Butterflies

My daughter was recently given a Butterfly habitat for her birthday. The way the whole process works is that you're given (or you can buy) a butterfly habitat (where they'll live) and you get a code for five free butterflies. You have to submit the request for the butterflies because the caterpillars arrive alive and you have to make sure you can tend to them.

Our caterpillars arrived about four days ago, and let me just tell you, this is probably the most fascinating experience ever. Watching the caterpillars grow is crazy. They come so tiny and skinny, and after just a few days they're already over an inch long and really "fluffy"! In a couple of days, they will go into their hibernating stage where they'll turn into a butterfly, and then we'll release them.

My daughter isn't exactly happy about that portion of the event. She says we need to keep them and she doesn't want to set them free. 

I find that there is a life lesson for myself in that perspective. I too, don't want to set my butterflies free. I want to keep them close to me always where I can make sure their healthy and safe. 

Most people would probably label me as a pretty enormous force. I'm brazen. I'm bold. I'm confident. I know what I want. Most people would say that I'm pretty hardcore. Most people think that there doesn't exist a man on this planet who could be more dominant than me. Most people think that I must always wear the balls, because I'm rarely caught in a dress. Most people think that I win because I can't seem to handle the notion of losing.

When I sit next to you my big giant balloon deflates and this massive wizard of oz persona shrinkwraps down to just little old me. Insecure. Quiet. Pensive. Thoughtful. Fragile. Gushy. Mushy. Sappy. Crying at the drop of a bucket. Incredibly focused on looking pretty.

It's been ten years. Ten years that I have loved you. Ten years that you've been transforming me in to this aspect of myself that I've always wanted to be. Ten years of experiencing life through the picture frame experience of your love.

It's crazy because everything is intertwined and so defined by your presence that my life is really sort of divided in two: before you and after.

I'm not afraid to be fragile, which is completely miraculous, if you know me at all. You make me bolder. You make me braver. You make me fiercer. So when the conversation comes down to whether or not I would do this all over again if I had to, the answer is always a resounding hell yes. And I know that the crap I write is sappy. I know the words I say are incredibly gushy and dramatic. I can't help it. It's not that I have anything to prove, it's that I've got something to show. I'm not so comfortable with this sensitive side of myself. I am fumbling around in confusion when I have to show the way you light up my world in front of other people.

Crisis

I think in the life of every Christian, there comes a moment when you stand still and you honestly have to say Where the hell are You? I have heard it so often said that to say that, to even think it is complete blasphemy but I'm going to have to call BS on that. I think to reject it, shove it down, deny it is the blasphemy. To admit it. To dive into it. To cry out about it and mourn it is the truth. And isn't a relationship only a relationship as long as it's truthful? When it becomes mired in deception and secrecy then it is on a slippery slope of destruction. I don't want that, ever, with You.

So I'm sitting here in my grandfather's red chair and I'm saying Where the HELL are You? Because I don't have the faintest idea as to what You're doing. I'm not interested in the wishy washy, stereotypical "christian" answers. I don't want Bible verses shoved down my throat, and I don't want people telling me to just keep "holding on". I am hurt. I am angry. I am having a pity party. And what comforts me is that I know You at least bought the party hats and You're here... somewhere... even if I can't see You.

I feel so fatigued. I feel so broken. I feel like I'm scraping the bottom of the barrel of my existence and everything is confusing and complicated. I feel like throwing in the towel and running away as fast and as far as I can. Why? I feel like I'm my own echo and like I'm my own shadow all at the same time. And the sound that keeps playing over and over and over and over again is Why? Why? Why?


I miss You. I miss the comfort of You and the peace that washes over me when I can feel You. I miss the assurance of Your understanding. I miss being able to grasp everything that was happening. And now I don't. Now it just seems like an avalanche of confusion is blasting down this mountain that You've expected me to climb.

I know I shouldn't feel sorry for myself. I know I should be grateful. You've given me the world's best climbing partner ever. And he truly is amazing. I don't know how I would function without his existence. I am terrified that one day he'll wake up and take off. I should be glad that I have four living children. I should be thankful that they are walking around here with me.

Why do I feel so broken? Why is it so easy to destroy my will? I don't want to do this anymore. Why can't I have some miracle and some amazing scenario of magic?

Please come back here to me. Wash away the confusion and just come back and let me feel Your love. It's all that sustains me. As much as Chief helps me to endure, You! and You alone are what keeps me alive. Apart from You I am nothing. I have nothing to give and no way to thrive. I need Your comfort. I need Your embrace. I need Your understanding. And when You come I will be whole again.

My Valentine Birthdays

The memory of their birth is incredibly traumatic. In fact, the whole experience, from the seven months of strict bed rest, the constant nervousness of their or my death happening at any moment, the complete loss of my last few precious months alone with just Lolli, was traumatic. It was hard. When I reflect back on it, probably the most valuable lesson (and probably one I am still continuing to be taught) is to take every single day one minute at a time. Seriously. Stop thinking so far ahead. Stop worrying so far along. I just have to deal with this minute, this moment, this contraction, or back ache, or bad medical news, or a thousand other "or's".

I think that happened because the future was too overwhelming. I was four weeks along when I was put on bed rest. That was escalated to strict bed rest a week later. If I thought in terms of the long months of laying down, I would have had a nervous breakdown. If I thought in terms of the overwhelming medical problems that our unborn babies were facing, I would've had a heart attack. If I did anything beyond handling each second on its own, I think I would have collapsed. It was completely bigger than I could have contemplated.

I did so much to try to prepare myself for their sick bodies. We were heavily warned. We were given videos to watch, tours of the NICU, books about sick preemie babies, classes... I did everything I could to prepare myself. We were very well warned that Grigio could die and IF he lived he'd be mentally handicapped for life. He'd probably not walk, talk, or do anything. There was just too much he didn't get...

The surgery was excruciating. When they wheeled me into the operating room, I was bawling my eyes out. I sat there sobbing uncontrollably. I remember apologizing to the nurse who was trying to comfort me because I just couldn't stop. I was so done. Psychologically. Emotionally. Physically. Mentally. I had nothing left of myself and there I was, scraping the bottom of the barrel of my existence, trying to "let go" of the whole process. They were going to be born. And then we would see...

They were so sick. They were so tiny. Charchee was the only one who looked "normal" (if you can consider a 12 inch long 2 lb, 13 oz baby hooked up to a thousand machines monitoring her every move "normal"). Brun was so, so, so sick. Her skin was transparent. She was covered in hair. Her every single rib was incredibly pronounced (even when she was exhaling). She didn't open her eyes. She barely moved. She was so broken. Grigio was doing very well. His lungs weren't very strong, but considering they didn't expect him to live he was such a surprise! His "angel kisses" (cowlicks) were completely evident. One on the front of his head, and another on the back. I like to believe those were there where his guardian angel kissed away the lack of nourishment and nutrients and healed his brain.

The first year was hell. Literally. Leaving them at the hospital and coming home was hell. Bringing them home was hell. It was more difficult than I can adequately explain. It was painful and frustrating and terrifying and awful. There were no beautiful late-night moments of snuggles and kisses while they nursed. There were no moments sitting there with precious bonding. There was no time that we got to just be together because there was always another one to feed, or more pumping to do, or more diapers to change, or more notes to document for their doctors. In every single picture, Chief and I both look like we were the living dead. I'm not kidding you.

But now... Now I have three five year old children standing in front of me. Now I have three communicating, learning, walking, discovering, challenging, trusting, developing children in front of me. Now I don't have to change diapers anymore, or pump, or feed endlessly. Now we can go on "adventures" and discover things together. Now we can play in the backyard, or go to a museum, because their immune systems can handle it. Now we can sit and talk about life and flowers and why bees are black and yellow. Now we snuggle and cuddle and bond without the urgency of moving on to the next feeding, or life-need. Now when they're hurt, I can kiss their owies away, instead of standing by their hospital bedsides helplessly wanting to fix their ailments.  Now we can talk about what foods to eat and why they're good instead of just rushing through one baby's feeding because the next two are screaming for theirs.

They're amazing children. And they're still hard, don't get me wrong, but things are so different now. We are no longer just surviving and I love that.

A woman asked me the other day at the store what my secret was because they're so well behaved. I told her that I couldn't take any credit. I said, "Truthfully, each day they choose to behave how they behave. Some times they make good choices and some times they make bad ones. I am so thankful that they most often choose to make good ones. We have poured out prayer for them, over them, with them from the second we knew of their existence and God deserves any credit that I could try to take for myself."

So today, in my heart, as I am preparing to celebrate my most precious triplets' birthdays in a week, I can only look at them and say Look what God has done!