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Eight Years of Living

Yesterday, Jonathan woke up to eight years of living quietly slipping into nine. It’s a strange thing to watch it ebb away day by day, leaving so little changed, until one day it is gone altogether and a new year has begun.

This was the year of third grade, of lost teeth and a military haircut like Daddy’s that almost broke Mom’s heart into two. It was a year counted out in 52 one-dollar bills from helping Mrs. Smith with her chores each week, and parsed out in rows and rows of yarn knit together in the sugary presence of a grandmother who ran out of grandchildren before she ran out of cookies.

It was the year of being the man of the house, of counting and waiting and being brave while other boys, bigger boys, got to have his daddy instead of him.

It was an Army year.

Daddy said it was work but there were obstacle courses and war simulations and MREs and one amazing ride in a Black Hawk, and it doesn’t take a genius to know what’s playing and what’s not.

It was a year of bike crashes and skinned knees and chopping down a real tree with a real ax all by himself while Mom tried not to watch from the kitchen window and Dad said lots of words about how it would be fine because there’s nothing better for a boy than chopping down a real tree with a real ax. That’s something a man could do, and being eight, almost nine, is just half-way to being a grown-up man.

Mom turned away when he said it because it couldn’t be true.

But there was a grin on the face of an eight-year-old boy, almost nine, when he hauled that heavy green stump up the hill, triumphant, that made his mother think he was already more a man than she had realized, and a little bit of that baby boy of hers slipped away while she wasn’t looking.

He was born on an Easter, the first-born son of a mother who was trying to be brave about having two children nineteen months apart when she didn’t think she hadn’t quite recovered from the idea of having any.

He was a week overdue, growing fat and heavy inside a mother who felt fat and heavy, and fearful too. She wasn’t sure she could do it, could have a baby in the normal way when the first had been turned upside down and had to come out with the help of surgeons and white lights and room that was all at once pure and mean.

She wasn’t sure she could have another baby when the sutures in her heart were still so fresh. The rawness of dark memories and wicked tears stung her mind, and she wondered if she was healthy enough to love a second baby when the love for the first had just begun to drip in. She wasn’t sure she had enough to spare.

But it was Easter.

And the angels were dancing on a stone that was too heavy to roll away and there was life creeping back in where the stench of death hung low. There was redemption and the miracle of resurrection revealed to harlot eyes.

It was Easter, and that mother was the first to feel the miracle flush across her face.

The nurses placed that heavy baby boy across her chest, and there was no terror and there was no fear because the miracle was too big and there wasn’t any room left. It was pushing out the darkness and sweeping up the remnants of guilt and sadness over what had been and left hope for what was yet to be.

That little boy grew up into smiles that were too big for his face and a laughter that was too big for the room. He loved everyone, and he loved his sister most of all, so much that he filled up some of the love she was lacking for him until one day, she realized she loved him right back. They were thick as thieves, Faith and Jonathan, Jonathan and Faith.

Their mother would hold them together on her lap with story books all around and wonder why God would bother to raise the dead when the living were all around.

Perhaps it is because He is the only one who can.

Yesterday, when eight years slipped quietly into nine, that mother stopped a moment and thought about it all, holding it up in her heart because it was too precious to put down anywhere else. She thought about how some things can ebb away, little by little, so you hardly even notice. Then one day, you look, and it is gone, and something better has taken its place.

100 Beautiful Days of Motherhood: 38

It Is a Battle

Once a month, I have the privilege of writing for Allume, an online community of women committed to ministering to others through the written word. We are a group of bloggers, writers, visionaries, and just plain ordinary people who get a kick out of ministering to broken people just like us.

But it is not always easy.

I have always been a writer, in the sense that I felt compelled to write. I used to joke that I have a Times New Roman ticker in my brain because I see my thoughts in words, running across a giant screen in my brain.

However, blogging is fairly new to me. A year ago in January, I jumped into blogging and suddenly, everything I wrote was put out there for all the world to see. I had an audience. The words I scribbled in private were now proclaimed from the rooftops.

It has been thrilling.

Fulfilling.

Devastating.

There are times when a post crushes me. There are times when I think I can’t do this again, when I am battle-weary and broken.

Because it is a battle. Anytime we use the Words of God to teach, preach, instruct, encourage, admonish, or praise, we are drawing a sword. And whenever we draw a sword, His adversaries draw theirs.

If you have dared to grapple with the Word of God, you have felt it. My post at Allume is my encouragement to you who are weary in the fight, who have felt the push-back of enemy forces when you speak the truth in love. It is written to writers, but you know enough to know that it is true of all of us who stand along the front lines of this war.

I hope you will read and arm yourself for battle alongside me today.

Coming Out Clean

Dust rises softly as I pull books from the shelf. It floats up with the heat from a sunbeam,and I watch it for a second, waiting.

Each book holds a memory for me, and I look at the covers and run my hands along the spines, prolonging the decision that must come. Does it stay, or does it go? I wish I could keep them all.

There’s a box on my bed for the ones that are staying, and a box on the floor for the ones that are going. The box on the bed is winning.

There are piles in the hall, too, where I’ve been rooting through closets and bedrooms, and stacks of our things down by the garage door, waiting to go to Goodwill.

Jonathan has taken it upon himself to sort through his treasure collection. The trash can is full to overflowing with rocks, rusty nails, and broken bits of toys. I notice, with a twinge of sadness and relief, that Jonathan has finally decided to throw away the shredded aluminum cans he’s been saving since last summer when he got to shoot a .22 with his dad in the field. The bullet had gone in clean. But it didn’t come out that way.

That’s a little how I’m feeling these days. The bullet went in clean. But it didn’t come out that way.

A first look at our house

This house was our first house. The housing market had just taken a huge hit, and the house was in foreclosure. It was owned by a couple with two kids, and things had not turned out the way they had hoped. I noticed the pencil markings on the kitchen wall and saw how their two babies had grown since they’d been here, and my heart broke for them a little bit. The leaving couldn’t have been easy. There was something special about this house.

It was the first house I had seen that was anywhere near adequate for a family with three young kids and two more on the way. We couldn’t stay where we were living with five children, and we couldn’t rent for less than the cost of a mortgage, so on Valentine’s Day, after we’d worked our budget out on paper a dozen different ways, we decided to buy it.

We called the realtor, but she had news of her own. “You won’t believe this,” she said. “Someone else put in an offer on that house today.”

I hung up the phone and looked at Jeff, who put his arms around me and said, “It wasn’t meant to be.”

I blinked back tears. That was my house. Whoever was trying to buy that house did not love it the way I did. They did not have three babies and two more on the way who needed that house.

I could not give up on it. Secretly, I watched the house online and waited for the “Sold” sign to appear in place of “Pending.”

It never did.

A month later, after viewing a dozen inadequate homes and very nearly giving up hope that we’d be able to find a decent house in a nice neighborhood for the money we had, that classic gray house, my house, was back on the market.

We bought it.

Then, we watched God provide.

Jonathan is super excited about the new fridge

The house was in need of some serious repairs and upgrades. We found free paint at a paint recycle station, a bathtub for $10 and a pedestal sink for $25 and a chandelier for $50. We found hardwood flooring on Craigslist and a brand-new stainless steel Samsung refrigerator for $100. There were solid wood doors for $30 each at a local liquidation store, strapped to the top of our minivan, and a series of scavenger hunts for just enough discounted tiles for the downstairs bathroom.

There was the carpet we saved for, agonized over, and ended up getting for free when it turned out to be defective enough to void the warranty but not defective enough to replace. We were given beds for the children, dressers that could be painted, and even a dining room table when we outgrew the one we had.

There was a brand-new lawn mower that had been returned to the store and marked down just before we came looking for one. The yard is bursting with plant starts from my mother-in-law, spring bulbs from my neighbor, and even a free rose bush from a lady who likes to talk to the children when she walks her dog past our house each day.

And everywhere, in every part of our house, there was the handiwork of people who came and helped, just because they love us.

I see it as I’m packing up and sorting through, preparing for the move we know will come. God is leading us on from here. I know it, and I am grateful, but I am shredded too. The bullet went in clean, but it did not come out that way.

In my humanity, I want to dig my roots in deeper instead of yielding to go. I want to hold on to this house because I have seen God here. I have been loved by God here. There’s a part of me that hurts to prepare this home, my home, for someone else, to share my neighbors with someone else, to leave my friends and my church to someone else.

I turn in my Bible and I read of all the wanderers, all those God called out of the places that were safe and comfortable, called out of the places where God had revealed His glory, shown His hand, and showered them with provision. There are many. Some seem to go without a second thought. But others ache with the going.

It is so tempting to stay.

But it is an act of faith to go, even when it hurts.

So I sort through the years of things that have filled our home and I yield to the sharpness that comes from leaving the places that have been most pleasant and I trust that even though it hurts, God’s going to make it come out clean.

*A little over a week ago, we learned of a significant turn of events in Jeff’s chaplaincy application. He missed the original deadline because of a computer error, which included all applicants with prior service. We were told there were no options but to wait for the next review board. However, the military granted an unprecedented extension to anyone who was affected by the computer error. It was a complete shock to his recruiter and to us!

Jeff resubmitted his application and will be considered for active duty by the Chaplain Review Board which next meets on April 14, 2013. If accepted, we could be reporting to a new duty station in as little as 30 days (chances are they will not keep him at Ft. Lewis, where his reserve unit is located). We are trusting that God will continue to open doors to minister to the military, as it seems this is where He wants us, and preparing for the move so we’re ready when called.

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