybe not tomorrow, but she will get better and we will go home. This inconvenience will soon be forgotten and life will go on. I wonder if this knowledge is what I base my gratitude on. And if it is, is that really being grateful? 

Am I grateful only when I know I will eventually get my way? That, at some point, what I want will come to pass? That seems very thin ice for gratitude and her sister, joy, to skate across. 

I remember being a kid and asking my mom why God lets bad things happen. I don't remember her answer, but I'm sure whatever it was must have been good, albeit incomprehensible to me at the time. It's a question I know some of my unbelieving friends struggle with. If God is all goodness, then how? How do cherished babies enter hospitals and never come out again? How are entire villages burned to the ground, entire people groups brutally victimized? 

We are living in a culture that pokes fun of the idea of prayer in the face of hardship because it doesn't appear to "do" anything. Bad days keep happening. Sin and hurt prevail. We look for God and wonder where He is in the face of such brokenness. 

The balm of prayer may not be in a situation remedied, but in how the people within it are strengthened by the knowledge that someone is holding space for them. Bad things continue to happen, but God is still all good because His good for us has always been the end game. The answer to a world apart from him and all that that entails. 

I can give thanks in a hospital for a baby battling a fever and respiratory illness. Not because she will get better, but because even if she doesn't? His plan for her, for us - is the highest and ultimate good. No plans can be fumbled, no days ruined when you realize that what He has for you today? Illness, pain, brokenness just as much as joy and peace and love - is counted. Redeemed. Filled to the brim and overflowing with awesome grace, and the promise of the ultimate victory in and with Him.

My baby breathes deep pure oxygen and I'm breathing easy, too. Knowing that every single thing I face today and tomorrow and as long as I live - is for His glory and my ultimate, eternal good. 

Upended Plans

I could feel it sneaking up on me, this coughy, achey, sore throaty virus that unleashed it's full fury on Friday. I tried to ignore it and push through for a while but it soon became clear that this was going to sideline me. It's just a physical reminder of the stress I've been carrying with me lately - an outward reminder that life is a bit of a hurricane at the moment and I'm hanging on for dear life.

There's something about the acceptance of the undesired that stretches me just a bit beyond what I think I can bear. The initial reaction is to flee, to struggle, to refuse to succumb - but then it becomes abundantly clear that the only way through is to find a way to live within the circumstances.

I'm not good at this. I have PLANS, you see. I have a mental view of my expectations and desires. I certainly have zero intention of sitting in bed and waiting for this virus to run it's course. I have shopping to do, work outs I want to complete, baking and cleaning and creating waiting for me. I want to take the kids ice skating and to that live nativity. I want to go to church on these precious Advent Sundays. I simply do not have time for this - that is, I'm refusing to make time for this. After all, who would want to?

This morning I woke up with five kids in my bed, curled around me. My youngest boy is four, and he nestles right beside me, squeezing me tightly when he realizes I'm awake. "You're warm, Mama." Yes, I'm warm. I'm feverish. My body is fighting this illness tooth and nail. It's not pretty or nurturing or sweet, but to a four year old, Mama is warm. Mama is cuddly. Mama is wonderful.

The redeeming grace about the fires we walk through is the way it can bless others. God uses our acquiescence for good. We can know that. We can hold to that.

My Advent candles might not be lit nightly this year (certainly, our track record at this point is exactly once. Sigh.). We might not get to bake cookies and I might be a bit of a zombie following endless nights of coughing and chills. This Christmas may not be the pretty package I humanly strive for - but that is no reason to throw in the towel.

The first Christmas was all about human plans being upended and shaking, uncertain people saying yes - yes to the scary, unpleasant thing. The result was the most important gift the world as ever known. The same God who sustained them is wholly able to see me through this - through all of it. And it will be blessed abundantly more than I could possibly imagine.

But he said to me, "My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness." Therefore I will boast all the more gladly about my weaknesses, so that Christ's power may rest on me."

2 Corinthians 12:9

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Life, Generously - A Primer for the Holidays and Beyond

We picked up that little tree on our way home from church on Sunday. The kids decorated it Monday, chattering about gifts and wrapping paper and secrets. It's the second week of Advent and we're all leaning in. It's a lovely thing.

With the shopping catalogs this time of year, the giving catalogs begin showing up too. Samaritan's Purse, Compassion International - these are some of my kids' favorite "look books" this time of year. Page after page filled with images of bright eyed children from far flung countries of the world beckon us into a different thought process. Is there space in our life for generosity? What does that look like for a family like ours, with little extras?

Generosity isn't all about tangible gifts, lavish monetary donations. Generosity was never meant to be relegated to a certain time of year in anticipation of tax season right behind. Each and every day we are called to live generously. In some ways, by comparison, buying a family a goat costs us much less. My kids exclaim over the cute animals in the pictures while I think about generosity. Long after we select one, how can I live generously?

Be generous...with your time.

Busyness is so prevalent in our society and even here in our little home, I get swept up. Especially at this time of year. I simply don't have time to do it all, to be all. Honestly? It kinda rips at my joy. I confessed my sister as we drove home from shopping through the fog, "Sometimes Christmas feels like just one more thing set on top of all the other things I need to do. And it feels a lot like a job." That right there is a self inflicted burden. Generosity of time means being content with what and who God has set in your life for this moment. It means yes, you DO have time to make dinner for that family who just had a baby, or to sit a little bit longer with a sibling, or to take a phone call from an old friend in need of encouragement. Be generous with your time and you'll wind up so blessed.

Be generous...with your attitude.

My husband attempted to put lights on the tree this year. An hour or so later I came down to see how he was getting along and let's just say...it wasn't how I would have done it. I wish I could say I reacted generously, but I really didn't. I certainly alluded to his way being wrong, maybe even the worst idea ever. I took over (to his apparent relief) and finished it myself...but afterward I felt a prickle of regret much sharper than those pine needles stabbing at my hands. Is it so hard to be kind? Does it cost my anything to keep my annoyance under wraps? What is gained by showing your displeasure at small, insignificant things? Be generous with your attitude, kind and encouraging.

Be generous...with your prayers.

A few weeks ago at church, we had a sermon about prayer which, I will admit, is one of my weaker areas of loving people. How often do I say "I'm praying for you!" and then not really know what to say? But I want to be generous - constant - in prayer for the people who enter my life. Today a friend messages me for a knitting pattern and tells me about the 7 year old she's creating for - a precious little one with cancer. And I ask for her name and right then and there set her before God, pray his strength and light all around her. I don't give Him a list of the fixes I want - but I just set her just there and let His presence engulf her. It's not up to me to know what to pray for. When I'm freed from that, I can be all the more generous with prayer. (pray with me? For a precious little child losing her hair to chemo at Christmas?)

Be generous...with your love.

Ever since my best friend moved this Fall, I've felt a little catch in my heart when beginning to get close to others. Like a little warning sign. "Don't get too close! Don't get too involved! Danger! You might get hurt!" I know that these feelings, while certainly understandable, fly in the face of how life is meant to be lived. Generously. There is no relationship that brings with it the guarantee of being forever pain free. Love anyway. Love is not self seeking - or self preserving. Love is self giving. The greatest example of this is of course Jesus, who loved His way all the way through death and back. Be recklessly generous in how you love others.

Be generous...with your joy.

There are always conversations swirling around in mothering circles about how much to share with others. Do we tell just the good stuff and risk making others think we have it all together? Or do we pile on the dirt to remind each other "I'm just like you!" and run the risk of being overly negative and ungrateful? I think the answer is somewhat simple when you acquaint yourself with what joy is...and what it is not. Joy is not present only in the perfect. Joy can be found in all things when you live with hope, grounded in grace. It balances the "real life" stuff and the "Pollyanna" stuff perfectly. With joy, I can share apprehension at a new struggle while magnifying the great gift of the opportunity to cling more closely to God. With joy, I can share the mess the toddlers made while acknowledging that even on the most exhausting days, God is all good and we are all loved. Joy is contagious and desperately needed in this world. It's the witness of our joy filled lives that showcases the upside down, miraculous message of God's great grace, rich love, endless comfort. Be generous with your joy.

Being generous requires us to live wholly dependent on God for all of our needs - emotional, physical, spiritual. It's a practice that will take a life time of daily intention to incorporate, but one I hope to continue chiseling at, day after day after day.



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For Granted

"Let every heart prepare Him room."

We start this Advent journeying and I'm caught unprepared, those candles still somewhere down in the basement and our devotional who-knows-where.

The kids are bickering when I glance at the clock. Between picking up the oldest and picking up my husband, I have about an hour. It's time to start dinner. I open the freezer.

It's one of those days where I need something to make that doesn't need a lot of watching, so I can do the driving and come home to dinner ready to go. No deadlines, no oven-watching. The trouble is, what I have available it something several of my family members won't like in the least. I steel myself for the inevitable and begin.

Washing the dishes after, I think about how I'm not really doing this for me. Really, if I had my druthers, I'd have take out from some sushi restaurant. Or maybe share a greek platter with my husband. I certainly wouldn't choose to spend time and effort on dinner that is lackluster at best. But because I love my kids, because I chose to have them and continue to choose them every day since, I make a healthy dinner even when it elicits a lukewarm reception.

Tonight I feel taken for granted a little, and that gets me to wondering. What do I take for granted?

If my husband didn't choose me, choose us, he wouldn't spend every dime of his paycheck on me and the kids. He might not bother to come home. Plenty of husbands and fathers don't, you know. The thing is - humans are selfish animals, set to self-care and self-centeredness in every way. Every time he pushes down that animal and chooses differently? That's love. That's a blessing. And how often do I take that for granted? Daily.

If my parents didn't choose me, choose to have me, choose to love me, choose to cherish me long after I left their home - would my home back up to theirs? Would they make space in their limited lives for me and my kids? Or would they find something easier to do than let seven urchins track mud through their home and rent out their tiny house to a family that is bursting it at the seams? Yet daily I take that for granted.

The truth is - anyone who makes space in their life to hear you, to see you, to meet with you - that person is choosing to love you. That friend who texts just to tell you they are thinking of you? They are making space for you. That sibling who forgives you time and time again? They are making space for you, too.

It's this grace-space making that has all the makings of a miracle. It's how we are smoothed out a little here and a little there, just a little bit each and every day.

May my goal always be to be a maker of space, a crafter of community, an artist of almsgiving. And may I never take for granted those who have done the same for me.

This Advent begins and I feel a bit directionless until this drops into my lap like the first snowflake on a newborn winter's day.

That's it, then. In making space for the Christ child, we make space for each other.






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*New Beginnings*

(Four Jentzen Girls)

My brother married my beautiful new sister in law at an Elks hall in downtown Pittsburgh on Saturday night. Leading up to the ceremony, when my siblings and I crowded close for a picture in a nearby courtyard, I looked across the faces of the people I've known my whole life and thought about beginnings. How they never stop coming, really, even when they are disguised as endings.

"The more things change, the more they stay the same," is how that saying goes. I'm not sure how long it has been since we all gathered together, but when 7 people somehow make it to the same spot on earth for a day or two, it feels like it always does. Unremarkably normal. We're all healthy, though not as young as we once were. Just one of us left for just one more year as a teen, and then we are all officially out of childhood. I wonder if it feels lightning fast to my Mom, or if, like for me, it just feels the same.

I take comfort in it. This sameness. I think, for a while, I looked forward to big events. Big changes. Milestones. The older I get, the more I realize that those things will always be cropping up here and there. Weddings and babies, job changes, moves. New adventures, new passions, new exploits. The sameness, the predictable, the ordinary - that's the true treasure trove. My brother's smile hasn't changed in the 31 years I've known him - that's gold. My sisters teasing sarcasm is who she's been from day one. There will always be new beginnings, and they will always feel that prickle of excitement. But some day when our normal shifts, that might just be the day that we realize the gift that we had all along.

My oldest brother got married and I felt it, that bursting pride and excitement of our family expanding to welcome in another person to love. Always a huge deal. Always an amazing gift. But when I looked around and glimpsed my aunts chatting how they always have, saw my Mama dancing with my Dad like they do at every wedding and wrapped my arms around my sister's waist, I knew the sure, warm grasp of normalcy. And treasured it right up in my heart.

{Speaking of New Beginnings, I'm starting one of my own - I signed on to be a consultant for Usborne Books. I'm having a kick off party this week and would love nothing more to have you join in! Shop the party now at https://t4584.myubam.com/}


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These Days...

How is it already midsummer? My best friend asked me conversationally if I'd given any thought to this fall's curriculum. I resisted to the urge to laugh/cry. Oh, mercy. Each and every day has enough trouble for itself and I'm sure I'll get a plan together the week before we start (maybe).  My brother and a dear friend from High School are both getting married in early fall. Our family vacation is in August through the beginning of September. I'm still in a post partum fog (yes, still. And no, I have no intention of pulling out any time soon) and life just keeps throwing curveballs faster than I can catch them. No, I don't have my curriculum planned, but I do have faith it will come together like it always does. These days, well...

~ The three oldest kids are gone for a few days with Grandpa up at Fish Camp and the 6 and under set and I are finding our new normal to be reprised later this summer when the big kids head south with the other set of grandparents. I wonder if I'll look back at this summer being the beginning of a shift, the year where our little family found ourselves divided up more and more. I miss my older kids more than I can say when they are away, but I'm reveling in this time with the younger set, watching Jonah have a chance to be the oldest and enjoying the dynamic of my two little boys and two little girls getting along (or not). We are consuming an obscene amount of popsicles, we had an ER visit on the very first day and both J and I are falling into bed exhausted at the end of every day. Oh, yes, I miss those big kids!

~ This weekend J's parents will be in town and Magnolia will finally be baptized. I'll admit to a bit of a panic at the thought of trying to get us all dressed appropriately and behaving appropriately at the front of the church in front of God and everyone at 10 am this Sunday - but then I had a little smack of perspective. Even if Rosie refuses to wear shoes and Pete tries to make a grand escape and Maggie spits up all over her lovingly handknit christening gown - God will still show up. The congregation watching might get a little glimpse into what it really means to be open to life and love and family. I might get another hit of humility, something I could always use more of. Framed that way, it doesn't sound that bad, right? (But please, Rosie - wear shoes! I promise you can take them off in the pew!)

~ Today my oldest is 12. That means this is the last year of life before teenagers. I'm not ready. I'm so not ready that I can get myself quite worked up about the whole business, so instead I'm focusing on all the things I love about this boy. His confidence, kindness, thoughtfulness, his gentle little soul. He's got more than a touch of his Mama's sarcasm, fiery temper (sorry, son) and sparkling comedic wit (you're welcome), but mostly he is his father's son. 12 years ago I didn't know how to be a Mother. He was the start of the adventure. He will always be the gift who began it all. I'm grateful for every day that he is mine.

~ My knitting has been stalled out for quite some time. I'd start something, change my mind, frog, start something else, change my mind again...on and on and on. I finally decided to knit Rosemary a "Granny's Favorite" like the one I knit for Fiona in Mosaic Moon's "Rosebud" semi solid. The color is perfect for fall, not to mention for my dark eyed girlie with her beautiful brunette curls. I'm about halfway down the body and entertained for a nanosecond the idea of getting it done in time for her to wear to the baptism, but the odds of that happening are pretty much slim to none.

~ I started working out a few times a week a few weeks ago and it's really remarkable to me how quickly fitness increases if you just work at it a bit. I have very low expectations, but just try to follow the advice an old friend once gave me: Sweat every day. Get your heart rate up for at least 20 minutes and sweat every day. I've been doing about ten minutes of a Hiit workout (youtube has a ton), 10 minutes of yoga and 10 minutes of strength training a day. Sometimes it's all at once. Sometimes it's spread out throughout the day as I have a moment here or there. This week it has all been in a toy cluttered living room while hollering at Rosie not to climb under my legs and the boys joining in. Low expectations, no guilt, no babysitting, no gym. Just sweating every day. It makes me feel good, think more clearly and gives me energy, all things that are well worth the effort.

Things here are good. God is good. Life is as messy and chaotic as always, my yard is full of weeds, my kids are sticky and dirty more often than not, J's work situation may be changing again soon and we're just doing the next thing. Sometimes I step out on the back porch and just take a deep breath and close my eyes - just for a moment. Sometimes it's just enough to untie the jangled nerves and soothe my stress knotted muscles and remind me that every breath I take on this day is a miracle.

And that is good enough for me.


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Dirt Packed Grace

It's summer again, the time of scrubbing dirty feet out on the back porch every night and wondering just how many times a day it would take me to sweep to keep my kitchen dirt-free. A toddler scrubbed clean can resemble Pig Pen of The Peanuts fame in about 5 minutes of outside play. For a Mama, the work seems endless. Is endless. Constant dirt and mess and even for those of us who are a little more laid back in the housekeeping and child-rearing department, it's frustrating.

I'm sweeping the kitchen for the umpteenth time that day at 9 pm and my thoughts turn longingly, if only for a moment, to Winter. Clean snow. No dirt. Only for a moment though, before I remember that Winter has more than enough mess for itself. Dirty slush and that enormous pile of snow gear that you struggle kids in and out of every 15 minutes. It is by no means easier. Just different.

That's how discontent works. If allowed to take hold, it fills us with false promises of better - when really all it can offer is different. Different joys, yes, but different struggles as well.

As a mother, it can be all too easy to wish your way right out of where you are, the stages of childhood and even your own joy in motherhood. It's how we are deceived - and tempted - by false claims of ease, of improvement at no personal cost. "If only he was out of diapers." "If only he could read." "If only they could babysit themselves." Discontent fails to see the blessings and triumphs of today and wishes away all of it - not just the tough things. The truth is, life is tough. Life with littles, life with bigs. Life as a single person. Life as a married person. Life.Is.Tough.

When there isn't dirt and dust from summer kids running back and forth, rivers of sticky popsicle drips running down grubby arms, there will be slush and soaking wet snow suits, mismatched mittens and double the laundry load. There is always enough work and worry and trouble for today - but there is also enough for tomorrow. The only tried and true combat for wishing life clean away is taking the time to notice the grace of each and every day. It's there, I promise. Sometimes in tangible ways. Sometimes in hard hallelujahs. But if you look closely enough, you can see it.

When you wake up to baby cooing and smiling at her Daddy. When the birthday boy rides his new bike like a pro the very first time. When 5 kids pour over a fossil book, heads crammed together. When their dirty footprints on your kitchen floor tell the tale of a childhood lived fully and happily. When you get a few moments to knit a few rows, read a few lines, stretch a few muscles. There is something, some thing, each and every day - to be grateful for. Even on the very hardest ones.

Ann Voskamp says "The Hard Things will be for Good. The Good Things will be Forever. The Best Things will be Forthcoming." I believe that. I do.

It's 9 pm and I'm bone tired, sweeping up dirt my kids tracked in. My kids. My beautiful, marvelous, can't believe they're mine Kids. I'd sweep a thousand times a day for the privilege of just that.

It's hard. It's happy. It's beauty and goodness and privilege. It's more than I could ever hope for and more. It's grace, of the dirty variety.


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In Pieces

When she asked me, it seemed too far fetched. A trip across three states and back in 24 hours with 24 hours notice and 6 kids. My knee jerk reaction was to say no. No way. It's not possible.

Gas for our van is expensive. It was a holiday weekend and major roadways were a mess. Plus my husband would never go for it - leaving right after work, driving late into the night, staying with people he's only met casually a few times. There's not way it could happen...but then...maybe? As soon as I actually began to consider, I knew some way, some how, I'd make it work.

What do you call a hard season that doesn't seem to end? I'm beginning to think we call this "life." And Sara and I, we've been living some real life over the past few years. Through job loss, relationship struggles and the heartbreak of losing a child, we stagger along as best we can without falling to pieces. As long distance friends, we show up for one another from afar but a chance to see each other face to face? Yeah. I couldn't pass it up. I asked J. He answered yes before I even finished.

All the pieces fell together and we found each other again. Both battered, bruised and broken in our own way. Both exactly what we needed. 3 states. 24 hours. It was everything and it was nothing. Our kids played, we talked. It felt quite a bit like coming home. Never had something so hare-brained felt so easy.

That's the thing about being broken. Piece by piece, we can be rebuilt - and although the cracks and seams of our breaking point will never fully disappear, there's a special secret redemption there. It's through those silvery lines, those stretch and strain marks that His light shines most brightly through us. Through us, right out our broken imperfect lives, in and under and around all the struggles and hardship - that His goodness and mercy and truth is proclaimed right out loud. Not in the spaces where life is easy for us. Not in the things we aren't tempted by or struggle with. It's in the tough places, the spots where we are stretched so thin we might just snap - that's where He is proven again and again and again.

When we fall to pieces, it's not the end. When we smash hard at rock bottom, that's just the beginning - and not the beginning of the end.

Driving home in the middle of the night with music blaring to keep me awake and everyone else fast asleep, finding my way through the dark, I thought about these seams. Growth scars. These little glimpses of light we see in one another. My friendship with Sara is like that. A glowing reminder as I go along - even on this lonely journey that can be, at times, heart breaking - there's a constant presence. A constant light.

All wrapped around us, our pieces held in His peace. That's how you live a wrecked life beautifully, joyfully and bravely.

She smiles and I see Him shine right on through all she's lived through. And it's beautiful.

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Appreciating Childhood

She finds me after taking a tumble outside, and I can smell it on her - summer worn like a sprinkling of the sweetest perfume. Her filthy feral feet still fit in the palm of my hand. Her sweaty, sand-speckled curls damp against my cheek and the heaviness of her soft toddler body fully relaxed against my chest.

I've loved toddlers before and they all feel and smell the same - like they almost don't belong here, some kind of otherworldly humanity that you stumble on. A surprise. The fierce might of their predictably unpredictable moods tempered just so with the sweet innocence of the full knowledge of being completely and unceasingly adored - strange paradoxical creatures, toddlers.

I could say the same about all the ages of childhood. The budding independence of the later childhood years mixed with that still-present need to occasionally curl up on Mama's lap like a baby. And the baby, in all her newborn glory - needy little thing that she is - I could stare at her for hours. Exclaim to my husband like the 6 times before, "Just look at her, will you? She's amazing! She's perfect! Look at her eyelashes/hair/lips/ears/whatever! Just look!!"

The six and four year old boys, just emerging into the dirt encrusted brand of intensity that is maleness at this age while maintaining this allegiance to Mama that melts my heart. The insane things they come up with when left to their own devices amaze and confound me and drive me up the wall - but it's all good, all growth and all opportunity to learn something new.

These summer kid days are long but the years are short and I can't pin them down. I can't hold them in my hand or slow the clock and honestly, I wouldn't want to. Watching them grow is a privilege and a joy, something I try not to lose sight of when life gets intense.

These exhausting, long, precious days are a gift. These people - my greatest joy, frustration, hope and inspiration.

This swift passing life, this season of youth and joy, these moments being all things to all people just by being their Mama - all are a path I'm grateful to have walked.


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Showing Up

"Family is the natural school of love."

John Paul II

My first memory of it is in the kitchen of my grandfather's house, before he married again and sold it to my uncle, so I must have been young - under ten, at least. I was small and my Aunt Helen showed me how to devein a shrimp right there at the sink, the sun streaming in and the dull roar of our oversized family conversations pouring through the doorway. My indoctrination to a club I've belonged to ever since. My arrival, in a way, to womanhood. On that day I held a knife and I wasn't just one of the kids anymore. My place in the family changed and I felt it - the shift, the responsibility. The unmistakable feeling that something important had just transpired.

It's been twenty odd years and Grandpa has been gone more than a decade. The house was sold to my uncle, and then to the couple that became the parents to my son's best friend - because that's how life goes. I walk past that kitchen window with my seventh baby in a sling and my toddlers in the wagon and although the paint is different and the kitchen has been redone - it is written in me like a part of my dna.

The voices of my aunts float over my head as a young teen making buttercream frosting in my aunt's kitchen, frosting the cupcakes Uncle Jim always pretends to complain about because he hates coconut, even though it's one of Aunt Beth's go-to recipes for a shower. In the heat and bustle and importance of being a part of making something happen, I find a place. I feel grown, necessary. Needed. None of my Aunts on this side of the family are my blood relatives. They are all married in, not that you could tell. Family is forged in the commitment to do life together, however it presents itself. In joy and grief and every day in between. We show up for each other. It's what we do, in my family. My Mom tells me - this is how we love.  "You can't have a party if no one comes."

The years slip on by and we shower every blushing cousin bride, each expectant mother glowing with pride, each awkwardly grinning graduate with all our love, acceptance, celebration. This is what we do. We leave no marriage unacknowledged, even the elopements. No baby un-feted, even the unanticipated ones. Life events are marked and marveled over. I grow up with a tribe of fierce and faithful women showing me that the point of all life is the giving away of all love, no matter the cost, no matter the time, no matter the place. We know what we are about. I was grown, trained up, apprenticed and graduated in the fine and fast disappearing art of service as love. And I learned it all from women with brains like steel traps and hearts like never ending chasms of good will.

I'm thirty one and sway with my baby sleeping on my chest. My Aunt Jane is talking to me about breastfeeding and I'm hanging on every word because it's gold. I sought her out because I'm old enough to recognize wisdom when I hear it. My girls have been here nearly every day this week, helping with gardening and sweeping porches, preparing for just this - another family baby shower. Another baby on the way. When you believe that each life is God-breathed and planned from the beginning of time, there is no such thing as "another" baby. A new one, a different one, one of us. One of ours. He or she holds the same importance as the most important of us, even while still snuggled up deep inside Mama.

We all assemble and it feels like home. My daughters with eyes and ears wide open, standing up straight almost like they know that this is where it happens. Where womanhood is forged and is so much more than any biology book says. This is where we learn that the language of love is the serving of one another - and joy is the unintended result of that gift.

"Love...binds them all together in perfect unity."

Colossions 3:14

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Life Is Beautiful

We are into week three and it's like she's always been here. Dad is back to work and we are finding our new normal. I'm positive I have a few more grey hairs already from heart pounding panic of trying to keep track of six kids who tend to scatter during these beautiful warm weather days, but for the most part it has been smooth. That is, if you don't count the water being dumped on the computer (this happens about twice a year for us) and a near kitchen fire on day 3 of solo parenting that nearly gave me a heart attack. All that to say - we are surviving. More than that. We are happily getting along just fine.

I managed to get out for a little bit on Saturday morning and finally took stock of the state of absolute neglect our yard is in. Yikes. I'm not much of a gardener. I don't really enjoy it at all, but it was a lovely day and the littles were playing around me so I made the most of it. It's amazing how the world tends toward the natural state of things. My Mom always said weeds were a sign of a sinful world. I'm not sure if she was serious or not, but upon surveying our yard, I tend to agree. No wonder Jesus did parables about farming. You can hardly step outside without getting a firm lesson in what happens when you neglect areas of your life. Your marriage, your children, your faith - even yourself. While I worked, I thought about each of these areas and covered them in prayer. I suppose that's another nice aspect of gardening - mental space to silently work something out.

The last few weeks have been lovely. I had my best babymoon yet - feeling amazing so quickly after she was born in large part to the love and care I was given. Even easing back into doing this daily parenting gig myself has been much easier, I think in large part to getting enough rest right away. It is lovely outside and the kids are soaking it up. People keep asking - So how is it really. No, really, how are you doing, how can we help, etc. And I keep answering - it really is life. Beautiful moments and tricky moments and heaps and heaps of grace all over the whole thing. I couldn't ask for anything more.

There will always be weeds to pull in all areas. Things that need my attention, things that go for a little too long without it. I'm realizing that finding a balance might just be impossible - everything is always in too constant a flux to pin down. It's seeking balance that makes life as smooth as possible, but perhaps surrendering to the knowledge that I'll never truly find it can help me live life content. Pulling one weed at a time, watering my flowers and enjoying the sunlight.

It's June, I've got seven beautiful children and can't think of a single complaint. Not because life is in perfect harmony, but because life is abundant in work, love, play, grace, pain and healing.

And it's beautiful.

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She's Here

Magnolia Grace

7 lbs 6 oz

21 inches

May 13, 2015

Our seventh baby, fourth daughter surprised us by showing up a little bit early.  She is absolutely perfect in every way and a more adored baby I'm not sure ever existed. 

Birth is, always, intense, magical, brutal and miraculous. I learn something new every time. This time, how suffering and sanctity is always held together, and when you have that knowledge - fear flees. Looking up into my husband's face and telling him "I'm afraid" right there before the end, yet taking that deep breath and doing the hard thing - that lays the groundwork for all of life that comes after. There is never anything to fear. Victory is ours before that very first step.

I was grateful to have the most hands-off hospital experience possible. Besides the few things that are simply how things are there, I can't imagine it going much differently here at home. We were there for three hours before she appeared. It was perfect.

After a tiring 24 hours in the hospital, I'm so thankful to be home. I know it may seem odd that our little house with seven kids is more restful than a solitary hospital room, but it is!  The constant waking and checks that hospital protocol necessitates is so disruptive to those precious first few hours, I was desperate to get back home. 

So here we are. My kids drift in and out to hold and marvel at our little one. J has two whole weeks off work, and is doing an amazing job at keeping our busy family life afloat while I sleep and mend and nurse nonstop. 

I have nothing but gratitude and amazement that a life this full of all the good things could possibly be mine. 

Like Grace, something I could never deserve or earn, but a gift straight from Heaven.

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