Grace Gift
"The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance." [Psalm 16:6]
Some of the best gifts in life are the gifts you didn't think to ask for.
The thing about Henry is, I didn't plan him. I wanted a third child, definitely, but I didn't want to find out I was pregnant on the day we told our church/town/family that we were moving states. Or the month I accepted a 3-book offer from a publisher. Or before Sam's first birthday.
But the thing is, if I'd gotten pregnant a year from now, there is no guarantee that our chromosomes would have matched up in exactly the right way to bring me Henry. I would have had another child, but he wouldn't have been Henry.
Henry was chosen for me; he is my grace-gift.
And now, I can't believe I didn't think to ask for him. He is my favorite thing. Holding him on my chest and nuzzling his baby hair while he snores is my favorite thing. Why did I not think to ask for this? To beg for this? If I had been in my right mind, I would have begged.
What I've found is that this grace-gift sucks every opportunity to whine right out from under me. Because no matter how many children are crying all at the same time, I can never say, "Why did we think we could handle this!?!?" Because we didn't. God did.
In my most blind, frustrated moments I still cannot say "We made a mistake with this three kids thing!" Because we didn't. This was not shortsighted planning; this was in spite of our planning. This was an "I know better than you do," straight-from-God gift. There is no room left for frustration - only gratitude. Because what if we had not been given this gift?
Some might say "I can't imagine my life without him," but that's not true for me. I can imagine my life without Henry, and it makes me sick with anger. It turns me inside out with ache and longing and loss. That life would have less love in it, and how could anyone ever go back to less love once she's tasted it?
Henry is the good thing that I did not deserve. He is the good I did not foresee, the good I did not think to ask for, but was given because God has lavished sweetness on me. Lavished.
He handpicked these babies for me:
Madeline, my wild little sparkle.
Sam, the baby I asked for.
Henry, my grace-gift.
The boundary lines have fallen for me in pleasant places; surely I have a delightful inheritance.
Gotta Go Through It
We're going on a Lion Hunt! (We're going on a lion hunt!) We're not scared! (We're not scared!) Look what's up ahead! Tall grass! Can't go over it. Can't go under it. Can't go around it. Gotta go through it. Swish, swish, swish.
"Going on a Lion Hunt" is still a favorite story of mine; it's rhythmic and suspenseful and fun. But now, as an adult, it is also my mantra: what I whisper to myself when I feel the tendrils of despair start to curl around my heart.
All of my favorite people have been through some stuff - terrible, awful, heartbreaking stuff. I'm proved right every time I meet a new person whom I instantly like; the more I get to know them, the more I learn about the stuff they've been through: chronic illnesses, serious depression, betrayals, affairs, ugly divorces, deaths of children, addiction, cancer.
I like them, I've learned, because those terrible circumstances create something beautiful inside of us. Something precious is forged in our hearts as we walk through the difficult, painful places. The gauntlet strips off pretension, pride, insincerity, piousness, and anything false. Underneath we find gentleness, humility, wisdom, compassion, bravery, and indomitable strength. Refined by fire, the Bible calls it, burning off the dross, leaving the gold.
There are no shortcuts to that beautiful, beautiful countenance. You have to go through some stuff to get there.
Just like there is no shortcut to a baby; you have to go through labor, and morning sickness.
Just like there is no shortcut to a Thanksgiving table full of well-adjusted grown-up children; you have to go through the Terrible 2's.
There is no shortcut to seasoned love; you have to go through the fights - all of them - no giving up.
There is no shortcut to forgiveness; you have to feel the pain to get to the other side.
There is no shortcut to health; you have to trudge through the pain, the meds, the therapy.
There is no shortcut to healing, to moving on, after a catastrophic loss; you just have to keep walking through.
When it comes to the tough stuff of life, the best way out is always through.
So if this season of life seems so hard you can't breathe, know that while you might come out weary, broken, a little worse for the wear, you'll shine. Refined, like gold. Take a deep, raggedy breath, say a prayer, and steel yourself.
Because you can't go over it. Can't go under it. Can't go around it. You gotta go through it.
(source)
There Is Room
As much as I know friends and families that are aching for babies, I also have friends that aren't quite sure. That are, if not off-put, at least confused by the "waiting until your thirties to think about babies" trend that is rampant in my generation. I don't presume to know what's "right" for every family, in every situation, but I do know something of having babies. So this post is for all of the might-be, would-be moms and dads who are cautiously dipping their toes in the water, who are apprehensive and curious. This is for those that are wondering.
If you are wondering about having a baby,
Hoping. Debating. Considering. Trying. Scared. Uncertain.
Is there time? Am I ready? Are we ready? Financially? In our marriage? Emotionally? In my career?
"Is there room?"
Is there room in my lifestyle? In my budget? In my family?
I am a mother of 3 babies; 2 of them were unplanned. I am here to tell you that the answer is "yes." There is room.
There is room in your home. There is room for a tiny cradle, even if it sits squarely between your bed and your dresser - or in the middle of the living room. Babies don't need Pinterest nurseries, their own rooms, or even cribs. Babies need mommas' arms, and there is room.
There is room in your body. Just when you think you can't stretch any more, you can. Your body was made to take care of that baby, and whether you are pregnant with one or with five, there is room.
There is room in your lap. If you are worried about a big sister or a big brother, don't. One of the most precious gifts you could ever give your child is a sibling. Moms' laps have room for two - and three, and four, and five. Buried in babies is the purest joy, the deepest satisfaction. There is room.
There is room in your heart. If you are afraid that you will never be able to love anything as much as you love your husband (boyfriend, girlfriend, mom, dad, or dog), you will. If you are afraid that you could never love another baby as much as you love your first - you can - and you will. If you think the love might break you, it will, and that's good. A mother's heart has an inexhaustible capacity for love. There is room.
This is what I am learning and re-learning from my third child: there is room. There is room in my body, room in my home, room in my lap, room in my heart. Babies are gifts, and there is always room.
Thanks A Lot, GRANDMA.
(source)
My mom is a special breed of grandma. A special breed of woman, really.
She brought Madeline a Playmobil pirate set when she came to visit last week (because those little guys are Madeline's absolute favorite toys), and the following EDUCATIONAL MOMENT ensued.
Madeline: What's this?
Grandma: That's a cannon.
Madeline: What's a cannon?
Grandma: Um... (Mom looks to me for help.)
Me: It's a weapon.
(Whispers to mom, "Well, that' a new concept.")
It shoots a big heavy ball that blasts into the sides of other ships to sink them.
Madeline: And what's this?
Me: That's a pistol.
Madeline: What's a pistol?
Me: A different kind of weapon.
Madeline: Does it sink ships too?
Grandma, in a misguided attempt to change the subject: OH LOOK!!! This guy has a peg-leg!
Madeline: What's a peg-leg?
Grandma: His leg is made of wood.
Madeline: Why?
Grandma: Umm...because it got cut off.
Madeline: Oh.
(long, thoughtful pause...)
And what's this?
Grandma: Uh, that's a skull.
Me: OH MY GOSH, MOM.
I should not be surprised. My mom once accidentally taught some neighborhood children the term "two-fisted drinker" in an attempt to be extra-supportive of their lemonade stand.
Eh, she's Irish.