three months and getting so big!

Happy 3 months to S! :)

It blows my mind to think that you are already three months old - seems like just yesterday that you were born.  But you are growing like a little weed, and really developing into your own person these days. Your daddy and I are really enjoying seeing your personality start to come out.

This month, we decided to weigh you in ourselves, one night after bath-time.  You weighed in at a whopping almost 14 pounds - and then promptly peed all over mommy, the floor, the wall, the scale, and daddy.

We can safely attest to the fact that your kidneys and bladder seem to be in perfect working order.  In fact, that has been a recurring trend for most of the month - it's hard to keep you in diapers that are dry - and we have to plan on at least 2 wardrobe changes every day, just to keep up with all the diaper overloads!  We're hoping that stage passes soon...

You also have the most adorable little rolls on your legs and arms - which are super cute on a baby!

This has been a busy month for you,  full of lots of firsts!

 Your met your friend Danny again.  You guys had met earlier when he was first born, but this was the first time we got a picture of the two of you together - and your mommies!  Ms. Jenny and I were pregnant with you at the same time, and it was fun to finally get the boys together!

You also had your first babysitters this month - Mommy and Daddy got to go on our first "date" alone since you were born.  Ms. Jenny and Mr. Mac and your friend Danny came over to stay with you, which was a big treat for us!  We went to check out Night Shift Brewery and Idle Hands Brewery - and really liked Idle Hands, and the time alone together.  You apparently slept for 90% of the time, and were very happy otherwise.  We had a great time, and really appreciated them coming to play with you!

 You have started to enjoy playing with your hands, toys, and basically anything that you can chew/gum on.  We pulled out the Johnny Jump Up that your friend Riley loaned us, and you seem to LOVE it because it is the best combination of something that you can chew on AND a place where you can wiggle around freely!  You spend a lot of time walking in circles in it, these days.

You went out to a BBQ restaurant for the first time -  your Daddy really really likes BBQ, and we've searched high and low to find good BBQ places here in the north - this is one of our favorites.  You did great in the booster seat at the restaurant, until you freaked yourself out, and needed to be held the rest of lunch.  Otherwise, you did a great job -  although we like to think that you were slightly miffed that, due to your liquid diet, you didn't get to try the meats!

You also went to your first baseball game at Fenway Park (and got a nifty pin to prove it!).  You did a great job, only freaking out once when you were hot and tired.  Even when the stadium got really loud, you just watched, enraptured.  You especially liked it when they sang "Sweet Caroline" - you grinned and thought the whole stadium was singing to you.

A snapshot of you this month:

• You are chortling and semi-laughing these days.  You especially like to smile at daddy and squeal when he makes faces at you!  Daddy has the ability to make you smile unlike anyone else!

• You discovered your voice this month, and have started really "talking" to yourself and to us when you're happy, or starting to get sleepy.

• Along with discovering your voice this month, you've also cried because you were scared and cried because you were angry for the first times this month.  While you don't cry all that much, you do make your thoughts known far more these days.

• You're quieter and shyer these days around people other than mommy and daddy - not scared, or anxious yet, and you still let everyone hold you - but definitely more serious than otherwise.

• You also discovered your hands and toys this month - and are starting to enjoy swatting and things, grabbing things, and "playing" more.  Your coordination still isn't great, but you're starting to understand that you can make things move - and enjoying touching different textures.  Your favorite texture is your hair.  You hold on to it and play with it now when you're tired.

• You're still sleeping well these days - down to just one feeding in the nights, most nights - and sleeping from 8pm until 6:30 or 7 almost every day, with that one 2-3-4am feeding.   Your longest sleep stretch to-date is 9.5 hours.  You slept all the way through the night twice this month - from 10:30 until 6, and from 8 until 5:30 - but haven't repeated it with any regularity!

• Things you love:  your Johnny-Jump-Up, bath time, eating, getting your diaper changed (and in general, any excuse to ditch your clothing), smiling with Daddy, being outside and taking long walks, and chewing on your hands.

We love you so much, little man!  And we are loving watching you grow into your own person, month by month! :)

Letters to My Son: Boston Marathon

Dear S -

As I write this letter, you are sleeping soundly in your pack-n-play in the next room over, presumably drifting in between dreams of toys and warm milk and giggly bath times with Daddy.  Your world is beautifully small and safe - guarded by me and your Daddy, who love you dearly - and limited, for the most part, to things which might be strange and new, but are for the most part, safe.

And a part of me wishes that I could keep your world that small and safe forever.  That I could forever stand guard over your crib, your sleep, your giggles, your days - protecting you from all the things in this world that are broken, and scary, and unsafe.  And for now, while you are small and wee, completely dependent on your Daddy and me, and oh so innocent, I will do that.  And that is right and good - my role, my privilege as your Mommy.

But, as you grow from a wee boy into a bigger boy, and start to ask the questions "why" and "how" and "what,"  I do you no service, if I deny the ways that this world is broken.  If I don't teach you, as a bigger boy, how to process brokenness, how to fight for goodness and restoration, and the need to long for wholeness.  I don't want you to fear the brokenness, son - it's there, it's real, it's part of our world.  But there is also hope.  And the promise of restoration. And places for you and me, to live and act in that hope.  And as your mommy, that is my job, as you grow into a bigger boy - to teach you about the broken parts, yes, but to teach you about hope, and life, and restoration and action in the midst of those places.  And so, while you won't read this for years to come, we start today.

This week has been a week where I am oh so keenly aware of the brokenness in this world - the hatred, the hurt, and the evil that can be perpetuated by humans.  And yet, as I process these marathon bombings, the one question that I have never asked is why these men wanted to cause such hurt and pain.  I don't feel led to ask it.  I know the power that hate can carry - I know the ways in which hurt or cause or hatred can grow into evil action.  I know it in myself.  I know it in others.  I know it in the world.  And while you are wee and small and safe and protected now, it won't be too many years before you too will see the ways in which people can hurt, hate, and injure with their words and actions - me not excluded.  And so "why" is not my question.  The specifics I don't know - why this day, why this way, why these people, why my city?  But those don't feel important.

What I do want to know is...

Who had the opportunity to demonstrate love, welcome, and kindness to these men - in the years that preceded this - and how might that have made a difference?  How can you and I and we love, welcome, and show kindness to those in our midst?  How might kindness, goodness, and welcome have made a difference?  They might not have, but in our family, let's take the risk, live in hope, and try to love radically and see what happens.

In this story, a younger brother seems to have been influenced by an older brother's passion, cause and influence.  I wonder why.  I wonder what led him to throw away all the good, promising, hopeful opportunities that he had, and seemingly follow his brother, to a path of destruction.  I wonder if the hatred was his too.  I wonder what he thought and wanted. I wonder and I don't, at the same time.

You, S, will hopefully have the opportunity to be an older brother.  And I guarantee you, your younger siblings will look up to you, watch you, and probably imitate you.  Simply by means of being older, whether making mud pies or playing soccer or dealing with bullies or the way you talk, you will get the chance to be a leader.  And in the same way that your Daddy and I have responsibility to model well for you, the ways that we hope you will walk - and do so in a way that is good not merely our way - you too will have the opportunity to model, to lead.  There's grace in that - we're all learning, figuring this out, growing.  And ultimately, you can't be responsible for the choices that your siblings make.  But son, my hope is that if and when your siblings follow you, it will be into things which bless rather than curse, which heal rather than hurt, which stand up to evil, rather than aid it or simply give it room to grow.  This is what your Daddy and I hope to model for you, teach you, and live into.

And lastly, I wonder what do we do now?  When we see the ways that people hurt other people.  When we hurt people.  When we are hurt.  When we feel fear.  When we see hatred.  When we feel hatred.  How will we, will I, will you, respond?  How can we respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action?

Son, I guarantee you, that you feel fear at some point in time.  That you will, even though my soft mommy heart wishes I could prevent it, be hurt.  That you will see others be hurt.  That you will feel anger, maybe even hate.  That's human.  Normal.  Broken, yes.  But not abnormal.  But what you do, how you respond, will be what makes the difference.  It is far easier to grow fearful, bitter, angry, self-defensive - to hate, to withdraw, or to lash out - than it is to act in hope and love.  While harder, it is far better to seek understanding, to press in, to seek justice, to mourn, to seek healing, to forgive, to say I'm sorry.  It is far easier to turn a blind eye to the hurt of others, to let the bullies continue to bully, and pacify ourselves with the fact that at least we're not contributing, than it is to stand up, and say "it's not okay."  But S, our prayer for you - that I pray every night - is that you would not be the easier man.  That you would be a man of strength, of courage, of humility, and of kindness.  That you would act in hope, and love.  That you would stand up for the bullied, the small, and the hurt.  It is harder, yes - there is no doubt.  And there will be times when you will take the easier way - and we'll love you then nonetheless, and strive to give you grace then, even while challenging you to turn back to hope and love. But S, no matter how hard, it matters, how we respond.

S, you and I and we will face fear, hurt, and hate.  In our world, we cannot avoid it.  But we always have a choice in how we respond.  And we hope and pray, that you and I and we will respond with hope, and life, and restoration, and action.

I love you so much, sweet baby boy, as you sleep in peaceful innocence, growing, even as I write this.  Your Mommy and Daddy are so proud of you and the wee boy that you already are becoming - and even as I write this, we pray for the man that you will become.

Love,

Mommy

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!