This morning I was dreaming of my husband in 9 minute increments. Compulsively hitting the snooze, forcing my eyelids closed and summoning all of my brain power to bring his face back into focus. These business trips of his are killing me slowly and the short weekends home are finishing me off. Another Monday. I will survive.
Our baby is kicking hard now, making my whole belly move. I sat and watched it for a while before getting out of bed and marveled at the prospect of a new life. At how life begins. At how this little person, unknown to us now, will soon have us completely captivated and utterly in love without even trying.
And how that fact alone gives me hope in the human condition. We may be slaughtering each other in Syria and dragging each other down like ruthless animals in the political arena...but people all around the world today are having babies and loving them.
Hallelujah for that. And for all of the other people around the world who are overflowing with love and who wish to have babies to shower it upon but can't for one reason or another. Hallelujah for that, too. That love still exists. The pure and selfless kind that people freely give and never get back.
Two precious little babies joined our family this past week. And for reasons only God can explain, one was allowed to live and one was called back home after just two short days. It's got me thinking a lot about hope. About how underneath all of the religious controversy, the who's right and who's wrong, the political incorrectness of it all, lies the real reason religion exists: to give people hope. There is a tangible strength that comes with belief, real feelings of comfort and an abiding peace that comes from trusting that there are reasons, even if we aren't privy to them yet. That there is indeed a loving Father up there orchestrating this whole life experience. Someone who has our best interests in mind. Someone who gives love freely. And we can feel it if we just believe.
Many prayers going up for my cousin Annie and her family as she buries her sweet little man tomorrow. And many prayers of gratitude for another healthy girl born to my sister Kami and her husband. Another Monday. We are so blessed.
I was well into my 20th hour of labor when I heard this voice for the first time. It was my own voice, but much older, more confident, calm and self-assured. The type of voice that you don't question, just trust. It came at a point when the escalating pain had begun to pop the seams of my concentration. I could feel myself on the brink of unraveling completely. It said, BREATHE AND COUNT. So I did. And then it said, IF YOU CAN JUST MAKE IT TO 20, YOU'LL BE FINE. And when I made it to 20 the pain started to dissipate. And with each contraction it would pipe in, OK, 25 THIS TIME, with the authority of a football coach and the gentleness of a mother. And off I'd go a counting...on and on for hours. Until finally, FINALLY I heard the cry of a baby and buried my face in my arm and thought, holy crap, I just survived that.
I had a similar sentiment pulling into the driveway a couple of weeks ago. It was late. The end of a Summer-long road trip across the country and back. Me, my cranky, pregnant self and my hyper little two-year old stuffed into the back seat of a Chevy Suburban for days upon days. This was completely voluntary and self-inflicted and let me tell you what...If you would like to know the exact length of your patience rope, as they say, you should totally give this a try.
So many hours spent in that back seat thinking, I would rather scratch my eyeballs out than play with these dress-up doll stickers for one more second. And then holding her chubby fingers between mine while she fell asleep thinking, what a beautiful, vibrant little soul packed into that perfect little body. And waking up in a hotel room to the sound of her rummaging through the lollipop bag and I'd say, Stella, not right now, and then watch the proud look melt off of her face and a loud, ugly cry take its place. And I'd think, this is exactly how I wanted to start my day. And waking up in another hotel room to the sound of shoes being clapped together inches from my nose. I'd open one eye and say, What in the world are you doing? And she'd say, I just killing a spider or something mom. It's freaky. And I'd roll over and laugh and think, thank you God for a two-year old in my life.
It was the ultimate exodus from the warm, boring little comfort zone I had nestled myself into. And this is what I'm all about. Pushing my limits. Taking myself to the brink of unraveling, breathing through it, and emerging a stronger, more confident person. Someday to become that older, more self-assured version of myself that graciously shows up periodically to help me limp along until I get there.
Our dear friend Erik just completed an exodus of his own. Racing wild horses across the Mongolian Steppe for 10 days. You can read more about his journey here. Beautiful promo video made by Nathan.
Speaking of videos by Nathan...the night we got home he showed me this little number he'd made while we were gone. There's something about a man who has so much creative talent, who can fix a lawn mower, work a tractor AND bake better cookies than I do. All I can say is, I lucked out.
