January Babies 2007

I apologize for the lack of blogging. The Holidays eliminated my margin, and 2007 has taken off like a shot out of a gun! The weekend before last I went to Buffalo to visit soul mates, and meet a beautiful baby girl that is now 7 months old! I've been battling 7 weeks of diarrhea with the baby, the girl is only 2.5 and beginning to surpass her brother in her art skill (see her rendering, unassisted, of a CAR), and the oldest has magically turned into this wonderful boy. One toddler, on half toddler/half girl, and one boy. Thank God we're growing up!

I continue to feed the birds, often times losing myself in thought as I stare at my feeders. I received a fantastic field guide to the birds of Illinois (thank you, Jenny!), which has been so helpful in identifying the exact species... still no cardinal, though I spent a good buck on a feeder with a deck for their landing preference.

There is more, so much more that I have on my heart. Little comments that the kids have made that are driving eternal truths into my soul. Welcomed words from good friends that challenge and pierce my heart. God is good to me, showing me the flood of grace that He continually pours out on me. I am being changed, every day, because of His mercies.

Late, but nonetheless - HAPPY NEW YEAR!

Christmas Elements

Attending

I work in a teaching hospital, which means that the hospital itself is a training ground for doctors as they come up through medical school. You may see a white coat, you may see "Dr." stitched on the lapel, but said man or woman may still be in training. All baby docs in training answer to/ are taught by an "attending." I'm not sure if I'm totally clear on the nuances, even after 12 years of nursing, but an attending is the real deal. Residents wear white coats. Attendings wear grey. When you see a doc with a grey coat, sit up, take notice, and listen, because it's the real deal. Not a staging, not supervised practice. They are important. I say this with all seriousness. And as much as a resident might bite, attendings have been through enough that they may be just frustrated enough to rip your head off of your shoulders and not even remember your name two seconds later.

I feel closer to a lot of the residents and interns. Feeling my way along. Waiting to learn something new. Quick to ask questions, but quick to listen, open to new information. When an attending rounds with his group of students, it's quite an entourage. Two, three, sometimes four students. When an attending rounds on my patients, I'm quick to be at the bedside with a chart and answers. It's a serious time.

Such was the setting when a neurologist, an attending, came to the ICU the other day. We had a fascinating case, and he was called in to evaluate the patient. Here he came... with four students in tow. One grey coat, four white coats, and me. We drew the curtain around the patient's bed and the doctor sat in front of her, conducting a thorough evaluation. He was a kind man, seemingly gentle. All nerves assessed, a detailed history, test after test... after 20 minutes the entourage had barely made a sound, watching his every move, listening to each question and answer. Then it happened. I broke the unwritten rule. I felt something softly drop on my foot, and looked down to see a tiny white sock laying on top of my shoe. It must have shaken out of my scrubs where it was stuck after a washing. Without thinking, I leaned over and grabbed it, held it up in the air and yelled, "Alright! I found it! And I know exactly where the other one is!" I almost launched into my victory dance, when I became painfully aware that the entourage, the patient, and the neurologist were all staring at me. I bit my lip and stuffed the sock in the pocket of my shirt. But the best part was that they all broke out into laughter... including the attending.

And there was snow...

For the Birds

I am a closet fusser. I come from a long line of fussers, both sides. At a cellular level I think I was born knowing how to worry. I have a clear memory of walking into KMart, I was probably seven, and I was tearful. When my mom asked what was wrong I said, "When will I ever lose my baby fat? I want a skinny tummy!" See? Fussing. I would worry about where we were going next, how we would get there - I learned how to read a map as early as possible to have something to do while traveling - that, and Dad explained, in no uncertain terms, that I wasn't allowed to ask ANYMORE questions. "Just ride along!" I fussed that people would stare at my handicapped sister, which they did, and then fussed about how I should respond. A glare? A sharp comment? A punch? I have always fussed.

You can rest assured that you are in my inner ring of friends if you've received a call from me at some random time that starts out with, "Hi. It's me. I just need to fuss. Do you have a minute?" Because though I've learned to master some of the crazy thinking that spins me off into a parallel universe, sometimes I need to spread my thoughts out somewhere and just acknowledge that they're there.

God has been good to me in that He hasn't left me to live in my fussy state. He's given me chances for redemption, and for that I'm grateful. Three words: Kids, Matt, birds.

Kids: I have three of them. They were all born within three years (and two days). They range in age from one to four. Every waking minute of my day is spent chasing, changing, refereeing, teaching, fixing, watching, and soothing. The things I used to waste time and energy on I no longer have space for. Remember the reference to the "funny farm"? I had a friend whose dad actually worked at the state institutions for the mentally ill when they were farms, real farms. People with mental illnesses went there and worked hard on farmland, and, according to this man, they got better and went home. There was something soothing and helpful to troubled minds that hard work with the hands healed. I guess God gave me my own funny farm right here in Illinois. There is something in the trench I work in that keeps me steady in a way I've never known.

Matt: My husband of twelve years. Words are cheap when it comes to describing one of the most amazing men I know. My husband strives to fulfill the call of scripture to "love his wife and Christ loved the church - and gave Himself for her." My husband daily chooses to value the children and me by placing a high priority on his family. I was recently accused of being a "submissive wife" (that's submissive, NOT passive). Guilty as charged. But I have the joy of being in a marriage where I gladly submit myself to my husband because he readily submits himself to me, consistently putting my interests and needs ahead of his own. Matthew has the spiritual gift of faith. While we are all given faith, his has that extra edge of permeating all of his thoughts. He sees things that I (and others) don't. He is able to confidently move towards issues that may not be clear to me, but that he knows God is in, and walks in obedience. His faith is an antidote to my fuss. Living day in and day out with a man who believes and relies on the character of God helps my worries about "woulda coulda shoulda" disintegrate into very tiny pieces.

Birds: I've tried something new. I went out and bought bird feeders, filled them, and hung them in the front and back of the house. The little birds who come and feed aren't incredibly exciting. I live in suburbia, for Heaven's sake. But several times a day I'm reminded of the line in scripture, "Why do you worry about what you'll eat? Look at the birds. Your Heavenly Father feeds them...". Well, I guess I feed them, but it flows out of all that the Lord has provided to me.

Why should I fuss about the future? Why should I fuss about this person and that person? My Heavenly Father knows, has known, and will continue to know everything. My only mandate is to rely on Him, enjoy His hand on my life, obey, and stop worrying. So between the funny farm, a godly man, and the birds, I'd say I'm finally learning to stop all the fuss.

The Heard of Cats

Some days I think shepherding cats would be easier...

Correction

(Izak and Liberty are standing in the kitchen, staring at a Munchkin all coated in white.)

Liberty: "Gibbergibbergibber 'white donut' gibbergibbergibbergibber."

Izak: "No, Yiberty, it is called (slowly with much clarity) POWER SUGAR."

Twelve

Somewhere amidst the diapers, tiny socks, bagel crumbs, tears, unclear speech, unclear fits, fits of laughter, short lectures, "hellos"/but a mostly "see-you-later" day...

I thank God for the blessing of twelve years of having you for my husband.

Happy anniversary, Lover.

It's my responsibility to provide the selection of library books from which Matt and Izak pick their night reading before bed. Today I gave into my dark side and got the funniest book ever - Walter the Farting Dog. I give it four stars out of four. What's best was sitting downstairs listening to my husband read it with all seriousness to Izak, who was amazed by the content. All the while, I couldn't stop giggling!

Communion sacrifce

Just posting a meditation that I wrote for communion last week.
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John 15 says, “Greater love has no one than this, that he lay down his life for his friends. “ I can think of a small handful of people whom I have known and loved enough in this life that I would readily give my life for them… or rather, that I would have readily given my life for them.

Four years ago, my definition of sacrifice and nobility was redefined by the birth of my first child, a son. Several years followed with the birth of two more children, a daughter and another son. Now the thought of :"laying down my life for a friend" doesn’t ring with the same tone… I cannot imagine being separated from my children, the willingness to die for anyone other than my babies, or my husband has grown rigid within me.

Yet another notion crossed my mind the other day - no where in scripture does it command me to show my love for another by sacrificing the life of my child. Lay down my life, yes, but lay down the life of my child? Though there are those I love deeply, I would never, ever secure their freedom or safety by giving up one of my children. My boy who has blonde hair and green eyes, my girl who has fire and sugar all rolled together, my baby who lays in his head on my shoulder - I wouldn’t part with any of them for a friend, let alone an enemy.

God is the only Father in the history of the world who chose to set evil men free by giving up the life of His perfect son. His son was the only child in history that had the ability to satisfy the debt of all of our sin because He, in no way, deserved it. And it was done one time, for all of mankind.

As we take the bread, be thankful that there has only been one case when God needed a parent to sacrifice the life of a child. Thank Him for His sacrifice.

As you take the cup, be mindful of the innocent man who died for all of humanity to offer true freedom

I need.

There are seasons when I'm not totally sure what God's up to. As many of you experience, chasing three little ones keeps the feet flying and the mind comfortably numb. I'm usually preoccupied with what to make for the next meal, who's where and doing what, is the baby gate up, what's that noise... etc. Despite the pace, I feel like the din of life is finally stabilizing, that, or I'm growing used to the chaos.

Many thoughts come and go regarding what I'd like to blog about. I miss sitting down and taking the time to capture it all. This is a little of where my heart is.

One Sunday I was rambling around my kitchen with my sister-friend, Lo. I was talking through some issue, have no recollection of what it was, and I said, "I am sick of having to say what I need. I'm sick of having to spell it out. Why can't they read my mind, or just know what I want?" Rants are less and less a part of my life, there's no time, and usually no appropriate audience. It's not often that I voice the frustration of needs gone unmet. But Laura said something profound, "This seems to be the recurring theme over the last year and half. You have to tell people that you need."

How true, how true. As hard as I've tried, I've been unable to eradicate need. Crazy enough, the choices I keep making in my life (having babies, lots of 'em close together, moving to another state, staying at home) seem to compound my inability to be the self-sufficient, private person that I imagine myself to be. I have to ask for help. I have to tell people how I like things done, what I will and will not do, what I like to eat, where I keep the sugar, that I don't like caffeine, that I prefer no network television until after the kids are all in bed, that I do things this way for this reason. Living in Buffalo for seven years allowed me to settle into a pattern with people who knew and loved me. I felt known by an inner circle of friends who understood enough of my past and personality that they could see why I did what I did, and in those friendships I felt free, without judgment. I believe I've found true friendship here in Chicago as well. God has clearly surrounded me with a loving church body. He has been specific about the friendships He wants me to pursue. But no matter how led I feel to become someone's friend, at some point I feel like I'm standing there, vulnerable, pants around my proverbial ankles having to say, "Let me tell you what I need...". Gosh, sometimes I feel like a part of the cast of "What About Bob."

Actually though, letting myself admit that there are things that I need is making me a better wife because I'm not laying those relational/life/household demands on my husband. It's making me a better mom because I'm able to advocate on the behalf of my kids with a backbone that I never had until I became a mother. It's making me a better friend because I can give people the Cliff's Notes version of where I'm at and why it matters. And ultimately, I think it's making me a better Christ-follower. In having to admit need, I am learning to partake of grace. I'll be the first to admit that until a few years ago I had NO IDEA of what grace meant, other than it's book definition. But now I'm starting to get it... especially since I can admit that there are things I can't do for myself... I need... .

I entitle this piece... "Futility"

Fall 2006 Furrbabies

Homestead

I know there are friends in Buffalo who are wondering what our new place looks like. I thought I'd post a picture for you. Matt (and Rick) did a great job of picking out our home. I love it.

The Boys' Birthdays

You know you're a SAHM when...

you have one drawer for shirts, one for pants, one for unmentionables, and TWO for pajamas.

Salt, pepper, sugar

Today is family day. We hole up, ignore the phone, and concentrate on one another on Mondays. Since Matt preaches every week, Sunday evenings are generally quiet. The kids are getting more tolerant of watching football all day (Who's lovin' Sunday Night Football?!?! Hello!?!? Me! That's who!) and hanging around the house. So Mondays are a great time to play and run around together. Family Day.

I was in the basement playing with Levi, doing a little dance and making him laugh. He crawled off and busied himself with a big box of toys. Suddenly, I was inspired to go on a long-awaited search for my missing salt and pepper shaker, and sugar bowl and spoon. Since our move to Illinois last January I've been unable to find them. I didn't pack our house up, several friends did. I was on the peripheral, playing with the kids, trying to keep a level head and not get overwhelmed.

I had narrowed the boxes down to a few which contained my second set of dishes. As I rummaged through I was surprised by the feelings that surfaced. Each box was so lovingly packaged, hand-written notes on top about contents. I began to remember the day - snowy, cold, we probably got about 18 inches that day. And the people who loved us enough to come and pack us. Leslie (a lovely Australian woman, newlywed, took a partial day off from running her farm) and Stacia (Matt's administrative assistant) packed up the kitchen. An enormous task. Leslie is tall and Stacia is, well, not tall, so they worked their way around the kitchen, each one packing what was within her reach. How smart, I thought. Mike McGarry and his son Thane tackled the uninsulated attic, this is January in Buffalo remember. The attic was not tall enough to allow you to stand up straight, but they collected, sorted, packed, taped, and labeled boxes for several hours. From time to time you would hear Mike burst out laughing over a box of old pictures he found, or his gentle voice of instruction spelling out a word for Thane as he labeled, "B-u-s-i-n-e-s-s". "C-h-r-i-s-t-m-a-s." And then sweet Carrie. You have to know Carrie to know what a labor of absolute love it was. Carrie is one of my closest friends. She avoids sadness at all costs, so to spend a Saturday packing up her girlfriend's belongings only days before a long goodbye was a terrific sacrifice.

I opened one box labeled "kitchen dishes" and started to pull out little stacks of carefully wrapped bowls. Then I smelled something - pepper! I dug into the bottom and there they were! Salt and pepper, sugar bowl, lid and spoon.

It might sound crazy, but I cried.

Home

We returned home from Bay City on Monday, where we had stayed for 5 days. We had a lovely Memorial for Grandma with a full church and full hearts. It's funny how I seem to miss her more and more. Since I was not there when she passed I think it'll come upon me more slowly... . Probably the coolest part of the service was at the very beginning when they played the video clip from Gaither's "Heaven" DVD - a piece by Wintley Phipps called "Go Down, Death." It was profound and beautiful and perfect. If you get a chance to listen to it, please do.

The kids are steadily readjusting to being back home. A wise woman said, "It will take you as many days as you were gone to readjust to being home." By that count it should be today.

I took lots of pics. (Mom with Levi, Dad, Kat - my little sis - and her husband Dave, Stef - my big sis - and me) It helps capture things while my heart and head seem strangely empty...

Matt was my hero. He drove to Michigan with us Thursday, turned around after the service on Saturday and came back to Chicago, arrived in time for a visitation at another funeral home, preached twice Sunday, officiated another funeral, drove back to Michigan, arrived at 2 a.m.. We left at 9 a.m. for home. That man drove 24 hours in a matter of 5 days. God bless him. I do love him.

After all that driving we decided to make the move on a new minivan. It's perfect, I feel like we executed the decision and deal with great wisdom. The best part is it's red! Candy apple red or Inferno red... I guess it depends on my mood.

On a happier note...

Sunrise

This morning shortly after 8 a.m. my grandma went Home.

And even as I cry for myself and my family, I celebrate that there is hope beyond all this. Jesus is absolutely worthy of my praise.