some thoughts on hope

A few days ago I read a fascinating article on the BBC news site over research showing once again the health benefits of journaling through or reflecting over a particularly difficult time in life. This study found that participants who journaled were far less likely to visit the doctor’s office for care as their physical health improved for a short bit of time. Is that not wild? Being somewhat young but old enough to have tasted of life’s hardships, I can count three times in my life that were emotionally draining and terribly difficult to navigate, most of which I would rather not share in a blog format. The media brings devastating news almost daily, and friends I hold dear continue to go through trying times in regard to fertility, loss of a loved one, health, and mental health. Life is not easy. Instead, it is rather terrifying. While I find my hope in the Lord, He never promises to wave a wand, banishing all of the bad and replacing it with good. . .at least not in this life; He does promise, however, to be with me, to hold me up, to point my eyes toward eternity. When my friends hurt, I can’t give them anything beyond a hug and shared tears that will relieve them of misery, but I can pray, and I can ask my Father to apply His mending salve to their souls. This is so much more.

Four years ago on the 4^th of July, while attempting to bike north on the Jenks Rivertrail to see the fireworks show off the 21^st street bridge, I was hit by a drunk teenage girl. My body flew up over her car and rolled off its trunk, and she sped away in fear only to be chased and arrested by firemen who witnessed the accident. Jay, who was maybe a quarter of a block behind me, witnessed the accident, too, and was with me through every step of the recovery, beginning with my stay in the hospital. As I think about this event, I am somewhat detached as I didn’t see it happen, and my outcome is good: I am able to walk again, and I suffered no permanent brain injuries (well that might be debatable by some). What makes me fairly emotional even now is to think of how fragile I felt after the accident and how separated I was from my daughter who was nine months old at the time—she was scared of me at first as my face was cut open and swollen from hitting the road. In fact, even the physical therapist’s assistant on hospital staff was a little bit scared of me when she walked into my room: “OMG!! What happened to YOUR FACE?” The poor woman was promptly pushed out of the room by her more tactful colleague, “Uh, yes, well, we will check back on you soon.” Jay and I still like to use that line in jest when we think of it because, well, it is funny.

I spent twelve weeks on crutches, and Eden and I began walking at the same time, which was actually incredibly sweet. I was still navigating the newness of parenthood—four years later I still am but in different ways. All of this to say, now that I have recovered in all ways (even the road tattoo I carried on my right cheek for two years after the wreck has been “erased,” leaving only a splat-shaped scar), this difficult time in life feels like a dream. Others I know are experiencing real loss, not temporary loss, hardship that is life-shattering and heart-searing. Some are grappling with the emotional trauma of a lonely or even abusive childhood and are now attempting to work through the hurts done unto them in the past. Their struggles are so difficult. I know women who have had miscarriage after miscarriage and can’t understand why their fertility isn’t easy and straightforward like the women around them. This world, if one really examines it, is not a guarantee for great happiness. We might experience it, yes, but ultimately, we will also experience sadness. That is inevitable. We all age. We all experience loss.

I read a beautiful scripture the other day, and it has been with me, showing me my hope cannot thrive in the non-permanent: “Blessed be the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ. According to his great mercy, he has caused us to be born again to a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead” (I Peter 1:3). Is that not beautiful? This melts my fears of my children growing up too quickly, of one day losing my spouse whom I love dearly, and whatever other trying life events I encounter along the way. Christ’s death and resurrection is secure, and it isn’t changing. He is steadfast. Tim Keller, founding pastor for Redeemer Presbyterian in New York, wrote an entire sermon series on hope, and from the sermons I have listened to, I have found great encouragement. Similar reflections are present weekly in my home church, a resting place rich because of its grace-based reformed theology. I’m not sure why I’m writing a blog about faith tonight, but I guess these are just the thoughts that have been banging around in my head in between diaper changes, night feedings, and meal preps. I wish I could say that I’ve been properly meditating upon them, ruminating as a means for joy, but honestly I’ve been frantically clinging to them at times and ignoring them at others. When I blog again in six months, I’m sure to pump out another sappy mom blog, stuffed with anecdotes that only me, my grandma, mom, and sisters care to read.

 

 

welcoming warren into the world

Little baby Warren, in some ways it felt like we waited forever to meet you because we couldn’t wait to love you in our arms, and in other ways, your pregnancy was the quickest of all of our children because we were so busy tending to the needs of your brother and sister. You may have heard us talking outside of your cozy womb about who you would be: “Will we have another girl or another boy? Should we change the nursery before Pickle is born or leave it the same? Do you think this baby will be overwhelmed with the chaos of our family? What boy names do you like? How about girl names?” Your girl name changed quite a bit. I think you began as “Ayla” and then transitioned into “Hazel” and finally “Maddie June,” but we knew fairly early on that if you were a boy, you would be our Warren Ellijah. And you are!

I went into labor on a Tuesday evening—an evening after a super moon—as we were eating Mexican food with your Nana, Grandpa, Great Uncle Charles, Great Aunt Kathy, Daddy, Eden, and Miles. Daddy drove your excited sister and unsuspecting brother to Nonni’s house while I drove home to labor a bit before we made our way to the hospital. Sometime in the middle of the night, at that point when all is dark and the world has been in silent slumber for some time, Daddy loaded our bags into the van while I tread carefully down the stairs and down the long starlit walkway to my passenger seat. Even in pain, I couldn’t help feeling like the wee hours of the morning were like Christmas—I knew I would finally meet you, hold you, and know you.

When you finally came, I saw you as you entered the world and then were lifted onto my chest. You were screaming and couldn’t be consoled; the open room was sprawling before you, and you had to use your lungs for the first time on your own. The cord had been wrapped two times around your neck, but we were still able to deliver you the way we had hoped. The nurses asked Daddy to look at his new baby: “What did you have?” they asked. “Why he’s a boy!” Daddy said in a delayed way, processing all that was happening. I felt like I had known all along even though I had my moments of doubt, but you just FELT like a boy in there. You were beautiful to me.  You were so small, and your body so helpless, completely dependent upon me. I tried to feed you, but you kept looking around the room with wide eyes, perhaps imagining all of the new world before you was just a dream. Finally, you began to eat, and your body rested in my arms.

You were born two days after your due date, and we think you simply wanted to be born on a Wednesday as Eden and Miles both were. You came November 16, 2016 at 9:06 a.m. weighing seven pounds, thirteen ounces. The doctor missed this birth, too, but we didn’t mind. We are glad you came on your own time and arrived safely into this world. Your brother and sister were elated when they first met you. Seven days later, Miles is still commenting, “Baby ‘dorable, Mama” and pointing out all of your body parts, “Baby forehead. Baby eye. Baby nose.” (He squishes your nose a bit when he points out this last one, and I’m always worried you won’t be able to breath. You are quite accommodating for now at least, letting Miles drive his toy car across face and letting your brother and sister “drive” your bassinet across the wood floor.) Eden is equally enamored, and loves to comment upon your every move and minor twitch: “Did he just yawn? Hi, little mister. Do you like me? Aww.” Yesterday she gushed, “We finally have a REAL newborn to love.”

“Hold baby, Mama?” is the request of the hour, and we all feel that way. I can’t hold you enough, and neither can Daddy. You are named Warren after your great-grandfather, the father of your Nonni and grandpa of your Daddy. Elijah is a name we love for you, too, because of its sound and its Biblical meaning. Warren Elijah, thank you for joining our little family; we are so relieved you are here and that we are able to know you and love you even more every day. We ask that the Lord would lead you and cover you all of your days and that you would always know of His infinite love for you. You are so special to us.

Park Nights!

Dinnertime sometimes evokes screaming and hollering and even gnashing of teeth around our house.  A seemingly harmless chicken tender and pile of steamed cauliflower can send a child into a deep spiral of pain, which then creates anguish for the entire family.  Since the weather has turned glorious, team parents hastily rushes through the dinner process and then suggests as if it is a new idea, “Hey!  Do you guys want to go to the PARK? How about the motorcycle park?”  More screaming and hollering but of the gleeful variety this time, and we carelessly squirt some soap on our dinner dishes, sweep up food thrown by the little guy, and scramble to the double stroller.

Generally Miles is still clad in dinner with something like ketchup on his face, and we are looking rag tag in who knows what attire.  (About once a week Jay pulls out a pair of white sweatpants he’s had since college, and Eden is usually wearing a princess nightgown or some “comfy clothes” ensemble.) The fortunate thing is that in order to go to the motorcycle park we have to book it through Utica Square which isn’t fancy at all.  We blend right in with the wine-drinking patio dwellers, especially when we stop for long periods of time to examine the flowers and determine which are suitable for taking with us: “Nope. This tulip is still planted in the ground.  Do you see any others with broken stems?  We can’t take the flower unless it is no longer rooted in the ground.  Look closely.”)  Surprisingly we usually find five or six flowers that have been liberated—or cast out—from their brethren.  We take these guys with us and stuff them in our pockets or pull apart their bodies mercilessly to create a pile of petals.

Once we arrive at the park, children descend from the double stroller and run to the slides both twisty and straight, the bouncy see-saw, and, of course, the motorcycle (which actually isn’t a motorcycle at all we discovered a few visits ago but rather a four-wheeler.  Who wants to go to a four-wheeler park?).  I become “the big scary monster” while Eden turns into princess Belle.  She isn’t allowed in my castle, the giant play contraption, although somehow she always outsmarts me and my made-up man voice.  Her cries of bliss get me every time.  They are such a  precious part of my day. Jay generally plays referee to the Bobo and supervises him on his slide endeavors and motorcycle/four-wheeler expeditions.  We carry on this way for a good thirty minutes, yelping and hollering and running about, until the five minute countdown comes.

A month or so ago, I missed the best park night ever.  I never miss.  Of all nights, I was getting my annual haircut (who has time for haircuts?), and three of the Stevensons were playing merrily.  Eden had torn off and tossed her princess slippers in the play yard, and she happened to notice a squirrel checking out her abandoned shoes.  She laughed and pointed at them to show her daddy, and Jay chuckled saying, “Don’t worry about that guy.  He’s just sniffing your shoes for some reason.”  More playing ensued, and then the squirrel stuffed his mouth full of slipper.  “What’s he doing with my shoe, Daddy?” Eden asked, and then they watched as the squirrel made a move.  He scurried up a nearby tree with slipper bulging from his mouth, carrying it all of the way up to his nest.  The little rascal!  They were stunned.  “NOT NICE, squirrel!” Eden yelled over and over mightily but to no avail.

A few nights later after her new Frozen slippers arrived in the mail, we humbly placed her solitary slipper by the foot of the tree just in case the squirrel needed that for his plush bedding.  Park nights are wild.  If you’d told me pre-kids the great joy I would find in park nights, I probably would have laughed and gone back to biking, reading, or doing who knows what.  (Do you ever wonder what in the world you used to do before you had kids?  I think I slept a lot.)  Anyway. . . the weather is looking like it will bring a beautiful park night tonight, and I am ready!

Sibling Starts

The other night I was putting to Miles to bed, and Eden who just turned three wandered into Miles’ room with a panty-clad head. “Look, Mom, I have panties on my head AND on my bottom,” she grinned as she pointed emphatically to her head and “nakey” body. We laughed, and then she turned to Miles: “Little buddy, tomorrow I will make a picnic, and you can mess it all up. Then, I’ll make a REALLY BIG castle, and you can tear it down. Yes, you can, little guy.” In a three-year-old’s world, these promises mean, “I love you so much I’ll let you upset my attempts at perfection.” Of course, these promises are made easily at night when the budding chef/architect is not engrossed in play, and the young terrorist is stowed neatly in his crib behind bars.

These kiddos’ friendship is continuing to form and can easily mutate from one minute to the next. The other day at the park Eden was playing independently of Miles in attempt to hoard all of the acorns and sticks she could find. “Nooo, Miles!” she hollered anytime Miles began to crawl in the direction of her acorn amassment. (Apparently, the acorns were freshly baked cookies, and the sticks were ice cream or something somewhat nonparallel.) Upon the threat of another child toddling up to Miles and pushing him gently on his shoulder, Eden tossed her acorn cookies and ice cream sticks to the ground and ran to his rescue. Mama Eden then proceeded to trail him under every monkey bar and to every slide foot, casting narrow-eyed scowls in the direction of any toddling threats.

Embarrassingly enough, several months ago, in an attempt to continue to build the kids’ friendship, I began voicing the made-up thoughts of Miles. Eden responds to these made-up thoughts as if she is having a real conversation with her brother, and I kind of love it. I used to think Eden knew I was the speaker behind the little guy’s thoughts, but over time, I’ve noticed she really does believe she is having an actual conversation with him. Yesterday afternoon we were driving, and she was giving him the agenda of our errand list: “first the bank where I can get a wollypop. You can’t have one yet, Miles, because you would choke on it. Then, we will go to the library where you can get some books, and I can get some books. Mommy can get some books. (We did all get books.), and then we will go to the grocery store, buddy. You like the grocery store don’t you? You can have a lot of snacks there.” As she relayed this information to her brother, she kept seeking responses, so I voiced a few “Oh good’s” and a “yummy!” for our non-speaking child.

The conversation continued, and she began asking Miles specific things like, “Miles, did you know we came out of Mommy’s tummy? That’s how we were ‘burned’ (born), buddy” to which “Miles” responded, “Oh, we did? We didn’t come from eggs like dinosaurs?”

“No, Miles, we came out of Mommy’s tummy! Mommy, Miles thinks we came out of eggs; isn’t that funny? *small pause* Do eggs come from birds and dinosaurs? ”

“That’s pretty funny! Yes, they do!”

I kind of feel like I am three people, and I have a feeling this won’t change. . .maybe ever. Eden shares her brain’s mutterings with me all day long, telling me without intermission the thoughts that flit about in her brain, and Miles’ “voice” is technically mine. The three of us live it up in a multi-conversation way all day aside from the quiet room times (praise the Lord!) when my brain is on its own on a recovery table hooked up to an IV. I hear as they grow older kids begin asking questions about philosophy, theology, science, and so forth; I suppose by then, Miles will be chiming in with his own questions, and his little made-up voice will be a memory. I hope, however, like every mother, that their friendship is a haven throughout life. We shall see. Maybe I can train them to answer each other’s questions. Now that would be something!

To Have a Sibling

Eden occasionally watches a show called Max and Ruby, in which a school-aged bunny interacts with her baby bunny brother. When Eden first began watching this show, Jay and I would discuss it and comment upon how poor Miles, just like poor Max, would one day become the brunt of his sister’s advice, patronizing doting, and other such sisterly activity. We began singing our kids names to the tune of Max and Ruby’s intro song—Eden and Miles, Miles and Eden—thinking ourselves clever for coming up with such a perceptive comparison. We didn’t know just a few short months ago that our prediction would come true so quickly.

Now that Miles is pulling up on EVERYTHING—floor vents protruding from the wall, swiveling kitchen chairs, the dishwasher, couches and chairs—he has his grubby, little hands into far more. This includes all things pink, and all things frilly, and all things related to a play kitchen set where massive amounts of wooden cookies and cakes are pumped out by the minute. On a frequent basis, Miles bee-lines his way across his sister’s carpet, army-crawling like the best of them, and pulls his fat legs up by his chubby hands as he latches onto Eden’s small play table. He flashes the few teeth he has in joyous triumph and then rakes his entire arm over Eden’s carefully positioned plastic tea cups and dining bunnies and dolls. As wooden plates and plastic forks fly, Miles attempts to shove a few pretend grapes and lemons into his mouth, perhaps as a flourish of victory although he seems clueless of the dark devastation he is inflicting upon his sister. “Miles, noooooooo!” Eden shrieks and grabs wildly at her fallen trophies, her ambitions atrophying in the hands of her oblivious brother. The poor guy is like a bull in a china shop. He tumbles to the side of Eden’s table confused as to why he is now lying upon his side clutching a mini lemon.
These interactions continue all throughout the day, and sometimes they are disheartening to observe but are generally a bit comical/safety concerning. Eden now tries to retaliate by taking all toys, even those deemed as Miles’, away from Miles. She scoops toys by the armloads and carries them to safety atop her wooden chest of drawers. “Miles, stop, buddy. You can’t have these. Stop, little guy,” she admonishes as a mischievous gleam sparkles in her baby blues. I walked into her room yesterday to find Miles’ pacifier perched just out of reach from his fat, baby hands. Life lessons in civil behavior begin early I suppose. Rudimentary teachable moments?
Even though he continues to terrorize her flawlessly arranged collections of Lego figurines and demolish airy castles made of blocks, she cannot help but smother him with her affections after she has worked through her losses. She insists upon picking out his clothes in the morning. “Miles, you can wear this today,” she says as she fishes out a green-striped shirt and sweat pants for a July visit to the park. “Hold still, Miles buddy,” she commands her wriggly patient as she takes pink hair pins and clips them all about his nearly bald head and then scrapes a toy blow-dryer across his scalp: “There. You are ready!” A few weeks ago, I had plopped Miles down in Eden’s room in front of a plate of steamed carrots, hoping to squeeze in a snack before we left the house. I left the room for a minute only to return to Miles wearing one of Eden’s doll bibs, strapped about his neck from what looked to be a drive-by bibbing: “Miles was all messy, Mama.” The love/hate relationship they have is still one-sided, for unsuspecting Miles placates most of Eden’s whims at this age. Several times a day, I am captivated by their sibling affections; I’ll be working on something like sautéing fish and steaming rice and look up to see Miles whiff at catching a golf ball Eden has rolled to him. The two guffaw, and my heart melts. I think they will make it out alive, and I’ll bet they might even be friends on their good days in the process. We shall see.