Our Romans 8:28 Day

June 5, 2012 By 6 Comments

I laid on a gurney, in just a thin hospital gown and big huge socks that were to ward off blood clots, the scariest part of surgery it seemed, waiting to be taken back. Waiting for the surgery that we hoped and prayed would restore my fertility. The memories of that day, now three years old, are fuzzy. The rounded corners soft. But I remember my husband standing beside me, and I remember the nurse’s kind eyes. How she held my hand when she told me that something came back in my blood work. The way the words sounded when she formed them—“You’re pregnant.”

I got up off that gurney and walked out of that hospital with life beating in the very place they were planning to invade.

That afternoon, when I should have been recovering in a downtown hospital bed, we waded in the lake while our dogs splashed about and I said to my husband, again and again the words I thought I’d never get to say, “I’m pregnant.”

It was over as quickly as it began, but those days taste sweet to me now. Oh what a gift to have it, for even just a moment.

Those June days in 2009 are marked on a map in my memory.

That weekend, after the end began, we walked to a local festival, and on the way there, I saw one perfect blooming pink peony. I snapped a picture of it, and I knew even then, as I lost our one and only pregnancy that He was at work. That He had to be.

164: A Peony

In that flower, in its pink unfolding life, I was reminded that my God is a good God. He’s a mighty God. He’s promised that He works all things for good for those who are called according to His purposes.

And He did.

This weekend we’ll attend that festival again, only this time I’ll carry an 18-month-old toddler on my back. We’ll wave at the parade goers and we’ll share cheese curds and our sweet boy will pet baby animals.

Trusting God to build our family; having to rely completely on Him, because I am physically unable to do it any other way, has been hard. My womb is very literally shut; sealed up by scar tissue. But better my womb than my heart.

A few weeks ago, one perfect deep red peony bloomed in our front yard.

Keep trusting Me, He whispers. I am still working.

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And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose, Romans 8:28. (NIV)

 
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Just Write V: Cry It Out

March 13, 2012 By 1 Comment

I heard his cries in my dreams first. Tangled in the clouds between asleep and awake, I wasn’t sure in which world my son was calling out to me. Slowly my eyes opened, and I realized it was in this one. I punched the home button on my iPhone and the screen jumped to life flashing 4:00. So early. Too early.

I threw the covers off and stumbled down the hall, flicking on the bathroom light so that I could see as I crept into his dark room.

He was face down, his mattress muffling his sad little cries. I reached in and lifted him out of his crib and he flopped his head on my shoulder. I dropped into the glider, his long legs bending every which way. No longer a little baby I can cradle neatly in my arms. He pushed against me, thinking it was time to get down and play, so I stood back up.

I stood there in his dark room, with the ocean noise roaring in the background and held him. One arm supporting him, cradled under his legs, the other rubbing his back, his head on my shoulder, breath in my neck. I swayed back and forth, my back protesting all 25 pounds of boy.

Every muscle in my arms wanted me to lay him back down, but every beat of my heart cried out for me to stay. Stay here. Stay in this quiet moment where just my presence calms him. Where his needs are simple enough to be met with back patting and swaying.

Stay.

 
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Tonight, Just Write IV

January 10, 2012 By 2 Comments

I stand him on top of his changing table so that he can look in the mirror that hangs above it. When I dreamt of a nursery, of his nursery, this is what I saw in my mind’s eye. The two of us, having these moments.

His body is long and lanky now. A little bit of his baby fat remains, around his wrists and on his thighs, but he looks so much like a toddler to me now with his round belly and his toothy grin. He sways back and forth on his little feet and tilts his head, flirting with the boy in the mirror. His hair is getting so long; it flips out from behind his ear and swoops across his forehead.

The way he grins at me in the mirror is the grin I see behind my eyelids. This is how I’ll remember him, always, I tell myself.

I lean down and put my face next to his and he peers at me sideways, realizing that the mama in the mirror is the same mama who is now beside him. He laughs his throaty, wonderful giggle. Our eyes are so close they’re almost touching and he’s so close I can’t really see him. We both glance back at our reflection and play this game again and again.

Our time together is short in the evenings, but it’s so full. We unpack his school stuff, and I change into my lounge clothes. He crawls around the upstairs hallway while I put laundry in the washer (a daily talk when you cloth diaper) and get his clothes ready for the next day. I stuff his nighttime diaper and lay out his PJs before we head back downstairs for dinner. And then it’s dinner followed by bath or washing up, PJs then books then bed.

But this moment, after his bath but before his PJs, when we make faces at each other in the mirror, and he gets steadier and steadier on his feet as the days pass, these are my favorite moments.

They belong to us.

 
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Tonight, Just Write III

November 8, 2011 By 3 Comments

I duck around the corner of our bed to hide, crouching down on the floor, my old bones resisting bending down in child’s pose and call out “Where’s mama? Where’s mama?”

I hear him drop whatever has his interest and crawl toward the sound of my voice, hands and knees moving quickly across the carpet. He turns the corner and laughs and crawls straight into me, burying his head in my chest, so excited to have “found” me.

We cuddle for a moment before he breaks away, interested in a toy or the magazine laying on the floor and crawls off again. I hide around the other corner, and call out to him again.

Rinse and repeat.

I worry sometimes that he doesn’t know me, really know me as his mama. That I’m just one of a handful of women who care for him throughout the day.

He is so attached to Aaron; lights up when his daddy walks in the room. Does he do that for me? Sometimes it’s hard to see it.

But then he turns at the sound of my voice, rushes to me as quickly as he can, just to lay his forehead on my leg. Or he laughs in anticipation of a game of peek-a-boo, and I know he must. Or maybe I just know enough for the both of us.

{Today I am thankful for …}

8. Silly games before bedtime.

 
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Tonight, Just Write II

October 18, 2011 By 2 Comments

As I climb the stairs, I hear Aaron singing a song from our most played album, One Big Gulp from North Point Ministries.

“I’ve got to R-E-A-D my B-I-B-L-E …”

As I reach the top of the staircase, I can see into the guest bathroom, now a baby’s bathroom, and spot my husband’s broad shoulders, in his classic white tee, leaning over the side of the bathtub and hear the giggles and splashes of a boy who loves bathtime.

I was late tonight; sacrificing daycare pick up, dinnertime and our evening routine for the freedom of a Friday with my one and only little love.

It’s the daily sacrifices, the ones I never considered, that make this working mom thing hard sometimes.

“Hi love,” and his head looks up and his eyes grow wide as he wiggles and scoots in excitement. I wrap my arms around Aaron and kiss his cheek, thank him for stepping in and stepping up.

I walk into Harry’s room and pull PJs out of his closet, a diaper out of the drawer. I click on the light, push the button on the sound machine and the plinks of “Twinkle Twinkle” fill the room.

I go back into the bathroom to soap him up. Laying him back to rinse his hair turns into a splash fest and he squeals as he soaks the wall and my shirt. I scoop him out of the water into his shark towel, pulling the hood over his head.

We step back into his room for lotion, pajamas and bedtime.

This is my favorite time. This is my favorite baby. My favorite life.

 
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