Leaves are Turning

And now, everything changes.

Yesterday was my last day working at The Adventure Club Center, my last day with my little lovies. I didn't feel sentimental really, because it didn't feel like the end until I actually had to leave. And even then, though it was sad to tell them goodbye, I know that moving on now is right. It was humbling to receive sweet notes and a few gifts from some parents; I hope I have really been a blessing to them and their children. I certainly will miss seeing the kids and their parents -- but Blacksburg is a small enough town that I hope to see them around.

The sad irony is that I wasn't able to stay all day yesterday to tell all my parents goodbye. Andrew was supposed to meet me for a celebratory last-day-of-work lunch, but instead of his presence, I got a text from him that he was running a 102.7 fever. Oy! I ended up leaving work early to come home and take care of him. He was so miserable. He's sleeping now, and he didn't have a fever anymore as of an hour ago, so I'm hoping he's sleeping the sleep of recovery, not of further illness.

What now? All the leaves in my life are flipping over! (Terrible cliche. Sorry.)

When Andrew is well, we'll be heading down south to visit my parents and then his parents over the next or so. As much as we have been traveling this summer, we have not actually gone anywhere for the purposes of visiting and relaxing except one weekend. We've been to weddings galore, Andrew's taken his Boards... but we've always just been in and out with an agenda. This week, we get to go see family just to visit! Hallelujah! We have a stack of books, our swim gear, and a gallon of freshly picked blueberries to take. What else could we possible need?

Then, the month of August here, at home. Andrew won't be working yet, and so we'll have a month together to enjoy spending time together, to get our house in order, to set up the nursery, to go for walks and try new recipes before the man-cub arrives and everything changes again.

But now, the transition will be sweet . . .

June 25

One sweet and blessed year. One full and emotional year. One sorrowful and sanctifying year. One beautiful year I would never take back. 

I love this man. One year tomorrow. Here's to fifty more!

Blessings

The countdown really begins now: Thirty weeks today! I hit the scale at the doctor's office this morning at 130, which means I've gained 20 pounds. I have no idea where they are. I mean, I do, but I don't feel that big. I can still touch my toes (which comes in handy at work for "Heads, Shoulders, Knees and Toes"), and my belly button is only just now beginning to invert (I have been dreading the outie). I have been incredibly blessed so far in this process: no swollen anything (except my belly, of course), no diabetes, no high blood pressure, no trouble sleeping, none of the awful things you hear about (not yet, anyway!). But I also know I'm just going to keep on getting bigger...

Some women tell me I will miss being pregnant, and though I seriously doubt that, feeling the little man-cub move and wiggle and push all day never gets old. It's magical every time I feel the pressure, every time I see my belly bulge. "Andrew! look!" Every time. But knowing I will trade that for seeing his face -- how could I miss being pregnant when I will get all of him instead? Not just his wiggles, but seeing his face and actually holding him in my arms, learning about him, getting to know him.

Seriously, I almost can't handle how much we have to be thankful for, even in the little things: Andrew takes his Board exam a week from today, and then he'll be free for the rest of the summer! (So pray for him, please.) And ice cream with friends tonight. And seeing family next weekend. And summertime, which means peaches and fresh tomatoes and Happy Hour at Sonic!

Also, it's Friday. Go celebrate, friends!

The Good, the Bad, and the Adorable

First of all, the bad news. Blacksburg has somehow fallen into a black hole and Andrew and I now live in Seattle, where it rains every day. This means that my sweet husband, who has been sitting at the table all day studying for his board exams, was unable to play softball tonight. Stupid rain. You made my husband sad.

The good news? I received an offer of employment from Smarthinking.com, which means I can be a stay-at-home mom with a job! I will be a part-time writing tutor, which will be good for our bank account, but hopefully, also for my brain and heart. I applied for this job last August, when I was pregnant the first time. And God brought it to me last week. Just in time. His perfect time. How overwhelmingly good is He?

And, speaking of God's goodness, here is my little boy. He's smiling. (And I would tell you his name, except it's a secret! Ha ha!)

I cannot wait to meet this kid. I want to read him Goodnight Moon for the first time, and a hundred times after. I want to find out what kind of cake he likes for his birthday, to watch him play catch with Andrew, and to teach him the names for our world. And I secretly really hope he has dimples like my dad's.

The Story I Finally Want to Tell

The prophet Habakkuk, when the Lord told him that He was planning to bring the Babylonians to capture Israel as part of her punishment and restoration process, was astounded and deeply shaken. How could a good God not only allow such a people as the Babylonians to exist, but then use them against His own people? What Habakkuk was forced to do in order to understand was to say, "I will take my stand at my watchpost and station myself on the tower," (Hab. 2:11) to remind himself of all the truths he already knew about God and His character -- truths that never change. God's plan is overwhelmingly full of crazy maneuvers like this one, back-handed slaps to the face and pride that you never saw coming, and yet, are still out of the sweet and beautiful character of a God who loves more deeply than the human heart can understand.

I, too, am Habakkuk. And here, at last, reader, is the story of my first year of marriage. The version you probably don't know.

Andrew and I were married in June of last year, on the most beautiful day of the whole South Carolina summer. About three hundred friends and family came from as far away as Michigan and South America to celebrate with us and send us on our journey together with great joy. It was a day where God's blessing and smile was tangible.

At the end of July, we spent a morning lying in bed, terrified, laughing and weeping. On our bathroom counter lay an unfeeling bit of white plastic: pregnant. This made no sense, reader. We had planned, been so careful, done everything we were supposed to do to avoid this. We had spent months in prayer for this marriage, for the tentative plans we were making together, seeking wisdom and blessing on what we believed was the best and wisest timing. Of course we wanted children! Just... not yet. Not for years.

What would our parents say? What would our siblings and friends say?

We were so afraid, so embarassed, so overwhelmed with every emotion except joy.

And then, reader, we found that joy. Driving back to South Carolina the first week of August, to see my family for a few days (and break the news with pounding hearts), we found joy and laughter in sweet abundance. A child! God gives no greater earthly blessing! This particular person, those particular genes in combination -- God wanted that child to be ours. We named him Isaac. The child of our sweet laughter, the crazy miracle child. We fell in love.

Two or three weeks later, we sat nervously in chairs covered in green ginko leaf print, in a quiet waiting room, our hearts pounding. Once summoned, we sat silently, jazz music softly playing in the background, seeing our tiny child for the first time. It never occurred to either of us that the ultrasound tech didn't let us hear the heartbeat, didn't print us pictures; she just measured in the quiet, letting our innocence buffer for her until we sat in the doctor's office to hear the truth.

There was no heartbeat. There was no Isaac.

All I remember about those days was being surprised at how much the heart can hurt, how harsh and horrible a cry can sound, and how much we both wept. We sat on the floor in the bathroom for hours one day, sobbing so harshly my throat hurt. I could think of no comfort but to speak Psalm 23 to myself, but there was no remedy, no balm, no ease.

On August 30, 2011, my body realized finally what my head already knew, and I spent hours in a mockery of birth. The actual miscarriage was painful, physically and emotionally, of course, but also strangely relieving. Having Isaac leave my body meant that we could begin to heal. Slowly.

In October, God very obviously gave me a job at a daycare. It was strange; I've never been comfortable around small children, and as I was still raw from losing my own child, God gave me fifteen toddlers. Cruel, no. Painful, yes. But healing. I learned how to change a diaper, to say no to a child's tantrum, to understand toddler speak (a skill of which I am very proud, actually), to love these children. I gave my heart away again.

Thanksgiving, Christmas. Again, driving down to visit family. Andrew and I realized how much our hearts had changed since those conversations over the summer. All of our reasons for not wanting to have children seemed nothing but self-centered and faithless. So we can travel? So we can do this and that cool thing? So we can be thirty-somethings under the illusion that we have our life together? Andrew will be in medical school for years. We will be married for years. We will only be young once.

And so, reader, now, as I have been reliving the past year, I have also been watching the mound of my belly pulse and jump at the kicks of a very alive 26-week old boy.

I feel that I am giving up everything I've put my self-worth in up to this point -- most keenly lately, my petite frame (now carrying at least fifteen extra pounds) and my academic ability. I crave praise and commendation, and I am choosing to walk away (at least for now) from the chance at post-graduate studies, a career, a life with marked progress and the praise of co-workers and mentors -- I am choosing to stay at home with my son. It is terrifying to know that I am choosing a life that society does not find valid or worthwhile; I feel that I even have to justify myself to my friends. It is unglamorous, exhausting, dirty and grueling, and I know I will struggle daily to give up my idols.

But I know, too, that this tiny human growing in me, this image-bearer who will bring something brand-new into this world, is absolutely worth it. And the sanctifying work that my God will do in me is worth it.

He brought in the Babylonians and ripped our hearts to pieces without warning, and seemingly without reason. And yet, He always has reason, and this life I carry now is at least one validation to what we suffered.

This baby is due August 31, 2012. A year later.

Though the fig tree should not blossom, no fruit be on the vines, [. . .] yet I will rejoice in the Lord; I will take joy in the God of my salvation. God, the Lord, is my strength; he makes my feet like the deer's; he makes me tread on my high places. Hab. 3:17-19

Stories Worth Listening To

My husband has the gift of becoming friends with strangers, a talent that I wish I possessed with such a genuine spirit as he has. His ability to ask good questions and let people know he's really interested in their stories gives us many great conversations with people we'd never know had such fascinating lives.

Like these guys.

Paul and Peggy.

We had the very great pleasure of meeting Paul and Peggy this past weekend over dinner at a bed and breakfast, and I think we did more talking than eating. We quickly learned they were in the area to learn about a local prison ministry that they were considering beginning a branch of in their home church, and we gladly asked them to give thanks with us for our meal. (What a joy when strangers are suddenly brothers and sisters!) Over the next hour and half, we sat and listened to their story.

A Mennonite couple, married 54 years, these two spent most of their lives overseas on the mission field. First in Puerto Rico, then in Peru and later Kenya and Zambia, working with Wycliffe Bible Translators and JAARS. They were in Peru in 1956 as Jim Elliot and his comerades were killed nearby in Ecuador; Paul was a radio operator and remembers hearing all of the news breaking and happening on the radio.

They spent years in Kenya living in tents, eight hours from Nairobi, teaching other missionaries how to survive in the African bush. Peggy recounted how a favorite weekend activity for their family was rising early to watch the sunrise over a watering hole at a local game preserve.

As a young man, Paul told us, he only ever wanted to be a farmer. His life was changed, however, by a man named R. G. LeTourneau, who is quite famous in his own right (inventor, philanthropist, Christian legacy, and founder of the university). LeTourneau wanted to help the impoverished peoples of South America by helping them cultivate their lands for farming, and so planned a mission to clear jungle and turn it into roads and farm land, and bring in Mennonite men (well-known for being good farmers) to teach how to farm well. Paul was one of ten young men who spent two years in South America with LeTourneau, building roads. He told of exciting plane landings in small villages, and of dinner at the LeTourneau's home. After these two years with LeTourneau, Paul said, he was never content just farming. He and Peggy farmed for a few years after their marriage, and then left for the mission field, where they stayed for almost half a decade.

After this evening of listening to their stories, told with such joy and obvious pleasure at their own life and God's goodness, I wondered if perhaps some of heaven or the New Earth will be spent thus, hearing and telling with joy the stories of God's goodness and provision on this earth.

This and That About a Baby

Halfway there. Twenty weeks. Holy cow. (Crank some Bon Jovi for me?)

I just began reading a (so-far) excellent book entitled Give Them Grace: Dazzling Your Kids with the Love of Jesus by Elyse Fitzpatrick and Jessica Thompson, a mother-daughter duo. The idea is that your children are not perfect, will never be perfect, and as Christian parents, giving them more law ("Be good!") is not a gospel-centered way to nurture them. The law does not make us perfect as adults, so why do we think it will make our children perfect, or even teach them true obedience? Our tiny sinners need the radical, crazy gospel of Jesus our Savior. They can't do it, they can't please God, they can't get it right, and they need to know they can't, so they'll actually understand the gospel. They write: "Our children aren't innately good, and we shouldn't tell them that they are. But they are loved, and if they truly believe that, his love will transform them." By God's grace, I pray I can love my kids with a gospel love, and not out of a selfish need for this precious child to behave and "be good." He can't be good.

(Incidentally, I always wish I could tell my parents this in a way they'd understand at my job when they seem shocked that their little darling disobeyed/bit/hit, whatever. I just want to say, "Your kid is a sinner, and will never be perfect; don't be shocked that they act this way." But without the grace of the gospel, they don't understand that.)

I've been thinking about what it will mean to be a parent, to give up all these things that I think I want and need, to put my dreams and ambitions on hold, perhaps for a very long time, for the sake of nurturing this tiny human to the fullest of my small ability. It's scary, but good; I know every reason I could throw out for not having a child this young, this early, are all completely selfish reasons. I want to choose to embrace this wonderful, beautiful, greater, sanctifying good over what I think I want from my life. And I'm trying to work it into some sort of a nice poem, but right now, all I have is this rough start, based on one of my favorite children's books:

Goodnight comb. Goodnight brush.

Goodnight nobody.

Goodnight mush.

Goodnight stars. Goodnight air.

Goodnight freedoms everywhere.

Goodnight self. Goodnight sleep.

Goodnight quiet, dark and deep.

Goodnight youth. Goodnight brands.

Goodnight carefree evening plans.

Goodnight silly, careless, wild.

Goodnight self: Goodnight child.

Good morning, beautiful baby.