Grace Under Fire

The last few weeks we've had house guests in town.  The last few weeks have also been the hottest weeks of the year thus far.  It's been 90 plus degrees outside, and about 85 degrees inside our home.  We are one of "those people" who don't have central air conditioning in our home.  This alone would not be so bad, as I'm finding there are quite a lot of "those people."  Unfortunately, we also find ourselves in the smaller category of "those people" who have windows from the 1950's that open with this special crank that looks like it's from medieval times, and the windows only open halfway, making them incompatible with window unit air conditioners.  So, we are quite without air conditioning.  Okay, okay, my husband will make me be totally honest and admit that he has attempted to install a portable air conditioner into our home that vents out the hot air through the mail slot.  This means that whenever someone comes to our front door, they are blasted with a tornado of hot, oppressive air that continues to blow in their face until someone answers the door.  Also, said portable air conditioner only works approximately half of the time.  So, we are quite without air conditioning. 

Naked and angry.

We have tried other methods of cooling the home, as well, such as setting frozen water bottles in front of box fans, opening and closing the windows at strategic times of the day, running through the sprinklers, and trying to lay very still.  The children are usually naked and angry.  We have all been on edge.  I've been referring to our home as a "fiery hell" more often than is necessary, because saying "fiery hell" makes me feel a little like I'm cussing, which makes me feel a little bit better. 

There was a particularly hot day last week when the heat had apparently loosened all of my children's bowels, and all three of them pooped continuously throughout the day, some poop contained, and some not at all contained.  I put the kids down for a nap in the afternoon, but of course it was too hot to sleep, and Abel cried unceasingly for what I swear was only 15 minutes, and I checked on him at least three times during that time-span.  Did I mention we had guests in town?  Well, one guest found the crying to be too much to handle (understandably; you have to be conditioned to tolerate these things) and he left the house, popping back in to let me know that it sounded like we were beating a kid in here, as Abel's window was open (see paragraph 2, where I mention strategic opening and closing of windows) allowing all the neighborhood to hear his screams.  I went back to check on Abel one last time, and found that my passionate, expressive child had thrown himself into the side of his crib in his despair, and had busted his lip.  His mouth, clothing, and sheets were spotted with blood.  Meanwhile, we still had guests in the living room, and I was trying to maintain the illusion that my family was not insane, but I was beginning to believe that we were, in fact, insane.  After I snuck the bloody laundry out of the bedroom and into the washing machine so as not to feed the previously mentioned suspicion that we are an abusive family, I collapsed on the living room floor in exhaustion, letting my now-free children crawl all over me, one of which took her full milk cup and brilliantly figured out how to pop the lid off, pouring the entire contents into my hair. 

And I gave up. 

I excused myself from my one remaining guest, who was looking on in an mixture of pity, horror and disgust, and I went to my room, thinking to myself, "She is right.  I am pitiful, horrible, and disgusting.  These things don't happen to normal people.  Normal people don't end up with MILK on their heads." 

When I was in third grade, everyone ate lunch in the "cafetorium," a word that simply meant there was a stage in our cafeteria.  The garbage cans for dumping the remains of your lunch were set up in front of the stage, so that a double line could be formed, with students dumping their lunch from above, in a line that walked across the stage, and from below, in a line on the ground in front of the garbage cans.  I was in the latter line one day, innocently dumping my tray, when I felt a deluge of sticky wetness cascade over my head and down my back.  The girl on top of the stage had accidentally missed the garbage can and dumped her milk on my head (lunch monitors, could the possibility of this happening not have been foreseen?).  As I, half blinded, made my way to the office for a clean change of clothes, kids were giggling.  The target of ridicule was not the girl who had clumsily missed the garbage can, but it was me, the innocent victim, the girl who had ended up with milk on her head.  And I thought to myself, "they're right.  Normal people don't end up with milk on their heads." 

Twice. 

Bad days, people.  Hot, sticky, nasty, bad days full of public, embarrasing moments, and the private conviction that these things don't happen to the best of us, the prettiest of us, the wealthiest of us, and that we must have done something to bring it upon ourselves, because normal people don't have these days, normal people don't end up with milk on their heads. 

I was at the park with a friend of mine and our kids the other day, and we stared as a remarkably stylish group of moms had a sweet little picnic with their stylish children.  My friend laughed as she told me that she always wishes she could be part of a Stylish Moms Club.  I looked at them, looked at us, and thought to myself that we were much more practical in our raggedy shorts and T-shirts, because every one of those moms was eventually going to get crapped on, barfed on, spit on, or peed on, and they were just going to have more expensive outfits to get the stains out of.  But we all have people like that, don't we, a group of people we would love to be a part of,  a "club" we'd love to belong to because we secretly believe the members of that club are above it all.  I know I do. 

Well, I'm going to do what I always did when I was little and there was a club I was excluded from: start a new club.  Because what is so wrong about getting milk spilled on your head, or wearing ratty shorts, or sweating in your un-air-conditioned home, or getting all of your children's bodily fluids ejected onto you in one day?  Maybe people in the Normal Club don't get milk spilled on their heads, but who wants to be normal anyway? 

Recently, during another hard day with the kids, a family member told me, "you are still in the midst of being prepared for something BIG, Hannah - and I bet it includes multi-tasking!"  Prophetic, powerful words from a lady who probably doesn't see herself as a prophet at all.  And she is so right, because God never wastes a moment.  He uses every season, every accident, every failure as a training ground to prepare us for higher ground.  What if I stopped looking at the hard days as tough luck, and started looking at them as purposeful challenges that God is using to train me for something great?  Much easier said than done, I know.  Which of you,  after realizing the wipe you were using fell through and that you just wiped your kid's butt with your actual hand, is going to stop and say, "I was chosen for this moment.  God will use this experience to make me great."  But who's to say he won't?  I think God is big enough to make even the smallest, ugliest, stupidest moments into something big, and beautiful, and extraordinary. 

So, welcome to my new club.  Everyone is welcome: rich or poor, ugly or beautiful, clean or dirty - doesn't matter, because God tends to turn all of that stuff backwards and upside-down, anyway.  May God give all of us Club Members the ability to see our lives through eyes of grace.  Through redemptive lenses.  May we see our poverty as wealth, our ugliness as beauty, our filth as purity, our insignificance as greatness.  May he give us grace under fire as we remember that it's his fire that refines us. 

And as I return to the literal fire of my 85 degree home, may he remind me that even this fire has an extraordinary purpose. 

Un(Facebook)worthy

A couple of weeks ago, I was trying to bring some lunch to a friend who was having a rough day.  I had the best of intentions.  However, in my zeal to do something nice, I failed to realize that:

A.) It was lunch-time, and my kids hadn't eaten.
B.) My gas-tank was empty.  Not almost on the "E" empty, but right smack on the "E" empty.
C.) I had never been to this friend's house, and the main road to get there was under construction.

Consequently, this fun little trip with the kids turned into a fun little trip to hell.  What should have been a ten minute drive turned into a forty minute drive, with me periodically stopping the car (making sure to turn the car entirely off so as not to waste the gas fumes I was driving on) to check Google Maps, which is useless to me, because on my best days, reading maps is like reading Portuguese to me, and on my worst days, Google Maps Navigation persistently leads me back to construction sites over and over and over again. My kids were hungry, which means they began screaming at the top of their lungs about five minutes into the drive, causing me to be unable to think or hear the Google Maps Navigation girl giving me the wrong directions.  So, I did what I always do when I am overwhelmed or lost or annoyed at the kids: I called my husband.  I put him on speaker phone, because my awesome phone is from 1984 (aka 2012) and the sound periodically goes out unless I put my calls on speaker phone. Well, there were three kids screaming in the car, a frantic wife sputtering about how she's about to run out of gas and is completely lost and she CAN'T DO THIS anymore, and the faint murmurings of a polite but misinformed Google Maps girl, insisting that I really should turn right and plow right through that construction site.  Jordan, of course, heard all of this since it was on speaker phone, but I didn't care.  Honestly, this is just a slice of normal life for us.  He did sound a bit preoccupied, but I had no time to take that into consideration at that particular moment of insanity.  He managed to look up Google Maps on his phone, actually read the Portuguese map, and give me a detour that got me to my friend's house in relatively one piece.  Thank you, saint and hero of a husband. 

It wasn't until he got home later that he casually mentioned that he'd had a client in the car when I'd called.  A young man from Sri Lanka, a refugee who only recently entered the country.  He'd been driving the young man to a medical appointment, and since he was driving, he'd had to put me on speaker phone, as well.  My mind spun back to the ugliest moment in the car, when the kids had been screaming so loud I couldn't hear anything Jordan was saying, and I had yelled "SHUT UP!" which always works to quiet your kids when they are already upset and hungry.  Not.

I was so embarrassed that my private, ugly moment hadn't been private at all, and Jordan's unconcerned assurance of "It's fine, he hardly understands English," did nothing to comfort me.  You didn't need to speak English to hear the chaos and poor parenting that was occurring in that moment.  Welcome to America, sir.  Land of the free and the crazy.

Needless to say, that moment did not make it onto my Facebook status that night.  Nor do I post countless other ugly but real-life moments that occur on a daily basis.  Most of us, I think, tend to post a best-scenario version of ourselves online.  Here is a sample of the type of photo I post of my daughter Nora:

So cute, right?  I just want to eat her up like the ice cream cone that's on her shirt.

Here is a sample of Nora in real life, 95% of the time:

This is Nora at her happiest: Shirtless and eating dirt and other unspeakable things straight off the ground.

If you are like me, you deem certain moments and certain photos "Facebook Worthy" and certain moments and photos Un-Facebook-Worthy.  Consequently, the Facebook persona, or the public persona we present to the world is not always the fullest, truest form of who we are (insert shock and awe). What we show the world isn't necessarily a lie - it's just not the whole story. 

And let me just say, sometimes this "filter" is good.  We probably all know a few people who could use a stronger filter on their Facebook posts.  The public doesn't need to know everything that happens in your life (It is taking every ounce of self-control I have right now not to give hilarious examples of Facebook posts on my newsfeed that have no filter. GAH.) While I appreciate authenticity (and I really appreciate authenticity), I also appreciate a healthy measure of privacy.  Certain things are sacred to your home (and to mine) and certain things are not appropriate to share.  We all have things that we would prefer to keep between ourselves and those closest to us, and I think that is healthy and good.  But, I think it's important that when we deem a moment "Un-Facebook-Worthy," that we don't associate that moment or that photo with shame. 

Take my parental failure the other day in the car with the kids.  It wasn't my best moment.  I felt awful that I'd yelled something unkind to my kids, and that I'd let a stressful moment turn me into someone that I don't want to be.  On top of that, I felt ashamed that I'd been heard by a stranger in that moment.  It would have been easy to get stuck there, in that sense of shame and guilt, believing that I'm a terrible parent.  Instead, I let the feelings of shame and guilt push me toward repentance.  I apologized to Jordan, for being a crazy wife and for being unconcerned for his needs at that time, I apologized to my kids, for speaking (yelling) unkindly to them, and most importantly, I apologized to God, and asked for His help to be the mom I was created to be.  Because that mom in the car, that wasn't me.  That wasn't the fullest, truest form of who I am any more than the Facebook version of me is.  It was just a moment, a snapshot, an unflattering selfie that will never make it onto the internet (until now).

We all have those snapshots of ourselves that we don't want anyone to see.  As spouses, as siblings and sons and daughters and especially as parents: not every moment is pretty.  Not every moment is sunshine and flowers and blowing bubbles and baking cookies for your kids who are currently holding hands, singing sweet little songs and playing quietly together outside like little cherubs.  Some moments may be like that (okay, really, if you have moments like that, I'm moving into your house and forcing you to mentor me) but not all of them.  And in the ugliest, most private moments that you don't want anyone to see: give yourself grace.  Apologize to those you hurt, dive deeper into the love of God, and trust His promise that He's not done with you yet.  He's in the process of refining that ugly selfie and turning it into a masterpiece.  You won't even recognize yourself when you see the finished product. 

Just because a moment in your life is Un-Facebook-Worthy, doesn't mean you are unworthy. 

Not the birthday blog I thought I'd write.

So, you know those kid birthday parties that are becoming more en vogue, where the invitation says sweetly at the bottom, "No gifts, please."

I hate those.

You really can't win as a guest at those parties.  You think to yourself, "Oh, they're just being nice.  I'll look like a jerk if I don't bring a present.  Everyone else will bring a present." So you bring one.  And NO ONE ELSE DOES.  You look like the lone, materialistic jerk at the party.  So you learn from your mistake, and at the next "no gifts" party, you do not bring one, only to find, to your great surprise, that everyone else did.  You are now the lone, stingy jerk at the party.

One invitation for a kid's birthday party I received took it to another level, where it said, "Handmade gifts only, please."  Um.  I know that as a stay-at-home mom, I'm supposed to have all the craftiness and DIY, pinterest-style abilities that are all the rage right now, but let me tell you something: I am missing that gene.  It got lost somewhere along with the gene that was supposed to help me appreciate Jane Austen mini-series' and Downton Abbey.  I'm still looking for it.  If you are wondering how I got through this particular birthday party, I piggy-backed on my crafty friend Nina's gift (an adorable home-made apron) and bought some little baking utensils to stick in the pockets.  I'm still sticking to my story that I hand-carved the tiny wooden spoon.

All this to say, we have always thrown the kind of parties at our house where gifts are welcome (certainly not required, but not excluded, either).  My son Asher just had his fourth birthday party, and I realize now that four seems to be the age where a child first recognizes what a birthday is and is fully able to milk it for all it is worth. ("Mom, can I play video games with you?" "No, honey" "But it's my birrrthday." "Mom, can I have two muffins, and a cookie?" "No." "But it's my biiirrrthday.")   At his party, Asher got some gifts, he got a cake, he got lots of attention.  He took it in stride.  As is often the case, his party didn't fall on his actual birthday, so there was a "birthday week" following the party during which cards and packages from family arrived in the mail.  Asher got a free birthday smoothie from Dutch Brothers.  We made him special birthday muffins on the morning of his birthday. We also made a special trip to Baskin-Robbins for his free "birthday ice cream cone."

Asher shared about 1/28 of one bite with a sibling after every ten bites of his own. This caused Nora to begin shrieking, which caused us to leave the Baskin-Robbins approximately 3 minutes after sitting down.

After a full birthday week, on the evening of Asher's actual birthday, we ran to the drug-store for a few things.  When I returned to the car where Jordan and the kids were waiting, Asher eyed my shopping bag and asked, with a gleam in his eye, "What's in there?" Jordan replied, "Facewash for Mommy, and toothbrushes for Nora and Abel." And with those words, there erupted a fit from Asher that made me realize with sudden clarity why people request that you not bring gifts to their children's birthday parties.  The fit was so extreme that I briefly pondered whether we should become Jehovah's Witnesses, eliminating the entire birthday issue.  I won't relive the tantrum's content in detail, but the general gist was that Asher was SHOCKED that I had the nerve to go to the store and return without something for him.  On his BIRTHDAY, of all days.  After much weeping and gnashing of teeth, we reminded Asher that he'd had a full week of us celebrating him, and maybe it was time to start thinking about someone else.  "No! I want to think about ME," Asher screamed.  Precious.

Maybe this sense of entitlement is normal in a four-year-old.  I vaguely remember from my human development classes in college something about how children are "naturally" self-centered until a certain age (umm...94?).  However, Asher's words served as a warning flag for me as a parent, and stirred up something in my heart that God's been speaking to me for awhile now.

Entitlement is not limited to 4-year-olds.  Rewind 5 months ago, and I was essentially throwing the same fit as Asher on my own birthday, December 21st.  My birthday is stupidly close to Christmas.  Every year I feel a twinge of self-pity when people have the NERVE to put Christ's birthday before my own. I throw my own fit, wanting everyone to think about me instead of buy toothbrushes and other lavish gifts for everyone else.  And I'm not just greedy on my birthday.  I've spent years taking the money, resources, gifts, friendships and other things God has given me for granted.  Jordan and I have family and friends who have blessed us during times of financial strain (Grad school, having three kids under the age of three, you know.) They've given us baby gear, a new washer and dryer, a car, the list goes on.  I wish I could say that this led me to also give generously to others in need, but I can't.  Instead, for many years I developed a strange, unconscious entitlement to being blessed.  I guess I thought of our family as the poor ones.  When I heard sermons about giving, or was approached by charities asking for money, I honestly didn't see how we could afford to give to something like that.  I had a mentality of receiving, not of giving.  Gross.

Like I said, over the past year God has not only uncovered my selfishness and entitlement, but has been stirring up a distaste for it.  He's changing my heart; he's reversing my spirit from that of a receiver to that of a giver, and it feels good and hurts all at the same time.  I could write a whole other post (or two, or three) about the people and things he has used to change me, but for now, let me just tell you what we did about Asher's birthday tantrum.  We saw that he was a little bloated in the receiving area, so he needed some practice giving.  We asked him to choose four toys (one for each year of his  life) from his collection to give to some kids who didn't have many (or any) toys of their own.  We reminded him about David, the sweet boy from Kenya who we've been sponsoring for just over two months (another result of God increasing our hearts to give). We showed him pictures of kids in areas of the world where toys aren't even the issue; having enough to eat is.

I expected it to be hard for Ash to give up four things.  Turns out, he thought four was kind of a lame attempt, and he upped it to ten things.  Included in the ten things were some of his nicest toys, and even one of his new birthday toys.  He gave innocently, with a generosity and a disregard for "stuff" that put me to shame.  I had to bite my tongue several times to keep from saying "Are you sure?" when he picked out things that I obviously valued more than he did.

What did we do with these ten toys?  Well, turns out my husband works for an amazing non-profit called World Relief, where he personally knows several refugee families who came into our country with only a couple of suitcases to their names.  Certainly their kids could use a few toys.  Asher took his box to Jordan's office and gave it to Robert, the sweet donations manager at World Relief.  Robert had Asher sign his very own and very first tax receipt, which was probably Asher's favorite part. 

Here's the thing: Everyone can give something.  If you make $44,000 or more a year, you are in the top 1 percent of wage earners in the world.  That's probably a wake-up call for a lot of people.  Our family doesn't make $44,000 a year, but we can still give.  Nowhere in the Bible does it say that if you don't have much, you don't have to give much (or at all).  Jesus honored a woman who gave her last two pennies as an offering to God (Mark 12:41-44).  The prophet Elijah asked a widow and her son to use the last bit of oil and flour that they had to make a meal for him (1 Kings 17).  Jesus asked a boy who only had a little bit of bread and fish for his lunch to share it with him and oh, just 5,000 others (John 6).  If you haven't read the ending of these stories, do it. Here is what I'm learning: It's awesome when we give out of our surplus.  It's awesome when we give, period.  But when we give out of our lack, when we don't have anything to give and we give anyway, that's when the miracles start happening.  That's where the pleasure and power of God is.  That's where I want to be.

Giving ten toys?  Sponsoring one child overseas?  Baby steps.  You annoying people who send birthday invitations requesting no gifts are way ahead of me, and I repent for calling you all annoying (but I'll still probably bring a gift to your party, out of sheer rebellion).  I have the sense that what God is doing in Asher and in our family is only the beginning of a journey he is taking us on.  Jesus said that where our treasure is, that's where our heart is (Matt. 6:21).  My prayer is that by the time this journey is over, there will be pieces of the Bemis's hearts all over our city, and all over the world.

 
Jesus also said that whatever we give to the poor, we give directly to Him (Matt. 25:40).  Well, Jesus, we hope you enjoy the ten toys we gave you this week.  We trust you'll put them to good use. 

Love Story

There was once a man who fell deeply in love with a woman.  He did everything possible to show her his love.  He lavished her with gifts; he selflessly served her.  It delighted him to show his love to her, and he did so without inhibition.  She loved him too, but not with the same delight or passion.

Her infidelity started small, with thoughts of being with other people, thoughts of doing things she knew he wouldn't like.  Slowly, these thoughts turned into actions, until she was openly and unashamedly sleeping with other people.  He should have left her, but he couldn't.  He loved her too much.  He continued to plea with her to come back, and she continued to ignore him.  Years passed, and even as he watched her life waste away, as he watched her beauty fade into the ashes of what used to be, he continued to love her.  Love unrequited, love unconditional.

Eventually, she did come back.  Dirty, used, dressed in rags, she came back, expecting to have to beg, but finding his arms were still open, and his passion was the same now as it had been when she was young and beautiful and pure.  Finally, she understood the depth of the love she'd scoffed at all these years.  She'd been so stupid, but it didn't matter.  They were together now.

But the years she'd spent without him had left their mark on her.  She was dying.  Just when she was finally ready to give herself to the man who loved her, the consequences of her choices were taking her away again.  But he found a loop-hole.  The disease she'd contracted was unique; it was possible for the disease to be drawn from her body and injected into another person's, but only if there was a willing person.  A willing sacrifice.

He was gone before she fully realized what he was doing.  She should have known, but she couldn't have.  It had never been done; that kind of love simply wasn't heard of.  As she watched his life being drained from his body the way it should have been drained from hers, she wept.  His last words to her were that he forgave her; he knew she hadn't known what she was doing.

This is where the story gets crazy.  As she prepared to live the rest of her life without him, she began to see him in places.  She thought he was a ghost at first, thought she was going insane.  But eventually, he came close enough to talk with her.  She held his hand, touched his side, and knew that he was real.  It hadn't been enough for him to die so that she could live.  That would have been a temporary fix, but it would have all been for nothing if he couldn't be with her.  Somehow, he'd found a way to come back from the disease that had taken his life.  Impossibly, he'd found a way to be with her again.  And this time, the disease was gone, the threat of death was gone, and they could be together forever.

I've fallen in love with this story as I've told it to Asher in bits and pieces over the last year.  No, I'm not reading him Nicholas Sparks novels, and NO, I am not telling him vampire or zombie stories.  I'm just reading him the Bible.  You know, that crazy love story that's full of passion, and cheating, and coming back from the dead.  Oh, I read him the kid version, but even that is full of power!  Because you can't tame down this kind of love.

You also can't copy this kind of love, not really.  People try.  Take this whole trend over the last decade of vampires and zombies.  I just can't get into it.  At first, I thought it repelled me because it was just so out there, so unrealistic and crass and grotesque.  Mixing romance with death?  (Someone please enlighten me, what is so attractive about a white-faced vampire who literally wants to suck the life out of you?)  I just didn't get it.  But as I've familiarized myself with the story of Jesus and his bride (his bride is humanity; anyone who struggles to believe in Him), I've realized that there are a lot of the same themes in this story as there are in Twilight and all of its brothers and sisters.  In the Jesus love story, there is romance, and there is death, but prevailing over death there is LIFE.  And that is why the zombie and vampire thing can't hold me, because I've read the original story, and all of the copies out there are missing the best part.  I've tasted life and the overwhelming theme of death in these other stories leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.   

I am not writing this blog post to bash on pop culture or the vampire or zombie fad.  I don't care about them that much.  I was just honestly floored this morning by the raw, unabashed love of Jesus.  I've thought the "gospel" was boring, and have struggled to imagine myself excitedly sharing the story of Jesus with others, afraid that others will see it as irrelevant (maybe secretly believing it is irrelevant myself).  Little did I realize that everything "relevant" revolves around this story.  And the biggest reason for me to share it is that isn't that it's relevant, it's that I'm in it.

I'm the girl in that story.

So are you.   

My Weekend Without Kids

For my birthday, Jordan surprised me with a plane ticket to visit my friend Leslee in our hometown of Eugene.  A single plane ticket, meaning that he would stay home and take care of our three kids all by himself for an entire weekend.  I'm not talking about "by himself" with the help of grandpa and grandma.  No, our closest grandparent help is about eight hours away, so Jordan was truly doing this thing solo.  What dad agrees to do that?  Seriously, I can't think of another dad who would willingly send his wife away and watch three tiny kids by himself for a weekend.  What a hero.

Turns out, though, Jordan purchased my ticket for the one weekend that Eugene was hit by a freak snow storm.  The roads were crazy, and Leslee couldn't make the two hour drive to Portland to pick me up.  No problem, I'd take a shuttle down.  Then I discovered that the entire Eugene airport had been shut down, causing several flights headed to Eugene to emergency-land in Portland, causing the entire Portland airport (seemingly) to also need a shuttle down to Eugene.  People started to get tense, realizing that there might be limited seating on the few shuttles left.  Without saying as much, the waiting passengers began gathering in the loading zone, casually trying to get in front of everyone else, subtly fingering dollar bills, hoping a tip might ensure them a seat.  They shouldn't have worried.  Everyone made it onto the shuttle.  Yes, we all made it onto the shuttle, where we remained for six more hours.  See, the roads really were bad.  People from the Eugene/Salem/Portland area don't really know what to do when a snow storm hits.  Our cities are not prepared to plow the highways, our drivers are clueless as to how to drive safely, causing a lot of accidents, and when the Department of Transportation mandates chains, we look around at one another and mutter,  "What are chains?"

Our shuttle driver informed us that the shuttle had "automatic chains," meaning that when she got up to a certain speed, she could push a button and the chains would drop and wrap themselves around the tires by themselves.  What?!  Automatic chains?  Are we in the year 2050?  No, we were not.  The crazy, sci-fi automatic chains didn't work, which means that to ensure our safety, our driver did not go above 5 miles per hour for the next two hours (meaning that we made it from Salem to Albany in that time...normally a ten to fifteen minute drive).  I was tempted to lose heart at this point, until I began getting to know the passengers around me.  Every one of them had been traveling longer than I had, and yet most of them had great attitudes.  The cheerful couple behind me were from Texas, and had brought their little dog with them.  There were actually three pets on board - two dogs and one cat.  I (having never owned a pet growing up) learned so much about domestic animals in such a short amount of time.  I listened to a lively debate on collars vs. micro-chips, and I learned that the extremely large cat who was adorned with a hand-knitted sweater with a peace sign embroidered on it, actually had a rare type of bunny fur, according to her owner.  Well, the owners of the Pomeranian "Pom" Chihuahua one-upped the cat owner, informing all of us that the Pom actually had wool fur.  My mind was spinning, rapidly trying to take in cats with bunny fur and dogs with wool, and still trying to fathom the idea of automatic chains.  Meanwhile, the third pet owner had chimed in, letting us know that her dog had such soft fur that she could make a blanket out of it.  When an awkward silence followed her statement, she quickly added, "...but I would never do that!" 

Despite the competitive nature of the pet owners, everyone was friendly toward one another.  My seat partner, who ended up being a captain in the army, was quite welcoming: "Come on over and sit down!  I won't bite...unless you want me to." (we sat in relative silence for the remainder of the bus ride).  Despite the bus's thermostat being out of whack, causing the internal temperature to be at about 100 degrees, despite a two hour bus ride taking a total of six hours, despite the fact that everyone had missed lunch and dinner (we pooled resources, and I had an apple and chili-cheese fritos at 7pm, which was surprisingly satisfying), everyone remained in good spirits, honoring the bus drivers for their hard work and cheering when we finally reached our destination.  As the elderly owner of the Pom put it, "There isn't any use getting in a tiz over it.  We're safe, and God's good in all of it."

And He was good.  I arrived safely in Eugene, and the rest of my trip was just perfect.  I slept in, chatted over hot drinks, went shopping, and laughed until my stomach hurt with old friends who know me almost better than I know myself.  On the way back to the airport, I told Leslee that the most healing thing about the trip was realizing that I wasn't forgotten.  I still had friends (funny, clever, wonderful friends) who were excited to be with me, despite the fact that I'm a mom now, and we're all in different seasons of life, and I live far away, and most of us are terrible at keeping in touch.  My friends hadn't forgotten me, and neither, I realized, has God.

So many times, I have lived in fear that as I do this Mom thing, I'm going to miss out on other things.  I have been afraid that I will lose my closeness with God, because I'm unable to spend the same amount of time with with Him (or at least, the same depth of time with Him) as I used to.  I have been afraid that by the time I'm able to have a career in teaching, that I will have forgotten everything I learned in school, and no one will want me because I haven't been actively teaching in the school system.  And then, just before fear can take control, I'll get a wake-up call.  I'll find myself in a worship setting, and realize I'm closer to God than ever before, and He has been graciously instilling deep revelations about Himself in me without me even knowing it, much less striving for it.  Or, I'll be tutoring one of my students, and realize that I actually know what I'm doing.  I am actually a good teacher, not in spite of being a mom, but because I am a mom.

Leslee was reminding me about a mentor of ours, who always jokes that she missed out on the pop culture of the '80's because she was raising boys during that era.  But if you look at the incredible life of this woman, it's obvious she did not miss a thing that mattered (let's be honest - is it really a tragedy to miss out on '80's pop culture?).  I look at the life of my mother and see the same thing: a woman who seemingly "sacrificed" herself to raise children for twenty-plus years, yet today she is a country and world traveler, a person of deep prayer, an accomplished speaker and writer, a compassionate counselor, and still, my mom. 

Here is what I believe: if we, as mothers, give ourselves to this calling of raising our children, God will give us favor (spiritually, vocationally, relationally), and He will not allow us to miss out on anything.  He will catch us up in an instant.  Yet, if we're not careful, we will miss moments with our kids that are precious.  My hairdresser told me that many nights when she gets off work, she tucks her kids into bed and just lays there for awhile, sometimes so long that she falls asleep in their rooms. "I don't care, though," she said, "I don't want to miss a moment that I have with them." 

I don't want to miss a moment, either.  It was good for me to get away for a quick weekend and be reminded that I still matter to my friends.  But it was also good for me to remember that I matter at home, that I light up my kids' faces, and they light up mine.  It was good to remember that God has not forgotten me, and that He has exciting adventures in store for me when this season is done.  For any other moms out there who are worried or fearful that they are going to lose themselves or miss something while they raise their kids, I say to you what my friend on the shuttle bus said to me: "There's no use getting in a tiz about it...God's good in all of it."  He has not forgotten you. 

One Year Later

This time last year I was laying in a hospital bed, in labor with twins.  I knew I was about to give birth to double the babies I had previously given birth to.  I knew these babies would mean double the diapers, double the baby clothes, double the money, double the sleeplessness, etc.  I had no idea these babies would also usher in a season of double the joy, double the grace, double the favor, double the fruit. 

In the last year, we settled into a new city and state and Jordan settled into a new job, we got a new van, I got a job, we bought our first house, and I ran my first 5K (small potatoes to my many runner friends out there, but an accomplishment to me, as I have NEVER been a runner!).  On the flip side, our computer broke, my phone broke, and we survived our first stomach flu epidemic as a family of five (these three happened within the same week).  Lots of victory, lots of challenges, lots of change.  In my 27 years of life, in my 7 years of marriage, in my 3 years of motherhood, I have never had a year like this one. But the over-arching change, the one that surpassed them all, the one that changed the dynamic of our life, was the addition of Nora and Abel into our family. 

If you've ever read a funny blog, quote, or post about twins, you'll have likely read sarcastic accounts of how fed up twin parents are with being pulled aside and regaled with other peoples' twin stories.  "I had a cousin who was a twin" or "my mom had two sets of twins" or "my neighbor's cat just had twins."  It's true - everyone has a twin story, and if they don't, they are still incredibly enamored by the fact that you have twins
.  And it's true, there are moments when I long to walk into a store and not feel like a circus clown, with my three-kid shopping cart.  There are moments when I long to be invisible again.  But this is also true - it is an enormous privilege to get to hear these stories, and to have a way to identify with people from every walk of life.  Twins have no respect for economic class, culture, ethnicity, or religion. They burst into the lives of all kinds of people all over the world, and when one family with twins encounters another family with twins, there is a bond that transcends all the other differences that may be present.  What a gift.

And sometimes I kind of like the attention.  I remember when I had Asher, and was no longer pregnant, I would walk into a public place and feel a little bit ignored.  There was no more of that "oohing" and "ahhing" and stomach-rubbing that we all love to hate.  "What, I'm not special anymore?  Now that this kid is in my arms instead of my stomach I'm just another lady with a baby?" With twins, the attention remains long after the pregnancy.  I will always be a special kind of spectacle when I enter a public place.  Sometimes this is exasperating, but when I'm able to just shrug my shoulders and accept the chaos, it can become fun.

With your first baby, everything they do is original and exciting, because it's the first time it's happened.  The first time they walk (or let's be honest, the first time they blow a spit-bubble), you fall over yourself running to the computer to post it on Facebook.  With the second baby, or in my case, the second and third baby, I've found that there isn't the same exhilaration with each new thing, because it has happened before.  Instead, there is a richness that's felt.  I feel rich that I have had three babies, and that I get to go through each precious stage three different times (although with Nora and Abel, their stages are simultaneous, which adds an originality and newness all its own). 

I could continue to reflect and perfect this blog, but the reality is I have a new house to unpack, and limited time before the birthday boy and girl wake up from their naps.  Nora and Abel, it is your birthday!  I wish your birthday didn't have to happen in the middle of this crazy move. I wish that you were in really cute birthday outfits instead of just your pajamas.  I wish I hadn't spilled coffee down my shirt as I was composing this blog.  But that's just our lives, right?  You've never known any different, God bless you.  I promise not to let your birthday get buried under all of these boxes.  Because you're both precious, and original, and worth celebrating.  Thanks for all the sweetness you've brought to our family.  Thanks for making your daddy and me stronger.  You are dearly loved. 

Wedding Season

Yesterday afternoon we attended the wedding of one of my husband's coworkers.  There was a sweetness about her wedding that felt safe and familiar, maybe because it reminded me a little of our wedding, and of our story.  This coworker and her husband met in high school at The Melting Pot, where they were both employed.  Jordan and I met in high school at TCBY, where we were both employed.  She and her husband spent hours during and after their shifts talking about everything, both important and unimportant; so did we.  She briefly broke her husband's heart when she went to prom with another guy, as did I.  She and her husband have a box of letters they wrote to one another throughout their relationship that they've pledged to open in five years; we had a similar box of letters. They set aside a time during the wedding ceremony for their parents to bless them as they began their marriage; we did the same in our ceremony.
Our stories weren't identical by any means.  They had more of a legitimate reason for their box of letters, as they lived in different states for the majority of their dating relationship.  Jordan and I not only lived in the same state, but also in the same city, eventually attending the same college, where we only had to walk a few paces to get from my dorm building to his (and yet, we could still fill a large box with all the letters we wrote to each other.  This either makes us hopelessly romantic or hopelessly pathetic.  You decide.)  At the start of their relationship, they texted.  Jordan and I instant messaged (IM'd) using America Online (AOL).  Does that even exist anymore?  Another difference: at my wedding, I was able to fairly easily choose five close friends and family members to be my wedding attendants.  Jordan's coworker (if I counted correctly) had eleven.  My son Asher could hardly contain himself as the line of beautiful bridesmaids seemingly never ended. "Mom," he whispered loudly, "I think there are more than ten!" (which, for Asher, is new numerical territory.  Ten is the highest number in his world.  Ten more minutes of playtime sounds like blissful eternity to him.  If he sees a food he really loves - pickles, for instance - he asks for ten.  I say one cookie, he counters ten.  We are still working on the concept of realistic bargaining.)  "Mom, I think there are more than ten!  I think there are eleven. Or twenty-six!"
As their beautiful ceremony was followed by an equally beautiful reception, I continued to sentimentally reflect on my own love story, and I was not the only one doing so.  All around me, other couples were dancing, slipping their arms around one another, and holding hands.  Again, my thoughts were taken back, this time to when Jordan and I returned from our honeymoon and developed the pictures from the disposable cameras we'd left on the tables at our reception.  There were numerous self-taken pictures ("selfies," before "selfies" were a thing) of couples kissing, primarily older couples who had been married for twenty-plus years.  I remember thinking at the time that it was sort of sweet that our wedding had rekindled romantic feelings for these couples, and simultaneously being sort of grossed out, wondering what I was supposed to do with all these pictures of old people making out.
Now that I've joined the ranks of old people who make out at weddings, I get it.  Weddings make me fall really in love with Jordan again.  I love remembering what it felt like to be in the sweet beginning season of marriage - the season that the couple we watched yesterday are in right now, with the innocence and excitement and newness that is tangible.  That is a wonderful, wonderful season to be in.  But yesterday I realized that I also love the richness of the season Jordan and I are in right now.  The season of seven years under our belt.  The season of packing up all three kids, the double stroller, and diaper bag with snacks and games for Asher, bottles, baby food, and extra clothes and then taking all of this with us to this really classy wedding because, by God, we will NOT let having three small children stop us from having a good time!  The season of life where I have not one handsome guy that wants to marry me, but two (after the wedding Asher told all of Jordan's coworkers that when he turned five years old, he was going to marry Mommy).  The season of life that is less new but is honestly, no, I mean honestly no less precious and wonderful and romantic in its own way.  The season of being seasoned.  And what I love is that couples who have been married twenty or thirty or fifty years may read this blog and laugh because I'm still such a rookie, and because there is so much more seasoning to look forward to.  We have so much more to anticipate.

Our younger, more innocent selves, staring into the depths of my bouquet.

I did not intend to write this blog in honor of our anniversary.  I actually wrote it awhile ago, saved it as a draft, and forgot about it.  But I thought today might be an appropriate day to publish it, as today does happen to be our anniversary.  It's our 7th (just wait till we make it past ten; Asher will be so impressed!) Last night, Jordan told me he thought Asher would be lucky to find a woman like me: a woman who can cook well, who cleans the house really well, and who bears children really well.  Don't freak out, ladies and feminists.  While I may do these things moderately well (some of the time) and my husband does appreciate it, in this instance he was teasing, and he also supports me in a variety of other, more modern endeavors.  Actually, when he got to the last item on his list (bears children well), I thought he said a woman who buries children well, and things got really weird for a second.  In all seriousness, though, I spent a lot of time praying yesterday for the future marriages of Asher, Nora, and Abel.  I prayed that God would bless them with marriages full of joy, love, and laughter, like the marriage I've shared with their Daddy.  When Jordan and I got married, we were blessed to have parents and grandparents with solid marriages we could look up to.  My prayer is that when our own kids get married (in like 40 plus years), that they will feel the same about our marriage.

And so, happy anniversary, Jordan.  I don't think I could love you more, but I will always strive to love you better.