anchors and wings

Prompt for this week: Small

go.

Those days, when the world feels too big, and you feel too... well, too whatever.  The days when you can't quite find your footing, or your wings feel a little too retracted, trapped, and your boots a bit too stuck in the mud.  Those days when you feel too light or too large to stay anchored.

Like a Zeppelin anchored by the smallest of mooring lines, it's the little things that keep you rooted, focused, lofted, or anchored.

The newspaper lady in the T station, on your longest commute and your best and worst days, whose eyes light up with recognition when she sees you.  And who, no matter what day it is, wishes you a happy weekend. I don't know her name yet, but on Thursday, I'm going to ask.

The baby who grabs onto your hand and pulls your fingers close, as you desperately pray, please Jesus, let this sweet baby go back to sleep.  Who grins up at you at 4 in the morning, as he makes his rounds of his crib, too excited by new skills of crawling and sitting to stay still.  But for a moment, your fingers and his, intertwined, reminds you that these are the moments to hold dear.

The collapsing in those fits of belly-shaking, never-stopping laughter, after an unfortunate run-in with the squeaky Sophie the Giraffe who frightens the pants off of you on a daily, and mostly nightly basis, when she's accidentally trod upon.

The moments of balance and perspective, seconds really, when you see the hardest parts of life in the rearview mirror and there's the freedom to breathe and say, "oh yeah... I see what you did there." Even, there are parts of that time that I miss.  That I hold dear.  And you realize, I'm through that.  I'm okay.  Even,  I'm better for it.  And yes, even, I'm grateful.

Keeping me grounded, giving me perspective, lifting me up - it's the little things that give me anchors and wings.

stop.


Written in participation with #FiveMinuteFriday over with lisajobaker.com.  We write for five minutes flat. All on the same prompt.  No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation. Unscripted. Unedited. Real.  Want to join in?  Full details on how to participate found here.

[loss]

How do you miss someone that you never knew?

How do you mourn what is missing, when it was never had, but the loss is deeply felt none-the-less?

I've debated writing this for a while, because honestly, I've wondered if its okay for me to - whether it's my story enough, or just me relating other people's memories.  And that's never mine to do.  But the sense of absence, of missing, is mine.  And the reasons for that sense of loss are in the details.  So I'm cautiously writing it.  Grace, please, friends.

Last week, we marked the five year anniversary of Dad D's death (my husband's father). I never had the privilege of meeting him - Jon and I met about 5 months later - and I will never get the opportunity to know him, this side of heaven.  And yet, I miss him deeply.  Grieve his absence.  Feel the loss.  And am daily grateful for his character, his influence, and his life.

He's the one that we named our son after - his first name is S's middle name.   Because when we thought about what we would pray for S – the type of man that we prayed that he would be – we could think of no higher honor for him than to pray that S's character would mirror Dad's – that S's love of God and desire for God would mirror Dad's – that S's love of family, and care for his wife and children would mirror Dad's – that S's work ethic, intellect, and leadership, his humility and gentleness, his strength, and his legacy, would mirror Dad's. Dad was not perfect, and neither will S be perfect – but he daily strove to honor the Lord and care well for others around him in every aspect of his life - and that's what we pray for S as well.

I never met him, but I know his legacy.  And I am impacted by his testimony of life.

He was the man who gave great hugs.  Whose wife knew that she was treasured and deeply loved.  Whose sons - my husband included - grew to be strong men of character, who strive to love their wives and their kids with gentleness and strength, to be good friends, and to do their best in the work that they have been given.  The man whose faith was strong and steady, even through years of cancer, pain, remission, and resurgence of the disease.  Whose faith, in the midst of cancer, included Psalm 27:13-14

I remain confident of this:

I will see the goodness of the Lord in the land of the living.

Wait for the Lord; 

Be strong and take heart and wait for the Lord. 

Whose faith has given my husband certainty, that God is still good, even when the unthinkable happens - even when we don't understand, that His goodness does not change.  Whose friends and students to this day, still tell stories about being under his leadership, and rave about his wisdom and ability to impart knowledge.  The man whose friends knew that they were loved, and still, five years later, miss his friendship - and whose sons never doubted their father's love for them, even when they had to be punished or reprimanded.  The father and husband whose love gave my husband a model for fatherhood and husband-hood, with gentleness, strength, and compassion - of which my son and I are daily recipients.   The man that my husband still wishes was here, when he has a question about fixing the brakes or stock options, or when he needs to talk through something hard.  His go-to-guy.  This is what I know, of the man that I never knew. And it is a gift to me, every day.

And I miss him terribly, even though I never met him.  I miss his presence, his balance in our family.  I miss having a party of four, when mom comes to visit - the two and twos, and four all-together.  I miss having to roll my eyes at Jon, when he and his dad stay up way too late playing video games. I miss seeing mom look at dad and roll her eyes too.  I miss introducing S to his grandfather.  I miss the conversations we might have had, about boost-phase interception of ICBMs and my paltry attempts to code in matlab what he worked on in real life.  I miss actually getting to know him, in real life, not just know him through others' stories.  And I miss having my own stories.

It's strange, weird even, to feel grief for what you never had.  To miss a person that you never knew.  But I do.

I don't have a conclusion.  I don't have a pithy takeaway.  All I know is that I am grateful for him, even though he was never in my life.  And I am grateful for all the ways that he will always be in my life.

And, Dad, I'm really looking forward to finally sitting down with you in heaven, when that day comes.

Letters to my Son: I saw in you his humanity

Dear son,

This morning I rocked with you, as you began to get sleepy, in those early morning hours after sleep but before your first nap, your mind still fighting sleep, even as your body gradually began to sink into mine, your eyelids growing heavier and heavier, and your little twitches and fiddlings slowly down.  Those moments, those snuggles, are precious to me, because already you are a man on the go.  Already you want to move.  To be off exploring every dangerous element of our house, one backwards crawl-scoot at a time.  You're sitting, scooting, rolling, moving constantly.  And when you're not, you're babbling in full-baby dialogue, telling us about every move that you have made or want to make.   You're growing up oh so quickly...

You're sleeping now, bottom in the air, one leg pulled up next to you in crawl-ready position, with your little arms - with those precious little baby rolls upon rolls - one holding your pacifier, stroking your lips with it, the other holding Mr. Moose and patting him as though he were an old friend.

Yesterday morning, on my way to work, mommy passed another boy who was sleeping in exactly the same way that you are now.  One hand by his lips, the other cradling and patting his snuggle buddy.  Bottom in the air, one leg pulled up into the ready-to-crawl position.  For just a second, when I saw him, he reminded me so much of you, sleeping peacefully in your crib.

Except that this boy was in his late 40s, and instead of a soft crib, he was sleeping on a cement bench in a bus terminal.  Instead of a blanket, he was wrapped in a dirty jacket.  Instead of a onesie, he was wearing clothes that smelled of days without washing or relief from the heat.  And instead of a snuggly Mr. Moose for a buddy, he was cradling his backpack, assumedly containing most of his possessions.

And yet, for just a instant, in the midst of my own very stressful day, my own busyness, concerns, and worries, I saw him.

In him, I saw you.  Saw someone's son, not one abandoned, but one that at some point in time, maybe even presently, was deeply loved.  Cuddled, held, rocked.  Treasured.  A son whose mother felt his kicks and wiggles and heartbeat before he was born, and bore him into this world in the same ways that I delivered you.  A baby growing up into a little boy, whose mother couldn't believe how quickly he was growing.  A son who slept ready to crawl because he was so ready to take on the world on crawl-scoot at a time.

We never interacted - he was sound asleep, I was late to work.  And more rapidly than I'd care to admit, my mind moved back to my own pressing issues for the day.  But for just an instant,  he wasn't dirty, homeless, and aging to me - he was someone's son and I felt my mother's heart beat within me.

I don't know his story - I don't know what brought him to that point, finding rest snuggled up on that bench, during my morning commute.  I don't know what his family was like - and I don't know what parts of his circumstances were of his own choosing or as a result of his past.  But I do know that he was someone's son.  That someone loved him enough to give him life.  That he grew up, from baby to little boy to man.  And that you, and I, and he, we're made from the same material, no matter where our paths or choices take us differently.

And so son, as you sleep peacefully in your safe, comfortable crib, I want to entreat you, as you grow from a baby to a boy, to a bigger boy, to a man - to recognize with me, and to remind me to remember, this common humanity of every person that we encounter.  Everyone, no matter how smelly, dirty, crude, rude, mean, or frustrating, is someone's son or daughter.  We might not like everyone, or agree with everyone, and that's okay, but at very minimum, we must recognize their humanity, and treat each person with the same respect and dignity that I would want them to treat my sons and daughters, or you would want them to treat your brothers and sisters.

And son, Lord forbid, but if, by some horrible turn of events or choices made, you ever find yourself sleeping on a bench, out in the cold, or caught up in a cycle that you cannot break - I want you to know - and really know - that you are loved, and wanted and will be welcomed.  Whether I agree with you, or all of your decisions, whether there is hurt or anger or brokenness in our relationship between now and then, and no matter how messy your life may be, you are loved, wanted, and welcomed, as you are.  Please come home, or call me, and I'll come where you are.  Please don't every let shame, or messiness, or dirt, or stuck-ness, or difference of opinion keep us apart, or keep you away.  And I will promise, here publicly, that I will do endeavor to let strong love always win, to keep my arms and my heart open and welcoming, come what may.

I love you, sweet boy.  Your Daddy and I are so proud of all of the ways you are growing and learning.  And we pray daily for the man that you are becoming.

Love,

Mommy

sanding down the veneer

This week's prompt: Present

Go.

Have you ever noticed, that when we blog, we often take on an entirely different voice?  Somewhat removed, third-person, polished perspective?

We paint pictures with words, we create beautiful illustrations, and we tell detailed, wonderful stories.  We're writers; words are our craft.  And they're beautiful.  And that's a good thing.

But the reality is, my blogger voice often times has a very different pitch and tone from my real voice.  I don't (thankfully) always talk like I write.  My words are far more muddled, far less well-crafted, and far more... well, first-person human.   And that's a good thing.

But sometimes the veneer has to come off here too - in our process of being "real" and "present" even in the blogger world.  The smooth, shiny gloss of life-on-blog has to be replaced with the real, gritty, imperfect verbage, and non-colorful illustrations that actually make up real life.  Just so that we remember that oh yes, we're human too.  No matter how pretty the picture, or crafty with words the blogger, sometimes life just is as life often does.  So, in the name of being present, of sanding down the shiny veneer and artistic verbage:

... It's been a hard week.

... I've felt torn between being at work, and being at home.  And had a really hard time being at work.

... Work has been stressful as we navigate the merger - everyone, me included, is anxious and waiting.  Which can be the worst, because it means living in the completely unknown.

... I have started the last three mornings this week being pooped on.  The explosive, nasty, cannot-get-it-out kind of poopy diaper that goes EVERYwhere.  Not once, not twice, but three times.

I have been Snappy. Tired. Lazy.  Angry.  Anxious.  Grateful.  Loved.  Lonely.  Tearful. Laugh-filled. Torn.  Covered in poop, with no humorous conclusion or awkward story to tell.  Heard.  Unheard.

Raw.
Real.
Just me.

Present.

Stop.


  Written in participation with #FiveMinuteFriday over at LisaJoBaker.com.  We write for five minutes flat, all on the same prompt.  No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation.  Unscripted.  Unedited.  Real.  Want to join in?  Full details on how to participate found here!

why I [don't] live each day as though it were my last...

I've heard this adage a lot recently - from pastors, teachers, friends, and public figures.  Live every day as though it were your last... and I understand the heart of it - the wisdom of it - honestly I do.

Life without regrets.
Don't put off till tomorrow what needs to be done today.
Purposeful life - without getting bogged down by the little things that don't really matter.
Treasured life - where all parts are valued.
Relational life - where people know in this day, not later, that they matter to you.

And in those things, there is deep wisdom.   I fully affirm that.

But even so, I will not be living every day as though it were my last.

Why?

Because life, for most of us, while it should be regret-free, lived-well, purposeful, treasured, and relational - always - is not a short-haul.  It's more than a week of memories, a day of overflowing fullness, or one last year of endless adventures.  It is both the ordinary, day-to-day life, as well as the long-remembered moments. For most of us, life has to be lived in light of both the short-term, and the long-haul.  And living as though today were my last, I neglect the long-term perspective.  And that matters.

Because there are some fights worth having... the tenacity of hope, the desire for better in yourself, your marriage, your kids, your relationships.  The long-fought wrestling-through-it, wading-through-the-muck, standing-in-the-trenches, not-settling that says, I have hope that what is broken can be made whole, even though it will take time and will be messy.  This - you, me - this is worth fighting for, this is worth pressing into.  The kind of fight that, if this were my last day, there simply wouldn't be time for - but for the long-haul absolutely matters.

Because there are some things that actually are healthier to wait for... my son is 5 months old now.  He's right on the verge of crawling, even though he thinks he's ready to walk.  He sometimes thinks sleep is unnecessary, especially when bedtime rolls around - even though his eyes are heavy with sleep and his reasons for crying become increasingly irrational.  Even though I should - and do - treasure those moments and snuggles with him, to do what is in his best interest, sometimes I have to make a decision for tomorrow, not today.  To help him wait.  To help him sleep.  To look forward to playing tomorrow, for his sake, rather than indulging his desires for today.

Because even though we never know how many days we have left - and today might be my last day, any day - hope is a good thing and looking forward to those things to come.  Even as I strive to live purposefully, without regrets, or procrastination - I still look forward to watching my son walk.  To cheering him on from the sidelines, the front row, the bleachers.  To going back to grad school myself.  To seeing my husband learn how to fly [airplanes].  To Thanksgiving with my family or Christmas dinner with Jon's, as long as we have it.  Even if I don't actually get to see those things, it is still worthwhile to hope and to look forward with anticipation.

Because life isn't a series of highs.  It has to come with lows and mundanes and the totally ordinary dance of day-to-day living which is beautiful. 

Because there are some risk worth taking, failures worth having, mistakes worth making...  In high school, I was an exceptionally good public speaker.  I was a fast runner.  I was a gifted soccer player.  I was absolutely horrible at basketball.  On the first day of practice, my coach asked me if I'd ever seen a basketball before, let alone played.  I did, in fact, almost knock a teammate out with the ball, inbounding it into her face in a crucial game.  I made a grand total of two baskets all season the first year I played.  I think they might have been mercy shots, honestly.  Or free throws.  You better believe I kept that bench darn warm.  But you know what?  I learned more about myself, about life, and about perseverance by playing basketball, than I did in doing any of those things that I was good at.  I learned how to stick with things when they're hard.  How to cheer on my teammates without comparison or shame.  How to fail gracefully, and get up again.  Not my idea of fun - never something I would choose to do on my last day - but oh so worthwhile in the big picture.  

My list could go on - of risks that I've taken, mistakes that I've made, failures which I have had - which certainly wouldn't be my choice in terms of "final days" - but have beautified and enriched this life that I have, for however long I have it - in ways that I would never exchange.

So, I don't live each day as though it were my last.  Rather, I try to live each day fully.  With hope for a long-haul, and long-term perspective - knowledge that there are no guarantees - but hope.  And fullness.  And no regrets.   But pressing in, in the hope of tomorrow.  Willingness to engage for the long-haul, willingness to fail, desire for growth and change, willingness to wait, gratitude for the mundane.

Life to the full.

- KD

Grandma's Hands

Todays word: Beautiful

I don't know when I first noticed her hands, gnarled and twisted.  I don't remember the precise moment that I first paid attention.  But I do remember that ever since then, when I think of Grandma, I think of her hands.  Her beautiful, worn, compassionate hands.

Twisted by arthritis, lined with aging blue veins, they shake with the effort to even hold a pen.  They have wiped many a tear, held many a hand, made many a thanksgiving dinner, caressed both grandchildren and great-grandchildren.

It was these hands that lovingly held mine, as we traipsed down the driveway to see the cattle back on the farm, me barely able to toddle, but oh so proud to walk hand-in-hand with her.

It was these hands that helped me stand on a chair, so that I could "help" with thanksgiving dinner, trained mine how to whisk the gravy just so, at age five, so that it didn't have any lumps.

It was these hands that caressed the fingerprints of her grandchildren smudging on the window, leaving them there, long after they'd gone home, in the joy and celebration of their visit that she just didn't want to let end.

It was these hands that held my son, so many years after they held me as an infant, the same smile, same joy, same delight, that I see in the pictures from years and years earlier.

It is these hands that I now hold steady when I visit.  It is these hands that I now help to stir the gravy, set the table, prepare the feast.  These same hands that I hold to help her walk across the room, her legs now less stable, me, just proud to walk hand-in-hand with her.

These hands, so worn and weathered, bearing the marks of a life well-lived.  These hands which tell a story of years, places, adventures, and memories.  These hands which I will always hold, with pride.

They are beautiful.

STOP.


  Written in participation with #FiveMinuteFriday over with lisajobaker.com.  We write for five minutes flat. All on the same prompt.  No extreme editing; no worrying about perfect grammar, font, or punctuation. Unscripted. Unedited. Real.  Want to join in?  Full details on how to participate found here.

more than "mommy"

At 7:13 in the morning, I have already been up for far more hours than I ever thought possible.  I have seen the sun rise, I have felt the cool of the day [in July, this is an accomplishment], and the sounds of the day have not yet begun.  Even on our busy city street, full of families, fireworks, and carpools - it's early enough, that quiet still wins out over the hustle and bustle.

I'm up because I'm mom.  Because the little man has decided that 5:18am is a great wake-up time.  When he's a teenager, and I'm the one crying and pulling with all my might to get him out of bed, I'll remind him of this.

Being a mother is one of the most precious experiences of my life.  It is also one of the hardest and most all-inclusively transforming that I have experienced thus far in my young life.  In that one beautiful, breath-taking, bloody, messy, sweaty, awe-filled moment, I went from being just Kristen to Mommy to a beautiful, messy, wonderful little boy.  And the transformation hasn't stopped since that moment...

Going in, I was told by countless women that already had kids - being a mom changes you.  And it does.  I was told, being a mom is hard, but also rewarding.  And it is.  I was told being a mom, you will experience a depth of love - the kind that would do anything for that tiny little human who has my father's eyebrows and my husband's smile - that you've never experienced before.  And I have.  When that little ball of rapidly growing fingernails and soft baby hair and ohhh so much drool smiles at me - I melt.  Even if he's had the worst possible day in the books, when he grins - the sun breaks through the clouds.  I love being a mom, plain and simple.  Way more than I thought I would.

But I don't want to be "just" mommy.  In the midst of all of that lovin' - I don't want to lose me.  Kristen.  As a daughter.  A friend.  A wife.  An individual.  With passions, dreams, goals, and desires.

And call me crazy, what with my nearly 6 months of ripe, mature, wise [read as: dripping with sarcasm, absurd-to-even-claim] expertise, but I think that's a healthy desire.  A good thing.  A place of blessing to my husband and to my child(ren).

What I don't mean is that I think it's a bad thing to be stay-at-home  mom.  That being "just" a mom is insufficient.  Nor do I mean that every mom needs to have a "role" outside of the home, or even inside the home, other than mom.  Mom is one of the biggest, bravest, best names that I will ever wear. It's one of the hardest and yet most fulfilling jobs I will ever do. It's not a job thing.  It's an identity thing.

Call me crazy, but I think it's actually a gift to my kids, to my husband, for me to be more than just a mom - for me to have identity outside of them.  That's a whole heck of a lot of world, of identity, to be placed on their shoulders and focused on them.  I think it actually frees me to be a better mom, and a better wife, [not to mention a better friend] when I remember who I am as a woman, as a daughter, as me.  Instead of looking to my relationships to tell me who I am - I am freed to offer all of who I am, to bring all of who I am.

It has been my experience thus far, and my observation, that often times when we women become mothers, our world narrows, focuses, and centers around our families.  We would give anything for them.  We, by choice or necessity, give up a lot for these small humans who depend on us for everything.  We have to become less selfish - because what baby crying at 3:31am understands or respects that the last thing in the world that mommy wants to do is be awake right now, even though she loves him immeasurably.  And it is out of a good, strong, beautiful, holy, love, that we make these sacrifices, that we give of ourselves, that our needs and wants take a backseat.

But here's my takeaway for the day - even in the midst of all that love, all that sacrifice, I think I, we, need to give ourselves permission to be a little bit selfish.  To sustain, grow, and even give time to, passions, dreams, and goals of my own.  Even if it's just 5 minutes a day, after the kiddo(s) is in bed for the seventh time, and before I crawl into my own bed.  To be intentional with blessing my family as I remember who I am as me, and invest in [a few] things that make me grow larger rather than smaller.

It brings life to my soul.

It frees me to offer all of who I am - because there is me to offer.

It frees me to be secure in who I am - even on the dog days of marriage, motherhood, and life when everything seems to be coming undone at the seams - because who I am is not defined by their perfection, performance, or appreciation of me.  I still know who I am, that I am called beloved.

It frees my family, to not have to carry the weight of my identity, as well as their own.

That's why I'm here, writing in the wee hours of the morning - because this is part of who I am and it brings life to my soul.  That's why not all [although many are] of my blogposts are about motherhood - because even though that's a big part of who I am, it's not all of who I am.  That's why I run.  Why I journal.  Why I make time in my day, even if it's just the commute, to remember, to pray, to dream my own dreams, not just my dreams for my child(ren) and family.

As a blessing to my family, myself, and others - all of who I am - fostered, cultivated, and grown.