In Transition

I stood leaning over the hospital bed and started to sob.  

It was my third time to give birth, and my first time to do so without the support of a doula or my mother, who had stayed at the house to keep the girls.  It was a busy night for the midwife, with several women giving birth at once - I had gotten the last delivery room when I arrived that afternoon - and the nurse would only pop in periodically to see how things were progressing.  My second child arrived 45 minutes after I got to the hospital, so I was told any subsequent births would be similarly swift.  Yet.  Hours after labor had begun in earnest, the contractions kept coming like crashing waves but I had no indication that the end was in sight.  I was playing a little game with myself to try to pass the time.  I'd look at the clock and think to myself, "Okay.  This baby will be here in two hours.  By ten o'clock you will meet your son.  You've got this."  And then at ten, I would repeat this promise to myself.  "By noon.  He'll be here by noon."  (Some proponents of natural childbirth say that it's not really pain you are experiencing during childbirth, and that you must simply reframe it in your mind.  Isn't that precious?)  I began to cry, uncertain of how much longer I could withstand the pain without the arrival of my favorite part of the labor process - the part when I get to push.  (Again, some people claim that no pushing is necessary and that you can simply "breathe the baby down."  I guess my mind isn't strong enough for this.)  The part when it doesn't feel like I'm on a roller coaster of pain because there is finally a modicum of control, an active participation on my part.  But that part hadn't arrived yet, and so I cried.

My husband, who stood behind me rubbing my back, said, almost under his breath, "You're crying.  You must be in transition.  You always cry when you're in transition."

His words were like a second wind for me.  Aha!  I'm in transition.  The most intense part of the birthing process, the part that comes right before the pushing, the part that means, this baby is actually coming.  Of all of the wonderful ways he supported me through that process, his recognition that I was in transition was by far the most helpful.  I was too deep in the middle of it to recognize it for myself, but because he had been with me each time, he knew what was happening.  There was a light at the end of the tunnel.  There was hope and renewed strength, there was energy.  And on the other side of the pain, there was a beautiful birth.

Fast forward a couple of years to an empty house, the last of the boxes loaded on the moving truck, the final moments in the place we had called home for the past two years.  The only home my son had ever known.  The place my girls had learned to swing with their feet reaching toward the sky, the place my oldest had started Kindergarten, the place we had carved out friendships in a new town for the first time. The place we had made countless memories as a family as we picked strawberries and hiked at Radnor Lake and returned to the family-owned pumpkin patch for the fall festivities.  The place with the changing seasons and rolling hills and so much beauty you could burst.  Home.  And we were leaving it.  

I did what I always do when we move out of a house.  I went from room to room, gathering up the memories that took place in each, treasuring them up in my heart, awash in gratitude for the time spent in that place.  Thankful.  And I cried.  My children climbed up in my lap as I sat sobbing on the floor in my son's room, looking out the window for the last time.  And it occurred to me - you're in transition.

Transition.  The most intense part, the most challenging part.  The part that brings you to your knees and wracks your body with sobs.  The part that happens right before you give birth to something beautiful.

And really, so much of our lives are spent in transition.  We move, we get married, we get divorced, we have children, we make new friends, we say goodbye to old friends, we begin a new job, we start a new school.  Old ways of thinking about God, of how we see the world, are pulled out from under us like a rug, giving birth to new theologies and fresh perspectives.  We work to give up bad habits and addictions, we try again and again to begin anew.  We grow up.  We try to figure out our place in this brutal, beautiful world.  New things are painful.  Or rather, letting go of the old and familiar things is painful.  The process of being in transition, the places where we haven't yet given birth and the pain is crashing down in seemingly unending waves.  

I think the best thing we can do for one another is to speak truth to the process, to recognize the pain of another during their time of transition, to recognize the transition itself when those around us are too blinded by the pain to see it for what it is.  There is a light at the end of the tunnel, there is something beyond the pain you feel in this moment, there is something beautiful waiting to be born.  Let us hold up a candle in the darkness.  Let us see the tears of another and lovingly reassure them - I know why you're crying.  You're in transition.  

Wise Ones Rush In

"Mama," my five-year-old tells me, "if I ask Soren to give me a hug, he won't, but if I fake cry, he'll hug me every time."

And it's true.  My nineteen month old son doesn't say much yet, but he is a barometer for the pain of others.  He's like a beloved dog in this way - a silent comforter.  When one of his sisters is crying, he walks up to her, wraps his chubby little arms around her waist, and puts his head against her chest.  Then he just stands there holding her for as long as she'll let him.  It is magical to see the transformation in his sisters as they experience the wordless comfort of their brother - care and concern with no stipulations or strings attached.

I am not much of a crier, but one morning in a fit of hormones I was walking around the house crying, holding Soren on my hip as I pulled laundry out of the dryer and tried to get everyone ready for a day of school and work.  Soren took my face in his hands to look me in the eyes, then touched our foreheads together, pulled back to look in my eyes again, and then put his head on my shoulder and gave me a big hug.  He continued to do this for as long as the tears flowed, which wasn't long since I quickly became caught up in this profound moment of connection with my son.  I have never experienced anything quite like it.

Soren doesn't care why the tears are falling, and he makes no distinction as to who he will comfort or how or when.  When his sister is in time-out (and is loudly lamenting her punishment), Soren runs down the hallway to her bedroom, pushes the door open, and throws himself on top of her in a hug.  Although being alone is generally an important component of a time-out, we do not prevent him from rushing to comfort his sister because we want to encourage this instinct.

He reminds me of his father in this way.  While most of us want to head for the hills when faced with sickness and death, my husband has chosen to run toward it, to run toward those in pain and to sit with those who mourn, to look death in the face again and again and to avoid the urge to run away.  He has chosen the hard calling of chaplaincy.  He is brave and kind, which are two things I pray for my son every night before bedtime.  I don't know how Soren will choose to be brave and kind in this world, but I love seeing these little seeds bearing fruit in him already.

There are so many hard things going on in our world right now.  It seems that everywhere I look, people are hurting.  Individuals and groups.  Young and old.  Black and white.  Christian and Muslim.   Gay and straight.  People are being marginalized and pushed out, beaten down both figuratively and literally.  People are being misunderstood, and too often fear and hatred seem to have the final word.  I feel overwhelmed by it all.  I sometimes feel hopeless and helpless in the face of the violence and the fear and the hatred.

And then I think of my son running to comfort his sister, and a little spark of hope wells up inside of me.

The world doesn't need more referees, more people deciding who's in and who's out.  The world doesn't need more judgment and more dividing lines.  It doesn't need people who look for differences rather than commonalities.  And I don't think that's what most of us are doing.

Here's the thing.  The world doesn't even need people who have it all together.  The world doesn't need people with Pinterest-worthy homes, with clean minivans and organized fridges (thank God!).  The world doesn't need people who are better dressed or better looking.  The world doesn't need people who are ready - I remember a certain guy who was given his marching orders from a burning bush and was still like, "No, thanks.  I'm pretty sure you've got the wrong guy." I will NEVER be ready, and neither will you.

The world needs people who run toward pain rather than away from it.  It needs those who sit with the dying and hold the hands of the ones who grieve and, in doing so, show the world that God cares and cries and comforts.  The world needs people who are scared and unprepared and willing to put themselves out there anyway, to use their gifts to be brave and kind in the world in their own unique ways.  The world needs people who run down the hallway with the unsteady gait of a toddler, who fling the door open and rush in to love and to comfort.

The world needs me, and the world needs you.  God, help us.

Sink Your Teeth In

We're all about not choking at our house.

You're probably all about not choking, too, but I doubt your paranoia can rival that of a preschool teacher and a former pediatric chaplain.  We've been trained and scared with worst-case scenarios, and we're not taking any chances.  Our son, Soren, enjoys applesauce but has never really been into apples. When I give the girls apple slices for snack, I always peel a few extra slices and then cut them into impossibly small pieces to put on the high chair tray for Soren.  He puts a small fistful of tidbits in his mouth and then lets them fall off of his tongue back onto the tray.  Okaaayy... the boy doesn't like apples, I guess.

But the other day, I had this wild idea to do it differently.  I had only cut a small section out of an apple, and Soren was eyeing the remainder with interest from his high chair.  Since he has recently begun to reject every vegetable in every possible form, my move was one of desperation to try to get him to eat something just as it was picked.  [Yes, I am aware that apples are not vegetables.  I was desperate, I tell you.]  I peeled the skin off the giant chunk of apple and, ignoring every impulse that told me this was a choking hazard, I handed the apple to Soren.  I stood hovering over him, ready to jump into action and perform the Heimlich at any moment.

But my worst fears weren't realized.  Instead, something absolutely magical happened.

Soren sunk his little teeth into that apple, and a look of pure amazement came over his precious little face.  As juice ran down his sweet chin, he began to laugh as he truly tasted a fresh apple for the first time.  The minutes that followed will be forever burned into my memory.  Just joy.  Pure joy.  That baby boy could not believe that he was so lucky.  He took another bite, then another, and each bite produced as much enthusiasm as the first.  Smiles, laughter, eyes dancing, juice running down.  Look at me!  I'm eating an apple!  Did you KNOW these things exist?!

I stood watching him eat, and all I could do was cry.  I felt so honored to be present for that magical moment, so humbled to get to bear witness to such unadulterated joy, so glad I had taken the risk and given him that apple.

The whole thing got me thinking - how am I living my life?  Am I experiencing life in impossibly small, flavorless tidbits because I'm afraid to choke?  Are my decisions too calculated, too safe?  What would it be like if I were to start taking risks, to really sink my teeth into life?  Maybe safe, calculated decisions require no risk, no faith.  Maybe to become my truest self, I'll have to step out in faith and do things that scare me.  Maybe to feel truly alive, we have to be willing to do things that scare us to death. Maybe in those places of unknowns and risk is where joy resides, just waiting to be bitten into by those who will dare.

As great as that experience was, we have now found a happy medium of peeled, reasonably-sized apple slices to serve our son.  I want him to enjoy his food, of course, but I also want him to live to eat another day.

Obviously, I'm not advocating throwing caution to the wind when it comes to safety.  For heaven's sake, keep cutting up those grapes and hotdogs - but if you want to taste life as it was meant to be tasted, if you want to experience the pure joy of juice running down your chin, sometimes you have to bite off more than you can chew.

Beautiful Things

When you found out today

That the spring blossoms would soon turn to green

You cried

Not silent, weepy tears

But the loud, wailing kind

I joined you in your lament

Isn't it sad, little one

That the blossoms we so enjoy

Will soon fade from view?

We sat together in sadness

Mourning the inevitable loss

The changing of the seasons

The impermanence of everything

And through your tears

You said it best

I just want beautiful things to stay

Me, too, I agreed

Me, too

Only I wasn't thinking of the trees 

I was thinking of the dimples that still cling to your elbows

A faint trace of the baby inside my little girl

And the way I will one day look to that spot

And see only the bone beneath your porcelain skin

Such fleeting changes, these

In both the child and the trees

I must pay attention, I remind myself

Pay attention

As if my willful watching will slow the pace of change

The summer leaves hold beauty, too,

We assured one another once the tears subsided

And the blossoms will return again 

Next year in their time

Same with you, sweet child

Each stage will hold a beauty of its own

And that pang of sadness you felt 

When you found out your beloved "purple tree"

Will soon turn green

Well, now you know 

The beautiful ache

Of motherhood

Of life

Of love

Me, too, precious child

Me, too

I just want beautiful things to stay

For Chuck

Does not every mighty oak tree 
Strong branches point to heaven above? 
All creation in Thine image
Is it not true of this one we love?

Creatures winged and water worthy 
Those who move on four legs all 
In their motion draw us to you 
Breath and life in big and small

How stillness aches when motion ceases 
Our hearts refined like gold in flame 
This glimpse of you through your creation 
This one we’ve loved and called by name

Now see we in a mirror dimly 
But in time’s fullness, pray we, Lord 
Giver of life, divine creator 
That all creation be restored 

Ode to an Old Friend

I do not know from whence you came, or of your short-lived past

You searched for a way out in vain, your prison - walls of glass.

You did not find your way to freedom, water, and fresh air

Instead you lay upon my dash and drew your last breath there.

And when at last I noticed you, I was too lazy, far

Too dust you off, dispose of you (I never clean my car).

And so the days turned into months, and months to nigh a year

And always you accompanied me, a constant presence here.

Some days I thought of you as George, and other times as Gus

My withered mascot on the dash all covered up in dust.

I’d think of all your ancestors caught in an amber trap

Their fate much prettier than yours, preserved in golden sap.

Your death was not illustrious; your life, a fragile state

You flew in never knowing that the door would seal your fate.

But in a twist of irony your death preserved you, see?

For how many mosquitoes dwell a year in one’s memory?

We’d never have been friends if you had tried to suck my blood

I surely would have swatted you and washed you off at once

But since you suffocated and your needle ne’er took root

You got to keep me company each day on my commute

And then at last, on this spring day, it finally was time

To clean my car, inside and out, get rid of all the grime.

I did not take it lightly as I held the vacuum up,

And saw you, fragile mascot, disappear with just one suck.

And then my car was clean at last, at least for a small while

But when I looked to where you lay I quickly lost my smile

I know that I will miss your presence laying on my dash

So goodbye, George, goodbye sweet Gus, you’re gone for good – alas!

Reposted from my previous blog, AmusingMyself.blogspot.com

Homesick

We're approaching the two-year mark since we've moved to our new home in Nashville.  Anyone who has talked to me since that time knows how much I love it here.  I have even described it as "my true hometown."  The sloping hills, the blossoms in spring, the leaves in fall, the almost year-round green grass, the concerts, the restaurants, the steeples that dot the landscape, the small-town feel.  It is easily the most beautiful place I've ever lived.  We've reconnected with some old friends and been blessed with wonderful new ones.  My favorite thing about living here has been how small our little world feels, how neatly all of our circles overlap.  Our church friends are our neighbors are our school friends are our soccer teammates - it's just a small world here in Nashville, and I'm a fan of knowing and being known.

But it's the knowing and being known that is also making me homesick for the first time since making that cross-country trek in our Penske truck nearly two years ago.  In some ways, making new friends is easy when you have children.  But it's really just the meeting people part that is easy.  You see other parents at soccer practice, in the carpool line, you make a playdate for your children, and therefore, yourselves.  But I've found that the actual process of getting to KNOW people has become more difficult in this season of our lives.  Gone are the days when we could plop down on a friend's couch and linger for hours just eating and talking.  Telling stories, listening to stories, learning the tapestry of someone's life and finding how we can become part of the thread that is woven through that tapestry, savoring the way that this new thread is being woven into our own.  I find that friendships are best forged in hours around the table, in late nights that turn into later nights because we just can't tear ourselves away.  

And then there are the children.  They are wonderful and beautiful and oh so loved, and it's hard to complete a blessed sentence when they are around - much less an entire story.  Mealtime with friends feels more harried and functional - counting out the number of bites that must be consumed before the children can be excused, and then hopping up from the table every few minutes once they have been excused to see what loud drama is unfolding in the other room as they play, to ensure that the crying of the visiting child hasn't been incited by some injustice on the part of my own child. The time that I long to linger on at the table and pour another glass of wine for my guests is the time that the children are pushing the limits of their energy and need to be tucked into bed, so we stretch it out just twenty more minutes in an effort to be with our guests - to get to know and to be known - and then the children have reached meltdown point and we still have the bedtime routine looming ahead of us after we wave our goodbyes.  I often replay the conversations of the evening once the children are sleeping and the kitchen is cleaned (or not), and so many times I realize I answered a question but, in my distracted state, didn't reciprocate the question.  Or it occurs to me that there were things I wanted to know about my friends - life events I wanted to check in on, deeper questions I wanted to ask, but I was called away from the table at that moment to get another glass of milk or assist a child in the restroom.  I'm not a believer in multi-tasking.  I can't do it well, and I don't think our brains were made to do it.  If I'm talking with someone, I want to sit down and TALK WITH THEM.  I want to look in their eyes and see their expressions, not just to listen but to hear, not just to talk but to actually say something.  Without distractions, I want to communicate to them their importance to me.  And then there are the children.  I realize this is a season of life, and it's a season I'm enjoying for so many reasons.  I absolutely adore being the mother of young children.  And yet, I find that it's a difficult season in which to forge new friendships.

And so I am homesick.  I'm homesick for the friends who already know me, the ones whose thread is already so beautifully woven into the tapestry of my life, whose presence has made it richer.  I'm homesick for the friends who already know my stories, so that when I have to get up from the table for the umpteenth time to help a precious child, there is still no gap in the knowing.  Things are already understood.  We are all already at home, no matter whose house we are in.  I'm homesick for the familiar and the traditions.  I'm homesick for my bookclub girls and our post-kid-bedtime conversations.  I'm homesick for the birthday celebrations.  I'm homesick for the standing date for the Oscar's party and the peanut M&Ms I inhale while we compete to guess the results.  I'm homesick for the soul-filling singing of my old church.  For parents and brothers who lived close enough to come for Sunday lunch.  I'm homesick for the life group friends we used to see each Sunday evening.  For the friends who share our history, who know our stories, who have walked beside us as life has unfolded.  The ones we logged hours with before the sweet interruptions of children, whose couches we helped to make a little saggier, whose sleep we stole without apology as we stayed just one more hour, and then just a few minutes more.  

I trust that in time, we will forge these same friendships in any place we call home.  We will find a way to log the hours and tell the stories and welcome new threads into our tapestries.  But for now, I will savor this ache inside, because it means that I have loved and been loved, have known and been known.  I love so many things about where we are now, but were I the owner of red glittery shoes, today you would find me clicking my heels.