A [long] Tribute to the Living

I feel like we are all handling the grieving process well (by “we,” I mean my immediate family). I say we have “good days and bad days,” but that isn’t really true since all grieving is really a good thing, the only way to heal is to grieve. But to grieve is to feel sad a lot of the time. The most difficult part of this process for me, other than simply missing two really great people that I loved, is all of the regrets, they keep me up at night. In my mind, I see Doni with her new haircut and wonder why I didn’t tell her how nice it looked, even though I thought it. Or all of the times I really enjoyed having Wolf as a Father-in-law, but I never said, even if I thought it or told other people about it.
My Mom and Grandma have been such good sports about all of this, rushing to my side and although my being close to the Krismanits for the last four years has been at their expense, they’ve allowed me to constantly share how much I adored Doni. My entire NC family was grateful that I found a second family in the Krismanits, but after my last post my mom responded, “I’m sorry I don’t love Christmas like she did!,” and I comforted her with, “When you die, I will have so many nice things to say about you.” I really wasn’t being funny either, that was the truth. When she dies I will remember her wonderful qualities. But not tell her? That’s stupid. Of course, we are barely a week out from the tragedy in Connecticut, and already in a state of grieving from my in-laws it got me questioning God, WHY? Why do we have these people in our lives: children, mothers, fathers, friends that we have such a limitless capacity to love with all of our hearts, and yet no guarantee that person will be in our life for all of our life. That is a hard pill to swallow. But I can only assume that it is because we are meant to love these people moment to moment, day to day and not take it for granted, because if there is one lesson I have learned from this, I do not even know how many breaths I have left in me. So what if I die first, does that mean my mom doesn’t get to know my opinion of her? Or anybody close to me for that matter? It’s rubbish. I just can’t live like that anymore.
My kids know it, my husband definitely knows it: I love them. I think Paul feels suffocated by my insane love! But others who are close to me, I’m not so sure. So I wanted to write it down, record it in cyber space.

First off, my Mom.
        She got pregnant with me young, unstable and I’m sure she was afraid. My Dad was little comfort to her, and I know she feared judgment seeing as though people knew my Dad would be little comfort to her but she married him anyway. I know she loved him, and yet, he had issues beyond any one’s control, not even his own. I am really grateful that my Mom chose to give me life despite her very erratic life at the time (more due to her husband‘s lack of ability to care for her, not really any bad life decisions she was making). She has always told me the story of why her teeth will not stay healthy, it’s because she didn’t eat enough when she was pregnant with me and her pregnant body took the calcium from her bones and teeth to nourish the seed she had growing in her womb…me. That’s a true fact about pregnancy, if you can't take care of yourself your body will make baby a first priority. This truth is the perfect analogy for my mom, as from the beginning she has made a series of selfless decisions to be a mother to my sister and I. I don’t think she was perfect, and she knows that. But I love my mom, and my sister too, and we have a very deep, unparalleled, precious relationship with her. I mentioned that Doni was my best friend in one of my posts, and in many ways she was. But I also very much consider my mom to be my closest friend, barely surpassed by Paul (and I work to keep him at number one!).
I recently received prayer from a young pastor who prophesied that I was a highly favored woman of God, and I believe it. I believe it especially when I see my mom, because I am merely a byproduct of her, and she was favored first. God set her and my step-father aside, for whatever reason, mercy raged to save their lives and I am forever grateful for this. I would not be the person I am today if it were not for my parents decision to walk through those church doors almost 8 years ago. There was a time when I am not sure if my mom really knew me, and I don’t even think I knew myself. The truth is, I can’t even remember that time in my life. All I feel is the overflowing of God’s grace over and through my family, and a radiant, all consuming love that I have for my mom.
So all of the things I planned on waiting until her death to share: Her and Dave both are incredibly generous. I can think of so many broken people they’ve poured their time and finances, sometimes multiple times, even after being cheated by these same people. In my own life, I’ve seen them pay for my husband to have emergency dental work done, buy warm clothes for all of us, pay for our groceries, completely supply our Christmases the last two years, and pay to fly me out to North Carolina when I’m lonely, even flying out others to help me if possible. Every year they sponsor a family for Christmas, sometimes 2 or 3.  I barley see them giving to charities because they are literally always giving to who ever is standing in front of them. It really sounds like they must be wealthy as I make this list out, but I don’t think my parents give extravagantly because they have extra to give, they really just give extravagantly because they love to give, and they know that by God’s grace all of their needs are provided for. The other thing that I love about my mom is that she is truly a deep well of wisdom. I call her almost every day with a question, and I will be hard pressed to not get an answer from her. Sometimes she has to call me back with an answer, but only because she’s done her research now. I talk to her every day, and I never get tired of it. I look forward to her calls because most of the time I'm lonely at home, grieving, stressing, tiring, and it feels so good to know that someone cares for me the way that she does. 
My Mom also loves my kids, and they love her too. She has had a difficult task of being the grandma from afar, loving them twice a year for 14 very full, chaotic, exhausting, wild days in a row. I know that she never thought she’d have to be that kind of "fifi" but she has excelled at the job, though it is a taxing one. I don’t think growing up any of us imagined that I would be a California girl, me least of all! But I am just in awe that my mom has learned to accept the move, and responded in grace and humility towards me, even when she’s missed me and her grand-babies (Ok, and Paul too…) so deeply.


Dave:

When I was a little girl, I found myself muttering the phrase under my breath, “I know my parents love their horses more than me.” It seemed that way.  They dragged me out of my bed before 9:00 am every Saturday morning and pointed my disheveled self towards the barn. I can remember my fingers being so cold I couldn’t grip the hose. I can remember being so hot that the sweat kept me from gripping the pitchfork. Poor, pitiful me. Then there was the time that the entire barn shook from the force of thunder overhead. I just knew that a twister was imminent, but my step-dad told me to stand my ground. I was holding a stall door open for the last horse to run in. It made sense to me to preserve my life. But not to him. To him, the horses have to be safe first. I’ve heard it said that horse people are a crazy breed, and growing up in the middle of all sorts of them, I have to say that I agree. But crazy needs a perspective, and now that it has been nearly 5 years since I‘ve even ridden, I can officially say that I have earned a healthy one.
Crazy is relative. It might be crazy that my step-dad woke up before the sun every single morning of my childhood to go to the barn, to look after the horses. I complained all of my childhood about that torturous Saturday tradition where he paid me $20 to clean 10 stalls before lunchtime. But he did the job day in and day out. I’ve seen him agonize over whether he should charge extra to blanket the horses, .50 cents extra. People go mad over things such as this. I was there, watching him carry his battery operated radio in the back pocket of his trousers, listening, waiting to hear if a storm was on its way, or a freezing rain. Then when internet came along, he and my mother would eat, sleep, and breathe the doppler radar. And depending on the storm, my step dad would go down the barn and determine one by one which blanket should be used given the night’s forecast. You could offer to help, or be dragged down to the barn all the same, but the job still could not get done without his expertise.
He was the only one for years who knew what each horse ate. Literally, each diet (we’re talking over 30 horses here) was engraved in his memory as he prepared bucket after bucket for morning and evening meals. He could not afford to get sick because no one else could fill his shoes. And he couldn’t hire anybody else because no one could do it quite like he could.  Including me and my sister. So many times he just took the scoop out of my hand, “no, you do it like this.” Or, when we’d clean stalls (yes, I was the only high school student who hated the weekends), the end result was always subject to examination. And then to constructive criticism. Dave has never “just got the job done.” He was outrageously meticulous.  And we were expected to be the same. From mucked stalls to cleaning tack to being shown how to polish tall boots military style, I wondered so often how he could be so hard on me. After all, it’s just a stall. It’s just a saddle. It’s just a horse. 
That philosophy never caught on with him. He was still the one up at midnight at the first notice of distant thunder, walking to the barn to let the horses in. The one night a “pop up” storm appeared, so violent it shook the foundations of our home, my step-dad was dressed and ready to go, while my mother told him it would be crazy to leave the house. The next morning we found a horse struck by lightening, further proving to my step-dad that he can never have a break, never stop. So he doesn’t, and he never has.
Some people just want more than he can give, and it makes no sense to me since I have only ever seen him give everything, his whole life for this sport.
You see, the closest I get to any horse now is driving by one in a pasture. My life took a different turn, and for that, I am grateful. In some ways. For one, I like having a normal life. Yet, there is an ache in me when I see that horse grazing from afar. How I miss it all. Not just the horse, or the riding. Only the fiery passion that burns in the heart of one who loves the sport. It may fizzle out, but it never dies. To this I can attest. It is this passion that I will carry with me for life, not only for horses, but now to my family. If I am going to do a job, I should do it well. If I am going to love something, I should be abandoned. If I am going to love people, I should lay my life down.
I’ve seen it from my parents time and time again. To the parents who had money for Disney vacations and beamers, but no money for board or consistent lessons, my parents allowed those students to work off ride time. To the parents who had full time jobs, they only need drop their children off at the barn. We called it ‘free babysitting’ back then, and it was. But my parents couldn’t fathom those same children sitting at home with a nanny. So they let them ride. They gave them a piece of the passion, something I now see each of these children will have for a lifetime. I have seen my parents robbed, those they trusted lie to their face. Instructors not showing up, starting underground businesses on their property where they profit from a lie. They once moved homeless people into our house when they were found camping in the woods at the barn. Then they hired them at the barn and later helped them find a home. Owning a farm that provides a public service opens one up to tremendous scrutiny, after all, every person has an opinion. Particularly those who pay good money to have their horse well taken care of. That is totally fair, I think. I just cannot help but to see this one picture of Dave in my head: dressed from head to toe in carhartt overalls ready to go clean stalls in the snow, beat out frozen water buckets with a hammer, hold a blow dryer to solid frozen pipes, and then drive my sister and I to a friend’s house because barn work on a below freezing day definitely, forgive my language, sucks. Dave would be willing to lay his life down for the horses. I see him do it all of the time, as my mom calls out to him, “Have you had breakfast today?,” “Have you had water today?,” “Dave, you’re sick, get in bed!,” “Dave, you are commanded to take a day of rest, go lay down.” But he keeps going back to the barn anyway, for you, for me, for all of us who have benefited from Ridge Haven. I know a lot of people who have muttered the words, “I just hope my neighbor will get a horse,” because the sport in itself is a lot of work, best to let someone else do it. I’m from a behind the scenes team, you can trust me on this, there is no such thing as “a day off” because horses appreciate being fed daily. But I believe Dave works hard at his job so that one day those of us who have ridden at Ridge Haven can look back and say simply that we loved a horse, and there are few privileges greater than that.

Dave has been an anchor in all of our lives, one of goodness and strength.

(But you shouldn’t feel bad that Dave works so much so you can ride horses, unfortunately there is no cure for the “horse bug”!)


Mama & Poppy:

I feel like maybe I’ve exhausted my readers at this point, and by all means, this exercise is more for me than for you. But continue if you’d like. Once upon a time I wrote in my journal, in all seriousness, that I would kill myself when my grandma died. Can you believe it? When my mom came to the realization that she could not have a baby and raise her alone, my grandparents were very willing to fill whatever shoes she needed filled. I am so grateful that my mom came to this place of humility, because I have precious memories with my mom from a young age, and the same sort from my mama. She was so tender, and loving, and loved to play with me. My mom joked the other day that she didn’t remember playing with Mckenzie and I, and the truth is, I don’t really remember her playing with us as young children either. I, however can remember hours and hours of coloring, building puzzles, reading flashcards, watching movies, and singing nursery rhymes with mama. She was someone that I wanted to spend time with because she loved me so much and I could feel it to the core of my being when I was around her. I knew that if my feet were itchy at 2 am she would wake up and dig through medicine cabinets for athletes foot cream, apply it to my feet, and then sit with me until I fell back asleep. If I was hungry at 4 am, she would wake up and fix me a bowl of cereal. To this day, I can not think of anyone who is more sacrificial of themselves then my Grandma. She used to get me a glass bottle of coke when I was sick. Every Saturday night (I stayed with her on the weekends mostly) she would fix poppy and I popcorn and make me coke in a little Tupperware cup and we would watch America’s Funniest Home Videos, and sometimes Walker Texas Ranger ( I can remember poppy explaining to me that they were actors and not really dying!). She would stick hot french fries in the vents of her air conditioning to cool them off in the car. She would sing to me all of the time. Poppy used to make me milkshakes with a package of chocolate Jello and a pitcher of milk. They loved me so much, and I knew it beyond a shadow of a doubt. I can remember Mama taking an hour to brush my long hair, and if I asked nicely she would piece by piece put it in rollers so I could have curly hair the next day. I don’t think there was anything that they would deny me, and there probably still isn’t.
Mama and I have more in common than anyone else that I know, and I grew up wanting to be just like her, though she felt like her job at home was not as significant as someone who worked a full time job. I still look around her home and feel warm and safe. Paul teases me for my obsession with Maxwell House coffee, but it’s because I’ve never walked through her door without inhaling that sweet aroma. It satisfies my soul. I sit surrounded by all of her framed handmade, cross-stitched pictures and I’m thinking, when they‘re gone, I want everything in this room. What the heck, I want this whole house!  Because I love to be in their house, and surrounded by their land, and to me it is the essence of what a home is supposed to be. And because I grew up with this close relationship to both my grandma and my grandpa, they really have never been just that. I have spent my life loving them, and spent the last four years missing them. And just like my mom, my mama never thought she would be a long distance grandma, and still, she has excelled at it. At times when Doni would be sick and friends would fade into the background of my life I would tell Paul that the only real love I felt was in boxes coming from North Carolina, from my grandma. The love I feel from my grandparents has always been constant and real, it has helped me to persevere towards my goals and dreams because I know that whether I succeed or fail, I will always be special to them. I sit here with tears in my eyes because I miss them so much. I just wish I could just be at their kitchen table right now telling them about my life and eating something that my grandmother fried, and not here feeling bad that two people who love me and my family so much have to love me from afar. But that’s life, and I’m grateful that just like they always have, they’ve stood by me whether it be physically, or simply with their hearts, like now.


I have so cherished my time in California. There are about a million reasons that God brought my family here, some more obvious now than ever before. I did find a really special relationship with both my in-laws and the entire Sonora community. And yet, I have never stopped yearning for my home place. I miss the june bugs (particularly their relationship with Braxton), and the fireflies, the hot nights, and cold dry days, all of my parents stupid dogs (and anti-social cat), my parent’s front porch, and the horses (with all of my heart, I miss being on the back of a horse!), but most of all, I miss my family.


And finally:

Mckenzie, to lose you would be most devastating to me outside my immediate family. Not because you are younger, or have much more life to live, but because loving you consumes so much of my heart. I love you, I love you, I love you and I am so grateful that you are my sister. And I have too many memories to list but one of my favorites is when we decided to cut Peedab’s whiskers off because we thought they were “too pokey” and then when we cut them short they were like little, sharp needles and like ten times worse then when they were long. That was really funny. Rest in peace “Dabber Doo!”

A Window for Jacob

I know I have been writing a lot lately. I am exhausted, but it's hard to feel well rested for some reason. Well, I think mourning is the main one. I am at peace, I feel "ok," but some things just have to be done. Things like writing down my memories so my kids will remember Nana and Opa. It makes me angry sort of, because it feels unfair that I should have to do this. It makes me sad, because as I recall all of these wonderful times I ache to have them back. Right now- not after I die. But preserving happy-go-lucky days by tucking my emotions away is not going to change anything, and it certainly won't preserve their memory. So I did it, I wrote a letter to Jacob. He was the closest to them as the oldest grandchild and they loved him so much. I plan on writing one for Sonora, and a short one for Cori. But here is the first of the series. A window for Jacob to look through as he grows, so that two special people may not be forgotten.

This was by far the most emotional thing I have written, I hesitated to share. It feels deeply personal, though it isn't really. But for those of you that have said, "I knew Wolf, but not Doni," this is who she was to me. It is a long post, so be warned. And still, not nearly long enough. I miss them today. I miss her voice. I keep waiting for her to call me. I keep praying for her to be healed, and I forget she already has been. But my greatest fear is not that I will forget that they died, but that I will forget they lived. So I wrote this for Jacob:


Jacob,

It’s been nearly two weeks since your Nana and Opa went to be with Jesus. That sounds so cliché to me, especially since in my head I can see them walking in complete wholeness and joy, “went to be with Jesus” sounds like a greeting card. I am happy for them, but grieved for myself, and for you especially. My heart hurts more than I can say when I think about what you will miss out on with them no longer in this realm. But we can’t dwell on the pain, but instead the joy and love cultivated from hundreds and hundreds of precious memories. My greatest fear is that you will not remember them, you will not remember these two people that loved you. Oh, how they loved you. Nana used to call you “the apple of your Nana’s eye.” But I remember, I go to sleep with rich, sweet memories of Nana’s laughter ringing throughout the house just as soon as she heard the front door close behind you and your spiderman backpack, on your way to spend the afternoon with her. I remember her falling straight to her knees on the kitchen floor exclaiming, “COME HERE YOU, OH, YOUR NANA LOVES YOU!” Do you remember this? I do. And then Sonora would come up right behind you and she would shift you to one arm and open up the other for Sonora to fall into, “THERE’S MY PRINCESS!” I looked forward to that greeting every time we would visit her. Then as I rounded the corner with diaper bag in tow, you and Sonora would run to the right and to the left and I would hug her as she’d exclaim, “and How’s Momma?” You would always run right to her TV and ask for your favorite movie, usually Muppets with John Denver, and it later transitioned to the Steve Irwin movie (Opa found it at a thrift store, and picked it out just for you). She loved putting movies on for you and she’d usually narrate the entire time. If you wanted to hold the remote to play with buttons and skip around, she would gladly pass it over. If you wanted to be outside playing with the water hose, she obliged. Nothing was off limits to you! And even if something was, she’d usually laugh at your naughtiness (like playing in the ash bucket outside!) before she’d move you onto something else.

You loved drinking root beer at her house. You would always run straight to the cabinet where she kept it. If she knew you were coming over, she’d make sure to buy you a brand new bottle so it would be fizzy. She’d let you pick out the sippy cup you wanted (if she could find all of the pieces!) and then she’d began filling your cup, exclaiming “Every man’s gotta have his beer!” You looked forward to that so much. You would jump up and down at her side saying “root beer, root beer!” As she’d reach it out to you, she’d say (very loudly!), “Here you go, my little boy blue! Nana loves you!” I think she said this between 5-10 times every visit. I can heard the words echoing in my head. Do you remember her voice? It was deep and rich, and always loud, and nearly every sentence was followed with laughter that echoed throughout the house, literally! I remember her calling you “little boy blue” most often, but if she was in a really goofy mood she would call you (in this really cheesy British accent) “Master Jacob!”

You and her had this game that you invented together. You named it “shippy-ship” and the premise was that their California king-sized bed became a ship, and you were the captain, and she was the crew. You’d grab a hat for yourself off of the bedpost where Opa kept several, and you’d pick one out for yourself, put it on, and hand her pink one to her. She’d say, “Thanks Captain Jacob, now lower the mainsail,” and you’d reach above her bed to the blinds and pull the cord to lift them up. Then she’d turn her hands into make shift binoculars and ask you what kind of animals you should save. You’d answer that you saw a lion and she’d laugh out loud for a second before getting really serious, then she’d pretend to have a walkie-talkie hand device and lift it to her mouth saying, “10-4 Jacob, 10-4. I see a lion, there’s a lion, let’s go get that lion and bring it on board. Do you have your net Captain Jacob?” She loved playing this game with you, and I was always impressed how she could keep it going for hours on end! Don’t people get tired of playing with toddlers? Well, she didn’t! When she was sick I would talk to her on the phone and she’d say, “I neeeeeeed my little boy blue, I need him to come play with his nana!” She played cars with you, and “farm set,” and I have so many memories of coming to pick you up and watching her follow you around on all fours, pushing around a truck or tractor. I always used to marvel at how she interacted with you, it was like she really saw you. She didn’t play with you while she did something else, or tell you to hold on while she finished dinner. You always came first when the two of you were playing. And if she couldn’t play, she say “Nana wants to play with you baby, I just have to…,” and she’d wrap up what she was doing as soon as she could to sit with you.

She loved the relationship that you had with Opa. She laughed and laughed when you’d run into Opa’s office and interrupt his work. She’d tell you not to bother him, but when you ignored the rule she couldn’t help but follow you into the office and clap as you crawled onto Opa’s lap and sat right in front of his laptop. Opa always welcomed the interruption, he’d say “Heeeey Jacob!” He’d bounce you on his lap, and Nana would laugh, “You found Opa, Jacob, you found him!” Opa would laugh and say, “Saaay Jacob, do you want to see something here?,” and then he’d google “you tube trucks” (as opposed to going to you tube and searching for trucks, always made me laugh) and he would click on the first thing that came up to show you. One of his favorite videos was one that you found together of a truck driving over a sand dune and when it would go over the hill a man sitting in the back of the truck would fly up in the air and land in the sand. It would make all of us laugh, the simplicity of the video, and then how much it tickled you and Opa to watch it together! Sometimes he’d show you dog videos too since he always had some dog video that he was interested in: dogs dancing, dogs saving their owners, dogs that liked to chase sheep- he just loved loyal dogs. Which brings me to my other memory, Opa and Bo! He loved his dog so much, and he loved watching you play with Bo. He would laugh and laugh when you’d sit on Bo, or drag Bo around by his tail (or try!). He was always impressed with what Bo would tolerate from you! Sometimes he’d intervene, and amidst laughter say, “No, no sweetie, we can’t do that to Bo, he doesn’t like that.” I don’t know if I ever heard Nana tell you no, just Opa. But he would always say it just like that, gentle but firm, “no, no sweetie.”

One time Nana was bathing you and she was laughing so loud from the bathroom, we could hear her in the living room. She was all the way in the back of the house, but her laughter rang out until Opa and I were both laughing without her knowing. Opa looked at me and said, “I tell ya, I haven’t heard my wife laugh like that in years,” I “awwwwed” at the statement and he kind of looked down and got serious. He said, “Jacob has brought so much joy into her life.” She went through a bout of being sick for some time right after we moved out to California. She was still not feeling well but once she started spending time with all of us, she began to enter into a season of being healthy. A lady at the church stopped me once and said, “Summer, I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but I just want you to know that Doni has been sick for as long as I’ve known her, and to see her healthy like this just makes me think that she needed a new reason to fight a little harder, and I think being a grandma did that for her.” Nana was still sick off and on, but she would often spend days in bed so she could feel better because she wanted to see you.

Opa loved to share his interests with you. He is the one that got you into ships and submarines. He put on 20,000 Leagues Under the Sea while you were over one night. Expecting you to be terrified, he wanted to fast forward through the “scary” parts but you insisted to see them and he obliged. From then on, you were hooked. If he was home, you’d have to sit on his lap either watching that movie, or googling you tube videos on submarines! One time I came to pick you up and he was letting you watch “ships crashing.” I wasn’t very happy about that, but you were elated! You were upset when I suggested you watch something else, and Opa would just say, “Sorry Jacob, Mommy doesn’t like that. OH, how about submarines!” He loved having a grandson. Nana and Opa were not rich, but they loved spending their money for us to have good experiences together, like steak dinners, going out to eat, or trips to San Francisco to see the Giants play. I hated that long drive, but half the reason Opa and Nana went was to share the experience with you. You were so brainwashed by Daddy and Opa after the Giants won the world series (we watched almost every game together two years ago!), you would see any sport and say "Go Giants!"

We almost always had a birthday for you at our house, and their house. Nana just wanted in on it. She wanted an excuse to get you two gifts, one for our party and one for hers! She talked about your birthday for weeks before it got there. She couldn’t wait to bless you, though she did that sort of thing throughout the year, wrapping the present was just more than she could take! I can hear her so clearly in my head, “JACOB, THIS ONE IS FROM YOUR NANA!!,” and when you’d open it and yell “it’s a truck!” she’d clap and exclaim, “THAT’S RIGHT! YOUR NANA LOVES YOU, JACOB!” I’ve heard that so many times through the years, her say “Nana loves you” or “Nana and Opa love you, Jacob!” Usually loud and followed by a tight squeeze and a kiss. I am so glad she got to be a Grandma to you these last couple of years. She talked about you all of the time, every time her and I were on the phone she would ask if she could talk to you, even if she’d already seen you that day.

Nana took Christmas very seriously. And Easter, and Thanksgiving! Pretty much any reason she could think of to get you a gift, she would take it. Christmas is my favorite memory though because I can hear her asking you, “Jacob, you need to tell Nana what you want for Christmas so I can talk to Santa.“ You would get a present from Santa Claus, and the Christ Child. I think Nana just wanted an excuse to get you more gifts. We decorated their tree with them for the last three years. Nana would let you do whatever, but Opa would say, “oh, no, no, no sweetie” every time you touched an ornament. He was VERY serious about his Christmas tree. He’d let you help by handing you an ornament and then pointing to a part of the tree and saying, “Ok Jacob, that one goes riiiiight there.” When you listened and did what he said, he’d clap and say “Yeah!” but only followed by Nana jumping up and down saying, “THAT’S MY BOY!” We had a tradition of gathering at their house on Christmas Eve for a small dinner and then opening a present together. Nana would sometimes let you open two and come up with some goofy excuse like, “Well, I got this one for him to open on Christmas Eve so I don’t mind if he opens this one, and then we’ll let him pick one that was for Christmas day.” I can hear Opa protesting, and confused, with a smile on his face, “Nooo, no, that’s not how we do it!”

And then Nana saying, “Hoooooney, this is what I promised Jacob!” Of course, Opa would laugh and consent to this craziness! There was no getting in between Nana and a gift that she had chosen just for her Jacob.

You were always the exception to the rule, Jake. After gift giving, we’d all head down to the Red Church for their Christmas Eve service. I was never thrilled about being out so late with such young kids, but it was so important to Nana to have you next to her on that front row. I’m glad we went with her now.

Nana would have done anything to put a smile on your face. In my mind, I can hear her voice singing to you this ridiculous Spiderman song that always made us laugh, or “Jesus loves me,” or “The Lord is good to me!” She loved singing to you. I can see her down on her knees next to you when you had an owie, saying “Jesus, please take Jakie’s owie away, in Jesus’ name.” I've heard her pray this hundreds of times, as only bubble wrap would keep you safe! I remember the night you had an ear infection and me, Daddy, Opa, and Nana all stood around you while you laid on the couch (with your saltine crackers and root beer in tow) and we laid hands on you and prayed for you, and that night you were healed. I think about all of the prayers Nana must have prayed over you because she loved you so much, and she always said that “her little boy blue” would change the world.

I miss her so much, because I loved her. And what I loved most about her, out of all of the wonderful, precious things I will miss, is the way that she loved you. It was so enormous, so all consuming, and even contagious. I have prayed many times that the Lord would help me to really see you the way she could without even trying. It was always so easy for her, or so it seemed, to have you on one knee and Sonora on the other. To have you sitting at her feet telling her a story, while Sonora sat on the counter asking her for a cookie from the lighthouse cookie jar, and she could hear you both at the same time. It was amazing!

My worst fear is that you will not remember her. An even greater fear is that a day will come when I won’t remember what it feels like to hear her laugh, or sing, or tell her favorite stories. So this is for the both of us. A testimony, true stories of her and Opa and the way they loved you so. This is not easy for me, the sting of them being gone is so real. But we mustn’t forget, and if I could choose only two things for you to carry for the rest of your life, despite there being millions, I want you to remember how much they loved you, and how much they loved Jesus. These two memories have to go together, because one without the other is pure torture. They loved you, and you loved them back, and now they’re gone. But they loved Jesus so much, and they lived every day first and foremost with the hope that they would one day get to see their precious Lord face to face. So it is with this memory that we can face tomorrow, sad because we miss them, but masked by an inner joy that we carry their same hope.

Never forget Jake, “Your Nana loves you so much!” And Opa too, who would simply kiss your forehead and say, “Love you, Jacob!”

Summer

12/12/12, For Paul

I cannot believe I am blogging at this ungodly hour of 8:13 pm. I am so tired. Today was just one of those days where I kept waiting for an opportunity to nap but it never came. But I have to write, I want to so badly because tomorrow is a special day, it is my four year anniversary to my husband. What a beautiful day it will be, simply because it commemorates the day that vows were exchanged and a covenant was made. I wanted to write something to honor him, but also maybe ramble a bit on my takes about marriage, things I’ve learned, advice I may want to impart given my measly 4 years of marriage (hey, we’ve accomplished quite a bit!).

I seriously love my husband. Sure, I’ve always wanted to be married and was pretty sure when the day came it would be the “truly, madly, deeply” kind of love, but to this extent, I just had no idea. In my opinion, I have been a pretty rotten wife. Because marriage has not ever looked exactly like I thought it would look, and I have often deemed it unsatisfying. Let me put it like this: because our love story has never looked like a page from “The Notebook” I have muttered such phrases as, “I don’t believe in real love!” What I mean to say is, I thought that “The Notebook” depicted real love, and what Paul and I were experiencing was far, far from making risqué love in our abandoned dream house, or having sopping wet makeout sessions during a rain storm. Darn it, I failed miserably, I supposed. Now, after all we have been through, I can definitely say that we have the real thing and that the Hollywood rendition is simply crap.

Most of my readers know how Paul and I met. It’s true, we met on a singles site online which prompted our cheap bums to take the conversation over to “myspace” where our love continued to blossom. I can’t believe we fell in love on myspace….gah, we are so old. I once wanted to write a book entitled, “When ‘Myspace’ Becomes God’s Space: When God uses the web to network love,” anywho, then myspace kind of flopped, and that entire point was pointless. My point actually is that God used myspace to connect Paul and I, and that makes me laugh. He had a purpose in it though and I want to share something I learned.

Before I met Paul, I began to resent men a little bit. Let’s face it, “The Notebook” was what I thought love was supposed to look like so I found myself sorely disappointed in the whole charade. Then I found Paul: handsome, charming, strong convictions, manly, chivalrous, sexiest man alive (in my opinion), bold, enjoys boasting of his genius IQ….and on and on the list goes of what I considered attractive qualities. But I was scared out of my mind. Paul bought a ticket to visit me for the week of September 15^th, and here I was, the last week of August visiting Myrtle Beach with my family, freaking out. I was thinking that maybe I’d just skip out on the airport and not pick him up. All the while we would spend hours on the phone doing the googly love thing, but I was deeply troubled in my spirit. So one day while at the beach I took the time to walk down to the inlet by myself. My mom kept Jake because I was a single mom at the time and she wanted to offer me some alone time. I only thought I didn’t get enough alone time back then [laughing at my idiotic self]. But I went to this inlet and sat down by it and was just captivated. Where I was standing, the surroundings were hotels, fancy condos, and people everywhere. But the ocean wrapped around and created an inlet where I stood on one side, and about 25 feet across was land that was untouched. Maybe this sounds silly, but I had never beheld the ocean apart from tourism. Here it was though, pure and real. I sat on that beach and closed my eyes, “God, that is so beautiful.” I heard Him respond almost instantly in my spirit, “….that is what I have for you.” Huh? I asked him what that meant because I was confused, and He answered in a simple word, “Beauty.” That is still one of the sweetest moments I have ever had with the Lord. I sat there for awhile longer and watched the trees blowing in the wind, the white sand against an untainted blue backdrop. I skipped my way back to the house, and as soon as I could mobilize my sister, I brought her to the inlet to show her the treasure I had found. When we got there she said, “so, swim over there.”

Uh, no thank you. I am afraid of sharks, first of all, and furthermore it is dangerous to swim across inlets. That is a fact. But Mckenzie walked up to the shore and put her feet in the water, beckoning me to join her. I planted my feet in the sand and shook my head. She said, “If you think it is so pretty, or whatever {insert evil snarl here}, you should go see it.” I refused and then she said something else that totally shook me to the core. My ears heard one thing, but my spirit perceived another. “Summer, you are always so afraid to go in over your head.” The words shook me like a snow globe until all of the little pieces of fear I had about meeting Paul rose to the surface and swirled around inside me. I don’t know how it clicked in my head or my heart, but it did. If I don’t act on this thing that God has given me, I can lose it. I can lose out on beauty if I don’t trust God.

I wish I could sum up this story by saying that Mckenzie and I swam to the other side of the inlet and explored it in all it’s glorious wonder. But we did not, because once again, inlets are dangerous. Not only that, but I later found out this inlet is called “Hog’s Inlet” which must be God’s sense of humor that the place of my most earth-shaking, life-changing revelation happened at a place called “Hog’s Inlet.” In either case, I was hoping someone would benefit from this story because ultimately it was the reason I stepped out on a limb to meet my future husband at the airport a week later. And let him put a ring on my finger eleven days later. And then I flew to California 20 days later. It scared the crap out of me, but I did it because sometimes God asks us to take a chance, to trust Him. I believe trusting Him opens all kinds of doors that we can’t even imagine. Bethel leaders say “Faith is spelled R-I-S-K.” I would have to agree.

So here Paul and I are, four years into our marriage, and I am blessed more than ever. I seriously love my husband. Like, so intensely and deeply that sometimes I just follow him around like a lost puppy dog hoping he’ll hold me underneath his wing. And he usually flaps me away saying, “don’t you have anything better to do?” Sorry, that’s love folks. I was thinking about the irony though, that even though I am attracted to my husband, that really isn’t what makes me fall in love with him. Every now and then I catch him in his black ball cap with his unruly curls spilling out the bottom and it makes me really sappy, but I have figured out that contrary to popular belief (and my former beliefs anyway) that my love for him really grows over every day sort of things. Like when he sweeps the floor, takes out the trash, holds the baby, changes Sonora’s poopy diaper without making her suffer the wrath of being rinsed off in a cold shower and instead explaining grace, taking the dog on a walk because he’s so annoying, watering the plants, cutting the hair away from Reagan’s butt hole so she can poo successfully (I know, you’re thinking that Paul deals with a lot of poo…), making coffee every morning, going to work and school so he can take care of our family and follow some of his dreams, and the list goes on and on. Then there are the things that really get me. Like when he tells me that one of the reasons he loves me is because I was courageous enough to keep a baby at a really inconvenient, unstable time in my life. Or when we’re in the hospital with Jake and he offers to hold him while the IV is inserted because my nerves cannot handle the trauma of seeing my baby boy go through that. When he brings me home a Starbucks just because he knows I need coffee to survive motherhood. When he gets asked to speak in front of the church, and he’s so bold, so smart, so in love with Father God he can’t wait to teach. When a neighbor backs into his car, one of this favorite possessions, he sheds a tear in private but to the guy’s face is willing to shrug it off as “just a thing,“ just in case the guy doesn’t know Christ and needs a lesson in grace. When someone offends or hurts me, even by accident, he seems to forget his own rules about grace, and releases that intellectual jib jab he’s been gifted with. When he gets up extra early to do his homework, read the Bible, and watch a football game so he can save the morning to hang out with me. When a stranger breaks a common traffic rule and hits his parents car, pushing them into a big rig and causing their untimely deaths, being angry or vengeful never even crosses his mind. He is just the real deal. He is a really good and decent man, and if I can be this in love with him after four years, I am seriously afraid of how much my heart and soul will no longer belong to me in the years to come. What a vulnerable place to be in, but that’s the kind of risk that love takes, I have found. So I’ll just keep on giving, because so far, he has been a really great steward.

I seriously love my husband. Four years and 3 children, 5 houses, 2 really big moves later, I just say to life, “bring it on.” We’ve got this J

Paul, love you, love you, love you more than you’ll ever know. You are the beauty that God promised me that day, that captivated my heart through a landscape, and I will never be the same.

The Answer to "How are you?"

Of course, following an emotion guzzling tragedy, I have wanted to write. Never have I been so grief stricken and lost, and yet also, never have I been so busy. The busyness somehow lends itself to healing, for whatever reason. I have many, many people stopping me at church and flooding my inbox with “Are you ok? How are you?,” and for that I am grateful. So here is a quick paced blog on where I am at currently.

First of all, I was beyond blessed to have really great in-laws. I come from a great family, parents and grandparents that I have always counted as close friends, and yet my mom has often laughed out the phrase, “I swear you were adopted!” Despite the fact that I loved my own family, I’ve always had very little in common with them. I love big boisterous parties with people, rich with tradition and fun, and board games and movies are some of my favorite things to do with others. Not so with my family (except maybe the boisterous parties!). I always said that the Krismanits were the family that I never had, and in so, so many ways they were. The first party they ever threw was an engagement party for Paul and I, and it was flowing with wine and fancy desserts. I felt so out of place, but I learned to love it. I fit right in to the board games, and the various traditions I could count on for each holiday. But perhaps my favorite thing about their family was the relationship that I developed with Doni. The idea that I lost a “mother in law” is foreign to me, because honestly, we were more like chatty school girls, really close friends. Our relationship started when I lived in North Carolina, we could spend hours on the phone. And then when I moved to California, we lived with them for three months. I cannot get into specific memories right now, as that does lead me down memory lane which is now quite drenched with my tears (happy tears!), but I usually talked to her on the phone 4-6 times week, and went to her house on average, 2-3 days a week. I went over to her house because I was lonely, and because she was great with the kids, and they were great with her. I also went because she was my friend, and talking is an energizing activity for me (if you know me, this may be an understatement!), and she was often in the same predicament, alone at home. I loved her so much. It’s been hard to be the “daughter in law,” the friend, because it has been muttered that maybe my grief isn’t as deep since I am “married into the family.” I only have my husband now to legitimize my heart, but she was my best friend.

Then there is the guilt that I carry now because through that season where I was so close to her, I was frequently struggling with bitterness. Why was she so sick? How could she be fine one day, and sick the next? How could she cancel plans with the kids for the second time in a row when she promised she would be there? She got to spend so much time with them, that’s true. But she also missed a lot that she committed to because she was sick. I found myself in the last six months frequently making back up plans after she committed to something because I couldn’t trust her health. I sometimes let it get personal. And it was her fault and my fault. My fault, because I didn’t just pity her, I blamed her. Her fault because she completely ignored her physical state and agreed and committed to absolutely everything! I just wanted to share that part because it torments me a bit. Other than that, I have very little regrets, we were always available to one another and I was as vulnerable as it gets, as was she. There was little lacking from our relationship to one another and I am grateful that I had her.

Mostly, I am at peace. I don’t know why, and I don’t understand how I can just go about my day, and get back to life as it once was, though it will never actually be the same again. I haven’t been reading my Bible, and my prayers are 2-3 sentences at most. I am not angry at God though, He has remained good and sovereign at this time our lives. Paul, as well, never ceases to amaze me. We can’t stop telling stories, laughing about the wonderful memories we have shared with our family. We are blessed that we said goodbye to them with very little regrets, we always enjoyed them and loved them as they were. Though we want them back, we keep thinking “well, if it was going to happen, this was probably the right time.” Doni, for one, gets to be whole now. I am sad for me, and not for her. When she cancelled on me the last time, it was when she was supposed to come to the hospital and help when Courage was born. Her health failed her, and she called me in tears. In tears, I had to tell my kids that Nana was actually not on her way. I rejoice that she is with Jesus. She always talked about Jesus, and loved telling testimonies. I just envision her telling her own testimony to Jesus, a story of a long hard journey where her body failed her continuously, and yet she was always so joyful, so positive, and steadfast in her faith. And now, she gets to be whole. That makes me very happy. I am not as sad for her, though she was my close friend and I loved her more than there are words!

Bethel always says that you cannot make a theology out of “Why?” and I have tried to stay true to this statement while walking this road. Still, I do not understand why Wolf had to go as well. He had open heart surgery only weeks ago and was given “a new lease on life,” he called it. He was also moving to part time employment at the church, and was looking forward to his second novel being published, a sequel to his first. I am glad they went together, yes. But to me, him moving on seems like the greatest injustice of all. It doesn’t seem right. It doesn’t seem fair.

For the first couple of days I was shaken by the injustice of it all, losing both of them at the same time. I wanted to scream at the top of my lungs how robbed I felt. I wanted to cry deep enough to feel satisfied and it was not possible. My only guess is that prayers have been outrageously effective. And it isn’t just me, it was our entire family that played, laughed, and loved as we recounted all of our wonderful memories of Wolf and Doni. I do miss them, and there is pain there, but it coincides with a supernatural peace that I have never felt before this time in my life. Maybe I am in shock? I can’t say. Paul and I were talking about our peace yesterday and were even able to say, “At least it wasn’t our children, at least it wasn’t one of us….now THAT would be hard!” The other weapon in our arsenal comes from a famous Bethel saying as well, and that is, “Don’t look at what the enemy is doing, but what God is doing.”

Did the enemy steal something really precious from us? Absolutely.

But he loses. Wolf and Doni are in a better place, they are endlessly happy and blissful at this point, of that I am 100% sure. As for our family, I know that something was ripped open in the spiritual realm and I cannot wait to see the harvest that God is going to produce for our family, and for the county of Tuolumne. It is going to be crazy, in the best sense. I can feel it in my bones. The reality of the victory of Christ screams in my spirit like I’ve never heard or felt before. In the secret place, a small voice whispers “Do you trust me?”


So, I don’t know why I feel this way. But I do trust Holy Spirit on this one. I don’t feel like Wolf and Doni are dead, but that is the reality of my faith, they are not dead but very much alive. For the first time in two weeks I am with the kids at home, making snacks and lunches, coordinating nap times. It isn’t easy or quite normal yet. I also wonder if I will ever catch up on sleep, though I nap at every possible opportunity and have been going to bed at decent times. The hurt makes me tired. But we are ok. We have received the money sent our way and we are SO grateful for the generosity and outpouring of our community. Not worrying about finances has changed the course of this predicament to simply focus on healing. Thank you. We are also receiving messages by the bucket load and it does not overwhelm us at all, we just can’t respond at this point. But I think I speak for Paul and I both when I say that we serve an awesome God and He is good, and His love has been like liquid honey as we walk through this trial. I feel a sense of pride when I think of the mighty, sovereign, and just God that I serve because I know He will repay what has been stolen. And on top of that, I know I’ll see Wolf and Doni in eternity. We all have different ideas of what those two goofies are doing in the Heavenlies, but I just know Wolf is taking long walks with his Mom, who passed away when he was just 18 from a brain aneurysm. As for Doni, the Lord reminded me last night that she had lost a baby during the second trimester in between Stephen and Sonja. It was a little girl that they named Natasha. Now Doni gets to cuddle with her baby that she has missed for all of these years. There are few things (like maybe the Trinity counts as one of these things..) that Doni loved more than her children and grandchildren. I see the pain that is my own and the siblings, and yes, it is ever present. But what God is bringing about as a result of this, the bigger picture is what I am talking about, is just too good to miss.

I look forward to writing an expose’ on my in-laws too, a very thorough one of the positive nature, because there is little else to talk about. They were really awesome people, lots and lots of fun. I miss them so much, but there is a time to weep and a time to be joyful, and the latter season is nigh. Thank you, Jesus, for HOPE. Tis’ the Season, after all.


(Writing a blog makes me feel kind of blue. Every time I would write a blog, Doni would read it and call me. Last time we talked her computer wouldn’t pull up my last blog post and she wanted me to read it over the phone! I successfully paraphrased, I think, since it was so long. She loved reading my blogs, and it always blessed me! I suppose these sorts of sweet memories will follow me all of the days of my life....)

A Corrected Testimony

This is really not the ideal time to write for me. The wind is whipping and howling just outside the window, and my kids are no competition for it. Rainy days are not easy for toddlers, I am well aware of that. But over time, I think I can complete this.

So my last blog entry received zero comments. Hmmm. I’m guessing my mood was transparent enough. The truth is, this season has been difficult for us financially and I hate myself for my lack of faith. This is nothing new for us, we’ve had seasons of struggling financially since we were married. We were married 4 years ago, and Paul has worked more than 4 jobs, three of which he has been laid off. Not fun. God has always provided for us, every single time. Sometimes it has been through asking a friend for help, or the church to turn our heat on, or the food pantry for extra produce. I hate being that person, but I think what that means is that I hate having other people doing things for me. And that honestly makes me a bad Christian, because as much as I hate depending on others sometimes for help, to that same extent I would rather not need God.

So to clarify, just in case I go mute or pass away, I really do not want the last post on my blog to be the last one I wrote. A moment of weakness, a great need in my spirit to just cry out and wonder what is going to happen to my family if we can’t pay our bills. But that is not going to happen because yet again, God has come through.

Bethel likes to say that breakthrough comes in waves, and I have found that to be the truth. I know I highlighted many of the things that had been stressing us out, but just to recap, Paul has been absolutely miserable at his job. I can think of a lot of grotesque words that begin with the letter “D” to call him, but I won’t. I’ll pray for him…right now, and myself, that my mind would be sanctified. Ok, moving on. Paul took off work for paternity leave and we applied for the money, to which we were sent a letter saying we had forgotten a step, and then they needed to contact Paul. Other than that, we were just in waiting mode. Four weeks of no income is not easy on a family that barely has an income as it is. It was a scary time. We also had not paid our final installment of tuition and with that looming overhead, and no money to pay rent, the logical thing to do was to assume our time was done here. And that really sucked.

God has a sense of humor, unlike me, because the day I broke down in my blog, someone anonymously paid our tuition. And I’d like to credit it to my fear stricken blog, but it was paid that morning, before I wrote my blog. So while I was sobbing over having to pack up my things and leave Redding, the Lord had already provided for our school. That was Friday. On Monday, Paul finally got in touch with the unemployment office (they handle paternity leave) where he was informed that he forgot to check off that he had not been incarcerated in the last year! So once we got that cleared up, the money was available to us within 24 hours. Hurray for rent! On top of that, a precious mentor of ours slipped $100 in our bank account to help cover food and gas. His family also heard that we were struggling, and surprised us with a deposit into our bank account the following day. Now this is all going to pay for our rent, our car insurance, and miscellaneous utilities and we may or may not have something to spare. But the point is, we’re paid up. That is a good feeling. And today I got to laugh at myself. I had been hoarding my WIC coupons JUST IN CASE we ran out of food and needed some (and we've had plenty of food, thanks to our wonderful roommates shopping and allowing us to partake!). My poor kids…I have been rationing cheese like crazy. I’ve been popping hands (particularly Paul!) for reaching into the tupperware with leftover chicken because I need it to last. I laughed at myself because tomorrow my WIC coupons expire and I had six coupons left. I had enough to get THREE packs of cheese, two packs of peanut butter, $6 worth of organic veggies, two dozen eggs, a bag of beans, a bag of rice, juice, cereal, and six cans of tuna. It felt so good to pick out that cheese, I just felt that blanket of poverty fall off of me. God is so good! Why do I worry? Why do I hoard my WIC coupons, and ration our food out?? What is wrong with me!? I have never been without. I thought God wasn’t providing for me, but it was worry that kept those WIC checks tucked away for three weeks.

Paul still doesn’t like his job, but he’s trying his best to walk in gratitude. He does feel like the Lord has extended a special grace for him to just keep going. I will ask for prayers today, as he will be going to school from 11:30am- 6pm, and going straight to work as a closer. That puts him home around 11:00 pm. Boo. Not my favorite schedule, but wait, I was working on that gratitude thing, right?

Today I told the kids we could have macaroni and cheese. It is by far their favorite meal but I haven’t been making it thanks to my new position as cheese Nazi. Jake ate his and stopped halfway and said, “Will there be enough for me?” So I cupped his chubby cheeks in my hands and told him the God’s honest truth, “There is always enough for us.” I probably shouldn’t mention how he followed me to the door when I was on my way to the grocery store and handed me two pennies that he found, “Here Mommy, you can use my money for groceries.” My attitude is that I cannot afford food, but do you know what I actually cannot afford?? To teach my kids that God isn’t sufficient for us. So I apologize for breaking down. I look forward to learning how to trust God, again, for the 20,0000^th time in my life.

When Change is in the Air

This has been the most transformative season of my life. I have learned things about myself that I was not aware even existed. Qualities I like. And those that need to go. Things I was once passionate about are those that have been put on the back burner, tossed aside so life with three children can take precedence. I’m not even going to admit to how I tried to spell precedence. But that’s how tired I am. If you know me, you know that writing is how I get everything that has been building up inside me OUT. But I haven’t had time to write, or sit, or do anything that feeds my soul. Ok, I sit a lot, but I’m usually nursing and that is not conducive to productive writing.

I just tossed my kids outside in pjs and winter jackets. I’m done. I woke up this morning with a sore throat, an upset stomach, and general malaise feeling. Crap. I’ve been trying to avoid this at all costs, but when I started to see the drippy noses of my children I had been praying against it, and yet waiting for it to advance upon me all at the same time. My rationale is that the Lord is fighting for me, and I probably don’t have the flu, just a simple head cold. Crap, nonetheless.

One of the things that has been paramount in my belief system as a Christian is that children are a reward from the Lord. It’s true, I still believe that. What I tagged onto this belief system is that if indeed children are a blessing, who am I to limit the Lord and His goodness? Now that I just wrapped up my third pregnancy I am certain more than ever that children are a blessing. I love Cori so much. In fact, I had a dream last night that I set her car seat down in a public arena and someone kicked her over and she fell out. I am still shaken by this dream. I love the maternal instincts that come with new baby, the cuddling, nursing, watching her enjoy her cute little baths while I massage her tiny feet, and kiss those toes. I love having her around. But I can’t help but to feel like now, I only want one more kid. Because I’ve been dying a lot to myself lately, thanks to my children, and while I am convinced this is part of a divine plan, I need a break. The funny thing is, me releasing this ethic that I have to the Lord has been sort of freeing, pure example of what it looks like to break even more. It’s me saying, “I can’t do this.” Maybe I will change my mind one day, but for now, I do not foresee myself being pregnant 15 times in my life. Sorry Above Rubies.

Don’t get me wrong. Do I want 15 children still? Yes, I do! I do with all of my heart. But I am starting to see that the avenue for getting to this place is through foster care and adoption. Not pushing out a 14 inch diameter head through my you know what 15 times, every 24 months. No thank you. For all of those friends that I possibly insinuated that you should share my “Full Quiver” philosophy. Forgive me? I was an idiot. I believe it’s a special calling. I am not Michelle Duggar and am more and more convinced that the grace for that calling does not rest on my life. (I still do not condone birth control pills or IUD’s in my own life, so looks like I’m becoming a Natural Family Planning expert or nursing Cori for three years.)

I have also decided that my dog is a spawn of satan. Stop barking, you lunatic! I know I used to worship him, but I think my change of heart is worth recording.

A couple of weeks ago a stirring took place in me. I decided I wanted to finish my degree. There is a college program up here with a fast track for students wishing to continue their studies. Since I will not be pushing babies out for the rest of my life, I now have the opportunity to really explore some dreams. Once upon a time Paul took me by the shoulders and shook me, “What do YOU want to do with your life?” He wanted me to shake out all of the things that others had wanted for me. I answered that I wanted to be a mom first and foremost, and so he gave me permission to stop pursuing school and stay at home with Jake. It is what I wanted, the best decision at the time. But stumbling onto a program designed to help busy people continue their education sparked something in my heart. A desire to help troubled teens, and bless others with a ministry of reconciliation. Except I’d have a degree, advanced training in the area of Psychology. The idea provoked me to joy in this season of sacrifice since we’ve been in Redding. I could get my bachelors now, my masters in a couple of years, and possibly my doctorate. We want to be a foster family when our natural children are older, how much more can we walk in this calling if I have this degree, we can reach out to behaviorally challenged kids, the ones who are often shunned. I was up for the challenge, still recognizing it was at least 15 years away! I immediately inquired about the spring semester. I began the application process and turned in my fasfa information only to realize that I actually couldn’t afford the $35 application fee. Nor the $7.50 fee to have my transcripts mailed to me. Then it occurred me, I probably wouldn’t have gas money to make the once a week commute. Yes, we are that in the hole right now, still committed to not going into debt for this venture. We have what we need to survive, thanks to gracious people that love us and my husband who is committed to sticking out a job that thoroughly torments him on a regular basis. But it’s been difficult. It was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do out here, take a step back and realize that despite the stirring in my heart, this may not be the season for school. It’s my season to stay at home with my children, while Paul goes to school, at least until we can afford to get our second car’s registration updated.

It is not fun living under this blanket of financial misery. I am not sure if it’s our fault or not, despite the fact that the very reason we are here is so Paul will have credentials for a job. It’s about picking and choosing, frantically awaiting our tax money which was once going to send both of us to the dentist, but will probably have to go towards bills, a mission trip, and tuition for next year. We are standing on shaky ground right now, trying to decide if everything we’ve been learning at Bethel, the “Kingdom minded Christian,” is really true. Because our faith feels so maxed out, and Paul and I are both tired. We’re still chugging along, grateful to have this opportunity, but it is infinitely more stressful than we had anticipated. We thought we came out here for joy, and a greater measure of grace. Not a war. But war has been the case and I guess the best we can do is assume that this is where God wants us since we are facing such opposition. If someone even starts a sentence with, “Consider it all joy…,” just know I don’t want to hear it right now.

So instead of mother’s groups and play dates, instead of attending school, I have decided to get a job. Not 40 hours a week, just something over the weekend to help ends meet. I don’t know the difference between pride and wisdom here, but I cannot have my hand out when I have perfectly good hands and feet. I love my kids, and I love my job at home. I also love my husband, who is utterly miserable at his job. He spends his days in a place that cares significantly more for numbers than people and it is taxing on both his conscience and his spirit. He has been searching tirelessly for another job and in this economy has found nothing. Who is to say that I will have any better favor? Well, we’ll just see what the Lord opens up. I am tired of hearing my son cry when Daddy is gone from 3:30am-6:15pm, because he’s barely with us mentally by the time 7:00 rolls around. And even though rotten circumstance got me to this place of reasoning, I am looking forward to having a viable excuse for not wearing the same pajamas for 6 days in a row. And brushing my hair, because at this point, I may have to literally cut out the knots I have from neglect.

I am not depressed, or downtrodden here. I am tired, for sure. Confused, a little. But I feel like there is fire in me to do something about what we are experiencing. I don’t know what else to do, but fight back. The Bible says that when you’ve done all you can, just stand. But I haven’t done all I can. There are a lot of things that I fear right now, like not being in the will of God. Or doing something hasty out of fear. Or out of the need for control. God is meeting all of our needs, but I feel helpless. I feel useless. And while the Kingdom mentality is that God will provide, I don’t think it is that God will provide while I sit here. Even if He doesn’t provide a job, at least I knocked on the door. At least I am trying to change my circumstance. And in my opinion, I’m not taking the reigns from God as much as I desire to partner with Him.

I needed to vent. I have felt for days that I need to talk to someone (besides my Mom, who hears me sing my woes daily). I want to cry because things aren’t going my way, and if I’m at all knowledgeable about the Kingdom, I can’t imagine the life I’m living is doing much for the Kingdom either. Unfortunately, an attitude of “fed up” sounds very much like not being grateful. I am grateful to be here. My husband loves school, he is learning so much. He loves it so much that now we’re trying to figure out how we can stay for third year internship. But we can’t help but to feel like the constant draining of our finances is robbing us of our experience. Because I haven’t gone to any Wednesday classes, because I’m too tired. Because I’ve had the kids from sun up to sun down by myself with no car. Because Paul is so stressed by the atmosphere at his job, he’s weeping at school, not rejoicing. He’s missed all of his Revival Group parties, the retreat, the day at the ropes course because he has to work. We came here for an experience that we feel like we’re getting very little from because 500 pounds of not being able to afford food, insurance, rent, and utilities is sitting on top of us. Does God come through? Yes, or at least I’m hoping so this time around, He has numerous times before. This stuff we’re learning is either true or it isn’t, we shall see. But in either case, I’m hoping to find a job. Pray for us, please, that my sanity would remain in tact despite all of the identity crises I have been facing on a daily basis.

A lot of people warned me that this is the wrong season for Redding because I had a baby. I have to say, having a baby and seeing her sweet face is sometimes just the amount of prodding and grace I need to make it through another day. Just saying. The season is perfect, it’s just the battle we seem to be falling behind in.

Girl Power

I have been out of commission for quite some time given my new season in life. I have three kiddos under four years old, and honestly, it doesn’t sound very complicated to me and yet it feels on the verge of impossible some days. I am starting to regret lackadaisical parenting that I am prone to resorting to due to both tiredness and/or laziness. Now that I am nearly three weeks postpartum I am no longer 30 extra pounds and immobile. I am up, and going, and trying to teach both Cori and Sonora how to get sufficient sleep. Teaching Sonora is reinforcing why I am working with Cori. To greatly devalue my efforts, I have to say, Cori is a wonderful baby and so far has made my job quite simple. I just wrapped her up and put her down awake and without a peep she went to sleepy land. Ahh, peace.

Not quite, actually. Because then there is Sonora. Let me take this time to thank God for the opportunity to continuously die to myself.

But believe it or not, I actually want to write about something other than my children. Though I love them so, my mundane efforts at keeping them alive and well disciplined are hardly worth passing on. So here we go,
The other day I was at Bethel and I sat beside the nerdiest guy I have ever seen. Microsoft Word is telling me that “nerdiest” is not a word, but I assure you this young gentlemen exists as an appropriate synonym. Shall I describe him? Star Wars shirt from the 80’s, thick rim glasses, corduroy pants, and some sort of sandal that really needed some socks underneath to compliment the rest of his outfit. I was really excited when worship got intense and he started dancing. Trust me, I am not picking on this guy. In fact, I found everything about him endearing and adorable. I like nerds- after all, I am married to the king of them! (I am not sure if Paul will find that flattering, so don’t mention it to him)
The  Bethel atmosphere is so heavy with the Holy Spirit I honestly cannot say if my ponderings were in conjunction with the Holy Spirit, or just my own mind doing what it does. In either case, I noticed the girl standing next to nerd guy. I am positive they did not know one another. She was blonde and beautiful. I know this is weird, but she was worshiping and I was thinking how simply graceful she was, both in form and appearance. Next to nerd guy, she seemed like a queen and he seemed like a pauper. In a second it occurred to me that these two were like portraits of their gender, both masculine and feminine. Like this girl was a picture of femininity, and this guy masculinity. I have been meditating lately on my birth, and the grace God has given me to be up at night with a newborn, and up during the day disciplining and re-disciplining my other children. This phrase has been floating around in my head: “the triumph of a women’s spirit.” If you don’t understand this concept, you have never had a natural birth. That was a joke! There are hundreds of situations where I have seen women overcome the gravest of circumstances and it amazes me that God put that strength in women in conjunction with what appears to be a meekness, and a simple, graceful appearance. I was thinking these things as I watched this guy and girl next to one another, how God had blessed her with a strong feminine spirit, and yet such a beautiful outward appearance. No wonder masculinity shrinks in its presence. Or tries to dominate it. I felt like in that moment of day dreaming the Lord held up a mirror to my face, and yet I could not see that same feminine spirit in myself. Despite all of my best efforts to have babies, raise them up, be a good wife, and remember to brush my teeth and powder my nose each day, femininity seems elusive. I looked at my dainty fingers, and unpainted toe nails and felt unworthy of that title “female.”

But it isn’t just me, is it? I thought about the feminist movement, about Rosie with her flexed guns trying to prove something to the world. Then the girl who looks perfect everywhere she goes, yet we never see the credit card debt that must come hand in hand. Since this theme has been on my mind, I have noticed all kinds of things. Like the girl at the fast food restaurant sitting next to us, she had purple and blue hair, fishnet stockings, and I think black must have been her favorite color. In my head I started thinking about how hard it is to just be a girl. How easy it is to just try everything you know to try. I have been there. Maybe skirts will make me more feminine? Maybe more makeup? Maybe if I start wearing less makeup? Though I certainly do not struggle with weight loss, I have greatly lamented my lack of a figure. I am certain that skinny jeans make me look too skinny and a size bigger makes me look like an idiot, and heels make me look too tall, flats make me look too short, and the truth is, I don’t know how to be a girl. To just be. I saw a portrait of femininity in a second, and I wanted it. God said I already had it, and I didn’t believe Him. What is the deal?
And I am starting to understand that being feminine has plenty to do with how I look, how I dress, how I talk with other girls, and all of the things my husband cares literally nothing about. But that being feminine has way more to do with the spirit that God put in me, to nurture, and love, and this unique gift of creating life, not just physical, but calling out life in others. I was sitting next to nerd guy disassembling all the weak components of his attire, and thinking what a nice husband he would make, thus reminding myself that I am already married. Maybe he could be with this girl next to him, I arranged to myself.

The idea was laughable. That HE could get HER! Then I remembered the picture I had of them, as masculine and feminine. It didn’t make sense to me, honestly. I have often fell prey to the idea that I am significantly less than my husband. Religion has endorsed this idea. Please don’t think that I am saying that women are better than men, just different. Just nicer to look at. Just overwhelmingly powerful in their giftings. The kinds of things that women bring to the table in this world are matchless in comparison to the most beautiful of landscapes, the most exquisite flower, softer than the sound of a trickling stream, and yet a strength that puts thunder to shame. I found myself wanting to be more confident. Wanting to go home and nurse my baby, rub my husband’s back while he changes the world one video game at a time, pray for a friend, and just relax on face book with a bowl of ice cream. Because from the angle that I sat at in worship, women clearly got the better end of the deal.

I am ok with being me. I wrote a blog about that change in my heart recently. For me, the struggle comes with being woman, being confident in my role as that. Not my role as dutiful housewife, I swear people think that’s what woman means in Greek. What I do at home is a small part of who I am, a short season in my life as woman. I am at work to see the bigger picture here, and I like what I see. I found myself wanting it and yet, God says I already have it. So do you (assuming you are a woman). So flex your guns like Rosie, dye your hair, go for a run, wear red lipstick, rejoice in the triumphant spirit of woman- and remember, everything you are looking for is already inside of you.

    Don't worry, I have plenty of edifying thoughts concerning masculinity, just not enough time in the day...

My Miracle Birth

Paul just told me how grown up he feels with three children, and I have to agree! I am so happy that she is here. There is no doubt this blog has exhausted the subject of Cori, and it will continue to do so, sorry J I was really touched that several people have asked for a blog about my birth experience. How ideal, since Daddy has to pick up the other kiddos and take them to their own beds and I will be alone. I am truthfully bummed, but trying to be grateful for all of my many blessings. And there are so many.

First off, I will happily share my birth experience. My Mom always told me, “just go to bed, you won’t sleep through your labor!” At 4:40 this morning I woke up with a contraction, not abnormal for me. I have had contractions for my entire third trimester, intense ones even. However, they are not consistent. So after this particular contraction this morning, I hung out for a bit to see if another one would hit. It did. 7 minutes later. So I made a trip to the bathroom, and cuddled up next to Paul. Before I knew it, another one was on its way, so I poked Paul in the ribs and told him I was 60% sure I was in labor. By 5:30 I told Paul I was getting up to brush my teeth and put my contacts in. I returned to the room to find him still in bed, “Hey! We gotta move!” Sonora came in 2 ½ hours, about an hour after we arrived at the hospital. (I thought that was traumatic!) Well, rewind back to this morning. At 6:00 am I called the Deans and told them what was going on and they said to bring the kids on when we were ready. Kids woke up and ate cereal, we threw our bags in the car, and fed dogs, packed some books, diapers, movies. It was 6:30 and I was loading the dishwasher, because it just so happens the ONE night I don’t clean my dishes from dinner I go into labor. Then Paul grabbed me by the shoulders and pushed me into the living room, “you know we have to go!”

So he put the kids in the car, I sat in the front seat and we remarked what a smooth drive it was down the interstate. My contractions were every 4-5 minutes, and I was breathing through them fine. We got to the Dean’s house at 6:45 and were out by 6:47. On the way to the hospital I was telling Paul, “I feel pressure, these are intense." Paul was praying over me, all while cursing the multiple stop lights we hit! I am honestly not sure what time we got to the hospital, but the Deans live about 8 minutes from it and we did hit every stop light, as afore mentioned. We pulled into the parking lot where Paul mentioned dropping me off, and I spotted an empty spot right next to the door. “THERE! GO THERE!” Paul wasn’t sure if it was a legal spot because it was just that good, but we didn’t have a choice. So I got into the hospital lobby, where the admitting specialist was on the phone.
“I need to go to labor and delivery, now!”
She covered the mouthpiece on the phone, “Ok you can go ahead. Can you walk?”
“I don’t think so…”
“Ok, wheelchairs are next to the door.” Paul ran to get one for me and came back to the admitting desk, where I sat down in the waiting room area because I was having a contraction. Then I moved into the wheelchair and Paul wheeled me to the closest elevator. Labor and Delivery is on the third floor. We rode up with another couple, that needed to stop at the second floor. We finally made it to the desk at labor and delivery where I told them that I needed a room. They didn’t know I was in active labor so they asked me those annoying questions to keep me talking through contractions, “Is this your first baby? How many kids do you have, sweetie? How old are they? How old are you?” We showed ourselves to the room number they gave us, seriously, we were searching the hallway for it! I sat in there for three minutes with Paul before anyone came to meet me. Another nurse came in, “So, how many kids is this for you?” I am crying, the nurse responds, “I need you to be strong for me.” Paul finally clued her in, “Uh, she usually has fast births so I don’t know what’s happening now…” Thank God the nurse believed us, she ran into the hall and called out, “I need nurses in here, NOW!” I undressed and threw my clothes around the room, held the gown up to my front, but it wasn’t buttoned all the way and I couldn’t figure it out so I literally just laid in the bed on my side and cried out. The nurse ran back in and said, “I need to check you when your contraction is over. I managed to roll over for her, though at this point I was in excruciating pain. I knew something was up when she yelled, “Now! I need you in here now! Get the doctor, someone out there get me a doctor! He’s in room 300!”

The doctor ran in, dressing himself, while nurses helped him tie up his scrubs. At this point two nurses grabbed each one of my legs and handed them to me. “Hold these, and push now, she’s ready.” It was absolute chaos. My doctor was unbelievably rough. In fact, his efforts at stretching me for the baby’s head were almost more painful than the baby’s head crowning. He told me to stop screaming, but I have never been in such horrible pain in my life! Ok, I know this isn’t positive for those of you that are pregnant. Yikes, it was intense, that’s all I will say J . And after five minutes of pushing, she was here. She was in my arms, and I was mostly relieved that I was no longer in pain. I didn’t notice her long fingers, or purple toes, or sweet hair…I was in shock. I trembled, and begged for water, and when the nurse wanted to bathe her, I handed her off. It was just the place I was at. Some people say this is the way to labor, and maybe it is. I’ve never had a labor slower than 4 hours. But having the baby ten minutes after arriving to the labor and delivery is not my idea of fun. Although I did get to skip out on the IV. That was kind of nice. Right now in my head I am thinking of A) not having any more children, despite the fact they are incredibly wonderful blessings, B) requesting an induction next time so I can definitely get an epidural before pushing time comes, or C) requesting a C section. I’m sure that goes against every law of “healthy all natural childbirth” pamphlets everywhere, but after what I went through, I think I am entitled to my opinion ;)


There is the birth story. But as I said, tonight my husband and kids are at home. They also happened to be my only visitors given that we have only lived here for a little over a month. I was overwhelmed and touched by all of the wonderful comments and well wishes on facebook. I am grateful that I have so many people who care for me, and though they can’t be in Redding with me, they would be if they could! Given my solitude, and a sleeping baby, I wanted to take some time to reflect upon the mounting spiritual battle my family has found ourselves in, and share some testimonies of God’s great love and provision, especially concerning this pregnancy and Cori.

This pregnancy was the hardest I have ever had. For a good part of it I had great difficulty walking. At 6 months pregnant I sat most of my day. I was wondering how I would make it to the end. I had the opportunity around 8 months to receive prayer at The Red Church’s new worship service on Saturday night. We were two weeks away from moving to Redding, and I wanted prayer for our new endeavor, but most especially for my hips that were having a difficult time holding Cori up. So the worship team prayed over me, and over the pregnancy. A particular moment stuck out to me. One of the men told Paul that the Lord showed him a vision of Paul on his knees, holding my pregnant belly in his hands speaking “shalom” over my womb as Jesus had spoken to the storm in Matthew. It was a really intense moment of prayer. When we got in the car I was struck by the nature of the prayer….why did you need to speak peace over my womb? I stroked Cori and felt afraid, like something greater than just “achy hips” was going on in me. From that moment on though, God touched my hips and I was able to get around just fine.

Of course, at 35 weeks pregnant Cori tried to come into the world. And for whatever reason, my firm belief is prayer, my labor came to a halt. And in the weeks to follow, I went from a 4 cm to a finger tip dilated. Yes, I reversed! That morning in the hospital I had a sharp pain in my upper abdomen, right on top of my pregnant belly. I didn’t say anything because in less than an hour it faded. The next week it happened again and I began to research and came to the conclusion that I was having a gall bladder attack. I’m not sure if that’s what it was or not. But it definitely hurt! I mentioned it to my doctor because while I was researching the pain, placental abruption came up in several searches. But I wasn’t bleeding, nor was the pain consistent. I did however, several times a day have contractions that cramped down and lasted for 3-5 minutes at a time. They were intense but I was told not to worry unless they came at regular intervals.

Honestly, I still don’t have answers. What I do know is that this morning after Cori was born a nurse came in to talk to me about my pregnancy. "Was it normal?" Aside from the 35 week scare, it was fine. She explained to me that my placenta had several pockets of blood throughout it, and places where it had clotted itself off. When I asked her what that meant, she said that my placenta had abrupted, and not just once. She said, “Cori is absolutely fine though, babies are so resilient, I see them get through the craziest things!” In her cute nurse way she said, “But man, that placenta was nasty!” I was kind of taken aback by this conversation, and even more so when my second nurse came to check on me and her first question was, “Was this a normal pregnancy?”   Well, I thought so! She continued, “I am trying to figure out why on earth your placenta looked like that. It’s obvious abruption but we just don‘t know the timing of it all. Cori is absolutely fine so I guess we won't worry about it.” Her conclusion was simply that babies are amazing specimens. I told Paul that I refuse to let this pass by without giving God all of the glory. Even if it was caused by an abnormally fast labor, though my water was clear. I am not sure if that’s what I was feeling and calling “gall bladder attack,” or not. But in either case, Cori is a miracle.

I am in a bad habit of looking at a situation and saying, “God isn’t moving here,” because I feel hopeless, lost, or lonely. For one, I wondered where on EARTH my God was when I was laying in that hospital bed pushing out a baby ten minutes after getting to the hospital. OUCH! I had prayed for a favored birth. What was that? Sometimes I remember what the Bible tells me, that so much of what we see is a product of the unseen battle. Don’t think that I look for a “devil” behind every bush. I am not naïve either. And it’s naïve to look at this whole picture and not see how triumphant our God is, even when little things are crumbling, the things that matter are holding together. Sometimes barely. But we are winning nonetheless.

So Cori is here. My sweet, precious Cori. She nurses constantly, always wants to be held, and I gladly consent to both because she is one day old and I already see God’s fingerprint on her. She is here, perfectly normal, so much so that when the maternity ward filled up, I was the first one to get bumped to pediatrics. I learned, ten minutes after Paul left for the night, that my night nurse is married to a third year intern for Bethel School. So I have talked to her for over an hour now (I am her only patient), and it turns out, though some of my family is 3000 miles away and others a five hour drive, and my husband and children are sleeping in their own beds while I am in a rock hard hospital be-at a time when I should be the most alone, I am not at all. In fact, I think I have just made my first “mom” friend in Redding.

Letting Go, Giving Up....Chilling Out!

Around here, it can get pretty easy to feel sorry for yourself. Unfortunately, I am pretty sure that my last blog addressed this issue so excuse me while I break my gratitude fast. Paul had to open this morning and it will be his third week in a row missing church with the family. Today an employee called in sick, and he cannot get a hold of a manager. So he has no choice, though he got there at 4:00 am this morning, but to stay until the next shift arrives. Yes, I am very pregnant, and very tired, and very grateful that I went to church this morning for a boost of the Presence! Otherwise I might have a meltdown about right now.

Paul told me several weeks ago that Kris Valloton had “warned” the BSSM kids that being in this atmosphere was not going to just fill us up, but empty us out of the things that God could not use. I have seen this come to fruition the most. Paul has had several opportunities for prophetic booths and without sharing too much, a theme that is repeated often is Paul and I being spiritual parents to many children…well, Paul being an anointed Father, hopefully the Lord has some kind of plan for me to work alongside him! It’s encouraging, yes. At the same time, I can’t help but to feel like parenting is the ONE thing I continuously fail at. Day after day, time after time, I am convicted to the core of my being. I yell, I condemn, I chastise with cruel intent, and worst of all, I want to escape when I can’t handle it anymore.

Last week I took the kids to church by myself. I needed to get out. With my husband now gone 45-50 hours a week, I am always game for free childcare. So I go to church. Jake got to the door of his classroom and after having a great morning, stood in stone shoes and said, “I’m not going.”
“Why? You have to!” I fussed.
He whined, and swayed with his hands linked behind his back, “I really don’t want to go in there.”
“Get in there now!”
He began to whimper and cry, and the nursery worker encouraged me to just try again later. So I grabbed Jake by the arm and pulled him next to me so I could get Sonora to her class on time, “Sonora is such a big girl, and you are a baby, I guess! When we get home she is getting a big girl sucker, and you are going to sleep.”
I was frustrated, and at the end of my rope, and I wanted to sit in church by myself.  Is that so much to ask?  Of course, after ten minutes with cold hearted Mommy, Jake was ready to go to his class. The minute I encountered my loving Father during worship (which is pretty easy to do at Bethel), I couldn’t believe the way I had treated my son. God would never treat me like that, even in sin. It was His simple love that convicted me.  Immediately I sought repentance and knew I couldn’t pay attention to the service before I had reconciliation. So I waddled my way back to the nursery and asked if I could speak with Jake, but he was playing really well and she didn’t want to disturb him. So she stepped out of the room for a minute and asked me how things were going, and proceeded to tell me how much she loved Jake and how she had a special place in her heart for him. Apparently he was the youngest boy in a class full of Pre-K kids, even those already in Kindergarten. Jake is 4, so he had been placed there, but clearly it was not ideal. She said that she is all about love and grace and giving Jake the space he needs to perform well, but that several times he has to go to the “not fun” chair for getting wound up when he is supposed to be sitting down with the others. On one hand, I thought, “maybe I should be pushing him into pre-school…even though my convictions are that he is not quite ready.” I didn’t know what to think, but I definitely didn’t realize that Jake had been struggling in his class. I was even more so distraught over the way I had treated him. Directly after church I ran to get him, took him in my arms and apologized.

(TODAY, his attitude was not much different from last week. We stood by the door and he said, “I don’t want to go in there.” So I said, “You don’t have to, Mommy will take care of it.”  I asked if he could be moved to the 3 year old classroom. Some strings were pulled and he was relocated. He had a MUCH better day. He even asked me when we were going back to church, Praise God!)

Yesterday was another “one of those days…” The kids were wild, Paul had to work all day, and I was in charge once more. Sonora had not napped the day before, and then had a horrible night of sleep due to aching joints. She cried all morning. Everything brought tears to her eyes, which made me want to shake her in the air, “don’t you know I have laundry to do, and lunch to make, and a kitchen to clean, and sheets to change??” I didn’t have time for all of the chaos.  Jake was being decent, and since we’ve been trying to wean out his naps I decided that he could have quiet time while Sissy napped. But Sonora noticed that Jake was not around for nap time and that did NOT make her happy. She wanted to be doing what he was doing, so she screamed and cried, called me “mean mommy,” and begged for her advocate, Daddy. It was a nightmare….20 minutes of screaming at me, crying, no matter how much I consoled her. She was overtired at this point. So I went into my room and retrieved Jake. I told him that he needed to do me a favor and lie in his bed and not go to sleep. So he laid in the bed because I made him, and he cried. I had told him that he didn’t have to take a nap, and then I had seemingly broken my word. So after 15 minutes of that injustice weighing on me, I told Jake to just go back in my room and watch his movie. Then I left Sonora in the room, screaming like a maniac. I retreated to the bathroom where I just laid on the cold floor and wept. Because I was so at the end of my rope. I wanted to go home. That is a common thought for me. Not to Sonora, but to North Carolina. Where I could wake up sick and call my Mom to take the kids. Wake up the next morning exhausted and call my Grandma to come over, bring me lunch, or dinner, or an extra roll of toilet paper because we're out and I can’t get to the store by myself, in my condition. I want to go home. I have peace that I’m not supposed to be there, after all, it’s almost always my fall back. It comes way before praying. Nevertheless, it’s seems like such an easy solution, despite how happy Paul is in school, and really, how grateful I am to be in Redding. That's why it's called "one of those days," right?

...So I continued to weep, while Sonora’s wails rang throughout the house. I felt like the Lord was telling me to release my expectations. And if I don’t have any expectations, then I have nothing to lament. So I went into the bedroom and lifted my sleepy, snotty toddler to my shoulder. I apologized to her, asked for forgiveness, and we made our way to my bedroom, where I sat in between my two precious, God given children and held them close. Sonora immediately closed her eyes and went to sleep, safe on Mommy’s chest. Jake held onto my hand and stroked Cori with his other. It was a precious moment, and I almost didn't have it because to me, nap time looked like two kids in their bed, sleeping.

I have a million of these stories. Howie fell in the shower several nights ago, and I found myself angry that the crash woke my kids up. Paul was closing at work, and I had just gotten them to  bed. I was in my own bed with a blog started up, and worship music in the background. It was going to be a good night. When my door crept open, I knew I was going to spank someone. And I did, because it was bedtime and I DID NOT want them out of the bed. Never mind that a big crash from the back of the house had woken them up, and a fire truck that Eron had called because she was so scared that she couldn't get Howie up by herself. For the thousandeth time since I’ve been in Redding, I just took a deep breath. I put Jake in his bed, kissed his forehead and apologized for the big crash and explained that it was still bedtime. Sonora did not want me leaving the room so quick, so I picked her up and brought her into my room, onto my bed. She laid next to me and though awake, sat still while I continued to write my blog, and listen to my worship music. It was not a big deal. It was not what bedtime was supposed to look like. But it was actually a good feeling to not be alone in my bed.

And now, we are home from church, unsure if Daddy will be home before 5:00. The sink is full of dishes that quite honestly, I do not have the energy to wash, nor the heart to ask my husband who has worked a ten hour day. The kiddos and I had lunch, and I put a movie on for the first time today and Sonora fell asleep on my lap. So I sent Jake into his room for quiet time. This is not how my day typically looks. But I feel like the Lord is teaching me how to let go a little. Before this experience I would have told you that I was a flexible person. I have been known to describe myself as ‘laid back.’ My behavior with my kids, as of late, has been anything but. Sure, I do have a million excuses, starting with my husband being gone almost everyday between work and school, and ending with me being 9 months pregnant. But there is no excuse for not showing my kids the heart of my Father. There is grace, for some time, but I have been convicted enough. They are not a burden, and they are not the problem, despite how it may feel from time to time. In fact, they are my job right now and raising them is my divine privilege above all else.  I am so tired of caring that they haven’t eaten a “nutritious” breakfast by my impossibly high standards. Or that they aren't getting enough sleep, or that they might possibly be watching more TV than I’d like or am used to. The most important thing I can do right now is nurture their hearts. My goal is to do my best, and right now, a scheduled life is not an attempt at “my best” as much as it is what I think another great mom’s best is. My best is whatever I can offer them without being overwhelmed, stressed, and cantankerous.

A cute little someone sleeping on the couch!

So here it goes, my “dangerous prayer.” God, I declare that you have anointed me as a great mom, just right for my kids. Anything that contradicts this, I want it to be removed from my character. Make me into the woman that you would have me be, into the mom that you have designed me to be. I pray that my children would have no framework for a time in their life when You have not reigned supreme, been a good Father to us, providing all of our needs: financial, emotional, and physical! May my children look to me, and see You. Amen.