Dreams

I woke up from my sleep gradually, but the feeling was still very real. Zeke, my second-born son, was estranged from us. In my dream, my heart hurt, and all I desperately wanted to do was be reunited with my boy. I was helpless, but refusing to give up hope. I held in my body a grief beyond words.

A dream like that is shocking, but when it’s the second one like it in less than a week, it becomes soul-troubling.

Who knows what was behind those dreams? Perhaps they were from God, warning me about days to come. Perhaps they were from the devil, working to plant fear into my heart. Perhaps they were the leftovers of whatever mishmash my brain had been sorting through from the day. 

I woke up to my alarm at 5:30, and climbed out of bed, heart still feeling like an open sore that needed to be handled with a gentle touch. I spent my first waking moments talking to God about what my dreams might mean.

And I didn’t hear a resounding, “Your Zeke will always be safe and will always be close to you.”  Not that I really expected that, but it would have been nice to hear.

I think every mom knows that, at some point, her heart will be broken by the kids she loves so dearly and passionately. 

I did sense that the Lord was using the dreams to remind me, once again, that He alone is my constant. He is the one relationship I have that will not disappoint or leave me brokenhearted.. 

And, once again, He reminded me to hold on to His kids loosely. 

I may have plans for Zeke: what I’d like to see in our future relationship, my excitement at watching how he’ll use his God-given strength as he grows. But God has even greater plans for him. He knows ALL of the ups and the downs of Zeke’s future. He sees all of that, and through them, he has designed a beautiful purpose for this little child’s life. …And it probably does not line up with the scrapbook-perfect timeline I have imagined. 

Zeke is God’s first… mine only secondary. He has been gifted to me for the short amount of time I have with him. This is a humbling and frightening and freeing thought for a momma.

Zeke woke up at 5:48 that morning. It was just him and me. Me and him. And I never thought for a second to scold him for coming out of his room so early. And you better believe that I soaked up that early morning snuggle and heart-to-heart conversation with my very special second-born son.

Glimpses: siblings

The afternoon sun is making its way into the door that leads from my bedroom to the outside. The house is at rest--my brother and his wife and their son all sleeping off some jet lag; my non-stop three-year-old tough boy dozing without moving a muscle in his toddler bed. And my five-year-old catching the eye of my seven-month-old. In an instant, baby Simon is grinning ear to ear. This is his brother in front of him: the one that has a special smile that's reserved only for him. I put Simon down on the floor so that he and Noah can play, giving in to the fact that only one of my children will nap this afternoon.

My mourning over lost nap time is truncated in an instant. Before my eyes are two handsome little boys, separated by five years minus six days. Their eyes are alive with delight in each other. Simon crawls over Noah's leg, nuzzling his face into Noah's pants and making Noah giggle. Noah gets on the floor next to Simon and lifts his body up and down, almost like a push-up, getting squeals of surprised joy from Simon.

first day at home together

playing around

I read somewhere about the gift of a sibling. When we as parents feel stretched, and feel as though there is no way we could ever divide ourselves enough to meet the needs of each child that calls us mom or dad, into that tough space is inserted the beautiful blessing of a sibling.

No grown-up (or very few) would have thought to entertain Simon the way that Noah had. Five year olds are gloriously creative! It was not planned or purposeful--it was accidental and hilarious, at least according to the baby, and that warranted repetition. Likewise, no baby responds to Noah the way that Simon does. In their short seven months of being brothers, they have developed a shared consciousness of joyful interaction. So it doesn't take them much to get going. And on this sunny December afternoon, Noah is soon in tears and Simon wears himself out from giggles.

I sit and watch and am amazed.

Simon on the left. A picture of Noah on the right.

Thank you, Lord, for making siblings. And for teaching me, bit by bit, of the importance of allowing other people into my children's lives to interact with them and bring joy to them in creative ways that I would never do.

A Father's Lap

My five-month-old Simon is getting more and more mobile with each day that passes. I remember that with my first born, it seemed to take f - o - r - e - v - e - r for him to reach his gross motor milestones. With this one, it is happening way too fast. He’s rolling from his back to his stomach. He’s inching his way forwards and backwards. I saw him do a plank for a half a second today. And this week, he discovered he could roll from his stomach to his back. I feel like we’ve reached the point of no return. This little boy is going to move, whether the rest of us are ready for it or not.

Today he was sitting in my love’s lap, Dave doing what he could to keep him entertained while I got ready for the day. And this is what I saw: Simon squirming and wiggling with every developing muscle in his body, working his hardest to make his way out of that lap.

—-

My dear friend Sherry, who has lots of experience raising kids and even more experience walking with the Lord, looked at Simon in my arms this past summer (when he was much more prone to cuddling), and was reminded of the way that God loves to hold us close. Ever since that day with her, my mind finds its way back to this picture of God holding us close, the way a parent holds their newborn baby—like there is nothing more precious, nothing more important for His arms to be doing than holding us close to His heart.

And how often do we respond in the way that a five-month-old might? We feel confident in our own newly-found abilities, we have our own ideas of what’s best for us, and we have the urge to get out. And God, in his wisdom and love, allows us to go… to wiggle… to squirm our way away from his lap. I’m sure we look ridiculous to him, as we slide down onto the ground and find ourselves in a position from which we don’t know the way out. Simon ended with his belly on the carpet and his face flat against Dave’s hairy leg. 

___

What follows is beautiful. 

Simon looked up at us with expectant eyes as if to say, “Can you get me out of here?” Of course, we did. And of course, God does. Every time that we think we know better than he does, he rescues us. Every time that somewhere else seems more appealing than his lap, he’s there to draw us back into his arms. Every time that we look up at him with those eyes that beg, “Can you get me out of here?” he reaches down in grace and love and pulls us up.

But as for me, how good it is to be near God!

    I have made the Sovereign Lord my shelter,

    and I will tell everyone about the wonderful things you do.

Psalm 73:28

My Bubble (the good and bad)

I have a confession: I live in a “mom bubble.”

My days consist of spending much of my time in my home.  When I’m not at home, I’m in my community running errands, at the schools where my boys attend, at my church, or in my friends’ homes. My most challenging conversations are with my kids’ friends who don't quite have all of their words and sounds perfected yet. Anyone who knows me will tell you I don’t watch much TV; anytime I do happen to catch the news, I don’t enjoy it. And if you looked at the apps on my phone, you would find Pinterest but not CNN. I read our community newspaper about once every three weeks, and I generally keep tabs on the world through my friends’ Facebook posts.

I’m not proud of this part of me, but it is definitely my M.O.

Usually, I find my bubble useful. I’m able to focus on the tasks in front of me—really investing in the lives that I have an ability to affect. I don’t stay up at night worrying about the stock market or national safety. I don’t waste hours keeping tabs on when the latest celeb will have her next baby. I find it’s easier to keep thoughts of God running through my brain rather than the spoutings of talking heads. My bubble helps me filter the voices that speak to my heart.

But, of course, my bubble has its down sides. I can’t generally join in on social conversations about what’s happening in the Middle East or what movies are playing at the theater on Friday. I don’t know what time the debate is scheduled for this week, and I can’t tell you what big legislation is or isn’t passing in the House right now. I don’t know the latest trend in kitchen gadgets or the hot styles for fall.

I wish I could filter what is good for my soul while letting in what is important for my head. 

While my current bubble is not perfect, I became thankful for one of its by-products this week: I am not over-sensitized.  When big stories make it through to my ears and head, they have a way of making it straight to my heart. 

Because I do not daily hear about tragedy, when I do, it is felt as just that: horrendous, heart-wrenching tragedy. Because I am not consistently exposed to the blackness of evil, when I see it, I can quickly identify it and hate it. When I hear about wars and torture and merciless men and hurting children and separated families and people fleeing their homes for their lives, my response is shock and compassion and hurt. I am all at once angry at the devil, worried about the future, thankful for blessings in my life, and awed by the individuals who live through such horrific trials. And my swelling heart cries out, “Come quickly, Lord Jesus!”

I don’t know the best way to Raise Little Royalty in light of the sin in our world. I don’t know how thick or thin to shape their bubbles. All I know is that it is VITAL for me to introduce them to the One who is in charge of the heavens and the earth. The One who is worthy of these words:

O Lord, I will honor and praise your name, for you are my God.

You do such wonderful things!

    You planned them long ago, and now you have accomplished them.

You turn mighty cities into heaps of ruins.

    Cities with strong walls are turned to rubble.

Beautiful palaces in distant lands disappear and will never be rebuilt.

Therefore, strong nations will declare your glory;

    ruthless nations will fear you.

But you are a tower of refuge to the poor, O Lord, a tower of refuge to the needy in distress.

You are a refuge from the storm and a shelter from the heat.

For the oppressive acts of ruthless people are like a storm beating against a wall, or like the relentless heat of the desert.

But you silence the roar of foreign nations.

    As the shade of a cloud cools relentless heat, so the boastful songs of ruthless people are stilled.

In Jerusalem, the Lord of Heaven’s Armies will spread a wonderful feast for all the people of the world.

It will be a delicious banquet with clear, well-aged wine and choice meat.

There he will remove the cloud of gloom, the shadow of death that hangs over the earth.

He will swallow up death forever!

    The Sovereign Lord will wipe away all tears.

He will remove forever all insults and mockery against his land and people.

    The Lord has spoken!

In that day the people will proclaim,

“This is our God!

    We trusted in him, and he saved us!

This is the Lord, in whom we trusted.

    Let us rejoice in the salvation he brings!”

Isaiah 25:1-9

Weight

My heart was heavy last night.

I got news of a kid I once knew, my little brother’s high school friend--the one that always had a mischievous smile and a quick joke. The news was this: that thirty-year-old kid was on a motorcycle one minute, and brain dead the next. God bless the off-duty nurse who was there to resuscitate his heart back to beating so that he could be transported to the hospital, so that his family could spend one last day with him.

My heart pictures his mom, and it hurts.

Oh, heart, why is it that no one speaks about this side of motherhood? How is it that our minds can be filled with images of sweet little baby toes and perfect nurseries and designer outfits, but that we can miss this very real side of motherhood? The side that hurts. The side that would give anything for one more day. The side that feels the weight of another’s life on one's own soul, but knows it lacks the strength to carry it. This, heart, is what you have been given wrapped up in your precious little bundle. Yes, there are many joys and laughter, but do not be a fool. There will also be events that will make you want to split in two and spill out all of the hurt that has bundled up inside. Dear heart, be wise. Be thankful. Do not be foolish and believe that right and wrong will always be so clear, or that the good you have now will be good forever. Treasure this moment, heart. Drink in deeply of healthy little ones who are kept safe under the same roof as your own. Treasure the requests for extra lovin’s, be thankful for the midnight wake-ups, rejoice in the little squabbles. These are gifts to you. Do not ignore them or think them light. They are preparing you for the weight of what the future might bring. Be wise, dear heart. Love today.

So teach us to number our days that we may get a heart of wisdom.

Psalm 90:12

Silence

Oh, the sweet sound of silence. I actually wish that I was writing this entry out by hand, so that all I could hear would be the sound of pen on journal paper. 9:38 p.m., and all I hear is the hum of the fridge, the click-clack of my keyboard, and a basketball hitting cement as the neighbor boy enjoys the temperate summer evening. 

This is the first time it’s been silent since 6:30 this morning, as I was woken up from my “morning nap” on the couch by two handsome and very energetic little boys. Since that time, I have gotten kids dressed and fed. I have studied Scripture with a friend. I have answered kid questions. I have gone to the grocery store. I have fed kids more. I have disciplined. I have soothed a baby’s cries. I have hung out with friends. I have pointed boys in the right way. I have sung song after song to get my three-year-old child to take a nap. I have picked up MagnaTiles and moved couches. I have pat the baby on my shoulder while reading a book to another child. I have worked over a soapy, watery sink with my five year old. I have been a listening ear for my husband.

And now this silence is so sweet to my ear and my soul. Some peace. Oh, sweet peace. Part of me wants to stay up all night and clean up my house in peace—put all the books back where they go and file all of the papers that need to get filed and throw away all of the old coupons that have been expired for two months. And the other part of me just wants to sit here and be silent with this silent house. I just want to let the silence weigh heavy in the air, let it soak into my bones, let it press its memory on my mind.

In this peace, in this silence, I want to hear God talk. Here in this place, all I need to think about is being His kid, not taking care of three kids. Here in this silence, I can begin to feel some restoration for my mind. My mind that is tired and a bit worn today. My mind that wonders if I’m up for this challenge of raising three boys, and doing it right. This mind that thinks a lot about giving anything, but wonders if I have anything to give.

My friend Katrina, who doesn’t like dust, asked tonight why anyone would willing put themselves into a position where they were camping. Well, Katrina, I think it’s the silence that draws me. I can get lost in the kind of silence that camping offers, surrounded by fir trees and stars. I can get lost in this silence that God is offering me this night. A chance to stop and to hear the voice he’s placed inside my heart—that quiet voice that often gets overrun by the noise around me. That voice that whispers, “I see you. You are loved. You are special. You are my precious kid. Rest here in my arms for a bit, my dear heart.”

Sounds good to me.

He leads me beside still waters.

He restores my soul.

Psalm 23:2-3