A Quiet Resolve

"The highway signs say we're close,

But I don't read those things anymore.

I never trusted my own eyes."

-Stubborn Love by The Lumineers

A year in review?

I don't know.

I don't know what I'm closer to, or what I'm farther from.

My heart is so much happier, and so much more full of ache.

I am older and wiser, but I wish I could be younger and oh-so-naive again.

Maybe everything is changing, or maybe it's tortuously the same.

I know more of what I want, and less of how to get it.

I can't make sense of most of what I've seen this year. And maybe it doesn't matter, now that it's ending, and being replaced by a shiny 2015, with glitter and flashbulbs to assure me that this is the year. This time I'll figure it out. This time I'll know. The confetti will shower me in an avalanche of goals and resolutions that will outshine all the regrets and broken promises.

Sometimes, I feel like a boat in an ocean with no land in sight. Because I can control what I do. But there are seven billion other people in seven billion other boats, and I can't control any of them. And there are big storms that come out of nowhere, it seems. And boats are kind of lonely things anyway.

There are times when I blaze into a new year full of wild hope and bubbly excitement, as if I'd toasted the whole bottle of champagne to myself. There are others where I simply pray a silent prayer in the dark, waiting until everyone has gone to sleep and it's just me in the blankets, staring up at God in a kind of hesitant wonder. We have a long, but mostly wordless talk. And for the most part, I just tell Him that I don't know. I don't know. My best prayers are probably when I keep my mouth closed.

I've had thirty years of these midnights, of the calendar rolling to a new page. They no longer seem worthy of sequined dresses or noisemakers. Instead, they tend to arrive without any fanfare at all. The Christmas decorations look outdated and out of place already. The ball dropping in New York is too far away from a small town in central Illinois farmland.

And anyway, isn't that what the Midwest is known for- a quiet resolve? A steadfast determination? No matter the weather, the farmers have to sow and reap at some point. You do what has to be done. There is a beauty in that, even though it's mostly lost in the world today.

So 2015 will find me doing what has to be done, whatever that may be. I will love my children. I will finish school. I will cook our meals and make our trips to the library. I will sit in the hallway during her ballet class, and console him after his immunizations. I will laugh and I will cry. I will sing along with the radio. I will read lots of board books and mourn for time to read from my own shelf. I will try to make the holidays happy. I will buy hair dye in a box. I will revel and glory in fall's return. I will celebrate birthdays and marvel at new accomplishments. I will get a new pair of shoes, and pay taxes, and discover new recipes. I will still check on them at night. I will get teased for the amount of photos I take of anything and everything. I will stay up too late and wish for time to sleep in. I will write.

I will do the small things that constitute this life, a life that feels small, but one that God sees nonetheless. And even though I don't know, He does. For now, I go to bed and wake up again.

A Beautiful Paradox

"Christmas is built upon a beautiful and intentional paradox; 

that the birth of the homeless should be celebrated in every home." 

— G.K. Chesterton

I cannot tell you the presents I received for Christmas when I was younger. Oh, there were a couple things, maybe- the contact lenses that meant I was free from a junior high life of glasses and braces. And there was a warm, pink plaid bathrobe. We had a tradition of unwrapping one gift on Christmas Eve and in a moment of serendipity, I picked that one. I remember going to bed wrapped up in that cozy robe, feeling so please with myself that I had picked the best one to open that night by the tree. But other than the odd tin of candy from my grandpa, or the aunt who liked to give me clothes two sizes too big, I can't name five things that were given to me.

The cookies, however, I remember. The sugar cookies that we loved to decorate for a chance to sneak drips of icing. The candy canes we'd hang on the tree with the oversized, old fashioned, multi-colored bulbs, and the mismatched ornaments, and the tinsel. The way our presents were often wrapped in comic strips from the newspaper. The knit stockings that were impossible to coax the candy out of, and the family that would visit that week. The way we would always read the Christmas story from Luke before we'd open a single thing.

This is the time of year that I love most. But this week is always full of mixed emotions for me. I see the photos of a tree stacked with presents so tall, I can barely see the tree at all. I see the gushings over a new designer bag, a fancy camera, or even a new car (do people actually think those commercials with the big red bow on the car are a great suggestion?). It reminds me that it's time to back away from social media for a week or so, until the materialistic rhapsodizing has calmed.

I don't know it it's because these people have no sweet memories of their childhood Christmases. Maybe they truly know no other way to be happy than to accumulate more possessions. Or maybe it's because they don't realize the great needs of those in their own city or their country, and how many people awake to a small, government owned apartment with no tree, no presents, and no breakfast. I suspect it could be those things, or maybe, it is that they do not remember the reason Christmas is here.

(photo courtesy of Dimock Images)

I hope Millie and Walter wake with joy that morning. I hope they appreciate a new book or a dress up doctor's coat. I hope they even have vague memories of believing in Santa Claus and dreaming of reindeer on the roof. But far, far beyond that, I hope they realize, especially as they grow, that Christmas is not about what we've tied up with yarn and topped with bows. I hope they realize that we have so much compared to many others in the world. I hope they have giving hearts that feel compelled to share and give, at this time of year and always.

And more than anything, I hope they grow in the knowledge that Christmas is about a simple night, with a birth in a barn, with a new family out in the cold. I hope they teach their children about the angels singing, and the wise men bringing their finest, and how a newborn grew to become a man who was nailed to a tree because he loved us more than life. I hope that they celebrate in a way that gives honor to that night. I hope they hear the words of those old Christmas carols and shed a tear or two in the beauty of it all.

Merry Christmas, friends. May your hearts be full of blessings.

The Show

"What's past is prologue." 

— William Shakespeare 

I haven't written about you in a while.

Two nights ago, we went to a play. You wore a tie and asked for help on deciding which silver tie clip to wear. You wrapped the scarf around your neck even though you didn't like it. I curled my hair and put on a little black dress and tights, dabbing red lipstick on my lips and spritzing on a rose perfume that you bought for me long ago. I found my heels in the back of the closet, and tried to walk without stumbling. You opened the car door for me. It'd been probably two years since the last time we did this or anything even close to it.

The two of us shared a pasta dish at a dimly lit Italian place. We rolled our eyes at the overbearing waiter, and savored the tiramisu. We ordered water to save money and ate copious amounts of those little bread slices, dripping with oil and Parmesan. We talked about what comes next in our lives: hopefully, your promotion and my graduation. All the talk was about the future.

At the show, we watched silently, thoughtfully. I wanted to close my eyes and somehow absorb the voices as they rose and fell in "Oh, Holy Night". Echos of the refrain reached to the ceiling and back to my chair. The tenderness of the story and beauty of the music was nearly heartbreaking. I had forgotten that heartbreak could have such a lovely, sweet edge to it.

And then, after the show, we stopped by the cafe on the other side of the road, glittering with Christmas lights in the windows. I used to spend moody nights there, drinking something warm and sugary, talking with a friend or writing private thoughts that I hoped would be public someday. It's strange how we leave parts of ourselves in every place we visit.

Sometimes I have dreams about the boy I had a crush on in elementary school. I wonder what life would look like if he was the one who sat beside me at that show. And I know there are girls in your past that you wonder about, too. All the people we thought we would spend life with fell away somehow- maybe they walked away, or maybe we did- and now it's you and I standing here. It almost feels like it was just chance. Maybe it was. We certainly can't say that this was our plan, to meet while you were across the globe and I was afraid for your life. Now we find ourselves with wedding rings and babies five years later.

Everyone likes to caution that marriage is hard, although they say that padded in phrases about how wonderful and rewarding it is. They never tell you why it's hard. They never tell you what that feels like. They talk about the lights and forget all the shadows.

We have been to lows that I didn't know existed. We have tasted the kind of bitterness and ache that is hard to write about it. The battle- because, dear God, it is a battle- is fought on steeper ground each year that these rings stay on our fingers.

It was a little easier, that night at the show. It was a little remembrance of where we started, and the laughter we had, and the drinks that made us dizzy, and the love. The love.

There were many people at the play, crowding around us in their seats with jewelry sparkling, perfume behind their ears, and programs on their lap. They were listening to the chords rising and falling just like we did. I wonder if they saw the trail of our years behind us. Their shadows, crumbled and tired. I wonder if they realized that as the story of the World War One Christmas truce was being performed on that stage, you and I had a truce of our own.

I don't know if we were meant to be here. I don't really understand the way God works, or what twists and turns should have happened, or if this is the master plan. But we are here, still. And it will be five years soon. I can't say I haven't given up, but I've stayed in spite of it, and you're still here, too.

My wish is that this new year will be merry and bright. My hope is that we stop trying to grasp for what we can't ever get back, and begin trying to live in a new way, with new memories and a new foundation. I am the kind of girl who clings to the old, but let's stop. The old is gone.

Let's pretend that we met at that show. Let it be our holy night. Let it be the first day. And there was light.

Start there.

Blessing and Ache

"If I write what I feel, it's to reduce the fever of feeling." 

— Fernando Pessoa

I want to take her by the shoulders and whisper to her. "You're the lucky one," I'd tell her. Lucky, because you found the one you love when you were young. And you were together before there were others, so there are no regrets and wasted moments. And you had a kind of secret language between the two of you. And you hold hands. And you ate stale wedding cake on your first anniversary. And he was always faithful. And you were always proud. A picture from your first date makes your heart swell. And you've never questioned it.

And someone else would come to me and tell me that they wish they could be as lucky as I have been. I've had two children, and they are healthy. I haven't been homeless. I haven't broken any bones or faced cancer or lost a best friend in a car accident. I have enough to eat and clothes to keep my body warm and a car that I can drive to the doctor when I have a fever. I have parents that I count among my closest friends and people who pray for me and a Starbucks card with five dollars and forty six cents left on it.

The lucky parts are what keep us going.

It's the unlucky parts of us that hurt.

And I wish it was okay to say those things.

That we ache. That we are blessed.

That the blessings and the ache can both fit inside one beating heart.

The Beginning: My Own Birth Story (Written By My Mama)

My new little self, sleeping in the bassinet that my dad and all his siblings used,
and the one that I used for Millie and Walter

When, on her birthday, my blog friend Jess had her mom share her birth story, I thought it was a wonderful idea. So today, on my 30th birthday, I'm snagging that idea for my blog. I've heard bits and pieces of this story before, but it means ever so much more now that I'm a mom. And besides, it's always nice to hear a part of your story. This is the very beginning of it. Thanks for writing this, Mom!

The Official Birth Story of Erika

I was a little surprised to hear that women write “birth stories.”  Women tend to verbally share the stories of childbirth with gross exaggerations and lots of histrionics, as though they were unique from the billions of other labors and deliveries and certainly far worse than any other.  But I guess we’re all a little curious about our own stories and have only our parents to tell us about them. And being born is a big deal. Erika, this is your story.

I was in labor for 842 days.  I think that beats all the other stories I’ve heard, but not by much. The real story isn’t as shocking, but I’ll tell the truth.

I worked nights as a nurse on a psychiatric unit and thought it would be a good idea to take off about a week before my due date to readjust to days. Even though I knew that babies, being under legal age, don’t consider the due date as a contract, I still more or less thought that Erika would be born on her due date. I worked the last shift and came home to do some nesting, or cleaning and packing.  At bedtime that night, around 9 P.M., I felt the definite more-than-just-a-trickle of amniotic fluid escaping.  (I chuckled a bit remembering the story of my mother-in-law’s maiden aunt who came to stay for the birth of the baby. My mother-in-law called down the stairs to “Auntie” with the news that her water had broken.  “That’s all right, Alice.  It happens to me all the time,” replied her aunt.)  

I told Erika’s dad that I thought my water had broken and called the hospital maternity ward to let them know.  I was having mild contractions, and though I knew logically it could be quite some time with this being my first, I still felt a feeling of needing to hurry to the hospital.  (Isn’t that how it happens in the movies? The mother-to-be feels a single cramp, and they speed away to the hospital. But she can never get there in time, so the baby is always born in the taxi.)  The nurse told me to come right in, so I checked the suitcase one last time, and we got in the car – a green Chevrolet Impala with a bad transmission.

I wasn’t in the company of an experienced taxi driver who could deliver the baby, so it seemed to be a good thing to hurry a little.  We drove from our little rural subdivision onto the main street safely, while the contractions were becoming pretty uncomfortable and much closer together, about 3 minutes apart.  Maybe things would happen like they did in the movies! We passed a gas station, and Erika’s dad suddenly whipped the car around and pulled in.  I asked why we were stopping, and he said he needed an antacid.  Now, we were on our way to a hospital, and surely, they would have antacids there – rooms of them. Didn’t having a baby overrule indigestion?  

When I arrived at the hospital, it was as a patient this time; it was intimidating to be on the other side of the fence.  Riding in the wheelchair seemed really strange.  The halls looked very different and so “hospital-ish.”  Watching some labor and deliveries of other women when I was in nursing school didn’t prepare me at all for my own.  I thought, “I can’t do this, but there is no turning back now.”  I prayed the whole time.  I was so fearful that I hadn’t eaten right or may have done something to injure the baby in some way, too, and now would come the reckoning.  I thought of those many mornings after work when I could only stand the thought of orange Crush soda for breakfast. (And maybe some toffee.)

My gorgeous mama, pregnant with me

The nurses checked for amniotic fluid, but couldn’t find any trace.  They decided it was a “high leak,” and decided to keep me there.  As the night progressed, the labor slowed somewhat, like it often does.  As midmorning passed, I was getting very tired after not sleeping for so long. Labor picked up after the doctor completely ruptured the membranes, and at that point, I felt that Lamaze was a joke. I didn’t use any pain medicine, afraid that it might hurt the baby. When staff moved me to the delivery room, they placed me on my back with feet up in stirrups, which is probably the worst possible way to give birth.  The time finally came to push, but I didn’t have any energy left.  Nurses were pushing down on my belly, while the doctor kept speaking encouragement. I thought I was pushing, but they kept telling me that I wasn’t.  It seemed to take forever before I heard the doctor announce that “it’s a girl!” It was about noon. He seemed to be thrilled and chattered away for a second, but almost immediately he grew serious.  I heard him call for oxygen.  Erika was whisked away before I really had even a moment to hold her.  

My sister, also a nurse who worked at the same hospital, was there for the birth, but she was somewhat blurry to me then, as was everyone in the delivery room.  I was so tired, but so scared.  The doctor told us that you had a wee bit of Erb’s palsy because of the length of the labor, and that you were a little short of oxygen, all of which resolved very quickly with no permanent damage. What relief it was to hear that Erika was fine! She was truly fine! After knowing you were well, it seemed as though the birth hadn’t really happened in some ways. So much of that night faded away quickly.  A nurse came with a basin of warm water and soap and told me to wash up.  As she left the room, she asked me if I was really going to wash, or was I going to fall asleep.  I told her that I would wash, not to worry, and that’s the last thing I remember for a while.

I was so thrilled to finally have Erika brought to me to nurse.  I couldn’t believe that she could be so tiny.  I was built like a toothpick at 100 pounds before pregnancy, which made for a really funny shape when I was full term, though I only weighed 125 pounds then. People actually laughed at me without even attempting to disguise it! (Just what a nine months’ pregnant woman needs for her self-image, yes?) But even though my belly had seemed so large, there you were, all complete, but so little at 7 pounds, 11-1/2 ounces.  And you were pink, not orange Crush-colored, thank God.

We couldn’t wait to bring you home.  One reason was that wonderful excitement we felt to begin that huge adventure, almost too wonderful to believe.  The other was because the woman next to me kept singing “The Lullaby of Broadway” to her baby.  Don’t ever do that.  If you must sing a lullaby, sing a real one, even horrible songs like “Rock-a-Bye Baby in the Treetop,” which has terrible, frightening lyrics. No show tunes.

There you have it.  You were born, thank God.  He makes the best stuff. And you just keep getting better and dearer all the time.