why it's important to talk about fear

Processing, part II.

So friends, I have to admit, I've been dealing with quite a bit of writers remorse, after initially posting the previous reflection, "Monday to Tuesday."  It has been far more viewed than any other post I've written on this blog - shared numerous times, and read by people on four continents.  And that feels hard to me - hard because it's my story, my reflections, not a summary of the experience for marathon volunteers.  Hard because it was not complete, but very much in process.  Hard because it doesn't paint me in a good light - nor does it accurately reflect all the good that was going on around me, because that wasn't the story I was telling.  Hard because I felt exposed.  Hard because I didn't like the story about myself;  hard because I didn't respond in the way that I wanted to.  Hard because so much of it is about fear.

To be clear, I am not ashamed of the fact that I love my family and wanted to be with them, needed them to know that I was okay.  I feel no guilt in that, nor am I apologizing for a response that led me to run towards them.  Love is strong and good.  And even when love doesn't make your story "courageous" per se, there is no shame in love.  But the fear part of my response - the fear part of my story - has felt hard.  And admitting it has felt shameful.

Because isn't that how terrorism works?  The use of fear, violence, intimidation, to achieve ones' own ends?  Don't we, don't I, therefore, give victory to this cowardly attack, by acknowledging that I, that we, were in fact afraid?  That fear was present?

But as I've thought about it more, I've realized, it was right and appropriate for me to share that story - to share the parts that feel shameful too - not because it reflects who I want to be, but because it is true.  And in order to become the people that we want to be, we have to face who we are.

It does me, it does us, no good to tell stories spun in such a way that our inner desire becomes mysteriously transformed into our actual actions, regardless of the actual difference between the two.  While they make us sound better - and may authentically reflect what we desire to be - it does us no good to deceive ourselves into believing that we were who we weren't.  Because inevitably, when we lie about who we are, or were, we don't give ourselves the opportunity to grow, to change, to heal.  And when faced with a similar situation, we will respond in exactly the same way.  Fear hidden and denied, remains; it does not magically go away.

There are many people who are not afraid - for whom fear is not their primary reaction.  I pray that for my son every night - that he won't seek out danger, but that he also will not be afraid in the ways that I have been and am.  And I hope and pray that will be true for him.  And there are many people who can master fear quickly, and press into it, rather than run away.  But for the other 85% of the human population, who respond to danger with fear - to not acknowledge it, to pretend to be fearless, even when we were fearful, is a fearful response.  And actually cripples our ability to ever be courageous or fearless.  Fear that stays in the dark is like a rat in a dark room, walking in front of a spotlight.  The shadow is huge, even though the rat itself is small.  Fear that is hidden leads to true terror - even though it might not be externally evident until triggered.  Only by turning on the lights, acknowledging it, seeing it, is it revealed as it truly is.  Only by acknowledging ourselves, as we truly are, can we grow, heal, change.

That's different from a healthy "fake it til you make it."  Healthy fake-it-til-you-make-it is Corrie Ten Boom not feeling forgiveness, but extending her hand of forgiveness anyhow.  Struggling to love someone well, but still calling anyhow and saying "I love you." What do they say, whoever it was that actually said it? "Courage is not the absence of fear, but the mastery over it" or "the willingness to act in spite of fear."  

It's also different from dwelling on fear, being paralyzed by fear, defining ourselves by our fears, or living in fear.  If that is the case, then terrorists, and terror, do win.   Eventually, we have to leave the fear behind - to choose hope, to live life, to choose love.  We have to acknowledge also, that fear is not the end of the story.  But I don't think we do that by denying the presence of fear, when it's actually there.  To name it, to admit it, to bring it to light, is to begin the process of disarming it.  

Franklin D. Roosevelt once said, "The only thing we have to fear is fear itself" - a quote which is often used to call us into courage.  I would add to that - in being afraid to admit that we are fearful at times, in hiding behind the masks of who we wish we were, we strength the grip of fear.  Only by confronting, naming, and choosing to leave our fears behind - taking off the mask, turning on the lights, as it were not being afraid to admit that we were afraid -  do we actually lay claim to FDRs fear-free "leadership of frankness and vigor... which is essential to victory."

How does that pertain to me?  It starts by telling an honest story.  By acknowledging fear.  Yes, I was afraid.  Yes, I responded in fear.  No, that is not how I wish I had responded or desire to respond in the future.  Lord have mercy.  But also holding fast to the truth that fear is not the end of the story.  

Yes, the fruit of terrorism is fear.  And were to God that we were all fearless - that terrorism would be powerless against us, because it is powerless, where fear is absent.  Yet, the reality is that many of us are afraid, or respond with fear.  Yet, and that yet is important, in the courage to say, "I am afraid, but..." even if that "but" is just a repentance from our fearful actions, the roots of terror begins to be uprooted.  Where fear stays in the dark, it grows, leads to hatred, racism, bitterness, and even greater fear.  But in that "but"... courage grows.  Because even the act of the "but" is the first step to "willingness to act in spite of fear."

That's where I am, friends.  Telling my story.  In truth.  With hope.  Acknowledging fear.  Holding to hope in the "but..."  That, I truly believe, is the beginning of what courage is.

Monday to Tuesday

This will be long, and for that I apologize - this post is more for me than for you.  It's a space for me to begin to process.  To begin to put words to paper - to even figure out what I need to process of these events of the day - as I remember them.  Let me be clear - it is my story NOT the story of the day.  The story of the day is so much bigger, with different flavors, angles, colors and degrees than mine.  So here you go - this is just my story.

7:25 am - I left the house yesterday morning - Jon gave me a ride to the T, I told them I loved them, and headed downtown to volunteer for the marathon.  I was excited - this was year 5 volunteering, and so I knew it was going to be an exhausting, but exciting day.  I was nervous - this was the longest time (8+ hrs) that I had left S, since he was born - but excited that he and daddy would get quality time.  And I LOVE volunteering at the marathon!  There is absolutely nothing like it - the energy, the excitement, the joy-and-or-heartbreak, and the people - runners are a unique, weird, crazy breed, but Lord help me, I am one, and I love them.

8 am - I arrived at the finish line and begin orientation

8:50 am - Jon texts to tell me that S has peed all over himself, Jon, the changing table, and the wall.  We both find it moderately amusing, although me, far more so.  It's the first time in months.

9:17 am - We take pictures at the finish line, as we listen to the air gun sound off the wheelchairs in Hopkinton, and the clock begins to count the official time.

9:30 am - We begin bagging 30,000 bags of food for hungry exhausted runners - it's an exciting station, because we're less than a block from the finish line - we can see the bridge and the line from where we are, and the hum and buzz of excitement are already beginning.

10:25 am - I get excused from bagging food, so that I can pump breast milk for my son.  I end up sitting on the floor, in the entryway to the ladies room, attempting to be modest by semi-hiding behind a trashcan.  It does not work.  I decide that it is next to impossible to modestly express milk in public places.  I get tangled in my jacket at least 5 different ways, flash at least 4 people, and barely make it through the whole process with any shard of dignity.  All this on the floor, behind a trashcan.  I consider how funny this whole situation is, and how much I will enjoy relating it later.

12:15 pm(ish) - runners begin to finish, finish line area begins to get busy.  The runners are smiling, most of them happy with their times.  The wind is cold, and they're shivering.  Sore.  Limping.  Hurting.  Falling.  But they've made it.  Energy is high.  Most are happy.  They all want bananas.  :)

2:20 pm - I need to pump again, and can't get out of the runners chute - I attempt to do so behind a garbage truck, again tangled in said jacket, and then make eye contact with one of my former students and decide this is a bad idea/next to impossible to do so modestly.  I will just wait until I leave at 3.

2:42 pm - check the time, and consider leaving early, pumping first, and then going home.  Decide to grit through it and stay until 3pm.  The runners are 5-10 wide, cold, and the chute is packed.

2:47 pm (by my clock) - first explosion, less than 30 seconds later, second explosion.  We see it - the big cloud of grey white smoke.  We feel it.  We hear it.  

Bear in mind, that the runners are 5-10 wide, and solidly packed in the chute.  In our area alone, there were hundreds, and thousands.  And yet, as a unified field, when the first explosion sounds, the area goes silent, and every head turns toward it.  Then there is noise, questions, chatter, confusion. "I think it might be a transformer again - remember how that happened last summer and knocked out all the power?" Then the second explosion.  "I think it was on the green line T - is that two stations?  Bomb?" Someone yells, "RUN." Panicked, stiff, limping, shivering runners coax sore muscles into action. 

Someone official yells for us not to panic.  The crowd slows.  Some walk, some run. But there is a momentary pause in the panic.  I return to passing out food bags.  "No, I don't know what it was... no, I don't think it was planned.  Someone is saying bombs, but we don't know."  No one knows.  I call Jon to tell him to turn on the news, I'm okay, but something is wrong - can he find out what's wrong.  Then, a roar, rumbling, movement of hundreds of people moving.  I wonder if it's the explosion of a moving train beneath the ground, under our feet.  Someone official yells that we need to clear out.  Now.  And the crowd surges forward.  I run.  I notice my phone has fallen out of my pocket, and turn back with panicked expression, trying to decide if I should go back to get it.  All I can see is panicked faces and people running.  Some running towards the explosions.  Some running away.  Limping.  Trying to make phone calls.  I leave it behind and keep running, jumping the fence out of the chute with a grandmother trying to find her family.  Two blocks away, I realize that I'm still carrying three food bags that I had been handing out.  I put them down, and keep moving.  

I am afraid, yes.  But all I can think is that I just want to get home to Jon and S.  To let them know that I'm okay.  "I just want to f**ing be home. I want to hold my baby and be held by my husband."  I am not courageous.  I do not think about staying or helping.  Until I get home and start the guilt-inducing thought-spiral of shoulda coulda woulda.  But let's be honest, this is not a heroic story, a servants story, or even a compassionate story - although I could tell you those or try to spin this as such.  That would be false, and I promised you honesty, even when ugly. It's just my story.  And all I could think of was being home with my family.  And telling them that I loved them.  And so I ran home.

There are sirens everywhere.  Police, ambulance, SWAT team, fire trucks.  Everywhere.  And then there's the "repent or go to hell" truck.  Next to the SWAT truck.  I curse.  And sirens everywhere.  Everyone on their cell phones.  Looking for family members.  Moving.  Confused.  No one knows what has happened.  But everyone knows that something is wrong.  Out-of-towners are consulting maps - no one knows where they are.  They cross streets in front of sirens, not even looking.  Everyone is confused.  Moving.  The sirens aren't just heading for Copley square.  They're heading to all the transit stations as well.  Everyone is on their cell phones.  No one can get a call out.

It's not a sense of mass panic; just confusion.  No one knows what has happened/is happening.  And very few people know where they are.   We stop in front of a store that has the news on, myself and 15 strangers, circling the windows - trying to figure out what happened.  The news doesn't know anything either.  They just keep showing the same picture.

I run into an older woman who wants to know what happened - her daughter-in-law called in a panic.  I tell her I don't know, and I ask if I can use her cell phone to call my husband.  She asks if its long-distance.  I smile, and say "Don't worry about it.  Everything will be okay.  Don't worry." I pass a woman - a girl, really, crying on the street, on her phone.  "I can't look at the pictures anymore.  There's so much blood everywhere.  And body parts.  I feel like I'm going to be sick.  There's blood everywhere."

I've walked the mile and a half now, to the station which will get me to the other side of the water - every station I've passed so far has at least 2 squad cars and armed guards at the gates.  Some are closed.  This one looks completely normal.  I get on the train, with only 7 people in the car.  Two finishers, 2 strangers, and a few family members.  One finisher makes small talk with me - I'm still wearing my credentials and gear.  He doesn't know yet.  I can't be the one to tell him.  I don't know anything either.  

On the other side of the water, I get out and walk home.  I don't want to stay underground - because I don't know.  No one knows.  

4:30 pm - I get home, and sob into Jon's arms.  I hold my son and cry.  And I cry.  And cry.  And cry.  And don't let go of either of them.  Texts, voicemails, facebook messages.  Yes, I'm fine.  Yes, we're fine. We begin to watch the news. And then I begin to know what I didn't know earlier.  People are dead.  Lots of people are injured.  And they say its a bomb.  Two bombs.  And they don't know how many more.

All I can think about is how badly I need to pump.  How I need to find my cell phone (a random stranger picked it up).  And how much I love my husband and my son.  I wander around our house in a daze.  They tell me this is shock, distancing, mental protection and shutdown.      Then guilt kicks in - I should have - I could have - I would have - I should have.  But I didn't.  Maybe it was fear that made me run home.  I think it was some combination of fear and love - who knows how the parts equalized - I'd like to think it was mostly love. 

And here I am now.  It's the next day - and I need to process.  But I don't know what to process.   Lord have mercy.  Jesus have mercy.  Lord have mercy.  It's wrong.  It's messed up. But it's surreal.  It don't fully resonate or make sense. I was there.  I saw it. But I didn't see.  I was a block away.  But I live here.  This is my city.  Those were my places.  My people.  My marathon.  It feels foreign.  Yet real.  And surreal.    I am not angry.  But I am angry.  I don't feel.  But I do. I am shocked by the events of the day.  But I'm not shocked by the heinous nature of the crime or the brutality. I am not scared.  I don't worry that there will be more. I am grieving for it all, even though that isn't always emotionally evoked for me.  I am grieving for myself, my friends, and this city - the loss of innocence and the loss of a sense of "safe."  I feel loved by those around us - from as far away as Russia to as near as the next street over from us, in the hundreds of messages we got checking in to make sure we were okay.  We are okay.  But we're not.  

I'm not quite ready to speak in faith, to talk about how good wins over evil, how we will rise again, to speak of how strong Boston's spirit is, to talk about how God will use this situation for good.  I know those things are true.  But I promised you honesty, even when its ugly.  And those are not my words just yet.  But this is what I do know:  we're grieving and that's okay.  We're not alone, and that's a good thing.  Love is a good thing, and it was not absent yesterday.  For every story of hatred, there were many many more of love.  And even when I can't see it yet, I believe and know that God is still good, and is greater than these things.  I know that Love wins.  And so I cling to that, in hope, even in the midst of places like these that run so completely counter to it.  May hope rise.  

You're the God of this City

You're the King of these people

You're the Lord of this nation

You are.

You're the light in this darkness

You're the Hope to the hopeless

You're the Peace to the restless

You are.

For greater things have yet to come

And greater things are still to be done in this City

For greater things have yet to come

And greater things are still to be done in this City

* Chris Tomlin, God of this City

two months and growing!

Happy two months to S! :)

What a full month this has been, little man... you are growing so fast, we can barely believe it!  I'm guessing that you weigh between 12 and 13 pounds - but we'll find out tomorrow at your appointment.  Already, you are turning into your own little extroverted person.  But even so, you still love to snuggle with your mom and dad!

You met your Grandma G this month - and she was thoroughly enraptured with you!  She says you "smell just like a baby should" and took every opportunity to hold you and "drink you in."  You were super chill and happy as we walked around town in the cold with you on her visit.  You seem to actually like the cold Boston winters most days!

You went on your first overnight retreat this month, making you a full-fledged InterVarsity baby - you slept blissfully on a mat on the floor, whilst students played and socialized all around you.  And you smiled and flirted and convinced everyone that you never cry - not true, but you were pretty darn cute and happy.

You also made the switch to cloth diapers this month - a little bit harder to clean up, but we're hoping will be very cost-saving in the long run.  After a minor snafu  where mommy bought the wrong size inserts - those for babies 15-30 lbs (increasing your bottom size three-fold), we seem to be settling in well.  You seem to be mellow as ever, and mommy and daddy are slowly adjusting.  And you look super cute in them!

A snapshot of you this month:

• You learned how to smile, for real, and you do it a lot!  Especially when mommy and daddy do something funny.  A few times, you've come close to laughing, but not quite yet! 
• You can raise your head up well when you're on your tummy - and get some of your chest off the ground too - we're guessing it's only a matter of time before you start rolling over.
• You are very social, and love to entertain daddy's students, with your smiles and flirtations!
• You are super interactive now, making your own small (and large) noises in response to us talking to you - this is especially fun for us, as we try to make you smile and make happy noises.
• You no longer hate having your diaper changed - and actually are exceedingly happy on the changing table most of the time!  Coupled with your love for the bath tub, you seem to abide by a  "less is more" philosophy when it comes to clothing.
• You're consistently sleeping for 4-7 hour stretches at night - you set your personal record last night with 8 hours consecutively - 8:30pm until 4:30am.  While you stir occasionally, and need a quick pat on the back and your pacifier again, you have been sleeping really well these days.  
• You still enjoy taking a bottle from daddy once a day - even gulping down 7 ounces sometimes!

We love you so much, little man!  It's fun watching you grow more and more into your own person... :)

the power of naming

Thank you, friends, for all the kind notes and feedback that I got after my post on being proud of myself - especially from you mommies who have been there, and responded with such encouragement and grace, and your own stories of how ridiculously much you loved your own tiny joyful bundles and how unbelievably hard those first 6 weeks were, even so.  I felt incredibly encouraged and free just to be me, where I am, with unbelievable joy in early motherhood, and unmeasurable love for my son, but also full of chaos and overwhelmed-ness!  Thank you for giving me that grace and encouragement.  And things have been better in the last week or so, so thank you, to those of you who pray or prayed!

--

One thing you should know about me is that while I do not always emote freely, one thing that always makes me cry without fail, is when anyone gives birth - even before I was pregnant this was the case.  It could be a character on a TV show, a random commercial clip, or a dear friend - didn't matter, I am an equal opportunity weeper.  There is something so incredibly beautiful and intimate and powerful, about the intermingling of overwhelming pain and absolute joy - bloody, gritty, long fought joy, but joy nonetheless - in that moment when something new and beautiful bursts forth. 

And then in those moments of exhaustion and joy that follow, we are given the task of naming these new additions to our families - declaring publicly, this is ______.  Maybe it's a name that you've had picked out for months, or even years, or maybe it's an in-the-moment decision;  maybe it's already been public, maybe this is the moment of declaration - I don't know. Either way, we name our children.   And in almost every instance, it's not something we take lightly - we put a lot of thought into the names that we give our children, the identities we hope and pray that they will have.   There is something sacred about this process of naming - regardless of what the name is - even as it follows in the shadow of this joy-filled birth process.

For both of these reasons, I cry every time someone gives birth, and a new child is announced.

When Jon and I got married, the pastor who married us gave his homily out of Isaiah 62 - the text for which this blog is named - if you haven't read it recently, you should take a moment to do that right now! He preached about our power to name one another - and to rename one another;  the parallel beauty of our heavenly bridegroom who truly names and renames us, and the present reality that we too, made in His image, have the authority to "name" one another, for good or for ill.  The ways in which we get to affirm and build up, to remind each other of our true identities - or to mock, to jest without thought, to tear down, and to reinforce broken identities in one another.

Whether we intend to or not, we name one another with our words and actions.  Not in the same way that we give our children a legal name - but in equally significant and sacred ways.  Yet my hunch is - we put a lot less thought into those names - and we often times are unaware of the ways in which we "name" one another on a day-to-day basis.

Growing up, my family was very musical - my dad is a phenomenal pianist, my sister is a superb vocalist, and my mom, while she doesn't often indulge in it, is also very musically inclined.  I have a good voice, decent pitch, good vibrato, solid sight-reading skills - and absolutely no innate rhythm.  And very little ability to actually remember lyrics to songs well.  And as a result, I, without malice or hurtful intent, received the name, "the one without rhythm; the less musical one."

But, here's the reality:  I love to sing and it brings a lot of life to my soul.  It might not be in 4/4 time, or even time at all, and I might humorously combine lyrics from 3 different songs into a creative melange mash-up, but it is life to my soul nonetheless. In college, a friend used to joke that she knew I was coming because she could hear me singing before she could see me.  And yet, for years, I have bowed out of musical opportunities, refused to practice or work on rhythm, and always qualify any compliment to my voice with, "yes, but I have no rhythm" or "thank you, but I'm not really musical - you should hear the rest of my family."  For years - sometimes still! - denying, or qualifying, and not investing in (and maybe even growing/improving in) part of who I am.

This is a silly example - but often times the ways in which we name one another are far more weighty.  Maybe you grew up as a tomboy, hearing and believing that you were not feminine - even though you are female - because you didn't like makeup, dolls or dresses, and you still believe that you are less of a woman because you don't fit in a particular mold.  Maybe you were the "smart one," the "fat one," the "one who is always alone," the "athletic one," the one who "can't ____" or the one who "always ____."

Some of those names run off like water on a penguin's back.  Others, even though they're rarely intended to be hurtful, soak in, are absorbed, and become a part of who we believe ourselves to be - shrinking us into smaller versions of ourselves, giving wounds which we don't even know are there until someone wiser points them out to us.

Our pastor's charge to us, on our wedding day, was to be a marriage - a husband and a wife - who named each other in redemptive ways.  Who reminded each other of who we truly are, and who God is remaking us to be - who name with hope and healing, rather than belittling, tearing down, or limiting with our words and our "names."

As I cried yet again this week, over the birth and naming of yet another baby, this is my challenge and reminder - to consider the ways in which I name others in the day-to-day, as equally sacred.  With truth, not exaggeration, to build up, to name with hope, to speak life, and to remind others of who they truly are, rather than limit them to, or reinforce, some smaller picture.

One Month Young

Happy one month birthday to S!

I can hardly believe that it's been a full month since you were born, little buddy!  In so short an amount of time, you have completely transformed our lives - we cannot imagine ourselves without you; you have become such an integral part of our life together, and we love you so much!

This is you and me, only a few hours after you were born.  You love to sleep on our chests, as close as you can get - with your little feet tucked up under your tummy and your arms right by your face.  This is still your favorite way to sleep.  You are so much more alert now then you were in the early days, even though you still sleep a good 15-17 hours a day.  You weighed 7 pounds and 12 ounces when you were born - which now feels teeny tiny compared to how much you've grown now!

This is you and me now, at 1 month old - you are super interactive and almost smile at your dad and me all the time, but especially in the mornings!  You have the best milk coma grin ever, and so we're really looking forward to the time when you actually grin at us for real.  At your one month check up, you weighed in at a strong 10 pounds, 1 ounce!

A snapshot of you this month:

• You can hold your head up on your own now and turn it from side to side, when you're on your tummy - you have a very strong neck!
• You almost smile very regularly! 
• You had your first bottle from Dad, and blew us away when you downed 4 oz at 2 weeks. You consistently eat exceptionally well!
• You hated baths when we first gave you one - but now you really enjoy them, even though you consistently attempt to eat the bath water.
• You have outgrown a lot of your newborn clothes already
• You have an interesting relationship with nighttime sleep - but two nights ago, you set your personal record and slept for 5 hours straight!  :)  So far, you've been averaging 2.5-3 hour stretches on good nights.
• You've just started "talking" to us - making noises and responding to us - when we talk to you.
• We have inklings that you might be an extrovert, because when you're around lots of people, you are so incredibly fascinated that you don't fuss (or sleep!) and you can't stop looking around!

We love you so very much, S, and are loving watching you grow, one day at a time!

choosing to be proud of myself

This afternoon, I did something that I intentionally don't do often: I posted a totally self-aggrandizing, somewhat proud status on facebook.

"fitting back into pre-pregnancy skinny jeans - good feeling! elastic waistbands, you've been swell, but adios!" 

 And I feel a little bit guilty about doing so, I'll be honest. I am aware of the ways in which pride is not healthy, and can be hurtful to others - especially if your triumph has been their struggle. And for that, I want to apologize, if I have brought up something hurtful for anyone - please forgive me. 

 But I chose to post that status with intentionality today, because today I need to remind myself that there are things for me to be proud of. That I have succeeded in some things. That I'm doing OK. And perhaps on a deeper level, though not articulated in that status, that I am worthy of being proud of... 

Today has been a good day so far... we slept last night - in chunks, yes - but we slept. My son is cute and smiley when he wakes up in the mornings. He's actually put himself to sleep a few times, in his crib - which is significant for us. The doorbell did not wake him up. I can in fact fit into my pre-pregnancy skinny jeans again. I've had a shower. And I feel somewhat in control of my day.

But the reality is, a lot of my hours and days thus far haven't been that way lately. And it's hard to find the spaces and ways to talk about that portion of motherhood, in a healthy way. But for the sake of honesty and being in process, I'm going to try to. The reality is, there are hours and days when I don't love being a mom - when it feels more like a takeover of my life, my body, and me, rather than a joy. Hours and days when constant lactation does not feel like a blessing, but makes me feel like a cross between a broken sprinkler and a cow. There are hours and days when I feel invisible to in the shadow of our adorable child - and I, shamefully to admit, am begrudging towards him, of the attention he receives, and the ways that leaves me ignored. Hours and days when I'm weepy and weary - for no reason - and feel completely out of control of my life, not even capable of articulating why I'm crying to my husband. Hours and days when I wonder if our lives will ever feel "normal" again.

 And most of the time, I feel completely out of control. Totally inept at everything that I try to do. In meltdown mode over whether or not to use a pacifier to help my son sleep. Not good at balancing being a wife, mother, friend, and human being, let alone trying to figure out when I last showered - I wasn't sure this morning, but I'm pretty sure it had been several days...

And when that happens, I enter into the very dangerous place of believing that there's something wrong with me: that I am the failure, rather than the situation just being hard - or, in this case, completely normal for early parenthood. That I suck. That I should have it together. That I should "feel" like and act like the perfect mother all the time. That I should be totally fine feeling invisible - or shouldn't mourn the changes that my life, our lives, and lifestyles are undergoing. And the downward spiral of self-loathing and guilt begins to take over... that I have nothing, that I am nothing, to be proud of.

Malarkey.

The reality is, this is normal. It's okay for me to mourn the changes - even in the midst of the intense joy also present there. It does not dishonor my son, for it to be hard for me to selflessly love him all the time. It is not wrong for me to not know what to do next. It is okay for me to cry - even cry without reason. And it's okay for me to feel out of control.

 I am not a failure. And even more importantly, I would still be worthy of being proud of - even if everything that I did failed. The fundamental truth from which this blog derives its name, still holds true. Regardless of my successes or failures, I am called daughter. delight. beloved. I am loved. And worth being proud of. That is something I need to be reminded of today.

 And in some small way, maybe daring to be audaciously proud of myself for something small and silly - like fitting into my skinny jeans or actually remembering to shower today - can help to remind me, just a little bit, of the larger lesson of the day.

unconditional love

Hello, blogging world - it's been a while.  I've semi-fallen off the grid for the last several months, for which I could offer loquacious explanations and apologies, but instead I'm going to opt to simply say, "here I am, I'm back."  While it is a healthy practice for me to write - and one which I hope to practice with a bit more regularity in the upcoming months - it is not one for which guilt is due in its neglect.  That being said, I am excited to re-enter the blogosphere, and am looking forward to this space to process, reflect, and share in the journey with others...

As I sit here, this Valentines day - with my two and a half week old son bundled and sleeping in a mobi wrap on my chest, currently making very contented noises that sound like small puppies yipping (don't ask me why, I don't know), running on 2 hours of sleep, because that's how long he slept in his crib last night  - for the first time, I believe ever, I feel the need to reflect on love on Valentines Day.

Please understand, this is a cardinal sin, if you are a V-day skeptic like me.  I am the woman who has, at various points in time, sworn off the holiday for any number of holy reasons - one who hates the commercialism and the self-loathing ("singles awareness" day vibes that tend to arise), refuses to wear red/pink/purple, etc. because everyone is doing it, went to see the most gory movie possible on V-day for a number of years because the chick-flicks were too stereotypical, buys her husband non-Valentines day cards for the week before, just on principle because red and pink cards get a dollar added to their price, and are often times too sappy, etc. etc. Yes, I have been a hater.  I can freely admit that.

But the reality is - today, I'm reflecting on love.   And maybe it's the two hours of sleep talking, maybe it's this new parenthood thing, but gosh darn it, here goes:

I have very little concept of what true, sacrificial, unconditional love is all about.  

I have been very blessed, to marry a man who loves me incredibly well.  Who chose me.  Who daily sacrifices for me.  Who loves me, even when I'm in a tearful ball on the floor, even when I'm screaming in pain or anger, who calls me beautiful at 9 months pregnant, who sticks with me, through thick and thin.  And I think we do have a really healthy marriage, where we do love each other in sacrificial and selfless ways.  Where forgiveness is required, and given, and love and acceptance and grace are daily choices.  I have seen true love in that relationship.  And am so incredibly grateful for this man that I have been given.  I am loved, I do love, and marriage has taught me immeasurably about the strength, the hard work, and the power, of every day love - as well as the sweetness of real love.

But this little 8 pound bundle of sleepless joy - who is adorably cute, but precociously refuses to sleep at nights by himself - is totally obliterating my sense that I had any previous concept of selfless love.

See the beauty of my relationship with Jon - and really with almost everyone else to - is that they have the capacity to return my love.  In other words, I almost always get something back for any expenditure of love that I make.  Not so with my infant son.  He is, for all effective purposes, a human leech - and I mean that in the cutest, best possible way.  Receiving, but not returning.  Demanding, but never saying thank you.  Needing, but never giving.

The closest thing we get to a thank you? Or love in return?  A completely uncontrolled milk coma grin, or a hefty deposit in the poop bank, aka diaper.

Please don't get me wrong - I fully trust that my son will love us, that at times in the future he will express gratitude. Nor am I in any way persuaded that it is necessary for love to be returned for it to be right and good.  And I absolutely, 100% love my son, regardless of his ability to return that love.

But perhaps that's simply my point:  for the first time, I have a picture of what it means to love someone else entirely selflessly, with no personal gain or return.

And friends, I am not good at this.  Case in point, last night, after an hour and a half of fighting with the wee one, trying to coax him into the sleep which he so desperately needed but was fighting against with true familial stubbornness, I had a complete melt down of anger and frustration - that my 2 week old son could not realize that after ALL I had done for him, the least he could do would be give me 2 hours of consecutive night-time sleep.  Tearful puddle on the floor - made worse by overactive mammary glands.  Unconditional, selfless love?  Hard.  Good.  But really hard.

But here's the truth for me today - while I get a teeny tiny glimpse of what it means to love another person unconditionally and selflessly, I also have a much bigger picture of what unconditional love looks like from my Father in heaven.  While my love ultimately is limited and conditional, and selfish, His love isn't:  no matter how messy I am, how many times I fail or fall, how much I rant and scream and fight against him, no matter how much I reject what I need and truly want from Him, how much I refuse to rest in Him - His love remains constant.  Not a weak love, that is walked all over for some vague sense of being needed or being some loosely defined ideal type of "giving" person, but a strong love that gives without strings or selfish motivations.  Freely given.  Unconditional.  Joyful, even.

Yes, like me, He longs for that love to be returned - for more than a weak sleep-induced grin in response - but His grace and love and compassion to me does not depend on it.

So today, in honor of either Valentines Day or sleep deprivation, rather than reflecting on the sappy sentiments of pink and red cards, I am reflecting on the strength of unconditional love from my Father, that I rest securely in, find freedom in, and long to know more of.  And asking Him for strength to mirror that in some small way, to those He places in my path, even at 3 in the morning.