Present

Time keeps on ticking. It keeps on pummeling through, slow and steady. Sometimes it drags and drags, sometimes you can't slow it down. Funny how our feelings make the steady rhythm of time feel different.

People tell parents not to take it for granted, the snuggles the tiredness, the littleness of the babies. They tell you to cherish the tears and all of the ugliness because one day it will be gone. The truth is, America, you won't know it when it is. You will not realize it's your last time giving them a bath, or washing their hair. You won't know the last time that they climb in your lap and squeeze your cheeks in their hands. You won't know the last time they wobble over to you and fall in to your arms. You won't know the last time you feed them their food, or need to clean up their face after dinner. You won't know the last time a question like "Would you like me to hold your hand" no longer is answered with YES! Please be with me Mommy! but instead will get a casual shoulder shrug and a If you want to. You won't realize it until it happens, and that's when you'll feel sad.

We are raising independence. It's one of the most beautiful actions I have ever made. It very well could be the best thing I've ever done. Not in terms of their life choices, or who they grow up to be, but in the very act of raising independence. Their choices, careers, spouses, etc are their own. I will not wear a badge of honor or dishonor in regards to them. But their independence? That's all us (and Jesus. Always Jesus.).

From the moment of my oldest's birth, independence has been the goal, and the heartache. When she left my body, I remember sobbing to her Daddy This is her first step of not needing me anymore. He kind of chuckled and told me I was ridiculous. We were caring for a newborn baby, she clearly was not independent, but her physical life was no longer dependent on mine. Her heart beat did not need mine to keep going. Her lungs did not need mine to keep breathing. Her body was on its own now. We were no longer one flesh, but now two, and it hurt my heart.

These days, my first born looks closer and closer to an adult. Her demeanor and attitude is very serious and intense. The little girl who used to giggle and laugh is still in there, but the complexities of growing up are moving in. I remember her telling me just a few years ago that she didn't want to grow up, because she always wanted me to take care of her. I remember telling her that it happens gradually, she probably won't notice until one day she'll look back and realize it's happened. I told her Don't take any moment for granted. In the blink of an eye, you will be an adult.

I feel proud of her independence. But I would be a liar if I said I didn't miss the days when her needs from me were more pronounced and less cryptic. I long for the days when the demands were obvious. I miss the simplicity.

We have entered in to the dance of grey areas and hazy lines. It's as if the fog has rolled in and the ground is hidden. We know it's there, we know we're standing on it, but we can't see it.

I'm not confused, America. I know she needs me now just as much (if not more so) than she did then. I understand that our work is not complete. I grasp that as long as there is breath in my lungs, it never will be. I will always be advocating, educating, supporting, encouraging, correcting, and on and on.

When they tell you not to take it for granted, what they really mean is this: enjoy the exhausting simplicity. Enjoy the simple demands and questions. Revel in the child who calls for you, cries for you, looks to you.

As the mom of triplets, I completely grasp how exhausting it all is. Every single moment of parenting is daunting. Without Jesus, I don't think I could handle it. The sheer magnitude of the responsibility is enough to make any sane person's knees buckle. A person's whole life is dependent on you not being a selfish asshole (which happens to be exactly what I am). It's completely insane! But it's also beautiful. It's fantastically, painfully beautiful. I wouldn't trade it for the world.

Failure To Choose What is Right

Nuggets,

I don't feel like being forgiving. I don't feel like hoping for the best and believing in the good. This morning I feel like feeling sorry for myself. I want to be a victim right now. I want to wallow and revel in all the oh-woe-is-me's that are dancing around in my brain. I want to spew hateful, unforgiving words that can never be taken back, and I want to not feel sorry about now they hurt. I want to say all of the things that I don't say, and dive head first in to the muddy water that is clouding up my brain. I want to throw sticks and stones and break bones. And I did.

Damn it, I did.

I screamed and hurled and said all of the unspoken disappointments out loud. I was hateful and cruel, and the Love of our Savior was nowhere in it. There is no ability for me to doctor it up. There is no defense. I unloaded a plethora of destruction at the heart of your Dad this morning. I didn't win anything. I lost.

Why am I telling you this, nuggets? You weren't even awake to hear any of it. You weren't present to witness the hideous components of my sinful, unforgiving heart. You didn't feel my desire for vengeance. You didn't experience the hate my veins were surging with.

I wish I could say that before he left, Love was restored to my wicked heart, but it wasn't. I sent him off to work in that hateful soup of words. I'm sitting here now flickering between good and evil... wanting to nurse the wounds of betrayal and heartbreak that I legitimately feel, and knowing that it serves no purpose but to destroy, both your father and myself.

I can't control your father's actions. I can't make him do the right things. I can't force him to be wise or discerning. I can't compel him to choose love instead of selfishness. I can't. I want to, but I can't. Your dad is amazing. He is gentle and patient. He is quiet and sincere. He is filled with many beautiful, beautiful attributes that I desire in myself. He is also filled with many, many flaws (just like me).

We have a beautiful love, your dad and I. It is something rare, that is valuable and enviable and I completely get how it could create an illusion of what Love is "supposed" to be. I suppose I'm telling you about the ugliness of my heart this morning, because I want you rooted in reality about marriage. It is hard. It hurts like hell. Sometimes you'll be the one doing the hurting, and sometimes you'll be the one hurt. Sometimes both.

Your father hurts me, a lot. I have done my fair share of damage to him. We don't live in an illusion of perfection. We're a mess. We do terrible things. We say terrible things. We are flawed.

I owe your father an apology. And I will do it. It's not about what he did to me, or failed to do. The apology is not about making him "see" or being afraid that he didn't grasp how much he hurt me. I will apologize because my behavior was wicked. I will apologize and seek forgiveness because Love demands mercy and forgiveness from my heart, over and over and over again. Love commands me to respond with gentleness. Love demands that I hope for the best, believe in the best, assume the best, of your father. Love commands me to persevere. It's not about him. It's about me.

Whomever you marry, is going to hurt you like hell. They're going to hurt you in ways you could never have imagined. You will evaluate and re evaluate over and over again what on earth you have gotten yourself in to. You will want vengeance. You will want to make them pay, because in your own hearts, you'll think, stupidly, that it will somehow make them grasp the blow that they've dealt you. It won't. It will only serve to make the wounds bigger... both in yourself and in your spouse.

I hate when I choose not to Love.

Stages of Grief

I suppose I thought I'd passed it by. The memories and the hurts of this day. I thought Maybe this will be the first year that it won't hurt. It won't anguish. I won't grieve...

We left church and were driving home, and I felt like a vacuum came and sucked all of the oxygen out of my chest. Emotions surged and washed and soared and I couldn't define it or describe it or psychoanalyze it, in that moment. I felt angry. Super angry. Angrier than I've ever felt before.

It was bizarre, because it was so completely unexpected. In the years past, February has been filled with the conflicted feelings of grief and joy all surrounding a day... the day my children were born. The day of loss. The day of death. The day that my physical body was free from the weight of them, and the day the psychological agony, the emotional strain, the intensity of it all began. Five years they were in and out of hospitals. Five years of never knowing if this sickness was going to be the one to take them for good. Five years of spending so much time in the PICU that the nurses recognized and knew us by name as we walked in. Five years of grief and guilt and sorrow.

Anger was new. But angry, I was. I asked my husband to keep driving. I didn't want to go home. I didn't want to stop moving. I can't say why, it's just where I was at. I am angry. I'm angry about all of the grief and the loss. I'm angry about all of the years I worried and waited... waited for them to die, and waited for them to get better. I'm angry about not carrying them longer. I'm angry about not remembering to cherish each beautiful moment, because I was so overwhelmingly afraid all.the.time.

How can you love your own children in that atmosphere? You can't. Not really. Love is not fear.

I was so alone in that surgical room. I remember feeling so immensely alone, and the solitude of that weight is daunting. I remember the sobbing, the burden... so many things I can't define. I remember the nurse who held me, and I remember apologizing over and over again for crying so fiercely. I was so tired, nuggets. I was so tired and afraid, and exhausted. I just wanted it to be done, but I also wanted it to continue. I was torn between the death of myself and the death of you, and I felt lost. I didn't know if I would ever see you or hold you. I didn't know if I would ever hear you cry or see you smile. I didn't know anything, and in that moment the weight of the entire world crashed down on my exhausted, over-weighted body. I broke.

In the car tonight, I felt alone. A voice whispered in my brain: You're not alone now and you weren't alone then. I know that. I hold on to that with all the might that my fragile hands can. Truth is rooting. It anchors us to the earth while the waves wash over. I was not alone then, and I'm not alone now. Even if my feelings say otherwise.

I wish that this story could be defined in a beautiful way. I wish, my beloved nuggets that the deep and intense love I have for you will never be lost in the grief of that singular day. I hope that my lifetime of dying for you over and over again will be the foundation of love and affection that you hold on to when your own waves of loneliness wash over. I begged God over and over again for your lives. In every plea, he mercifully saw my grief and answered the call. He healed you and has kept you here, and I know His purpose for you is magnificent!

I hope you see mercy in these stories. I hope you understand, maybe just a little, why I've spent so many days afraid, and worked so hard to overcome this weakness in myself. I hope you never misinterpret this sorrow as your fault, or your burden to bear. It's not. The sorrow is my own. It's my own weakness, my own flaws, my own vulnerability. It's when my body broke, even though my will wanted something else. It is the singularly most powerful lesson where God showed me His divinity and my humanity and without it I would not be who I am.

You three, and your precious older sister, saved me. You saved me from the greatest lie the devil ever convinced me of: that I am running this show.

But tonight, I felt so angry. Tonight I feel so sad. Tonight I feel sorry. Sorry for what I wasn't able to do. Sorry for what didn't happen. Sorry that I didn't get to be awake to hear your first cries, and see your tiny bodies. Sorry that my stupid body wasn't numb, and sorry that I couldn't control the screams that surged out of my as they cut in, so that Dr. E knew I could feel it all. Sorry that you were taken away from me, and I was sent home with out you for 6 weeks. Sorry that you didn't get to breast feed, and that you were poked and prodded and pestered for years after your birth. I'm sorry that I didn't carry you longer so that you were stronger and more able to handle the germs that came at you.

I'm sorry for every IV you've had to get, every feeding tube, every blood draw, every PIC line... I'm sorry, because every time they did it to you all I felt in my heart is I'm a freaking asshole... if I had only carried them longer!

So I'm angry... maybe next year I'll reach acceptance?

pain

Sometimes the pain is so intense that I'm doubled over, trying not to throw up, sobbing. I have a mass, of some sort, growing on one of my ovaries. It became infected. We are hoping it's a cyst that will dissolve.

I have finished my antibiotics. I will go back for a follow up visit in several weeks to be re-scanned (this will be looking to see if it's grown, shrunk, or disappeared - yay for disappearing acts!). Why am I telling you this? A lot of reasons.

The first is that to attempt to define this pain to you is impossible. It comes in unpredictable waves, but always with the same level of intensity. It begins in my back, and then shoots throw my pelvis making labor seem like a walk in the park. Nothing helps (well, by "nothing" I mean ibuprofin doesn't help, because I don't take heavy duty painkillers as a general policy in regards to myself).

America, I am filled with blessings. Please don't read this as a complaint letter. It's not. I have health insurance. I have an amazing team of medical providers, who tell me when to be concerned and when not to be. I have a husband who rubs my shoulders and sits with me while I cry and breathe and wait it out. I have children who do their best to help out, and who have compassion and mercy in having to miss out on events we were planning to go to because one of those waves came crashing down on me. I am disgustingly fortunate. I do not take this for granted for one moment.

The second is because it has reminded me how often we carry burdens that we don't share. Very few people know what is going on here. Not because it's a secret, it's just not something that generally comes up in conversation. Hey guys! How are ya? I have an infected mess of something on my ovary! It hurts like a son of a motherless goat! How about them apples!?!! 

How many times have we come in to contact with someone particularly feisty or snippy, and assumed they were just a jerk? How many times have we made assessments and judgments about the people we encounter, when we don't have all the details? Why is it so difficult to assume the best in people? Why is it so easy to believe the worst?

Thirdly, prayer is powerful. I am terrified of cancer. I had court side tickets to my Mom's cancer. It wasn't glamorous or beautiful. It was fierce and awful. The devil knows this fear in me. He prods it and stokes those coals in my heart, trying to ignite a fire. If I'm paralyzed by fear, then I have forsaken Love.

This morning a wave came. I say "wave" because it really comes like that. It is sudden and uncontrollable. There will be no pain and then all of a sudden I feel like I can't catch my breath. Even if I'm sobbing, I still know how fortunate I am.

Dreams

Mommy...?
Yes?
Mommy???
Yes? I'm in here.
(panicked) MOMMY!?!?
(louder) I'm in here! You okay?
I dreamt that you died. 
(arms flew around this nugget, in a polar bear hug) I'm not dead. I'm here.

We stayed wrapped up for several minutes, until the fear washed away, until the assurance that I'm still here settled in. It was beautiful and magical. It was powerful. This kid has been difficult for me to reach lately. I know that phases come and go, but this one seemed to linger. In this single moment, it was like a light in the darkness rose up to say "Keep going. You're getting through. Even if it doesn't feel like it."

I told that child of mine I will never go away. Even when my body does, my heart will always be with you. Come what may. Because my heart beats in yours. My blood runs in yours. My breath inhales and exhales in yours. Even when the moment comes that you can't see me, put your hand on your chest and know that I'm there.

Oh how Love can heal our hurts and chase away our fears!

Illness

Legs bare, a sheet draped over, prodded and poked, tears falling. Falling like waterfalls that I couldn't stop.

Fear is the most powerful and dangerous of experiences. I have had my fair share, to be frank.

I have walked a path like this before. It's become familiar, how it winces and pulls. The angst is almost like an old friend, rising up out of a photo album saying well hello there!

I turn away because I'm not interested. I plug my ears and I hum my tunes and I cry because I just.can't.ignore you. I rationalize and I google search because it's all going to be nothing. I know this. I believe this.

But what if I'm wrong?

So.what. If I am then my body will die, and a phoenix will rise out of the ashes, just like the last time. I carried death around in my body, on my soul, in my uterus for seven and a half months. I sobbed unstoppable tears when death was taken out, and the alarms dinged and the crash cart came the night that baby left me for good. I died on that hospital table. I died over those seven months. I died in the aftermath of watching and grieving and aching and wondering what have I done? over and over again. Out of the ashes of that mother frenching nightmare rose three magnificent as all freaking might, phoenixes. They are my fire birds. They are my miracles. I died, so they could come.

Whatever this is, this infection, this war that my body may or may not be waging on itself, this source of pain... it will.not.win. So I say so what to it. I scream it and I cry it and I whisper it. Because the truth is, I'm afraid of it. Stupidly so. I'm afraid of the unknown. I'm afraid of the silences that are bombarding me at every turn. I'm afraid of the imaginings dancing around in my brain. I'm embarrassed by my fear, my inability to control my imagination, my breakdown. but it's a part of my story so it must be shared.

We are all waiting. Eager for a phone call that we hope will say It's just a fluke infection and everything is good! I'm hunched over from the probing, dosed up on ibuprofen and heating pads just to get through my afternoon.

My body has been my "enemy" before. I survived. Whatever my lot, thou has taught me to say it is well, it is well with my soul.

Chief

You and me baby... where to begin? How to define this convoluted mess of intense love, fierce passion, and devastating blows? What is the point where "we" become "us" instead of you and me? Who am I without you, and who are you without me?

These random moments come where you pop across my eye balls, deeper than the usual comfort of your presence. Random moments where the lights all dim, and the spotlight shines on you... your eyes will pop out, and I'll catch you doing things unexpected. I fall in love. I fall in crazy love with you, over and over again.

You are as familiar to me as myself. I understand your every fiber. I have obtained you, level expert. I have been at the epicenter of your hurricanes, I have been in the eye of your tornadoes, I have been the fire in your lightning, I have felt the cold of your blizzards... I have seen you at your worst, at your lowest, at your darkest. I have felt the force of your rage, your loss, your grief. I have seen you fall outrageously in love, with me and then each of our children. I have been blessed with your hard work, and your dedication. I am thankful for you.

Where would I begin? How would I write enough to explain? There aren't words... only actions. I pray that every single moment, you have felt my actions. I pray that when I die, those actions will carry you through, and if you go first, vice versa. I pray that our children will understand that love is not feelings and words, but deeds. I pray that they will understand that it is not earned, but freely given. I beg God for them to grasp that it hurts like hell, every.single.day. to love like this. I hope that they will understand that nothing else will compare to it.

It's you and me baby. I'm lovin' it.