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.

Flashback

Of course, Grandma has been heavy on my heart and mind today. My little sister, Kat, and her husband are there now, planning to leave in the morning for Pittsburgh. We have been texting throughout the day: heart rate way up, blood pressure way down. The end nears.

At a subconscious level I have always had a heart for immigrants. I don't think I've begun to piece it together until recently that I feel a strange connectedness with those who have come here from other countries because of my family history. I have no doubt that the many stories I heard at my grandmother's knee have come forward to shape my world view. My husband and I have discussed immigration policy, the right to immigrate vs. the reality of immigration, exploitation, discrimination, humanity vs. constituency, and so on. The county I live in is 33% Latino. I suspect that illegal immigration issues may apply to many families, but I am unwilling to treat every non-English speaking person like they don't belong here.

I delight to the very center of my soul when I'm at work and I'm surrounded by people all speaking different languages: Spanish, African, Russian, Arabic, Gypsy, Italian, Indian, Chinese, and the list goes on. I feel in balance when I am only a representative of the American English-speaking culture. We are so much more than that as a whole country. Each story being special, each blend unique and precious.

My grandma tells many stories about the family that she used to keep house for: the Christians (name, not faith). They were a rich, rich family living in Owosso post-depression. My grandma was a very young girl when she went to work for them in order to supplement the family income. I don't know if her service to them was a part of the immigration agreement that I mentioned in my previous post. Nonetheless, she gave at least ten years of her life to them as a housekeeper and servant. One of her "while I cleaned the house" stories involved perfume. Now, you have to know Grandma, she's always smelled good, with a particular habit of using liberal amounts of Estee Lauder perfume. She took such personal pride in her smell that the cashiers at the local grocery market said they always knew when Frances came into the store because they could smell that beautiful perfume. Grandma had never been exposed to perfume as a young, poor immigrant from Czechoslovakia, so when she was cleaning Mr. Christian's bedroom and found this handsome bottle of wonderful smelling cologne she unabashedly helped herself. "I splashed it everywhere", she would laugh, "but for some reason I didn't think that anyone else could smell me. I thought it was a secret." She realized, after time, that one of the reasons the kids at school would occasionally keep their distance was that the smell was so over-powering! Grandma was always able to pull one over on you if you weren't watching, but Mr. Christian, who was quite a pistol himself, let her in on his little secret. One day he whispered to her, "Kid, I don't mind you using the cologne, but will you let us know when we're running out?" Grandma would always giggle at that point.

Flash forward to today: The kids and I were burning daylight before Daddy came home from work. I decided to take them to the discount store on the corner to buy a few more toy cars, which we need like another hole in the head. I located the nearest family-sized cart, and as pulled up to load the kids I noticed a young Latino woman working at starting her car to no avail. After I had secured the kids I went to her window. "Do you want me to call someone?" "No, no," she smiled. We went in and came out a few minutes later only to find them still attempting to get the car started. The young boy approached me for a jump, which I did without any result. Omar, the boy, probably about 11, was going back and forth between his mother and me translating. It began to rain. "Can I take you anywhere?" Translation. "Yes, please. Can you take us home?" "Sure," and I opened the back door of her car to find two more children, a baby in a car seat and a 6 year-old little girl with long black hair and brown eyes. I rearranged the seating in the van, and I asked Omar (the only English-speaking family member) what his little sister's name was. "She is America." Ah. America, daughter of hope. Of course. And as I reached in to pull her out and load her into my van, there was an overpowering smell of perfume. "Oh, America, you smell so GOOD!" Her brother laughed and told me she had been playing with the perfume samples in the store. (Grandma, how could I not remember you in looking at this little girl?) We piled all eight of us in my seven-passenger van and headed home. I was watching in the rear-view mirror as America leaned all the way over to my daughter, Liberty, sitting on the other end of the seat. She softly took ahold of her hair, feeling it, running her fingers through it. I couldn't help but smile. Yes, little one, we are a little different, aren't we? America was babbling in Spanish and Liberty was responding in her 2 year-old English. In that moment my heart was so FULL...

We left them in their driveway. But even as I drove away I could smell the perfume from America that had rubbed off on my clothes, both literally and figuratively.

Watch-keeping

We just arrived home from a "suicide visit" to East Michigan (12 hours of traveling in a thirty hour period). My grandma, who seemed to be improving shortly after my last post, has taken an irreversible turn downward. Hospice. Hospital bed. Nothing to eat since Wednesday, barely drinking. All along I felt that I was okay with letting Grandma go from a distance. Friday as I was out running errands I felt this pinch in my gut. I needed to go home to say goodbye. I hesitated bringing it up to Matt, I didn't really know how we would execute this, but within minutes of me sharing it, he had come up with a plan. My husband is my hero. He works hard, loves well, sacrifices willingly, and engages fully. No post seems to be adequate to capture my utter admiration and adoration for him.

We bolted for my childhood home after Matt returned from church. Arrived about 9 o'clock EST, which is WAY, WAY past my kids' bedtime. There were several meltdowns, but once they got to Grandma and Grandpa's they were fantastic.

My grandma is a first generation immigrant from Czechoslovakia. She came in 1916 on a ship with her mother, Frances Kathryn Ledvinka. They left under threat of death during dangerous days. She came to Ellis Island. She was one of the nameless faces that you see in the pictures.

Through a series of events she found herself in Canada trying to farm in Saskatchewan. It was a hopeless situation. Great-Grandma and Great-Grandpa re-entered the US by indenturing themselves to wealthy land owners to work their fields as a means of passage. Upon arrival to Owosso, Michigan, my great-grandfater was diagnosed with inoperable stomach cancer. He died a painful, tragic death, leaving behind his wife, who spoke no English, and his two little girls. You cannot imagine, you cannot imagine the stories she's shared with me over the years. Perhaps I will share them with you over time... . You must not think of Grandma in soft, fluffy terms. She has always been proud of her nickname as the "Battleship of the Fleet." She was a tenatious, scrappy woman who has had to fight for almost everything in life. Tough, yes, but good? Oh, yes.

What you must know is that my grandma was the first one in my father's line to become a Christian. She began hanging around with the local minister's daughter, and part of their time together involved going to church. My grandma began to listen, heard, and received the message of Christ's salvation into her young heart. She dedicated her life to following the Lord, and has always been quick to recount the ways He saved not only her soul, but her life here on earth. When no one was for the "dumb Hunky," she was convinced the God was for her. When she was humiliated, victimized, shunned, God stood by her. When they had nothing, no food, no money, no hope - when Great Grandmother sat her two little daughters on the table and said sadly that she was sorry but since there was nothing left she would have to kill them now, rather than see them starve to death - how in that very moment a kind hobo knocked at the door, looking to rent a room for which he would pay a proper amount. God saved her time and time again. He gave her dignity and hope... which she gave to others... Her mother was a stoic, tough woman, who drilled her daughter about her whereabouts, so Grandma would have to recount the sermons for her, word for word. Great-Grandma became more and more interested. Grandma was convinced that if her mother found the Lord it would be awkward, she was sure she would shout and cry - and when Great-Grandma found out there was a way to be saved here on earth and in eternity she did shout with tears of joy.

So with great joy and bittersweet sadness I took a short watch with my grandma. I sat in the chair at her beside in which my mother has spent countless hours. I looked at the pictures of the old ships on the wall, ships that have reminded Grandma of her voyage here for as long as I can remember. Her breathing was labored, erratic at times. Her eyes were closed, her body was quiet. She would open her eyes and smile and little when I would say, "Grandma, it's me, Heidi. I'm here." I told her I loved her. I told her thank you for finding God and for giving me a godly legacy, how it has made my life so much better. I told her that Heaven awaits her, that she will see her mother again. But mostly I sang. My grandma has always been fond of my voice (this is the same woman who taught me the saying "Every mother crow thinks her baby is the blackest."). So I found an old, old hymnal and sang. One Day, Abide With Me, My Jesus I Love Thee, When The Roll Is Called Up Yonder, What a Friend We Have In Jesus, many more... but the one that really grabbed me was this little hymn:

Pass me not oh gentle Savior, hear my humble cry
While on others Thou art calling, do not pass me by

Savior, Savior, hear my humble cry
While on others Thou art calling, do not pass me by

Let me at a throne of mercy, find a sweet relief
Kneeling there in deep contrition, help my unbelief

Trusting only in Thy merit, would I see Thy face
Heal my wounded, broken spirit, saved me by Thy grace

Thou the spring of all my comfort, more than life to me
Whom have I on earth beside Thee, whom in heaven but Thee?

Indeed, Grandma, who is there on earth who has loved you half as well as God loves you? What hope is there in the Heaven other than that of the reality of your Savior, your Champion, Jesus Christ? Do not wait for me. I will find you there.

Love, Heidi

Prayer request

Generally, I do not ask publically for prayer. This is not a pride thing as much as it is a privacy thing. But I know that if you can pray, you will, and that's all I need.

My grandma is 97. She is living at home with my mother (it's mom's MIL, my father's an only child), who has been her caregiver for years. My grandma fell last week and fractured her pelvis.

I don't know that I'm asking for healing, while that would be nice. But Grandma has been wanting to "go home" for a long time now. Mom feels it may be nearing that time.

Please pray for Grandma's pain control. Please pray for her peace and comfort. Please pray that God ministers to her in a special way and lightens this burden.

Please pray for my mom, who is exhausted and spent. Pray for her as she ministers minute by minute to Grandma. Pray for her mind to be at ease, and her body to be strong. Pray that God ministers to Mom in a clear voice. Pray for supportive people to come around her and help with joyful, gentle hearts.

Please pray for my handicapped sister, Stef, 38, who also lives at home with Mom. Pray that she will be a vessel of the Holy Spirit, as she watches Grandma and prays for her over dinner, prays that Grandma will go home to be with Jesus.

Pray for my Dad, that he will be comforted and quieted by God's hand; that he will continue to bear the blessing of the Godly legacy that my Grandmother gave him with thankfulness.

Thank you.

Stickers

She is excessive. He is symmetric.

Muslim up close

This post has been on my heart for awhile. I'm a slow thinker and an even slower typist. Thankfully I have a few quiet hours tonight.
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It was the morning of my daughter Liberty's second birthday. Early in the day the news came that Al-Zarqawi had been killed. I jokingly said, "Well, happy birthday, baby girl. They killed a terrorist on your big day!" And I didn't think another thing about it until later that day...

Many of you know, I'm a nurse. I specialize in Intensive Care nursing, but specialize within that in oncology (cancer) ICU nursing. I treasure few things as highly as working with people who are living and dying with cancer. I rarely get to work in my favorite area because other departments are busier and more needy. But that evening I was sent to the oncology unit.

My assignment was pre-determined. I sat taking report from the offgoing RN. Patient #1 was a bone marrow transplant patient. Doing well, slated to be discharged to the floor soon. But patient #2 was a problem. She was from Syria, non-English speaking, brought here by her physician brother to treat an aggressive recurrence of cancer. She was not doing well AND she couldn't communicate with us. "She's sweet, but almost impossible to understand. We're working on getting a translator hot-line number." Muslim probably, I thought. I've never taken care of a Muslim.

I readied myself to go in and meet her. We have to wear masks and gloves to protect our fragile patients from easily transmitted infections. But I was glad for the mask because as I entered her room I was nervous. In the front of my mind I knew she wasn't a terrorist, of course; she was probably a mother, a worker like me. But the uneasiness remained. I think I was nervous because I was afraid to be found as ignorant as I felt, and I was afraid I would unwittingly insult her culture and her religion. And this old evangelical quip kept flashing through my mind: Christians and Muslims are enemies, aren't they?

She was sitting at the foot of her bed with her hijab covering her head, drawn, pale, quiet. Her brother and sister-in-law were in a full-blown conversation. I quietly turned on the monitor, assessed her, took vital signs. I'd never really listened to Arabic before. In other languages I occasionally hear a word or two that I understand, or at least think I do, but in Arabic there was not one thing that sounded familiar. It was soft and filled with sounds I might use when calming a crying child or telling a secret. It was beautiful. I spoke to my patient through her brother: Did she have pain? Nausea? Any trouble breathing? No, she told him. The brother and I sat and made a list of basic yes/no assessment questions that we could use in his absence. I could point to the Arabic writing that followed my English question. But how could I really ask what I wanted to know? How can you leave your home, your country to come here to gamble getting better? Do you understand how very sick you are? Are you afraid? Are you lonely? As I turned to leave the room , she caught my hand and said, with a thick accent, "Thank you, thank you." And then she kissed my arm.

It was a good thing I wore the mask because I'm not much of a hugger, let alone a kisser. My mouth was probably hanging open. I know I blushed. I felt the heat in my face. I did something and excused myself, taken aback by her gentleness. Something in the back of my mind began to come forward. Prejudice. I was prejudice because she was Muslim and I was not. Yet she didn't represent Al-Zarqawi, just like I don't represent the screaming, yelling TV evangelists that you see on cable.

Later that evening, after her family had gone I reviewed my notes. She was required to bathe twice a day, according to doctor's order. It was standard care for leukemics to keep the potential bacteria from infecting their body. I leafed through the notes. No bath. She'd been there a few days and it didn't look like she had been in the tub once. I went into her room and tried to pantomime a bath. She wasn't getting it. She was waving me off, expressions that looked like No, no I don't need one. Too tired. Too sick. I picked up the phone and called a relative that had agreed to translate. "Please tell her that I need to give her a bath, ask her if she's had one. She needs to be clean." The family member was very kind, spoke with her for several minutes, and then told me, "No, there has been no bath. She says she will go with you."

I readied the bathtub and towels. She slowly began to pull her hijab off, and stopped. She looked directly in my eyes and said, "Sorry. So sorry." As her scarf came off I saw the thin little whips of hair that I've long associated with the disease. "Con-ser, con-ser" she said slowly. Conser... oh! Cancer! Yes, I whispered and rubber her shoulder, I know, it's from the cancer. It's okay. Syrian or American, women still grieve their hair. We steadily shuffled arm in arm to the bathroom and I helped her undress. She began to shiver violently from the cold. I eased her into the tub and began to carefully and quickly wash her. My mind was buzzing. Am I doing anything wrong? Have I offended her beliefs at all? The bathing of another person is always a holy moment for me, but none so much as this one. In that humble position, kneeling before her, my mind and heart wrestled through thoughts: Muslim vs. Terrorist, American rhetoric vs. Middle East, Mohammed vs. Christ, friend vs. foe - and then... she quietly leaned over and kissed the top of my head. "Thank you, thank you, " she whispered. With my head bowed, I tried not to cry. God had brought the image of Al-Zarqawi and my patient side-by-side, I heard my glib comment to Libby replay in my head, and then He said, "Who's judge are you? I created both. I love both. Don't let your over-exposure to the radical Muslim mislead your understanding."

I still think about her. We sat on her bed later that day and shared pictures of children, showing age by the universal "hold up the number of fingers" technique. I didn't learn Arabic, and she didn't learn English, but she bridged a gap for me that no article or special interest story could. I was changed by that night. Part of redemption is allowing God to work out areas of darkness in us that we don't even know exist, like prejudice and ignorance. It may have been Liberty's birthday, but the gift that night was all mine.

August Furrbabies

Yes, that's me.

Yes, I'm the mom at SuperTarget that drives the huge 19-seat cart that you need a trucking license to operate.

Yes, I'm the mom that picks up a whole bag of spilled chocolate teddy graham crackers off the store floor, puts them back in the bag, and hands them back to the child to continue eating. Yes, I also say, "It's okay, just be careful so we don't have to pick them up again."

Yes, I'm the mom that you hear holding discussions like, "Hey, don't put your penis in the pretzel bowl." "Why?" "Because we don't put our penis where our food is." "Oh, okay, Mommy."

Yes, I'm the mom at the restaraunt that lets my daughter dip everything, everything in ketchup, but has to draw the line every now and then - "No more ketchup in your hair, Honey."

Yes, I'm the mom that is standing in the line at Linens N Things with a tiny toilet seat, calmly explaining to my three year old, "Dora goes poopy in the potty. Boots goes poopy in the potty, and Swiper goes poopy in the potty too." Incredulous toddler, "Swiper goes poopy in the potty too?!?!" Mommy, with a straight face, "Yes, Swiper poops in the potty."

Yes, I'm the mom that sings rousing Wiggles sing-a-longs with the kids while clipping through the grocery store at 3.8 miles per hour. Yes, sometimes I'm the only one singing.

Never thought I'd be a mom. Never thought things like memorizing the Nick Jr. line-up would be important, nay critical information. Never thought I'd have a refrierator magnet collection that consisted of the entire alphabet, farm animals, and a magnet that says, "If beauty is a state of mind then I'm a frickin' genius!" Never thought I'd have en educated opinion about Teletubbies. Never thought I'd sacrifice, bend, or bow to the power of motherhood. Never thought I'd hear myself say, "I have three little kids." Never thought I'd love what I do as much as I do. Never thought losing my old self to this new life would be such a great gift.

August toewear

There have been a few since this, but I thought you'd enjoy this one. Toes by Mimi Nails in Sweetwater Crossing.

Late Night Visitors

One week ago, about now, we were heading upstairs; Hubby was turning in for a night of sleep before preaching, and I went in the nursery to quiet a particularly cute, but miserable teething 9 month old. When I came out I heard the quiet clicking of the front door knob. Funny, I thought, Matt must have had to run out to his car and forgot the door is locked. So I went down to let him in. Something told me to check first. When I peeked out the window, much to my surprise, there was a young man I did not know trying to get into my house. I flipped on the porch light and saw, unfortunately, no change in his expression. Eyes partly closed, swaying side to side, and his hands still busily trying to get in the door. Either he's drunk or tripping or both. I don't see a weapon. I knocked on the window, no eye contact. "Wrong house!" I shouted. No change. I ran to the phone, dialed 911, and called for Matt, who was just on the verge of sleep. My knight in shining armor came running down the steps and immediately took the situation in hand, continuing to try to convince the man that this was not his house, and he needed to leave NOW. Well, poor man, he had now started knocking politely and occasionally ringing the doorbell, seemingly oblivious to us. It was at that point that he took out his credit card and began working on the dead-bolt. "What's your emergency?" "There's a man I don't know trying to get into my house." I'm imparting pertinent information and now see a new problem arising. Knight in Shining Armor is getting more and more pissed off and protective by the second, pupils dilated, he begins to sway a little too, his hand on the inside doorknob. Matt said he was trying to figure out how to run out and knock the guy off the porch while I shut the door behind him... Attack Daddy was starting to emerge! I was staying on the line with the dispatcher while Matt was growling in the background about the response time. I kept saying, "I have little kids. Three babies. Are you close?" "Yes ma'am." "Please hurry, I have little kids. They're sleeping." Keep the intruder out, keep the husband in. After what seemed like forever, four police cars, six officers and a K-9 unit converged on our front lawn. Matt is narrating, "Okay they're here. They're coming. Okay, they've got him... oh! Not the new bushes!" After much shouting and handcuffing (poor kid was so drunk he just sort of fell in a heap), it became clear that he was a neighbor kid who'd been at a party, got smashed, was sleeping if off in his buddy's car, and then decided to walk home. Ideally to his home, but unfortunately, he ended up, persistence and all, at ours. The officers were very nice and took him somewhere to sleep it off.

Matt and I had quite an adrenaline buzz and stayed up until midnight replaying the events. The main thought that kept coming up was how unusual, yet divinely prompted it had been that I threw the deadbolt closed after having returned home from running to the store an hour before hand. Normally I lock up the house on my last pass through before bed. Had the door been opened it might have been a very different story.

Vive la suburbia!

(Since then, Matt had a chance to greet the kid in his driveway. Once he knew we were the family in the white house with the green shutters, he was thoroughly embarrassed and contrite.)

Reminder

Why?

Izak's favorite new conversational tool: "Why?"

(H) "Izak, please get ready to go for a ride. Get Blankie and your sandals."

(I) "Okay, Mommy. Why?"

(H) "Because we need to run errands before Levi gets sleepy.

(I) "Why?"

(H) "Because then he will need to take a nap."

You guessed it. (I) "Why?"

I'm trying to reject the "because I said so" response, though I can't promise it's not in my future. But Matt found the perfect closer. "Because I love you." And almost as a rule, when you answer him with that, he stops asking why.

Quieted by love. There is something timeless and universal in that, isn't there?

Diapers and Pearls

Pics from the Big Trip

Awkward Silence

Ah, Jeannie, thank you. Yes, I'm still here. This past 30-some days has been a whirlwind. I'm a schedule-lightweight, so when things approach mild to moderate levels of chaos, I cut blogging. Truth be told, with the little ones pecking me to death like a pack of ducklings, I pretty much stop thinking coherent thoughts all together.

I struggle to articulate myself. This is hard, this mothering of three little ones. Many days I'm exhausted, wondering how I'll survive tomorrow. I flirt with the "Dear God, what have I done?!?!" thoughts lately. And the universe doesn't need another whiny blog, so I clam up. If we were in person you might not be getting much more than a blank stare either. Nothing witty. Nothing encouraging. I feel poured out.

I struggle with loneliness. Two of my closest friends are back in Buffalo. One has a newborn, the other will deliver within a month. And I'm here. I know they felt this way when Levi was born in Illinois. It just makes me sad. I'm working to connect myself with women. I'm not fast, but I'm very deliberate. (Points for intentionality.)

After Levi's dedication he was tested for allergies at Children's Hospital. Nagging eczema on the hands and face. Sure enough, he's allergic to dairy and egg. He was exclusively nursing (because it was easiest, and I suspected he might have some allergies), so since I'm unable to accommodate all the dietary changes for myself, I weaned him to a soy formula. His skin cleared up, but the process was rather fast. I don't feel well, probably some hormone stuff, but a little sad because it's over. We also just returned from a 10-day trip to West Michigan and Buffalo. 2,000 miles on the minivan. The kids were stellar. It was NOT easy, but the good (which was plentiful) outweighed the difficult (which was also plentiful). I'm still processing what being back in Buffalo meant to me, but remember the beginning of this blog... no complete thoughts to myself...

It's late. I hope to have time in the future. I feel bad that I have little to contribute, but know that I'm lurking in your worlds when I have a spare second.

In small group tonight we shared what people have said or done lately to encourage us... Last night I took care of a very, very sick woman in an ICU. She had two teenage/college age kids who I spent some extra time with, talking, getting to know them. Their dad, an awesome man, wandered out to the nurse's station before he left. "I wanted you to know that my kids approve of you." "Thank you! That means a lot." "And they said you look like Neve Campbell, whoever that is. Do you know her?" I blushed, "Yes, she's a very pretty actress. Thank you." And this wrung-out, slightly melancholy, weaning mother of three sat up a little bit taller. A good word goes a long ways, doesn't it?

Peace. I'll be back.

Levi is dedicated

Sunday we dedicated baby Levi to the Lord Jesus. May God's hand rest on Him.

He is wearing the dedication gown that my mother crocheted. I wasn't able to put the hat on... it was so small it looked like a yarmulka. My other two children were dedicated at 6-8 weeks of age. But I did manage to cram his feet into the booties. I look forward to handing down this gown to my children.

Matt was teasingly bemoaning the fact that another one of his boys had to "wear a dress." I asked him to think of it more as a robe...

June toe wear

Miss Liberty is TWO!

My daughter turned two last week. She is, of course, my pride and joy.

Childhood

I was looking at the handprints that Libby left on the back step. It caught my attention, the brighter print that faded into nothingness. Reminds me of the fleeting nature of baby/toddler/childhood...

June Babies

And my June toewear: American flags for Memorial day.

Tendencies

One thing about mothering, it highlights my personal tendencies. I have a choice to either learn and be moldable, or insist on my way, become brittle, and break under the weight of it.

If I tend towards "control freak", I need to recognize and relenquish my need to always have my way.

If I trend towards passivity, I need to learn how to communicate and expect obedience.

If I hate the thought of playing with my kids, then I need to offer to play their favorite game with them, even if it means I get hot, sticky or wet.

If I would rather punish and ask quesitons later, I need to listen, get to the bottom of my anger, and not die on every hill.

If the thought of disciplining my child is a real turn-off, then I need to fight inertia and intentionally parent my child.

If I know that I'm an overbearing mom, then I need to give my kid some space.

If I like noise, I need to practice quietness.

If I like peace and quiet, I need to allow for noise.

And so on...

A Call to Pray

Friends of faith,

I would ask you to link to my friend's blog ("Donut's Quiet Corner") in the sidebar. Momrn2's DD has been terribly ill, and we are moving as many people to pray as possible. I have been managing her blog while she's in the hospital with her daughter.

Thank you.

His Face is Toward You

Once a month I help out at NWCC by doing the communion meditation. I wrote this while reflecting on being separated from my little boy while he was hospitalized. Thought I'd post it. Enjoy.
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I have become aware of the power of my face. With three little children around my ankles all day, my face is a secondary communication tool next to my voice. When I’m happy, my face tells my children that there are good things ahead and all is well. When my eyes widen, it’s a cue that there is a surprise about to unfold, or that this is a time of delight. When my eyes narrow and I lock my jaw, the child needs to seriously re-evaluate his or her actions. A parent quickly learns the Creator’s design for the connection of the parent’s face with the heart of the child. There is great comfort when my face is towards them.

Can you imagine the heart of a child that loses the ability to look upon his mother or father? The darkness of abandonment she feels when she can no longer see the face of the one who loves and defines her? Especially in times of trouble or pain? Especially when it’s the one thing left before losing everything? One dark afternoon Christ hung on the cross enduring the most cruel death known to man. He was brutalized, scorned, humiliated - yet - His Father was present with Him and He endured. But as the weight of our sin was heaped upon Him, God the Father had to look away. He removed His gaze from His son, and we read the cry of Christ’s heart as he screamed, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?”

Everything can be endured because God‘s eyes are upon us. Psalm 33:18 says, “The eyes of the Lord are on those who fear him, on those whose hope is in His unfailing love.“ We receive life and forgiveness and wholeness because God’s countenance rests on us. He looks upon us today because one afternoon, two thousand years ago, He looked away from His own dying son.

As you take the bread remember that Jesus received the full weight of our sin upon his body, and it was broken because of it.

As you take the cup remember that Jesus blood poured out when He was utterly alone and forsaken so that we would enjoy the gaze of God forever.

Jesus, thank you for your sacrifice. Thank you for enduring the abandonment of the One who loved you most to make a way for me.

Brothers and Sisters, The LORD bless you and keep you; the LORD make his face shine upon you and be gracious to you; the LORD turn his face toward you and give you peace.

Let Me Out

Anyone see "The Perfect Storm"? (If you didn't and you intend to, skip this paragraph.) Right at the end of the movie, after battling wind and wave, the captain looks heaven-ward, there's a stillness, and the clouds part for a brief moment revealing a clear night sky... you think that they might make it. The music become slightly cheerful, the captain smiles, and tension eases for a second. Then music turns minor, the hole in the clouds closes, and the storm grabs ahold of the ship. The captain's smile fades and he growls, "She's not going to let us out!" Then the ship flips and they all die.

There have been times when I find myself uttering, "She's not going to let us out!" Watching my poor little one lay limp on the ER gurney, and even after a fluid bolus he showed no improvement... my hopes of a quick recovery were dashed again and again against the rock of Mother's Guilt. Waited too long. Didn't get it right. Missed the critical nature. For you nursing folks, he was basically in a ketoacidotic state (much more than basic dehydration), not dissimilar to that of a diabetic coma, except he had incredibly low blood glucose. I can only imagine when it set in. He had been so, so sick, probably as bad as I'd ever seen him, but then he seemed to rally Monday evening at 3p. Got up walked around, talked, wanted to help Daddy with lawn mowing. But by 5p, he was in bed, sleeping, still only taking water, water, water... that demon water. 12 hours later he wasn't getting up to pee... ah! I need to stop here. Thank God we had a great ER staff. Thank God he was salvageable with 36 hours of fluid therapy. Thank God.

He looked so little in that big white bed. Not talking. Not smiling. Daddy and I were with him Wednesday morning and afternoon as he was admitted, poked and prodded. He was brave. I was pretending to be a Mommy, though my Nurse-brain was giving me quite the lecture about "How could I have missed the signs...?" That evening I ran home briefly to nurse Levi and give Libby a kiss goodnight. They had been under the care of Miss Bonnie and Aunt Lo all day - what a gift! I was almost paralyzed by Izak's screams for me as I left him "to go away for a little bit." I could hear him way, way down the hall. It was everything I could do to go. He was with Daddy, his hero, his rock. But when I got home I heard Levi on the monitor and ran up to nurse him. I picked him up and he immediately vomited everywhere. The same virus had gotten him too. Now I knew I couldn't go back to the hospital. I had to stay with the baby. My milk was his best chance at making it out. It was like I looked up and saw the sky clouding back over.

God bless Matt. I have new respect for him everyday. He laid aside his schedule for two days to stay by the bedside of his son. No questions. No whining. He sat with Izak and prayed, comforted, conversed. He slept restlessly on a chair/bed/nice-try-but-nothing-like-my-awesome-bed-at-home. He was full of information for me, texting and calling. He redeemed and healed so many old wounds in me in those 48 hours, and created a new legacy for our children. I cannot adequately express my admiration.

So, as of last evening, we are together again. Levi seems to be withstanding the diarrhea. He had minimal vomiting. In a third world country there's a good chance that Izak wouldn't have made it, but tonight he sleeps in a soft bed with a healing body. He's understandably a little clingy now. After he came home and went through his night-time routine, every time I'd go to leave he'd start asking, "Can I go away? Mommy, can I go away? ... Can I?" If I didn't turn back around and lay down with him, he'd start crying. I didn't understand the phrase. I knew it had something to do with his hospital experience. I thought all day about that little request, and then it dawned on me... When I left him at the hospital Wednesday night I had said, "I have to go away for a little bit." Well, if I went Away, then, in his desire to be with me, he wanted to go to Away too. Where ever you're going, Mommy, can I go too?

Yeah... I'll be processing all this for a long time to come. It wasn't a tragedy, like so many friends have experienced, but it was hard. And at some point, Jesus stood on the bow of our ship and simply said, "Be still." And the storm obeyed.

Yup

...we lost. Z hospitalized. Levi vomiting/diarrhea.

Mayday, mayday, mayday!

Flu here. stop.
Girl mending. stop.
Boy in 60th hours of vomiting. stop.
Dehydration may win. stop.
Baby still fine. stop.
Mommy freaking out inside and cool cucumber on outside. stop.

Furrbabies

I hope this doesn't bog my blog down. Let me know if you cannot download it. I'm working with a new camera and program.

This week at the Furr Funny Farm

New items:

*Matt had a five day trip to Boston at the beginning of the month. He was gone 94.5 hours.
*I still don't feel like I've been able to catch up from when he was gone, hence, the enormous gap in my blogging.
*I received my early Mother's Day gift from Matt and the kids - an amazing new camera with all kinds of bells and whistles. What gorgeous pictures I've been capturing. I may not scrapbook, but I do take lots of pics.
*Libby is starting to try more words. She babbles and gargbles in coversation form, but real live phrases are starting to emerge. The most popular: "Hewp, hewp." (Help, help.)
*Levi is thinking about pushing through some teeth, though I see no real redness yet. I can't believe he's 6 months old and I'm still exclusively breastfeeding, though most days I wonder if I can possible make enough to fill his gullet anymore. I haven't had the time to even think about introducing solids yet. That, and I accidently melted the highchair.
*Izak is very fond of being "the baby" now. Carry me, let me sit on your "yap", sit in Yibby's seat in the car and at the table. Libby doesn't care one bit.
*We're painting. So far, two walls are completed. Only 41 to go.

Things that I'm finding to be over-rated:
*A sparkling clean home.
*My need for sleep.
*Fighting every battle.
*Annuals.
*Play dates.
*Daily showers.

Things that I'm finding to have been comletely under-rated:
*Playing with your children.
*Blowing bubbles - incredibly therapeutic. I would highly recommend it to a few world leaders.
*The power of a pretty pedicure (This month it's red background with beautiful flowers on all toes.)
*The ability to listen.
*Japenese steakhouse restaraunts.
*Winning the war. (I'm speaking as a mom, not making political statements)
*Perennials.
*Fostering friendship among sibilings.

What I Do All Day

Daily Outfit

The first thing she does after her morning bottle is retrieves those crazy dragon boots. The fireman's hat is not far behind.



At the risk of offending, I think he looks like Harry Potter. With blonde hair. And a better sense of humor and overall levity.

Reflecting on my Blog

My friend has been very open to receiving comments on her blog about the art of blogging and blog etiquette. She is a fairly new blogger (see Donut's blog "A Quiet Corner") but has a real gift for communicating. She's a warm person, a good friend, and it just flows out of her writing. I look at my blog and wonder if I've been fair when I opened this cyber-relational-account with the universe. Can I keep up? Will I carry my relational weight in the world of bloggers?

"Post every other day." My real preference is twice a week, but lately writing is a luxury item, like sleep. Or I could post a bunch of stuff all at once! Like pictures of my toes! Yeah! Good grief, what a loser. (laughing)

"Paragraphs." Got it.

"Easy on the eyes." Fine.

"Humorous." That's actually been my preference too lately. Life's hard. Let's laugh!!

"Leave comments." Uh-oh.

"No lurking." Double uh-oh.

If I do not comment, I do not intend to be rude or presumptuous. Twelve hours a day I'm usually somewhere between refereeing sibling interactions ("We do NOT push our friends!"), breastfeeding Mr. Boobie, or diving through the air to catch something being pulled over by Liberty, a.k.a., the Death Cheater. After the kids are in bed, I slump onto the couch with a little stream of drool coming from my mouth. Day over.

And I love to read your blogs, but I have such profound responses that 1) I cannot concisely capture what I want to tell you in a short period of time, and 2) I ran out of grown-up vocabulary about 5 hours ago. Just know that your blogs are very special places to me. Good writing. Good stories. Good reflection. It helps me feel like there are others trotting along this same path along with me. Feel free to lurk here, weary moms. Even if no one read me, I think I'd still blog. It's done wonders for clearing out nagging thoughts and funny scenes that occasionally stick in my head.

Prayer

"Wanna pray, Mommy?"

"Sure, Buddy. You go ahead."

(holding my hand) "Dear Jesus, thank you for Mommy, and Fizzy Pop [Libby's nickname], and Izak. Thank you for Levi. Thank you for pizza and colored goldfish. (pause) And... (voice growing louder) thank you for Daddy, home very, VERY SOON! THE END!"

(Mommy giggling with eyes closed)

(Son thoughtfully reconsiders) "Aaaa-men!"

Toe Wear 2006

Shamrocks on my toes

It's hard to learn to "be kind to yourself" after years of neglect. It's not that I was ever really mean to me, just not governed or paced well. I was always in an all-out roar. Comments I remember from my twenties: "You have such passion!" "You have so much heart!" Translation: Always going at a dead run and a wee bit emotionally wrought because of it.

The blessing of children is that it's forced me to slow down... way down. It was either that, or destroy the little ones that God gave me. So in the name of not killing myself for ridiculous standards set by (and cared about by) myself alone, I practice the following:

1. I don't always shower every day. I have short hair that has a messy look anyway, even when styled, and I find that my skin care products last twice as long.

2. I can wear my pajamas during the day (or my day wear to bed, either way.)

3. I let caller-id and voice mail do their jobs.

4. I get a pedicure once a month, complete with jewels and designs. This month is Irish shamrocks.

5. Once I even served popcorn for dinner... on plates.

Enough to Belly-Laugh

I hate forwarded e-mails. Hate 'em. Don't care who you are. I hate them, except for what my sister, Kat, sends. She knows what I need and when. And I love a good story. I cannot vouch for it's veracity, only it's effect.

A Bad Day At Work

Rob is a commercial saturation diver for Global Divers in Louisiana.
He performs underwater repairs on offshore drilling rigs. Below is an
E-mail he sent to his sister. She then sent it to radio station 103.2 on
FM dial in Ft. Wayne, Indiana, who was sponsoring a worst job experience
contest. Needless to say, she won.


Hi Sue,

Just another note from your bottom-dwelling brother. Last week I had a
bad day at the office. I know you've been feeling down lately at work, so I
thought I would share my dilemma with you to make you realize it's not so
bad after all. Before I can tell you what happened to me, I first must
bore you with a few technicalities of my job.

As you know, my office lies at the bottom of the sea. I wear a suit to
the office. It's a wetsuit. This time of year the water is quite cool.

So what we do to keep warm is this: We have a diesel powered industrial
water heater. This $20,000 piece of equipment sucks the water out of the
sea. It heats it to a delightful temperature.

It then pumps it down to the diver through a garden hose, which is taped
to the air hose.

Now this sounds like a darn good plan, and I've used it several times
with no complaints.

What I do, when I get to the bottom and start working, is take the hose
and stuff it down the back of my wetsuit. This floods my whole suit with
warm water. It's like working in a Jacuzzi.

Everything was going well until all of a sudden, my butt started to itch.
So, of course, I scratched it. This only made things worse.

Within a few seconds my butt started to burn. I pulled the hose out from
my back, but the damage was done. In agony I realized what had happened. The hot water machine had sucked up a jellyfish and pumped it into my suit.

Now, since I don't have any hair on my back, the jellyfish couldn't stick
to it. However, the crack of my butt was not as fortunate.

When I scratched what I thought was an itch, I was actually grinding the
jellyfish into the crack of my butt. I informed the dive supervisor of my
dilemma over the communicator. His instructions were unclear due to the
fact that he, along with five other divers, were all laughing hysterically.

Needless to say I aborted the dive. I was instructed to make three
agonizing in-water decompression stops totaling thirty-five minutes before
I could reach the surface to begin my chamber dry decompression.
When I arrived at the surface, I was wearing nothing but my brass helmet.
As I climbed out of the water, the medic, with tears of laughter running
down his face, handed me a tube of cream and told me to rub it on my butt as soon as I got in the chamber. The cream put the fire out, but I couldn't poop for two days because my butt was swollen shut.

So, next time you're having a bad day at work, think about how much worse it would be if you had a jellyfish shoved up your butt.

Now repeat to yourself, "I love my job, I love my job, I love my job".

Izak at 3 1/4 years


Liberty at 21 months


Levi at almost 5 months.

What's a Grit?

The two visitors look at the plate, and the guy says, "What's a grit?" As he takes a bite, his girlfriend takes a picture of him.

Does the scene sound familiar? From one of my favorite movies. I will not go into which one, as my mother reads my blog and would certainly not be amused.

Anyway, the other day I had grits for breakfast for the very first time. They were good!

I'm a northern girl, raised in mid-Michigan. The most south I've ever lived has been mid-Indiana (Marion, to be exact). It was too hot for me. That being said, I was reminded what a wonderfully different culture Indiana is as I drove through it's heartland on my way to last week's funeral. Big sprawling farms. Tiny little towns. Lots of stores that contain the word "Gramma". Acres of fields. Tire swings made out of real tires with long ropes tied up in 300-year old trees. People write their family names in colored shingles on the roof of the barns, and you can read it for miles. Some people live a good mile from their nearest neighbor (that must be awesome! writes the intorvert). Farm equipment as big as my suburban home. It was a really peaceful change. There was a quietness there that I coveted.

I stayed with my adopted mom and dad from college. In the morning my mom made me a gia-normous breakfast, which included grits! How fun! And good... I used butter, salt and pepper as she recommended.

Mom and Dad F. said they would be up to the windy city this summer for some Furrbaby lovin.' So last night, I bought a container of grits (all that was available was instant).

Dear Southern readers - what are your secrets for making good grits?

Download

I can't believe I'm sitting here trying to sound together. Image management never ceases, does it? I'm so tired I can hardly blog. Last weekend Levi and I made our first big trip together to Marion, Indiana for the untimely funeral of my sister's FIL. It was supposed to be a family thing, but we were experiencing round two of boggers, coughs, and fevers. Travel really takes it out of me, I'm much more energized by staying home and checking off a list of things to do that's as long as my arm. But being on the road steals my pizazz... if there was any to begin with.

Things that seem precariously balanced start to teeter. Issues that need addressing are once again pushed out of sight. Conversations that need to happen are covered by communicating the urgent information, the "report" of the home happenings. Fix dinner? Well, it's 5p.m. and my husband's almost home. I guess it will be pizza. Balance the checkbook? Now when can I find an hour to myself for unadulterated number fun? Forget it. Check the balance online and hold your breath. Take a nap? I'm so tired I can't sleep, except for at night when I'm so soundly oblivious to the baby that my husband has to wake me.

But in the hustle and bustle I've heard from the Lord. It's like He's taken me out of my orbit just enough to give me a new insight, a new encouragement regarding my family. When I'm traveling in the same old pattern I almost unconsciously tune-out and mentally go to screen-saver. But when I'm scampering to merely survive I feel like God more readily gets my attention. Funny - I have to be tired and poured out in order to hear Him. Maybe it's as close as I get to "being still."

I wish I could tell you about His word to me, but it's too sensitive. Too private. But just know I'm sitting here, pooped out, sleepily grinning and trying to keep my face off the keyboard. I am tired. I'm sorry, I don't mean to whine. And I try not to blog when I have nothing productive or encouraging to say. But people, more than anything, God is good.

Juggling

I am performing schedule trick-riding over here in Chicago... can you see it? My little sister's FIL passed away yesterday morning, so we're looking at how to get to Indiana for the viewing and funeral Friday and Saturday, returning Saturday afternoon. Thought we had it all sewn up when the 3-year old took another pass at the cold-fever thing. It'll be another 24 hours before I know if it's an ear infection needing antibiotics. So I'm leaving him and his sippy-cup (petri dish) buddy home with two amazing sitters and taking the baby. And then there's work... I shouldn't leave a sick kid with a sitter, so I'm calling off the first 4 hours of tonight's shift, waiting to see Matt in the doorway and then jumping in the car and heading into the hospital. Oy. And for my next trick...

Hey, what do you get when you combine an exersaucer with it's feet pulled up, a 3-year old who loves things that spin, and a 4-month old minding his own business in said exersaucer?

A human top!

Tagged

I've been tagged several times, so as to not be a loser, here goes:


10 YEARS AGO:

Lived outside of Boston, Massachusetts
Began a church plant with my husband
Husband graduated with masters from Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary
Was a visiting nurse - route included the Gloucester fishermen as seen in "A Perfect Storm" and Salem witches
Drove a green Honda Civic
Saw the Atlantic Ocean every day
Camped on the weekends in the White Mountains

5 YEARS AGO:

Was just coming off birth control
Lived outside Buffalo, NY
Husband was a beloved assistant pastor at a mega church
Led worship
Was doing acute hemodialysis around town in various ICUs
Had a Newfoundland dog named Sailor and a retired seeing eye dog named Jay
Hiked all the time
Drove a Hundai station wagon with the two dogs in the back

1 YEAR AGO:

Became pregnant with my third child
Moved to Chicagoland, IL
Husband is lead pastor
Drove a minivan
Gave my Newfoundland to my sister-in-law


YESTERDAY:

Went to Dunkin Donuts
Went to Ikea with the entire family for 30 minutes total! Ha!
Did not shower
Drew on the doodlepad with my daughter for 30 minutes
Made faces at my 3-year old from the front seat and made him giggle
Breastfed, breastfed, breastfed


5 SONGS I KNOW ALL THE WORDS TO:

Come,Thou Fount of Every Blessing
Worthy, Worthy
Silent Night
All Mary Poppins songs
A Mighty Fortress is our God

5 THINGS I’D DO WITH A MILLION DOLLARS:

Pay off all debt
Tithe
Invest for kids' college tutition
Buy a second home in Vermont
Buy a live-in nanny for another set of hands

5 PLACES I’D RUN AWAY TO:

Vermont
Maine
Massachusetts
Oxford
Wales

5 THINGS I’D NEVER WEAR:

Anything orange-colored
Bikini
Killer heels
I'd have to go with Peach on the whole tube top thing
A cowboy hat

5 FAVORITE TOYS:

Computer
Cell phone
iTunes
Dishwasher
CD player


5 FAVORITE BOOKS OR TV SHOWS:

Redeeming Love
The James Herriot series
CSI
Anne of Green Gables/Avonlea
Dancing with the Stars

5 GREATEST JOYS:

Staring at each of my children
Being in the center of God's will
Working hard as a nurse and making a difference
Spending time with L, C, A, J.
Listening to my husband speak each week (his sermons are available on audio on our church's website)

There you go. Though possibly the most boring list ever composed, I have fulfilled my duty!!!!!!!! Good night!

Bath Time

Once a month Matt has an Elder's meeting at church. It starts around 5:30p and goes into the night... which means I'm doing the nighttime wind-down alone. Managing tubby time for three three and under can prove to be a challenge. Tonight things were rather comedic. I was running the bath upstairs and asked Izak, who just strolled up, if Libby was watching Kipper downstairs. He said warily, "Nnnooo." Strange, I thought, so I asked again, and again he said no. He was right. She was downstairs, locked in the bathroom doing a little pre-wash of her own. The toilet paper was all unrolled and wadded up, damp. She was soaked, her hair, her shirt, her blanket. There was very little water in the toilet bowl. As I put Blankie in the washer for a quick disinfecting wash, I decided not to think about what she'd been up to. Izak accidentally dumped a TON of bubble bath in the tub; it was a little like Willie Wonka's Chocolate Factory when they're riding the psychedelic boat and getting belched on by the pipes full of bubbles. Actually, that whole scene used to freak me out, but the imagery was very similar. Rinsing off was tough, bubbles are sticky things, and it required several tries to get the shampoo out of the hair and not have those latent bubbles when the hair looks clean but is really still sudsy... I digress.

Then there's the baby, who I bathed first and let play (read: lay and stare at the ceiling) in the hallway. Generally we go right from the tub to nursing, so Mr. Boobie was quite put out that he was put to bed last.

The end of the day is one of the toughest for me. It's like my strength is waning, my resolve shaking... not.. quite.. sure I'll... make it... . Then, like the still after a storm, comes the most beautiful time of the 24 hour funny-farm -cycle - silence! Ah... the babies are all asleep! Usually Matt and I give one another a high-five and collapse on the couch until one or the other can utter an intelligible sentence... "Want popcorn?" "What's on tonight?" "Do you want the computer?"

Matt is usually at the helm during bath time. I'm eternally thankful for his strength and energy during that time of day. And I'm appreciating it even more as I realize that he does what I did tonight by himself twice every week since I'm working Wednesday and Saturday evenings. I dread the one or two nights a month that I have to do baths alone, and yet he never complains. I think he actually likes that goofy time of day.

Matt's a wonderful husband and dad. At the end of a long day it's not uncommon to hear me say to him, "If you're ever going to leave me, or run away and change your identity, or get really sick and end up hospitalized, could you please try to wait until after bath time?"

RSV

Stands for really scary Valentine's! Really stupid Valentine's. Really sad Valentine's. Really (crappy) Valentine's! Well, the bug that I thought was influenza has turned out to be RSV. It started with Izak (3-yr old), and four days later the two younger ones (20 months, 4 months) began coughing. Monday, the 13th, I took both of them to the pediatrician and he did a quick RSV test on Levi - RSV positive. They also both have ear infections. So $200+ dollars later I have a slew of antibiotics, albuterol treatments with nebulizer for the wee one, a decongestant/antihistamine, and a battery of Tylenol and Ibuprofen. We spent Valentine's Day holding Libby, who wouldn't stop sobbing, flushed and feverish, and sucking boogers out of Levi to keep his tiny airway clear. God bless him, though, he still smiles amidst it all. Happy frickin' Valentine's Day!

Buckshot

My Uncle Laverne (yes, he is a he) is a survivor similar to the friend of Mr. Cheney. As a young man he, too, was quail hunting with an experienced (read "ancient") fellow hunter. One wrong move in a distant bush got his tail-end filled with lead. To this day he has pellets under his skin. Though I have to admit, the face... YOWZER!

I cannot begin to imagine what Saturday Night Live is going to do with this incident. Especially if you tweak the spelling to read "Quayle"...

The smallest Furr-muppet

Perspective

One of the things I enjoy about getting out of the house is the new point of view it hands me. Life as a SAHM can be very limiting, IMO. Little issues become overwhelming mountains. Annoyances become obsessions. I think that down deep I struggle a little with obsessive-compulsive issues. I count things, like bottles and markers and sippy cups, and cannot rest unless I know where they all are at day's end. (I always have a list of things I'm looking for: it currently consists of a green sippy cup, a pink pacifier, and the round magnet out of Libby's doodlepad.) I put puzzles back together when the kids are in bed and over-organize the toys. Things may not be spotless, but at least I know where everything is. I always run the dishwasher at night, even if there are only 5 cups and 2 forks in it. All of the light switches in the house need to be off in their down position at the end of the day. It's like there's a certain pattern that things must travel in, and any deviation is a major distraction to me.

I noticed that this really worsened the longer I was away from my job. But upon returning I'm enjoying a reprieve from the compulsiveness of it all. It's like I'm able to get my nervous energy out at the hospital a few evenings a week, thereby breaking the behavior cycles at home. Giving a bath to a woman dying of cancer reminds me that though my children are sometimes struggling, at least they're with me. Holding burned babies in the ICU reminds me that though Libby's accident prone, a little bump or bruise is a minor thing. Taking care of a trauma patient reminds me that my family is blessed with safety and security every time we arrive home after a drive. Taking care of the belligerent post-op patient makes me think of the "difficult" people in my life, and how I'm glad they're not as out of control as the patient... and when they are, I can get away and not be liable for abandonment.

And the little things: toys, cups, dishes... they're just a tiny, tiny piece of the real puzzle.

Martin Luther used to say, "When I think too much of myself I go out and stare at the stars in Heaven. And when I feel very small, then I go to bed."

Perspective.

Snow Day

Well, not exactly. My son is in bed with a fever and a nasty cough, so I called off work. It's never hard to call off in the moment because I know it's the right thing to do, but afterwards I get to thinking ($$$). This is a good thing, though. I've been running just to catch myself lately, as you can tell by my missing entries. I keep wondering if working the little that I do is a good idea. I have a peaceful, quiet, relatively simple life. I feel like is transfers directly to my kids, who are happy little critters. But as a friend said, "All home and no work makes Heidi a dull girl." It's the truth.

Matt and I had a funny moment the other day. I was watching him poke food into the garbage disposal with a wooden spoon. Careful, not too deep, I'm thinking, and I can just see splinters everywhere, but the words that come out of my mouth are, "Hey! Don't use the spoon! Use your fingers!"

My little sister, Kat, with Libby as a (chubby) baby 

Made for the Moment

I believe every person needs to experience the sense that, "Hey, I was made for this moment!" It brings with it a sense of identity, a sense of calling, purpose. Sometimes the real blessing is helping others see that they're living in that moment of greatness, that God is mighty in them where they are.

A person that lives in those kind of moments would be my little sister. Looking back over my blog, I realize I've mentioned precious little about Kat. This, by no means, indicates my lack of affection and admiration for my little sister... I think of her all the time. I just don't have the prominent issues tied to her like that of my handicapped sister. I live around Chicago. She lives around Pittsburgh. I have three little kids. She owns eight rental properties that she and her husband revive and make available to people who may not otherwise find housing. Kat has always found unique facets of ministry to excel at... real estate for the less fortunate, sign language so that she could involve herself with a deaf group of friends in Marion (she's very fluent, has even interpreted for the Governor of Michigan)... In reading this I see that Kat often puts herself between people and opportunity, and then manages somehow to pull them together. She champions the underdog, always believes the best, always strives to make a difference, always tells the truth. People should feel honored to be befriended by my sister.

Her "day job" is in cytology. Simply put, she looks at slides of tissue under microscopes, providing diagnostic insight into the condition - cancer and other various diseases. That's very simplistic. But she majors on the minors, looking to the cells for clues, putting herself between the disease and the ability to detect and fight it, joining the two sides together for many patients. Mom (an RN), Kat, and I (an RN with oncology background) have spent many an evening at the Bennett compound discussing cancer and other diseases and their peculiarities. She offers great knowledge on the pathological side, while Mom and I fill in the picture with what happens after diagnosis. (She also has more gruesome stories than I do, in regards to... tissue... and, well, I'll stop there.) I imagine there are a bunch of IWU grads out there, too, who owe Kat a big "thank you" for being the phenomenal lab assistant that she was in undergraduate. She's a great teacher. She's also involved in a tumor review board, which discusses recent cases at the hospital, their presentation, detection, treatment, and outcome. (Kat's probably cringing right now because I'm sure I've slaughtered the definition of a few things... not to mention she corrects my type-o's.) Kat's been interested in cancer and it's effects since junior high, when her best friend died of Ewing's sarcoma. Kat has always suffered from a delicate heart, finding a place to hide on the scientific side of the disease without having to confront the people she diagnoses, which, I'm sure she would agree, is just fine... until recently...

She went home with her husband to Marion, IN, for the Holidays. Her in-laws are kind, gentle folks. A lovely compliment to the Bennett insanity, in my opinion. Buddy, her FIL, wasn't looking well. He'd lost weight, was complaining of abdominal discomfort. Kat immediately jumped on the diagnostic train and began brain-storming with him, asking him about symptoms. She told me she didn't panic until he mentioned night-sweats, then she knew there was something very wrong. She began stretching her arms between the two worlds again, one hand towards medicine and it's diagnostics, and the other hand holding Buddy. The worst of news came - stage 4 cancer everywhere, the primary site being his eye - a rare choroid melanoma. I remember the first time we spoke about it over the phone. After hello, there was a long silence which was punctuated by crying and quiet sniffing... but at that moment I was overwhelmingly aware that Kat was made for that exact moment with her in-laws, that moment and the thousands to come, and I told her so. Cancer, as a crisis, brings out the real parts of people. Some fight, some deny, some make their lists and start checking it off. Kat would be third kind. She and her husband, Dave, bring their expertise in financial planning, expertise in the disease and health care, and their experience in being wonderful, honoring kids.

Kat, do not forget, though saddness will come, that God made you for this moment. You're bringing your best to the table for Buddy and Lois and the family. You are loving them well and doing an amazing job preparing them for one of the hardest stages of their lives. I am so proud of you.

Winter Furrbabies

Learning (and un-learning)

Things I've learned since turning 30, which was several years ago...

1) The Philippines is NOT in Central or South America. It is considered an Asian country.

2) The commercial slogan "Every kiss begins with Kay's" has a double meaning: The word "Kay's" refers to both the name of the company and the letter "k," which begins the work "kiss." (I immediately tried to call my little sister when I realized that to see if she's known this all along...)

3) The term is "for all intents and purposes," not "all intensive purposes."

4) "Caps Lock" or the term "caps" is a short way of referring to the word "capital", as in capital letters.

5) The term is "Nip it in the bud," not "nip it in the butt."

6) The War of 1812 was fought in America. Napolean did not fight in the war of 1812.

7) Self-effacing humor makes you easier to live with.

The Light of Day

I feel like a new woman most days. I've been working more shifts in the ICUs and I'm having a blast! I'm trying to pick up about 12 hours a week, one four-hour and one eight-hour shift. I've been in open heart, the burn unit, trauma/surgical, and a general ICU at a second hospital.

The thing I've noticed the most about picking up my old career is that I'm highly energized. I feel like I think clearer, act quicker, and have better overall judgment. It gives me a new level of optimism about a lot of things, but first and foremost, about being a mom. Matt and I were discussing that last night, I said I didn't see the correlation, and he pointed out, "Getting out of the house and doing something you love sharpens you as a mom because it breaks up the monotony. It gives you the strength to deal with things that you'd otherwise tolerate." Yeah, Baby! Right now the pace seems right, I work the evening shift, or a partial, so I leave at 1 p.m. since the drive is at least an hour to the hospitals I work at. Matt gets home at 5, but the day I work a full shift is Saturday, so he puts in a half-day at the office and comes home in time to kiss me good-bye. I get home at either 9p or 1a, depending on the shift. It's awesome.

I realize that nothing really profound is coming out of my mouth. I get so excited because after almost a year of being close to home-bound, I get to see the light of day... by myself! And do something that I'm good at. I see the differences in going back to ICU nursing this time vs. after Izak was born as the following:

1) I don't have to work.
2) I know what needs to happen, even if I don't know where to find everything.
3) I'm less bashful about asking questions.
4) I feel more confident, therefore I'm less needy of affirmation and support from co-workers.
5) I know that I'm successfully managing my home when I'm not at work, which is the other 148 hours a week.

We're celebrating our one-year anniversary here in IL. It's been quite a year. Hard, happy, sad, nauseous, faith-filled, peaceful, stressful, new, old being like new... I'm so thankful for the prayers and patience of our new church family at NWCC. The other week a woman said one of the nicest thing to me: "Since your pregnancy finished, it's like watching a whole new person bloom."

God is good to me.

Behind

I have this overwhelming sense that I'm behind... nothing specifically, just behind in general. Can't quite keep up, managing a few steps ahead of the rolling rock (for an Indiana Jones analogy), but somewhere along the line my margin disappeared. Any mother knows the importance of keeping two, if not four, steps ahead of the pack. But then there's the general management of the dailyness of a household. I'm sure you've seen the saying, "God put me on earth to accomplish a certain number of things during my life. At the rate I'm going, I will never die."

Perhaps it's the grey skies. Perhaps it's because Saturday is tax day. Maybe it's my broken-up nights and endless days. Maybe it's because I'm late on my blog. Maybe it's because I've been sorting Liberty's clothes and have seen that time is really an illusion, and that life is charging forward without even looking back to see if we're following along.

Good things come...

Welcome, 2006!

I have a few minutes to blog since I'm in bed with the flu. It's really horrible, I've not felt this sick since the flu bug I had on top of my morning sickness when I was carrying Libby in 2003. I was praying out loud, Jesus, please help me, Jesus, protect my baby. For those of you who know how brutal my hyperemesis (constant nausea, persistent vomiting all 9 months) was with my pregnancies, you'll appreciate this:

I was crawling into bed after tossing my stuff. Matt groggily mumbled something about the flu. I said, "What'd you say?" because what I thought I heard made no sense. He repeated himself louder, and I had heard him correctly. "Tell me you have the flu!" "Yes, it's the flu." His response? "Oh, good!" (In hindsight this really has us laughing.) Yes, pregnancies were terrible things, and over the last four years I've spent 27 months vomiting. It's so good to just have the flu!

Good things come:

My baby boy, Levi, is a sweet one with good sleeping patterns emerging. My third child has come to me.

Unless God over-rules, I will not have to carry any more children. Excitement for the future has come to me.

Work happened! I've had the opportunity to work at Loyola twice in the last few weeks, both were four-hour shifts in the Burn ICU. It was awesome. I really enjoyed a rotation I took through burn while living in Buffalo, and felt privileged to return... and I still feel like I have the stuff for good nursing, despite the shifts being so short. Familiarity has come to me.

I had a wonderfully special surprise baby shower a few weeks ago, thrown for me by the other pastors' wives, SB and Anj. They took me for a pedicure and manicure, and as we stopped by the house to "pick up a gift certificate for the restaurant", SB asked me to come in and look at something. Then there was a big "SURPRISE" and people jumping out from behind the island in the kitchen. It was elegant, peaceful, thoughtful, private, and thoroughly nourishing. I left there SO energized, something I haven't experienced in months and months. SB was also working on making me a blessing blanket by having friends either knit and/or pray over knit quilt squares for Levi. She was also thoughtful enough to include my mom and my Buffalo friends, Carrie and Audrey. I sat and wept because God has been so gracious to me. (Pic of Anj, me and Sarabeth) Good friends have come to me.

In the throes (throws - ha!) of flu in the trench, my husband has responded with strength and presence of mind that has stunned me. Libby got sick early Sunday morning, and my mom was here visiting. She sat on the loveseat as Libby slept on her lap for three restless hours. I was so, so glad to have my mom here, but I must admit, Matt's wow-ing my socks off. Libby continues gacking today after a day and a half reprieve. Not one to handle emesis lightly, Matt donned gloves and cleaned up carseat sickness without complaining once, while I slept in the bed, unaware. He's met every need, quieted each sob, and held destruction at bay from the trench and it's inhabitants all day. Being so weak and incapacitated as had a "post-traumatic" type of effect on me, calling forth genuine fear of everyone being so sick, and no adults to comfort and clean up. Physical weakness is a nemesis of mine, but God has strengthened me through Matt. My servant husband has come to my rescue.

My in-laws and mother and big sister came for extended visits in the trench, and loved on their grandkids. They brought their prayer, encouragement, and two big tepees for the toddlers. Family has come to me.

I pray for my sons' and husband's health and wholeness, but sense God's sweet nearness even now. Emmanuel has come to me again and again through many different venues, different people. And tonight I'm so grateful.