holding one miracle, begging two more...

{This, as we continue praying for Boston... 

for hope in the midst of horror, and grace in the midst of grief...}

Her twins are in the hospital.  One smaller than my hand.  

She’s already lost two babies.  Saw them born, late-term, saw their little bodies unmoving.  Laid them in the ground.  She cried when she told me.  I cried too.  She said she nearly lost her mind the second time.  That she went nearly wild with grief.  I feel wild just listening.  

Then, finally, after months of trying, another pregnancy.  

A miracle birth, God’s hand turning this third baby at the last minute from breach to normal, her little daughter sliding out, incredibly, headfirst.  Uncomplicated.  Perfect.  

And now, this.  The doctors misdiagnosed, said one baby was a baby and the other was a growth.  Gave her “strong medicine” for a month to dissolve the excess tissue… which was really her other daughter.  And then, one day, another ultrasound - two heartbeats.  

The shock-joy of it!  

But then, her blood pressure rises.  Stays high too long.  She’s admitted to the hospital, where they tell her she'll stay until the babies are born or until her blood pressure drops.  It stays high too long, and there isn’t enough fluid in her womb.  

They do an emergency Caesarean section, lift out her two tiny daughters.  Oxygen tubes, monitors, incubators.  

She expresses milk every three hours, the nursers feed the babies, but her girls don’t grow.  The tiniest one drinks and swallows, her sister throws everything back up.  The doctors try everything.  

Their tiny lungs develop pneumonia… 

I feed my baby girl in a room full of late afternoon sunshine.  The only sounds are her sucking noises and her little sighs as she fills her tummy.  Her breath feels warm on my skin.  Her little hand clutches my shirt.  

My eyes trace the curve of her cheek, tiny pink veins under her skin.  She pulls off and turns her head to stare at me, reaches up her hand to touch my cheek.  As if making sure I’m really there.  

I hold my breath.  Slowly turn my mouth to kiss her palm.  Motionless, we stare at each other, her big blue eyes blueberries dusted with sunlight.

With another little sigh, she turns her head back to milk.  I close my eyes.  Feel the warmth of sun streaming in past green and gold curtains.  

And I pray.  Every time I feed my daughter, now, I close my eyes and beg God for another miracle.

Two more.  

God, you turned one breach baby girl at the last second.  Make these new babies thrive. Please!

At bedtime, I stand a few long minutes holding Ruby by her bed, her sleepiness nestled into me.  I savor the heavy warm weight of her, her little body fitting the curve of mine, her quick-slow sleep-breathing.  

I bury my face in her soft neck, smell her baby goodness.  Rub my cheek against her whisper-fuzz hair.  I can’t bring myself to put her down.  

I’m floating in the dark with her, swaying back and forth together, all the universe wheeling overhead and underneath.  My own miracle.  My baby girl.  

I never want this warm, weighted moment to end.  This gift of her, warm and breathing in my arms.  

The next day, I hear from a mutual friend that the babies are gaining weight.  One grew 7 grams, her sister 10.  

I breathe a little easier.  Kiss my baby girl, hold her a little tighter.  

Thankful for grace.

(photos of Ruby Grace, growing)

setting up the pins...

Life with small children sometimes feels like weaving a braided rug.  I pick up a strand of one color - dishes, laundry, a cup of tea - only to have it interrupted by another color - the baby crying, a scraped knee, a knock at the door.  The days tumble out in no particular order, my best attempts to build a routine crumbling around my feet.  

My favorite song at the moment is by Sara Groves, from her album Fireflies and Songs.  It’s called “Setting Up the Pins”, and there’s a bit in the middle that goes like this:  

Everyone, everywhere, someway, somehow,

Settin’ up the pins for knockin’ ‘em down…

It can feel simple but it’s really profound…

Settin’ up the pins for knockin’ ‘em down…

Rent-a-tent, build-a-stage, throw-a-party, get-a-gown,

Buy-a-ticket, rent-a-car, pack-a-bag-and-leave-town.

Cook-a-dinner, clean-the-kitchen, hit-the-light,

Brush-your-teeth, read-a-book, say-a-prayer, good-night!

That’s what my days feel like… and I love Sara’s song because it ends like this: 

My grandmother had a working song

“Hum-diddle-oh” all day long

Sing for the beauty that’s to be found

Settin’ up the pins for knockin’ ‘em down

There is actually beauty to be found in setting up the pins every day, just to knock them down again.  There is Beauty to be found, and His name is Grace, and I can find Him just by opening my mouth, my heart, in thanks.  The minute I thank Him for the moment, the dirty diaper, the crying child, the potatoes boiling over on the stove, He’s right there with me.  

He was already there, I just didn’t have eyes to see.  

Thanks weaves the sacred with the mundane in a daily-unrolling tapestry of grace, where dirty diapers come right before softest snuggles, and crying children give way to laps full of stories.  Crusty dishes mean three growing bodies ate nutritious food, and piles of laundry mean healthy kids played in good clean dirt today.  

It’s all in how you look at it.  

Thank you, God, for...

...a breezy, blustery spring day.

...clothes drying on the line.

...a surprise visit from a friend.

...a clean bathroom sink.

...my sweet-smelling, soft-cheeked baby daughter.

...my blue-eyed, blond-haired dynamo three-year-old son.

...my thoughtful, studious, mischievous five-year-old son.  

...my hard-working, loving husband.

...Your love, unending.

...Your grace, that covers all.

...Your Presence, all the time.

The best moment of today?

Christ is Risen! {Multitudes on Monday: an Easter photo journal}

He is risen indeed!

our Good Friday {Five Minute Friday: Broken}

{Every Friday, Lisa-Jo Baker posts a prompt, and we write for five unedited, unscripted minutes.  This Friday, the one we call "Good", the prompt is Broken...}

START.  

It was when Jesus’ toothpick arm snapped while I was putting him on the cross this [Good Friday] morning that I felt it in my heart: the twinge of new understanding, a fresh glimpse of His pain for me.  

It was when my five-year-old remembered at lunchtime, he who can’t even remember what he had for breakfast - it was when he remembered that he whined on the way to the shop, and that he should put a thorn in Jesus’ crown because of that small sin.  That he remembered his sin.  That he called it sin.  That he quietly took a thorn and stuck it into the grapevine wreath, and understood.  

Jesus was broken for our sin.  For his sin.  My sin.  Yours.  

Broken, body broken, blood spilled out… and it was that my five-year-old was understanding this that broke me this year.

Somehow, I’m living it all over again through them.  The moments when understanding first broke through into my consciousness, when I first began to understand the depth of  Jesus’ brokenness for me.  The layers of His love go deep, and as you live you unwrap depth after depth of brokenness, and you love Him deeper and deeper the older you get.  

That little toothpick arm that snapped?  Jesus’ whole body writhed in agony on that tree, for me.  For William.  And it was our sins that held him there - love for us, and love for His Father.  I’m glad my heart is broken, and I’m even more glad for William’s deepening understanding of brokenness… a simple crown of thorns, a new tradition, a sweet-sad moment with my son.  

Blessing upon blessing welling up from His brokenness, healing ours.  

STOP.

when you really boil it down...

{Some thoughts I wrote last month, after talking with a friend at a conference... I thought I was busy with three kids, but she has four under seven!}

When you really boil it down, it all comes down to trust.

How much do I trust Him?

Enough to let Him organize my day?  Do I trust Him to give me that half-hour with that friend if it’s really part of His plan for me, His plan for her?

Do I trust Him enough to let go of that idea for that blog post I was going to write, when the baby has an extra blow-out and won’t go down for her nap, and it eats up the 20 scant minutes I was going to use to catch the idea on paper?  Do I trust Him that if it’s really important in His list of what He wants me to say, He will bring it back to my mind and open up the time to write it down?

How about trusting Him enough to be content with letting my kitchen stay a little messy (or a lot messy!) if it means my three-year-old gets an extra couple stories at naptime instead of me cleaning up the lunch dishes?  {After all what is a clean counter-top compared to extra cuddles with the warm, snuggly body that houses the eternal soul of my child?}

What is it for you?  What’s that thing sitting desperately on your want-to-do list, that thing you think will refresh your heart, revive your soul, make you feel better?  Saner.  Calmer.  

For me, it’s clean counter-tops.  Connecting with a friend.  Writing down my thoughts.  Drinking in the Word.  Devouring a great book.  Having a nap.  

Guess what... That thing?  Well, if it robs us from what really matters, it’s nothing less than… (ready for this?)

...an idol.

Idol is an ugly word.  But I can feel its truth in my heart.  The fact of the matter is that Jesus really does own all 24 hours of my time, every day.  So shouldn’t it actually be up to Him how I spend it?  Who really sets my priorities, Him or me?  What does it actually mean in real life to have Someone Else as LORD over my life?

The book I’m longing to finish.  The baking I want to do for my neighbors.  The writing, or emails, or dishes, or craft or… you name it, when I am holding more tightly to that thing than to Jesus, it’s an idol.  And once I see it for what it is, I’m finally able to open my hands and let it go, as if it burned me.  

And the little panicky feeling around my heart?  That feeling that makes me clench my fists when I’m right in the middle of capturing a train of thought that’s been eluding me all day, and big brother wakes up little brother from his nap half-an-hour early, and they’re squabbling in their room together, neither having had enough sleep, and I know I can look forward to a long, cranky several hours til dinner… 

Instead of exploding, I can take a deep breath.  Let it out again, slow.  I can remember that Jesus is the One ordering my day, and that I. can. trust. Him.  If it’s on His agenda, it will get done.  If not, does it really matter?  Really.  I mean, Who’s actually the wiser one, here?  Who’s priorities will always be Kingdom-oriented?  Eternal?  Don’t I want that, anyway?  

In that moment, if I make the choice to trust instead of explode, the panic loosens its squeeze around my heart.  I can unclench my fists, and open my arms to my tumbling, squabbling boys with a smile and a welcome in my heart.  

Here’s the thing: I do not want to look back in 10 years, when my kids are 15, 13, and 10, and think, I missed it.  

I missed it.  

That I was so busy squeezing this in here and that in there, ekeing out a half-hour for this and 10 minutes for that, wildly resenting any unexpected interruptions, that I missed the moments.  The precious, irreplaceable moments with my kids that I can never live again.  

As this was all hitting home for me this morning, I picked up Jesus Calling and flipped to today, February 17, and here’s what I read: 

“It’s easy to make an idol of routine, finding security within the boundaries you build around your life.  Although each day contains twenty-four hours, every single one presents a unique set of circumstances.  Don’t try to force-fit today into yesterday’s mold.  Instead, ask Me to open your eyes, so you can find all I have prepared for you in this precious day of Life.”  

Jesus, help me trust You enough to let go of my own agenda, every day, 

and receive Yours for me instead.  

Help me trust that if what I want to do matches Your agenda for me, 

You’ll make the time for me to do it.  

And if it’s not of You, it’s not worth doing anyway.  

Remind me to receive each consecutive moment, as it comes and goes, 

as a gift.  From You.  For me.  

Whatever each moment holds, frustrating or cheerful, mundane or exciting, 

help me cup my hands around it and enter in with joy.  

{except this last one, all photos are by James, 

from last month's family holiday}

for when you're feeling weak and heavy-laden

Have you ever been giving advice to somebody, and as it’s coming out of your mouth you realize you need to take your own advice?

It happened to me yesterday. 

I’ve been feeling really tired and discouraged.  Lack of routine, coping for almost five months on broken sleep, clusters of things swirling around in my head that I want to do, be: memorize Scripture.  Exercise regularly.  Drink more water.  Read a verse with the boys in the mornings.  Be more patient.  Serve my husband better… the list goes on.  

I just plugged in to the ScriptureTyper community a couple days ago, and yesterday, I quietly posted my first prayer request, timidly stepping out into this new community.  

Thirteen people responded.  

Thirteen people I’ve never met.  Thirteen hearts are graciously lifting up my quest for routine, my sleep depravation, my walk with God.  Thank you so much.    

During my naptime yesterday, I couldn’t put this down.  I checked email (bad idea at naptime), and my Dad had sent this pre-Easter link.  I was supposed to be sleeping, but I just couldn’t stop scrolling.  The words held me all the way to the very end, scrolling down through pure Truth.  It was like my soul took in great draughts of fresh, clean air.  By the end, Jesus was pulsing in front of me in all His glory.

I got up with my heart full of Jesus.  (Probably more refreshed than if I'd slept!)  I made a cup of tea, went out in the hall to let housekeeping know we were up from our naps.    

Now, not all of the Thai cleaning ladies in our hotel can speak English, but yesterday the lady on duty could speak more than most.  As she came into our room to make up our bed, I was sitting down changing Ruby on the floor.  She smiled at Ruby, so while she was plumping the pillows and changing the sheets, I asked her if she had any children of her own.  Just making conversation.

She said, “Yes, one.”  

“Boy or girl?” 

“Boy…” 

I asked how old he was.  

“Fifteen,” she said, glancing over at me as she snapped the sheets into place.  

“Wow,” I said, “he’s a big boy!”  

“Yes,” she said, a little sadly.  Before I could ask if she wanted to have more children, she filled in the gap.  “His father leave when he one month old.  I no know where he is.  Like... dead.”  

My heart nearly stopped.  

She doesn’t know where her baby’s father is.  She raised him all by herself.  

She keeps talking, the words stumbling out of her.  “Your country not same.  Your husband, he take care baby for you.”  James had been holding Ruby until I was ready to change her.  “He help you.  He good man.  Not like our country.  Woman do everything.”  

The thought flits through my mind: How. blessed. I. am.

I ask if her son lives with her.  She says no, he lives with her mother in North Thailand.  She only sees him for his two-month summer break every year.  Her son can’t live with her.  She only sees him two months out of twelve.  She has to stay in the big city to earn a wage that’s enough to support all three of them: herself, her son and her mother.  So she works and lives alone, and sends money home so her son can eat and go to school.  

“I worry because... my son no speak English.”  English is the ticket to a good future.  She makes a wry face.  “He have many girls talk to him.”  She laughs, shrugs her shoulders, but there’s a tinge of frustration.  Helplessness.  She’s not there to do anything about it.  

I nod.  Listen.  Ask simple questions.  I fight the urge to offer platitudes, try to fix her life.  I can’t fix anything.  I can just be here with her, sitting on the floor with my baby, while she makes the bed.  I’m feeling a little helpless myself.

She coos at Ruby, makes her smile.  “Your baby very cute.”  She’s not bitter at me for having three children.  For having a loving husband.  For being from a country where life is relatively easy.  My heart is breaking for her, but she’s resigned.  This is her life.  It’s just the way it is.  

I go into the other room, ask James whether I should tip her.  I’m longing to help her in some tiny way.  He agrees, and I pray, bide my time, wait until she’s done mopping the floor, pick my moment.  I pray again.  Lord, give me Your words.

I follow her to the door.  I make eye contact, ask her name, avoiding a glance at her name tag.  I’m asking her as a person.  As a woman.  

“Hom,” she says.  Home, without an ‘e’.  

Her name is Home.  

I look her in the eye and slip a small bill into her apron pocket.  “Khap-kun-kaa,” I say, “thank you.”  And then, I go on, my words tumbling over each other.  

“You know,” I say, “I want to tell you something.”  I hold her eyes, bravely.  “God sees you.  And He loves you.  He loves you.”  I try to hug her with my eyes.  Something wobbles behind hers.  

“And when you feel… weak,” I drop my arms limply by my side, charades, “He is strong, for you.”  I make muscles, laugh.  Still holding her eyes with mine.  I want her to know, really know.  

“Do you… have you ever read - the Bible?”  I’m hesitating.  Unsure of her English level, unsure of myself, out on a limb.  

“We believe Buddha,” she says simply.  “We good people.”  How can I argue with that.  I  can simply offer what I know.

“We believe in Jesus,” I say, “and he says in the Bible, when you feel weak and have heavy burdens - “ more charades: I mimic a heavy load on my shoulders, point to her.  I know she’s carrying a load.  She knows I know, nods.  Smiles.  “Jesus says, ‘Come to Me and I will give you... rest.’”  I slump my shoulders, close my eyes.  “You can read His Words in the Bible…”  

Just then, another foreigner walks by in the hall, en route to his room.  I’m suddenly acutely aware of my non-PC-ness.  Standing in the doorway sharing the gospel.  Who really does that?  And how shallow am I that I can be suddenly flooded with shame over offering this Most Glorious Gift to this needy heart?  

She’s meant to be cleaning his room… she blushes, thanks me, nods, bows, smiles again apologetically… I ask her quickly if she’ll be cleaning our room again next week, and she says she switched shifts with someone just for today.  Just today.  

I smile at her, say goodbye, close the door quietly.  Let my breath out.  Thank God for Hom.   

And she stays on my heart.  The boys pray for her at bedtime.  “Dear Jesus, pray for Hom, pray that she would come to know you, Jesus…”

This morning on the treadmill, finally getting up early enough to exercise, I have a new lease on life.  The encouragement of my new friends at Scripture Typer and the words of Romans 1:16 are racing through my brain:

“For I am not ashamed of the gospel, 

because it is the power of God that brings salvation to everyone who believes…”

Lord, bless Hom.  Water Your seeds.  Make them take root in her heart.  Forgive me for being ashamed of you in front of that foreigner… maybe he needs You too.  

Gungor’s music accompanies my beating heart, and I realize: I've been needing to take my own advice.  Come to Me, and I will give you rest.  

When I get back from exercising, the boys have finished breakfast.  I dole out vitamins, flip the kitchen verse calendar I dug out of the suitcase last week to the page for today.  My heart skips a beat.

March 6

I will refresh the weary

and satisfy the faint. 

Jeremiah 31:25

A promise for Hom.  And me.  

Five Minute Friday: Home

{Every Friday, the lovely Lisa-Jo Baker posts a prompt and lots of beautiful hearts write for 5 unedited, unscripted minutes... Join in with me?}

This week's prompt:
(to which I wrote while still groggy from sleep... I know, I know - no disclaimers, sorry!)

HOME.

{Ben and a friend blowing bubbles last summer 

on the steps of our then-new-to-us "home" in Central Asia}

GO.

I woke up from my nap, checked for this Friday's prompt while we're still in Thailand with fast internet, waiting to go back to our current "home"... and the prompt was this word.  This cryptic, loaded, elusive word.  Home.  Home is a word that encompasses familiar, that wraps you around like a blanket, that hugs your heart.

Home is where the heart is.  And in this life of sojourning (whether, like us, you travel continents and live out of suitcases, or whether you've lived your whole life in one house - you are still a sojourner, you know.  We all are...) it's important to know where Home is.

For me, Home is Heaven.  Home is Jesus.  "Home" on this earth is where all the members of my new immediate family: my husband, my two sons, and my gorgeous baby daughter: are gathered in one place.  "Home" for me used to be where my parents live, but not any longer... and that's as it should be.  I'm creating a new "home", for my new family.  My children will say "home" is where we are - Mom and Dad - and that's as it should be.  But my Home?  My true Home?

Is just simply nowhere in this world.  With every year that passes, and every airplane flight we take, the world gets smaller.  And feels less and less like it fits around me.  Maybe when I'm 80, I'll just be so loose in my body that I'll just simply slip it off and float away... Home.

And that's when I'll see Him face to face for the first time, and my heart will know... Home is where my heart is, and my heart has been with Him since I was 6 years old.  He is my Home.  Every sojourning heart needs His Home-ness to truly feel like you belong.  He's calling you Home today.

Can you hear Him?

STOP.

{I wrote a whole song about this... find it here!}