His Name Is Victory

Sitting here on the eve of my third baby, Nico's, second birthday, I think I will finally write out his birth story. I didn't make my other kid's birth stories public in any way but I always felt that I needed to share Nico's. I meant to do it by his first birthday (laughter), now I am hoping to get it out by his second (more laughter-- because now I am editing almost 2 weeks after his 2nd birthday).

I want to preface this with the fact that I think every single birth is so incredibly special. Birth changes a woman permanently. Birth writes a story that will be remembered forever. Nico's birth story is not any better or worse or more special than anyone else's. I am not writing to compare. I am writing because I need to remember. I need to remember the lessons he taught me and the ways I was changed. Life has a way, doesn't it? A way of stealing our joy? A way of bogging us down so much that any glimmer of yesterday's goodness quickly becomes a blur. Forgotten.
In times like these, I like to remember the truth. I like to kick my emotions in the booty and encourage myself with the goodness I learned years ago, weeks ago and yesterday. So that is what this is for. It's for me- because sometimes (say it with me) life throws us lemons and we need to remember that lemons can always and will always be made into lemonade.

Nico Elliot was born on September 11, 2016. He is an incredible human being who loves saying no for yes, loves his dad and loves stealing bike helmets at the playground. He is perfect. He also loves keeping me on my toes and his birth was no exception.
When I was 5 months pregnant with Nicy, a friend of mine was killed in a car accident. There are no words for the grief we felt, the way our church family pulled together in support of her husband and son and there are no words for the questions all of our hearts were screaming.
As we prepared for the memorial service, my job was to collect photos and to collect written memories from her friends and family from all over. As I sat and read these stories, I was reminded of some of my own memories of her. One that stood out the most was a time right before we would travel to Haiti with our 15 month old daughter. We sat together on my couch and  she shared what the Lord was teaching her. She shared Exodus 33. In a nutshell, God tells Moses to go with the Israelites to the land He had promised to them and that He would send an angel but that He wouldn't go with them. Moses tells God that he will only go if the the Lord's presence goes with him. Ellynn was sharing with me that whenever she feels afraid she thinks of the worst (in her mind) thing that could happen and she reminds herself, that in even that, the Lord is with her. This truth dispels fear.

That has stuck with me. It's a truth I will never forget.

But then she passed away, tragically. Her death brought a myriad of emotions.

Life is short, hold your loved ones dearly.
Is God actually good?
Did she feel His presence even in death?
WHY?
Is God's goodness just His presence in all circumstances, even bad ones? Or can I actually trust that He will protect me?
Why didn't He protect her?
Nothing really matters.

After my first babe, I had wanted a home birth. It wasn't possible for the second baby for a few different reasons, so when I was pregnant with Nico (our last) I worked as hard as I could to save for a home birth. I wanted it so badly, but after Ellynn passed I felt so conflicted. I would bounce back and forth between this "life is short, do all the things, live it up!" mentality to "who really cares where my baby is born, it's such a petty desire." So I asked the Lord. I really wanted Him to tell me exactly what He wanted...

 and He didn't.

It was incredibly frustrating. I kept feeling like He was leaving the decision up to me. I even asked my doula if she would pray about it. Surely He would tell her! She called me one afternoon-- she said she was woken up at 3am and the Lord showed her a child playing on the floor with two sets of blocks asking her mother which she should play with. The mother of course, had no opinion on which set of blocks her child should play with. She simply said "You choose. Depending on your choice, your structures will look different but it's up to you which you choose to play with."

Blah. Answers like this make me crazy.

I continued to wrestle and for the first time the wonderful truth that my friend illuminated for me turned into confusion and actually, fear.

We decided to go along with the home birth but I just couldn't get out of my head that the block tower I was building might not be the best or safest or most predictable one, and that I needed to be ok with that as long as God was with me. I was feeling hopeless.

Even as I write this, I keep scribbling, backspace backspace backspace. "You should be totally and completely content with the Lord's presence!!! What more is there? What could be better than being side by side with your creator?"

Then I remember the whole truth.

39 weeks, 2 days. 3:30pm my water breaks as I am napping. This is a familiar story for me. If this birth were like my other two, contractions would start in about a half hour and I would have my baby in approx 3-5 hours.
I called my midwife and let her know. She said to keep her posted and also reminded me that I needed to make a decision about whether or not to do routine antibiotics as I was Group B positive.

We were all so excited. I immediately put on Motown music and we started dancing around, changing the sheets on the beds, Mike was vacuuming, we brought out the birth pool etc etc.

A few hours later and no contractions.

My midwife came over to start the IV and we chatted about a plan. I would have about 24 hours from the time of water breaking to be in good active labor (because of the Group B Strep) or most likely we would look at a hospital transfer around the 18 hour mark.

We had dinner and then I went back and forth between resting and trying to get the baby out. I had Steffany Gretzinger's album "Out of Hiding" on repeat. The lyric

"'cause I loved you before you knew it was love
And I saw it all, still I chose the cross
And you were the one that I was thinking of
When I rose from the grave

Now rid of the shackles, My victory's yours
I tore the veil for you to come close
There's no reason to stand at a distance anymore
You're not far from home."

stood out for me.

I did all the positions,  climbed the stairs for hours, rolled around on the yoga ball until the wee hours of the morning and still....nothing. I remember just weeping. How could I have worked this hard to have a home birth and I'll have to transfer to the hospital? God, I thought you said I could choose!

Eventually, I gave up and went to bed. When I woke up at 6:30am still pregnant I felt so defeated. I knew if things didn't get moving I would be on my way to the hospital by the early afternoon.
Gah. I am a doula. How am I not able to help myself?! I knew the problem. I could feel his position, he wasn't engaged. I tried to move him but I knew that he needed contractions to make his move. As a last ditch effort I took a hot shower and then walked myself to Walgreens down the street to buy some castor oil.
I must have appeared completely crazy. Crazy. I walked one foot on the curb and one foot off, doing what I could to jiggle my baby in position. Whilst curb walking, I was going back and forth between (audibly) thanking God for the home birth that He told me I could have and trying to be ok with a hospital transfer because I knew He would be with me either way. I went back and forth between trusting my body to birth this baby and knowing there is a time and a place for pitocin.

I finally cried out: "God! I know you made me to birth this baby. I just need time! Can you please just stop the clock?"

A few minutes later, I stomped into the house with no more contractions than when I had left. I went to the kitchen to fix a castor oil smoothie when my midwife called me into the living room.
Gulp.

She said she had just talked to one of the other midwives to gain a clear perspective and get some advice. She said she really didn't want to see me try castor oil (I didn't either) and potentially add a risk factor when I didn't have any at the moment. She said "Why don't we just STOP THE CLOCK?"

Jesus.

She went home. I had breakfast. Mike took the kids out and I napped. Peace.
In the peace, I remembered the one thing that I hadn't tried. The breast pump. After some rest and another round of medicine, I turned on the pump. Immediately I had a whopper of contraction right in my back. 10 contractions later and he had successfully flipped and engaged. Two hours later, I held him in my arms-- and I will never forget the lyrics he was born to. As I pushed, as I screamed, as I feared that he may be gigantic (ha!) I could hear in the background

"there is no fear in love."

His presence IS enough. His presence is life for goodness sakes!

But He promises us abundant life.

And what my sweet Nico has taught me is that it's OK to believe for the abundance, that it pleases him to give us the desires of our hearts and that His victory truly is ours.

Nico means "victory of the people" and he reminds me that Jesus tells us to ask for  more than we can possibly imagine, that the Father's will is heaven on earth and that His death and resurrection have made it all ours.

Phew. I needed that. Life... LIFE. It's rough out here sometimes. But the truth is-- His victory is ours. And to quote another lyric from the Out of Hiding album:

"What hindered love will only become part of the story."

And I love Nico's story-- every single part of it.

(I am also eternally grateful to my midwife for her sensitivity and thoughtfulness!!!!!!)

SO THAT

Hi there.

It's been a really long time. Well over a year. I've thought about dusting off the old blog, I even have a list of blog topics-- lessons learned over the past few years. Somehow, I just haven't gotten to it. I could blame it on time, not ever having enough of it, or the fact that my husband got a new job, that I've been building a business, I was pregnant, I had a 2 year old... blah blah blah.  There are so many excuses and they all have truth to them, but as I washed dishes tonight, choked up and teary, I realized something. Those aren't the real reasons.

The real reasons lie in the fact that life isn't cute anymore.

I  can no longer screw up a little, learn a lesson and laugh later about it. The reality is my kids aren't *just* cute anymore. My kids are five and three and oh wait, there's another one, surprise! And although that may seem very young in the grand scheme of things, it's still old enough for me to hear that they like dad best. It's still old enough for them to yell at me and tell me that I am a terrible mom and that they don't like me anymore, that I don't listen and wait for it-- I "never let them do anything they want to do."

That somewhere over the past year and a half or so, parenting went from something that I felt like I was good at, even with the mistakes and the mess,

to something that just felt like mistakes and mess. 

And so, yeah, I didn't want to blog about that.

I've been asking myself lately what I want my kids to remember most about me. When I have made my departure from this earth, what will it be that I "always used to say"?  What' s been coming to mind lately and what I have taken to mentioning to them is the good ol' Golden Rule. Super original, I know. But really, it covers everything.

"Do to others as you would have them do to you."  It's beautiful.

Tonight, as I got the last child in bed, I strolled out into the kitchen. Exhausted. Looking at the mess, thinking about how late it would be once I had it all cleaned up and if, by then, would I want to work? Probably not. As I looked around, I noticed the walls. I noticed amazing three-year old artwork taped onto the walls. I remembered how the plastic cutlery and reusable table cloth were out on the coffee table. I realized that the kids were planning a party.

I looked back at the scribbled on piece of paper and realized that there were only three sides taped up and a roll of masking tape on the floor. I had sternly asked Simon to get out of the kitchen while his brother tried to fall asleep in the next room. He tried to explain that he needed to finish taping---

I didn't listen.

I picked him up and brought him in the other room and he cried. I realize now, in the quiet, that he just wanted to finish putting the paper up. I realize what a big deal that was for him and what not a big deal it was for me to let him do it.

I just wanted the baby to sleep.

Earlier that morning, I was getting everyone ready to get out of the house so I could go to physical therapy. I knew the littlest would need to eat soon, but PT isn't exactly the type of appointment that can accommodate a nursing baby, I thought. So, I sat on the bed, with twenty minutes to be on time, in my PJs, breastfeeding. Stressed that we would be late, I called out to the older two "Hey guys! Can you come here a minute?" Nothing. "Hey guys, please respond." Nothing. "Hey guys! I have something important I need to ask you." Nothing.

All I wanted was to ask them to get their shoes on. But nothing. They never responded.

I felt mad, sad, hurt. Stressed.

Later I told them how hurt I feel when it seems like they don't care about anything that I say.

Tonight, as I sit here staring at the unfinished tape job, I am realizing something else. I've spent the first years of their life priding myself on how much I respect my children. How I strive to treat them as whole human beings from the beginning, deserving of love and respect always. I liked to blog about that. It felt good.

I realize that now that they are a bit bigger, now that they have real actual voices, words, sentences, monologues...

I don't really care to listen. And that doesn't feel good. That's not something I want to blog about.

Maybe I'm too busy to listen or maybe what they have to say and what they want to do doesn't fit into the way I imagine our day should go. I realize that as I am encouraging them to "do to others as they would do to you", am I?

There's a whole lot of crazy going on in this world right now. And as much as I want to be at all the things and show all my support for all the movements, my movement has to be right here, right now. I have the future staring back at me and it's my job to show my children how to treat others. It's more important than ever for me to show kindness, love, acceptance and faith. It has to start here, in my home, with the way that I treat them. I can no longer do to them SO THAT they will do to me.

"SO THAT" is a problem. "SO THAT" is an agenda. "SO THAT" is to blame for a lot of the crazy.

He doesn't say "so that". He says to treat others with respect and love, period. Treat others the way you want to be treated, period.

And tomorrow, I will start.

Dear Good Christian Girl, You Are Believing a Lie

When did you give your heart to Jesus? That's what they say, right? That's how they ask it. 

Well, me, I was four. 

That's what I am told, anyway. 

Four years old, in my best friend's driveway, I told my mom that I wanted to give my heart to Jesus. And so I did. I prayed that prayer-- I don't remember quite how it goes now. 

I have a four year old. 

I'm pretty sure she thinks God looks like Santa and sometimes she tells me that Jesus is in her belly and will come out like a baby at some point, maybe not today because today she is having triplets, but maybe tomorrow.

Are you catching my drift? 

I grew up in church-- many different kinds. I went to a Christian school through 8th grade. I didn't drink until I was 21 (almost), no sex before marriage, I didn't commit any crimes, I didn't do drugs, I moved away from home, went to college and eventually I got married and started to have kids. 

I didn't fall away. I never backslid. 

Good Christian Girl, that's me. 

She may be you, too. 

----------------

This past Sunday at church, we heard the testimony of a man who led a life nothing like mine. He led a life that was (in his words) "filled with fear." He spoke of the power of the Holy Spirit and Jesus' sacrifice with such conviction. 

He had an experience with God that was undeniable. 

I never had that.

Good Christian Girl, you are living a lie. 

Good Christian Girl, you believe because there is no obvious climax in your testimony (do you even have a testimony???) that you are sentenced to a life of mediocrity. 

Think about that. Jesus spits out the lukewarm.

Fire-y christians are the ones with the story. Fire-y christians have a testimony that brings people to tears. 

I admit that I have been guilty of amping up parts of my walk with God to seem like there was a huge turning point. Otherwise, the seemingly small God details of my life could be written off as coincidences.

Christians who believe that coincidences are God-orchestrated events are foolish. 

--------

Sitting in church on Sunday, I felt a (gentle) punch in my gut. 

"Your life is no coincidence. When did you become so wise?

Those small moments, those small prayers, the moment in the car when you were four--- 

every time you write them off as coincidences, as foolishness, you fall deeper and deeper into the pit of mediocrity. 

You push away from me, you don't give me the honor. 

Your life is FILLED with God moments, but to you they are foolishness.

I love you. 

I want you to see me there, with you, the whole time. Holding you. You are my daughter. 

Recognize me."

Dear Good Christian Girl,

 

“I know all the things you do, and that you have a reputation for being alive—but you are dead. 2Wake up! Strengthen what little remains, for even what is left is almost dead. I find that your actions do not meet the requirements of my God.3Go back to what you heard and believed at first; hold to it firmly. Repent and turn to me again..." Rev 3:1-3

I may not remember the prayer I prayed when I was four, but He does. It may seem foolish to believe a four year old could commit to God-- and maybe she can't. But He can commit to her and 

Good Christian Girl, He has. 

Recognize Him.

A Quick Thought

"Unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven."

--Jesus

If he says to become like them...


Why are we always trying to make them become more like us?

What is my objective?

This may seem elementary; most everything does after the "light bulb" moment.

But THIS, my friends, seems too easy-- like everyone probably already knows about this incredible mind shift except for me.

So, your welcome, for the reminder-- and maybe the giggle at my expense.

It's late. Bedtime has taken much longer than I expected once again. Every day, I say that we will start bedtime a half hour earlier to make room for the silliness, stalling and inevitable poop that needs to happen as soon as she is covered up. It never happens. We always start too late and so there I am, standing there, stressed, irritated, TIRED.

 I feel like Dr. Leo Martin vs. Bob Wiley. 

Holy smokes. YES. That's exactly how I feel at the end of the day.

 It's just too much. And I hate it. I despise myself in that moment. I have these out of body experiences where I hear what I am saying and see the tension in me and I feel so sad (and pretty pathetic too).

I just want to shake myself!

But in that gross, disgusting moment, when I was watching myself, THAT'S when it hit me. 

Thanks to my Bachelors of Fine Arts... (finally)

 I was watching the scene and I felt the tug. The gentle question -- as my teachers in school asked me so often: 

What's your objective?

BED. Bed is my objective. Cover her up-- no wait, give her a sip of water so that she doesn't get uncovered to get a sip of water. Give her a sip of water, cover her up, move her hair our of her face, give her a kiss and GET THE F OUT! That's my objective! 

Right then, I became present. She was laying down now. She was asking me if I could pray for her-- she was asking me to tell her about what we would do the next day and wanting to help make a plan for the morning. She just wanted to play-- and interact and talk-- and me? 

Moments before, I could hardly keep my head from exploding. 

Instead of standing over her, holding her blanket, forcing myself to breathe deeply, I knelt down and  I asked myself again: What's my objective?  

Connect. My objective has to be to connect. 

My posture seemed to relax and in turn, so did hers. My voice became soothing instead of sharp and threatening-- she became quieter. We discussed some concerns of the night-- feeling hot/cold, needing a bandaid etc. and we smiled about what tomorrow would bring.

I still wanted her in bed (desperately) but when I focused on engaging her, my crazy little beauty, I didn't feel pathetic anymore-- or sad. I felt strong and capable of being the mom I know I can be. 

When I stop with my external objectives and put the focus on the relationships around me-- the atmosphere actually changes.

Harmony happens. Peace. Unforced rhythms of grace.

And bedtime becomes a heck of a lot easier! 

Get me off this thing called... Love

Ha! Sorry, I had to do it.
"So, I Married An Axe Murderer" is one of my all time favorite movies and I just couldn't resist entitling this blog post with a quote from that movie.

I just wish somehow I could add in the little hand gesture. Make sure you do it every time you read the title to this blog post.

Ready? Let's try it together.

"Get me off this thing called....(hand gesture) Love."

(And if you have no idea what the heck I am talking about, do yourself a favor and get that movie!)

So this thing... love. The basis of all relationships and interactions. The one (pure, true) thing that keeps us connected...

 is so dang hard to figure out.

I've been silent for awhile because the ONE thing that keeps popping in my head to blog about is the one thing that confuses me the most. And it's the thing that keeps us going.

It's vital.

Love connects partners. It connects families, friends, siblings... it connects us to movements, to passions, to missions... we see it in nature, in our pets... it is what moves us closer to our Creator.

It is what our Creator IS.

The absence of love brings turmoil, anger, hate, disconnect, confusion. Dark.

But, let's define love for a moment... because I'm not talking about Valentine's day, people!

What I am talking about is respect.

I am talking about a love that works for the greater good of humanity. A love that sees all people, all beings, all the world in the light of the Kingdom: as it should be. I am talking about freedom, choice... about valuing the needs of others around us in the same way we value our own.

Here's an idea, scroll through Facebook for a second, you'll find many people highlighting the need for choice, for freedom, for respect. Many people are raising funds for wonderful causes, advertising their passions and gushing over some of the small glimpses of "hope in humanity."

Love is much bigger than just my marriage, your marriage. It's bigger than just the way we choose to raise our children, the way we cultivate our relationships with our parents and siblings.

But is it?

We all seem to have a deep "want" to see humans live in harmony with each other but our marriages are falling apart. Christians all seem to want the love of Jesus to be spread far and wide, but do their children feel it? We want to accomplish great things, but have we accomplished the seemingly small things?

As I trip and fall and trip and fall down this parenting path, the one thing that remains true is that change starts with me. But not just me, me and them. Me and you.

Did I love them well? Have I loved you well?

That needs to be my question after an argument with my husband, after my daughter takes a crayon to the wall, after I get home from an interview and after a phone call from my brother.

Did I love them well?

No wait, did THEY feel that I loved them well?

THAT'S the thing folks. We can't gauge our own love goodness! 

I guess that's what I have been trying to do forever now. Let me explain.

So, there are these 5 love languages. They are outlined in some popular book. You can even take a test to see what your top two are.

Bah! Love languages!

If you are anything like me, you think this love language stuff is downright discouraging. You immediately think about how you and your husband have completely different love languages and how it's is a daily struggle, I mean, task, ahem, privilege, to learn the ways each other needs to be loved to bring the relationship to new and deeper heights with every successful, loving and selfless interaction.

Honestly, that love language book... makes me gag.

I don't know, I get it, I just don't know if I buy into it... completely anyway. Shouldn't adults be able to show love and receive love in all different ways? Isn't love some sort of universal language? 

Why, then, when I write sweet notes in a journal for my husband he hardly ever writes back?!

Love letters are love letters, surely he can feel the love through them!

Yet, he complains when hugs are cut short, or a busy family day passes by and he doesn't feel as if we've had quality time. Didn't we just spend the whole freaking day together?!

Obviously, I am missing something.

And per usual God speaks to me through my children.

I've noticed in the past, our daughter physically cringing when people (ourselves included) ask for kisses. God forbid, someone try to give her one! She will spit on her hand and wipe it off in one seemingly rude swipe.

This kills her dad. He loves to "smooch her face" and incessantly asks for kisses.

I, on the other hand, totally get it. The only difference is, I wait until people aren't looking before I wipe off the lingering spit and feeling.

At first, I was horrified. Kids learn by example right?! I've tried so hard to suck it up and not let my kids see how uncomfortable I get when people are physically affectionate towards me and I most certainly try never to avoid a kiss from their dad even if he has fallen short (like I never do!) in some spouse-ly duty.

So I just couldn't figure out HOW Judah learned to not like kisses then? 

She not only refuses offers, but she wipes off blind sides too!

Then I realized something: Judah may not like to be hugged, or kissed, and her idea of snuggling is laying next to someone with absolutely no touching involved at all, but she tells us she loves us 1200 times a day. She encourages us when she sees that we are struggling and she compliments our hard work. She thanks us for dinners cooked, outings, help... anything!

While out to lunch one day with her grandparents, one who is particularly affectionate (even though it is usually not reciprocated), said to her "Judah, I saw the painting that you are working on and I think it's beautiful! You have done some great work!"

Do you know what she did? That little stinker! She turned around and gave the biggest kiss ever! 

She felt love, so she returned the love. 

And kids, man, there's so much to learn from them... she didn't return the love with a thank you or another compliment or encouraging word. She didn't return the love with a gift of some sort. She met that person in a way that THEY would feel loved. 

She KISSED them. The very thing that she detests! 

THAT'S a relationship -- becoming in tune with the people around us--the needs of the people around us. We can work and work and work until the cows come home (is that a thing?) on bettering ourselves and becoming the person that WE want to be but until we can become the person that THEY need us to be our relationships can not fully bloom, our relationships can't be the examples that we hope they would be.

That this world desperately needs them to be. 

So yeah, change starts with me. But it starts with me, thinking about you. 

A quick thought.

Child #1 has toy.

Child #2 grabs at toy,

(naturally).

Child #1 doesn't give it up.

Child #2 hits Child #1 

(Is this starting to sound familiar)?

Child #1 yells "Don't hit me! God made me!"

<Record screech>

What in the world?!

Fast forward a couple of days later... 

Child #1 is talking to Siri, the creepy woman who lives in our phones.

I hear a beep beep from the phone and then Child #1 say, "God made me! Don't cut me off."

Now of course, there is a whole lot of human nature going on in these two scenarios, but there's also the knowledge that "God made me, I am special, and pretty darn important to Him."

What if we all walked around knowing that God made us-- that we have a destiny and a purpose and that He thinks we are special and pretty darn important....? 

What if we all walked around remembering that God thinks the same thing of all the people we encounter every day... What would that look like?