Nuggets,
You're all sitting around the kitchen table playing a game. You're talking, laughing, being passionate, and having a blast. Don't forget this.
Life is going to keep coming (as it is intent on doing), and you're going to fight, argue, and have all sorts of things come up in your lives, but don't forget each other.
Wednesday, May 25, 2016
Saturday, May 7, 2016
Fights
America,
We got in a fight at two AM. The doors slammed, the yelling began, and it was game.on. I'm not afraid of a moment of disagreement. I don't fear his anger, or mine. Why? For starters, it is not often that we come to a point of non communication where it becomes angry. Secondly, because I am thankful that I am safe enough to be angry. I don't take for granted the blessing that I can be unreasonable, or unloving, and the entire foundation of our relationship does not disintegrate. My "happiness" is not the platform on which everything stands.
I love that we can fight, and the words stay on topic (we have finally learned not to slip-and-slide in to: Why don't we just get a divorce then!?!?! -- Come on, America, are we the only ones to have ever done that!?! ...Bueller??). I'm grateful that I can apologize and have it be accepted. I'm grateful that he can apologize, and I can get a new opportunity to show grace.
Disagreements are beautiful. Out of them spawns so many opportunities for personal growth. They expose and reveal our own flaws and weaknesses in magnificent ways. Last night, as I stewed and raged in my brain to Jesus, my King flipped the anger switch and exposed my own errors. My husband, took responsibility for his wrongdoing, and didn't say a word about mine. What mercy! What might! That the God of the universe fought his battles for him, while he stayed silent. WOW!
I don't like apologizing, America. But I will. Truth is, last night, it was 90% me, and 10% Chief. Truth is, sin still permeates my heart, and destruction still flows out of my mouth. Truth is, that Love is both easy and insanely difficult over and over again.
I am thankful for these moments. I am thankful that it's a new day, with a new opportunity to Love and be loved.
Wednesday, April 27, 2016
Tuesday, April 26, 2016
Growth
America,
Today I don't feel Jesus in me. I feel angry, exhausted, frustrated, irritated, ready-to-punch-someone-in-the-face-that-pushes-the-wrong-buttons, grateful, and with a full understanding that my life really is not "bad". The reality here is this: there are no quick fixes in growth. Let me repeat that for emphasis: there are no quick fixes in growth.
My Maker is a Master Craftsman. He has this tool called a chisel, and he uses it to hammer away all of the granite and quartz surrounding me. The thing is, breaking away such hard stone, hurts. Transformation, hurts. We don't move forward to what "is" from what "was" with no battle scars and no challenges. St Paul says: "It is necessary for us to undergo many hardships to enter the kingdom of God." (Acts 22b) I can certainly say that in my own life, St Paul has not been made out to be a liar.
God answers prayer. It's miraculous and utterly impossible to explain, but He does. There isn't a trick to it, or a way to manipulate Him in to giving us what we want. But He answers prayer. In my own life, it is often in ways that hurt.
Last night, I was reminded about how quickly life goes away. It's been so many years since the daily fight-for-life battles with the triplets that kept my brain living in the moment. My child became very sick, very suddenly, and my brain replayed the sudden decline of my Mom, as she battled a similar infection. In my daughter's case, it turned out to be different from my Mom, but the imagery was intense. I was afraid.
As suddenly as the illness came on, her disposition changed (within minutes of prayer). So did mine. The thing with my children is this: they know I know a lot about medical stuff, and if I get scared, then they panic. I asked God to help my child, and to also give me courage, to make me brave, so that I could get her the help she needed, and keep her from being afraid. I was sobbing, and then calm. She was fevered and lethargic, then a chatterbox. We found growth in the few clarified moments that illness can bring.
America, I don't feel Jesus. Right now I feel the pain of the Master Craftsman chiseling away the stone. I feel exhausted, but grateful.
Today I don't feel Jesus in me. I feel angry, exhausted, frustrated, irritated, ready-to-punch-someone-in-the-face-that-pushes-the-wrong-buttons, grateful, and with a full understanding that my life really is not "bad". The reality here is this: there are no quick fixes in growth. Let me repeat that for emphasis: there are no quick fixes in growth.
My Maker is a Master Craftsman. He has this tool called a chisel, and he uses it to hammer away all of the granite and quartz surrounding me. The thing is, breaking away such hard stone, hurts. Transformation, hurts. We don't move forward to what "is" from what "was" with no battle scars and no challenges. St Paul says: "It is necessary for us to undergo many hardships to enter the kingdom of God." (Acts 22b) I can certainly say that in my own life, St Paul has not been made out to be a liar.
God answers prayer. It's miraculous and utterly impossible to explain, but He does. There isn't a trick to it, or a way to manipulate Him in to giving us what we want. But He answers prayer. In my own life, it is often in ways that hurt.
Last night, I was reminded about how quickly life goes away. It's been so many years since the daily fight-for-life battles with the triplets that kept my brain living in the moment. My child became very sick, very suddenly, and my brain replayed the sudden decline of my Mom, as she battled a similar infection. In my daughter's case, it turned out to be different from my Mom, but the imagery was intense. I was afraid.
As suddenly as the illness came on, her disposition changed (within minutes of prayer). So did mine. The thing with my children is this: they know I know a lot about medical stuff, and if I get scared, then they panic. I asked God to help my child, and to also give me courage, to make me brave, so that I could get her the help she needed, and keep her from being afraid. I was sobbing, and then calm. She was fevered and lethargic, then a chatterbox. We found growth in the few clarified moments that illness can bring.
America, I don't feel Jesus. Right now I feel the pain of the Master Craftsman chiseling away the stone. I feel exhausted, but grateful.
Thursday, April 21, 2016
Phase
America,
I was prepared for their birth. I knew it was going to be incredibly difficult. I knew I would be exhausted. I was geared up for the emotional toil of three babies that would have incredible needs, coming at once.
I was prepared for their birth. I knew it was going to be incredibly difficult. I knew I would be exhausted. I was geared up for the emotional toil of three babies that would have incredible needs, coming at once.
If you follow along with the stories that my letters present, then you know I have triplets. You also have probably read a gazillion times that I don't think having one baby is any less difficult than caring for three. Yes, there are differences. Obviously there are greater demands, physically and financially, but the emotional drain, the self doubt, the constant questioning about whether or not you are ruining your infant's life is the same. Parenting is challenging.
When I think of something as "hard" it usually pertains to emotion. Physical demands simply are, and my body generally adapts to them. Mothering them as littles was not emotionally challenging like I envisioned it would be, but it was very much so physically demanding (exactly what I had prepared for). Yes, they were on death's door so many times I can't even remember them all, but the busy-ness of everything kept my mind preoccupied. The constant physical needs kept me always relying on Jesus for one more minute of energy, one more second of snuggles, one more cup of coffee.
When I think of something as "hard" it usually pertains to emotion. Physical demands simply are, and my body generally adapts to them. Mothering them as littles was not emotionally challenging like I envisioned it would be, but it was very much so physically demanding (exactly what I had prepared for). Yes, they were on death's door so many times I can't even remember them all, but the busy-ness of everything kept my mind preoccupied. The constant physical needs kept me always relying on Jesus for one more minute of energy, one more second of snuggles, one more cup of coffee.
America, I am currently in the "hardest" stage ever. I wish I could wrap it all up and make it look pretty, but it isn't. I wish I could tell all you ladies who've had babies close together "so it's almost like having had a set of twins!" to shut the frick up. Why? Because it isn't. Cut, paste, go to print.
I suppose I was blindsided by this, to some degree. The physical demands of them as infants and little ones was so Everestish that I never could have anticipated the emotional, patience trying, frustration making, aggravation of this phase: three children entering in to pre-teen hood, together. There's no staggering in slowly, one by one, while the oldest starts to slowly phase out. There's no gradually paying for braces. There's no easing in to boys and girls liking boys and girls, and all of the emotional demands that those conversations entail. They're all in it together and I have to be real with you, America, I freaking hate it.
The past four weeks, my house has been filled with children struggling through overwhelming emotions, which causes screaming and yelling and me having a headache. They are learning that they have their own opinions about things, and that often times those opinions are very different from the other ones' opinions, and that doesn't feel "nice" (Why? Because triplets grow as a set of "three" even though they've been encouraged to have their own sense of selves. They want to belong to each other, be similar to each other and they have a unique heartache when they don't. This is not to say that singletons don't struggle with this idea of wanting to belong. My oldest is a singleton and that is reality, but I have to be clear here: it is no where near the same.). They are recognizing cliques and how it feels to be in the clique or excluded from it. They are having acne, and smells, and changes, that are all rushing upon them like an avalanche. I'm here in its path, America. I've got myself anchored into the mountain, because I've been on this sucker for a lot of years now, but the pounding of this wave is battering me.
This is the hardest phase I've navigated yet.
As they grow and change, my mind replays over and over what was. It remembers their NICU days, it re plays their tiny bodies. My mind recalls the miracles, and the fears. My brain reminisces the snuggles and the closeness. My heart aches, because the reality of the world is coming in and it sucks.
I adore these people! They are such cool human beings. They're so thoughtful and kind. They're helpful and respectful. They are extremely intelligent, determined, driven. They are strong and resilient, but also fragile and sensitive. They're my nuggets, and every day I get to spend with them is beautiful (especially the annoying ones).
I wasn't prepared, America. I didn't prep myself for this phase, because quite honestly, I didn't expect it to come so soon. I'm reeling a bit. And I'm also afraid for it to end. That last sentence was a bit bizarre, right? Why the heck is she afraid for this awful phase to end!? Because when it ends, they're grown up. That's the ugly truth of it. When it ends, they'll be gone, and the reality of that hurts.
Growing up is strangely painful, for the parents. I hate this phase.
Wednesday, March 30, 2016
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.
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.
Tuesday, March 1, 2016
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.
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.
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