The most Brave I could muster

Hooked up with The Gypsy Mama and her Five Minute Friday Writing. Today's topic: Brave. The concept: write for five minutes without stopping or correcting. I did okay for my first try. And yes, I know I'm late.

Okay go:

I remember that day when I had never seen his face. A rumor of a baby. Pain and tightness. Deep breathing. Phone calls from family and friends. More breathing. 

Then to the hospital. It would be soon now. But it wasn't. Slower and slower than I thought I would go. And then all the stories I heard that were bad came true. My natural nice slow deep breathing, bathtub birth was leaving. Strapped to a hospital bed, nausea, baby's heart rate. This isn't normal, they were telling me. Fear came. And pain. And fear. And pain. I asked for medicine but it just made me a little sleepy. They were going to have to sedate me. Something was going to have to change.

Then something did. Heart rate up. Mom doing better too. My mother held my hand and tag-teamed with Josh. Then Rachel came. She sat by the tub I could sit in now. I groaned and she reminded me to breathe. Worship music played in the background but I don't remember it. I remember groaning and moving in and out of this beautiful trance. Thank God for it. Thank God for Rachel and her quietness. For Josh and his steadyness. For my mother and her comfort. They were all there at just the right time. 

And then he came. After the new day, he came and I forgot it all. The pain, the tightness and cramping and agony of it all. Forgotten. It was the most courage I'd ever had but I had no way to leave the moment. We were all in. Me and Josh and this baby we'd never met. And when he came, the bravery was worth it all. 

And STOP.

A few photos of the journey:

Right before we left for the hospital, in between contractions. I thought after a day and half of labor that I was at a 4. I was at a 2.

A couple hours into hospital labor and I'd lost my composure. It was "zombie pain brain", all literal, all the time. Cords everywhere, beeps and machines and not the frolicky, floating labor I'd dreamed up. But my faithful mother just sat there and prayed and prayed and held my hand and looked concerned because she really was. Just what I needed from her.

I didn't know I could do it but I did it. There was no turning back even though I felt like bailing. But this was my reward. At 12:51 am on a November Monday, I got what I'd been waiting for. Worth every minute.

 And here are the all-stars:

My miraculous mother. Look at her with her minutes-old grandson, a Natural at Nonna.

My handsome, heroic husband. He endured labor too, mostly in the form of me not laughing at his jokes for about 6 hours. I'm sure that was very painful. But seriously, a stand-up guy who bring calm to every situation.

And Rachel, my heaven-sent doula. I didn't call her until I got control of my labor back and headed to the birthing tub. I wish I had called her earlier. She was amazing! But she was right there when and where she needed to be, breathing peace into the intensity. What a blessing!

Humble pie a la crab

Today I got a serving of humble pie. And it had a crab in it. I almost sent it back. But I'll be darned if I wasn't the crab.

Don't let this charming crustacean fool you with his big eyes - he has an enormous self-pity complex. Not cute. But I can relate.

It was that time of the week again. Time for me to do one of the least favorite parts of my job. An annoying task made more annoying by the fact that I've been doing it for the better part of three years. I complained aloud to my boss, told her I didn't much like it. Whine, whine, went the less than attractive sound coming from my lips. This job is beneath me.

You see, I'm chairwoman of some committee at work now. I'm getting important. But alas, it seems no one will recognize it. I've been here in this clinic for three years, and I still have this job, this low task that no one else wants, and I can't stand. It's even more miserable, perhaps, because I'm some sort of expert on the topic, bringing all sorts of questions from staff and patients across my desk. Why me? Moan. 

Oh Humility. I don't like you sometimes. You're the one I pray for with extreme caution. Only in my most transcendent moments can I ask for you. And right away I regret it. Because I pray for humility, and then I keep jobs like this. Maybe I'll take it back.

But today came the Epiphany: My favorite things should be the smallest things, the most
unseen, the most ugly, unattractive things. This job right here - this is the job I should love the most because no one wants it, and it's terrifically mindless monkey business. Because as I enter into this job, I get a little lower, and a little closer to Jesus, to His heart and the way He lived His life. 

Internal groaning ensued. And the cognitive dissonance made me a little teary-eyed right there in the office. I cried because I don't really believe Jesus' kingdom methods. Even though they sound so nice.  

     "Service is the key to influence." 

Sounds like it's straight out of a John Maxwell book. I'd probably quote it in a Facebook
post. But I don't want to live it. I don't want the nominal, invisible work. I want to matter. I want to matter, please.

But there it was, the nagging, sinking knowing that I should dig right into the smallness, get as low as I can, cherish the opportunities to sweep leftovers off the floor with my bare hands. I should treasure every dirty diaper, relish grimy bathtubs begging for a soak. This is my kingdom, His kingdom. I'm most successful down here where no one can see.  

See, domestic servitude is the bee's knees.

What kind of a God wrecked the system like this? What kind of God puts on flesh to get dirt beneath His fingernails? What kind of God elevates the midnight janitorial shift to heaven's celebrity status? The place of washing feet, palming smelly toes in my hand, that's the place of true honor.  This is where I catch His eye, steal His heart. And I know that's what matters. 

Dear God: Teach me to love the simple, small things. To enter into humbleness with gratitude. And please, please meet me down here.

Swamp Mother

Swamp mother. Noun. A female parent who does too much crap, gets really stressed out and whines a lot. And forgets the point of life.

That's me. A swamp mother. A mother who is swamped with meetings and projects and genius ideas that no one else really understands (half the time). Two months ago I started to delegate some of these projects, assigning them here and there to willing hands. Some of this worked, some of it didn't. Either way, I am here 6ish weeks later wondering why I am so busy. Why I am stressed, frenetic crazy brain, constantly in motion from one thing to the next. Last night my friend called me on it. She said my parenting style is often behavior management and my "busyness" is at the cost of my child. She said my son deserves my attention, a look in the eye for correction and affection. She said all that and neither of us batted an eye cause we knew it was true.

Not one to waste time implementing wisdom (usually), I took her advice. It was really good advice after all. I slowed down. I cancelled one meeting today and postponed another. I talked to my son slowly. I focused on him. I used patience, not anger. I chose not to attempt control over him (which never works - grrrr), but to redirect him, offer him choices, play, enjoy each other. 

Then suddenly, it hit me, how overwhelmed I am as a parent, how I have no idea what I'm doing. I felt like a new employee, first day on the job, looking at this kid like I was meeting him for the first time, and we're just getting to know each other. Incompetent. I am supposed to teach this child everything he needs to know for life? Who thought this up? But it's not about my knowledge, I guess. It's mostly about relationship, about time and intention, value and affection. And my son got all that today - and the day was a success. How do I know?  Because before his morning nap, he climbed onto my lap, wrapped his chubby arms around me and gave me a big, long hug. A hug! Yes, that is success. And I think his IQ increased at least 10 points from all the positive attention because by 8pm he'd also learned the sound a sheep makes: "Baaaaa", complete with the bleating sound. Smartypants. Maybe he's gonna be a farmer.

Here are a few snaps of our mother-son day. The weather was frighteningly un-Marchish. So we made good use of the day by playing outside.

Here the curly-haired adorable surveys the house pooch and prepares his approach. Don't you think he looks like a kid from a 1950's TV show with that hair and cardigan. I may have done that on purpose.

That is a kid-sized basketball and it's still huge. Happy he's still so wee.

A sick papa and out of town mama brought Mr Ashford for a visit. The boys have been friends since the womb so we always love having him over. He's quite polite. We expect him to have a wildly successful political career.

Oh my goodness. Did the boy find his thumb? All this time we allowed the "bink" to our chagrin only to avoid thumb usage. Drat.

Here he is, scaling the coffee table with the aid of a motor vehicle. (It really is motorized but he doesn't drive it cause it freaks him out.) He is not allowed to climb on things after his stunt on the kitchen table this weekend. This picture was snapped seconds before we carted off his teddy bear bum to timeout. 

Cauc.U.S.

This must be why they called it the Grand "Old" Party

They say you make some of the biggest decisions of your life in middle school. That's true. Partly because that's the first time I drank beer on purpose and the first time I asked a boy out. [Since you're dying to know, he said "No". But it's okay, Doug Adney. I'm happy now.] 

Fast forward 17 years and here I am again, in a middle school cafeteria, still making gigantic choices, but this time about who will run the United States of America. I attended the GOP Caucus for Riley County on Saturday, my first caucus ever. Needless to say I did a few things wrong, or backwards, but I wasn't ridiculed to my face so we'll call it a win. I got there two hours into the event so I missed the speeches from the candidates' representatives. I didn't even know they did speeches at these things. Fortunately, I still had time to talk with the reps though, but I didn't know that either until I'd sat down at a cafeteria table and cast my vote. I could've asked questions about the process, but that would've revealed my ignorance. Instead, I learned by trial and error. So consider this photo-journalistic journey through the caucus a raw tutorial if you've never "caucused" yourself. 

I guess you go in here.

Amazing that this stuff is held in a junior high cafeteria. Politicians and representatives hobnobbing amongst milk stains and Cheerio crumbs. Tell me you love the irony.

I found friends who came to caucus: Barb and her son, Dave.

Politician menu: oooh, oooh which one should I pick?  Not telling.

Newt's representative, Ms Friesen, offered me her speech to read since I missed it. To the left is a list of reasons why Newt is the man. 
[Most of the other reps had left for the day, except Ron Paul's, but his table was crowded with collegiate, idealistic libertarians, and I didn't feel like arguing about the fact that we can't pull out of Afghanistan tomorrow or that, for some many reasons, we can't dissociate from Israel. So I left them alone.]

And here she is, a very convinced Ms. Friesen, Newt's representative who also happens to be a homeschooling mother. She told me all the reasons why Romney's pursuit of venture capitalism wasn't really going to create jobs and Santorum just needed a little more vetting, although he's a very nice guy. She had some compelling arguments. But I'd already voted.

See you in 8 more years, GOP Caucus. Or 4, if we get more of the same in November.

So there you have it, a real, live caucus experience through the eyes of a real, live caucus rookie.

An Argument for the Origin of the Species

According to the Biblical text we were created as humans straightaway, breath of God in our nostrils and up we leapt, on two strong legs. No primate origins to speak of. And yet, after an early morning hour with this 16 month old, one has to wonder if maybe Darwin didn't have a toddler too. #CuriousGeorge.
 

He climbed up on the chair by himself to get an adult view of things..

...and since it was time for his second breakfast, he opened the Cheerios, from the top of the kitchen table.

Afterwards he went fishing in the [forbidden] Lazy Susan.

With disgust he shows Mom a piece of polyester filling he found...

And then properly shreds the thing into tiny bits.

A few minutes later he finds himself going shopping,

and then makes a right good mess of his diaper bag.

The Adirondack chair makes a good stepping stool...

...but it turns out it's also quite nice as a seat.

Can you see why I usually don't feel the energy for a workout? Perhaps it's because I've already had one.

A Bad Case of the Sillies: Fun with PhotoBooth

So emo, so Andy Warhol

Can you imagine a world with two Sarahs and two Johns? Let's not. :)

The gene pool is a deep, deep place. How else can we explain how I ended up with a blond-haired, blue-eyed child?

A glad reunion

On Friday, the suitcases left the guest room. And so did the guest. 

While we loved the company, we were thrilled to see Emma go home to her returning Jeff. He was standing in the doorway of the guest room Friday evening. Everyone was smiling. While I got a hug, Emma beamed in the background, folding sheets, tidying up.

Earlier that week she was nearly verklempt with anticipation. Counting days and maybe minutes. It didn't help that her enormous, life-consuming homework project was turned in Wednesday morning and all she had left to do was wait. Oh, the ache. And when Jeff finally returned, oh the joy! The tree of life in a longing fulfilled.

Jeff and Emma on their wedding day last year, when all this happiness got started.

A few days before he came home, Emma shared with me that this longing helped her understand the longing we must all have for Jesus' soon return.The temporary separation from a spouse is an experience few of us care to endure. Only my brave friends who married into the military can really understand this. But then, we are all separated from Jesus in a similar way. And this separation is intended to nurture a longing in our souls. Instead of the complacent comfort we so often abide in, the Christian life is intended to be full of ache, full of a hope for something better, for Jesus Himself. As we get to know Jesus more, we can no longer be satisfied with a steady paycheck, and the next rite of passage in the American dream.  In His goodness, Jesus ruins everything. And little by little our hearts align with the cries of heaven in Revelation 22: "The Spirit and the Bride say, '[Jesus], come'."

Let our hearts say it more and more. "We miss you, Jesus. And we want you to return. We are lovesick, Jesus, and we want you to come back. For the Spirit and the Bride say 'Come'." -Misty Edwards

[This post is dedicated to Ingrid Cribbs and of course, Emma Wheatley, strong women of courage who understand the meaning of longing better than any of us.]