Busyness gets in the way of the business

Church Meetings
Dishes
Laundry
Work Meetings
Cleaning
The revenue side of the budget
Bathing, cleaning, and feeding the girls

Writing
Playing in the snow
Exercise
Chatting with a friend
Reading
An online game of Scrabble
Catching up on a friend's blog
Honoring World AIDS Day
Keeping the Sabbath
Snuggling the girls

Collapsing in a chair at the end of the day, she sadly acknowledges that there is a lazy element to the busyness. But, it must be said, that is largely driven by the busyness.

Tomorrow. Please. Let tomorrow be a better day. Then, she thought, she will happily settle in to her sabbath lifestyle. For now she'll keep it in her heart.

Just because I was busy, please don't think I didn't think of you, dear friends. He knows your name, and your faces are written on my heart. One day your pain will be gone. One day we will be free. If I could keep you, if I could heal you, if I you were mine . . . carry on, my friends. Your strength, your courage, your smiles . . . Walk on.
{December 1 * World AIDS Day . . . Every Day * A day to care}

Softly and Tenderly

My grandma died on Tuesday night. I wasn't there. To hear it told, though, and I have, over and over, it was beautiful. It's a lovely thing, to hear it over and over.

It really was beautiful and sweet, and Grandma got to say goodbye to everyone she loved and who loved her. We were first. On Sunday we stopped at the Hospice House to see her. She was there not because her death was imminent but because my parents were out of town (camping with us) and their house sprung a gas leak. Craziness.

Our visit on Sunday was also sweet and beautiful. She was wittier and livelier and more fun than she had been in a long time. She and Ellie played games with Ellie's cow, Betsy, and she was sassy with me, too. But even in the middle of all of that, she looked so sad. I wanted to climb in bed with her, but I didn't. I didn't, because for a moment I was that little girl again, afraid that she wouldn't want me there.

Grandma's death--her last few days, really--were filled with sweetness and beauty. That's a strange thing, because she wasn't always. People don't normally speak ill of the dead, and I won't do that either. I'll just be honest. My relationship with my grandma was challenging, and I was afraid of her until that last day. That last day, I sat there looking at her, and she was so sad and vulnerable . . . and beautiful. We didn't talk about our past, and we didn't talk much about the future. But I knew that she loved me and she knew that she loved me, and I loved her back. Most importantly, perhaps, I knew that I loved her back. With my kiss goodbye to her, there was closure. Though I didn't know it would be the last kiss she could give me back, I said all that I wanted to--all that I needed to--in that last kiss. And it was lovely.

Grief is an interesting thing. Though Grandma was 92, and I had joined the forces--Grandma included--praying each day that God would take her Home, it's still just a bit shocking. It's strange to think that when I go to my parents' house again, she won't be there. She won't ask us to lock the door before it is even shut behind us. She won't give popcorn to Ellie until I tell her to stop, only to have her switch to jelly beans or peanuts. She won't be there.

She's Home. And, in the end, that is the most beautiful thing about the whole bit.

Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling,
calling for you and for me;
see, on the portals he's waiting and watching,
watching for you and for me.

Come home, come home;
ye who are weary come home;
earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling,
calling, O sinner, come home!
- "Softly and Tenderly," Will L. Thompson

Ellie went trick or treating with my niece Danielle tonight, so I sat with my sister. We handed out candy and watched a movie, but more than once one of us said, “I really miss Grandma.” It’s strange that I didn’t think about her every day before she died, and now I do. I know that will fade with time, but for now I remember wistfully or painfully or gratefully . . . mostly I just remember. Not all of the memories are wonderful, because we had a strange relationship, but she really was one of the most permanent fixtures in my life. She was always there. And now she’s not. And, as Ellie said yesterday, “I can’t see this heaven, where Nana is. It must be far, far away.” And then I think of Narnia. Every time.

Voter fraud is alive and well.

So I still don't know which candidate should have my vote in November. I have listened to the speeches, watched them interact with their chosen Vice Presidential candidates, watched them with their families, blah, blah, blah. And I still don't know.

McCain=experience and perseverance
Obama=hope and change
McCain=reckless
Obama=inexperience
McCain=stiff and old
Obama=WAY liberal

What's a girl to do? I'm seriously considering selling my vote to the highest bidder. Not the candidate, mind you, or even anyone officially involved in the campaign. Nope. Just your average, every-day citizen who might want their candidate to win. So, commence bidding.

I'm really trying quite hard not to think about how many years back into voter reforms and such that this sends us. Maybe it's okay because no one is badgering me for my vote. Instead, I'm badgering them to pay me for my vote. Then I can use that money to fill up my gas tank or something.

Seriously, though. When politics are full of party lines and lies and rhetoric and lofty dreams and attacks and mockery, who is a girl to believe?

I've Lept.

Go JETS!

Sorry, Packers. Bad move.

Rest assured, I do wish Aaron Rodgers the best, and I will be hoping for Jennings on my fantasy team. But I would also like a new jersey.

Ready? Commence Breathing

He's back!

I must confess to being relieved. I thought the retirement was premature. I thought he had one of his best seasons last year. I thought they were one pass away from the Super Bowl, and they could do it again this season. They own our division. Sorry, Aaron. They do.

Normally I'm not a fan of people retiring and unretiring. If you're done, then you're done. But this whole thing sounded a bit shady to me from the beginning.

So now what? He doesn't have to be a Packer. I'm okay with that, I guess. They may have a good future in Aaron Rodgers, and I certainly wouldn't want to be Aaron and get thrown back onto the bench. But then what?

Oh, gosh. What if he's a Viking? THEN what would I do?!

Journey Through the Valley - Part Two

There was a time not long ago when nearly every smile that crossed my face was fake. It was also a time when my toddler's voice or my newborn's cry brought shivers only duplicated by fingernails on a chalkboard. The ringing phone caused me to sink deeper into my chair, and I longed for someone else to take the children that looked like me but couldn't possibly be mine to bed so that I could be alone.

Today is a winding road
It's taking me to places that I didn't want to go
Today in the blink of an eye
I'm holding on to something
And I do not know why I tried
I tried to read between the lines
I tried to look into your eyes
I want a simple explanation
For what I'm feeling inside
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out

It was a dark time. I didn't know where I was or why, but I was quite certain that I would stay there forever. I couldn't figure out why I rarely felt connected to either child that I knew I loved . . . except when I did, and then it was obsessive. I was fine to let everyone, anyone, care for my girls . . . except when I wasn't, and then I was obsessive. I couldn't stay awake, but when I slept I couldn't rest. I was mean. I was ugly. And I didn't care a bit. About anything. And I figured no one else did either.

Except there were some who did, some who noticed. I thank God daily for those people. Without whom I would still be in my chair, not caring, going through the motions that I wished belonged to someone else. I wouldn't be me.

Postpartum depression. Really? Because I'm certain that only happens to other people. Depression is such a strong word. It doesn't really define me. But then again "a mental state characterized by a pessimistic feeling of inadequacy and a despondent lack of activity" certainly sounds like me. Sadness? Check. Hopelessness? Check. Low self-esteem? Check. Sleep disturbances? Check. Exhaustion, emptiness, inability to enjoy things one previously enjoyed, social withdrawal, low energy, becoming easily frustrated? Check, check, check, check, check, and check.

Okay. Deep breath. Maybe it's true.

Today is a winding road, tell me where to start
And tell me something I don't know
Today I'm on my own, I can't move a muscle
And I can't pick up the phone, I don't know
And now I'm itching for the tall grass
And longing for the breeze
I need to step outside
Just to see if I can breathe
I gotta find a way out
Maybe there's a way out

It's interesting that Webster's defines depression as "a falling in of the surface; a sinking below its true place," because I think that there is nothing that describes it better. I felt like I wasn't myself, and I wasn't. I had truly sunk below my true place as a wife, a mother, a friend, a valued person.

Yeah, I'm walking on a tightrope
I'm wrapped up in vines, I think we'll make it out
But you just gotta give me time
Strike me down with lightning
Let me feel you in my veins
I wanna let you know how much I feel your pain

Today my smiles are genuine. Today my daughters' voices are beautiful. Today I remember how to laugh. When the days get bad, I remember that day lying on the bed in Mackinaw City when I laughed, really laughed, as I was being smothered in "tickle kisses" from my patient husband and my beautiful toddler. It was a long time in coming, and I know it wouldn't have come without medicine and therapy.

I never wanted to be a medicine taker. I hate the idea. Maybe I'll talk about it more in a post on a different day, but I'll confess to being scared, nearly panicked, about starting an antidepressant. But I knew that it might help lift me back up to my true place and I had to find a way out, so I did. And it remains one of the best decisions I've ever made.

Oh, Ellie and Meggie. We've come so far. You are my beautiful girls.

Your voice
[Is] the soundtrack of my summer
Do you know you're unlike any other
And you'll always be my thunder
[My girls], your eyes
Are the brightest of all the colors
I don't wanna ever love another
You'll always be my thunder
So bring on the rain
Oh, baby bring on the pain
And listen to the thunder

Song lyrics from "Thunder" by Boys Like Girls, quoted here for my daughters.

Journey Through the Valley - Part One

Something happened yesterday that has struck me and my family in a deeply personal way. A man, struggling with depression, allegedly (though he confessed, so there's nothing much alleged about it) entered a realty office in Muskegon, asked for his realtor, and fatally shot him. News reports vary on whether he was shot in the face, in the back of the head, or in the side of the head. Any way you look at it, it was at point blank range. And any way you look at it, the victim was a dad, a husband, a middle school youth leader.

And he was a realtor.

My mom, the realtor, is at work today. She was going to go in yesterday, but then Troy was shot, so she stayed home. My sister joked that my mom should borrow my dad's flak jacket from when he served in Iraq to go to work today. Mom said, "Over my face?"

There has been discussion surrounding the shooter, this Robert Johnson. He is a 73-year-old man who was angry over the declining housing market, which meant that he would lose money on the sale of his current house. He blamed Troy for that. So he (allegedly) shot him. Dead. A life ended. Hope ended. Because someone was angry. And depressed.

And that's where the discussion is now. Everyone who has something resembling an excuse to share prefaces it with, "I'm not condoning what he did . . ." And then they say something about the despair that encompasses those suffering from depression. I agree with that. Wholeheartedly. But he (allegedly) killed someone. And how many more depressed people are in Muskegon and maybe mad at my mom? Or maybe my pastor dad? Depression doesn't give you license to do what you want, consequences be damned.

So what is it? Is it stricter gun control laws? (I maintain that people who shoot other people don't care much if they get their guns illegally too). Is it metal detectors at the doors of all buildings? Is it working in pairs so that no one can blindside you? Or is it the community--each person's own community--making sure that people with mental illnesses get treatment?

I have postpartum depression. For about six weeks, I was deeper in the valley than I ever have been. Thankfully I have amazing friends who stepped in and told me they missed me and wanted me back. They helped me help myself. Because they're my friends. Because they love me. Because they love my girls and my husband. Now my depression was never psychosis, and I never thought about hurting myself or my children. Some people do, and if those thoughts and compulsions are like the other symptoms that accomapny depression, they truly are uncontrolable. My depression is being treated with medicine and therapy, and I'm back, now. Still journeying through the valley, but back.

What about Robert Johnson? He had family. He had someone. He had a community who should have seen him and helped him help himself. After he (allegedly) shot Troy, he ran to his former son-in-law's house. The ex-son-in-law turned him in and, while not speaking formally to the press, told someone that Johnson had been angry about the house and had been suffering from depression.

Let me get this straight. You knew? You knew that this man, who I'm sure is a lovely, lovely man when he is healthy, was depressed and you just watched? You didn't step in? And now one man is dead, and another is charged with premeditated murder. Two lives ended. Two families destroyed. A community shocked at the first murder in 20 years. A profession trying to figure out how to work without fear in a turbluent economy and falling market. Because of depression?

Depression is treatable. For some it involves inpatient treatment. For some it involves outpatient therapy. For some it involves antidepressants. But it's treatable. No one needs to die because of it.

So now as Troy's family makes plans to donate his organs and arrange a funeral, middle school children from a church youth group try to cope with the loss of a friend and mentor, a little boy and little girl try to understand that they will never see their father again, and I send my mom to work wishing that she could wear a military flak jacket, I have to wonder. Where were the people who loved Robert Johnson? Why didn't they step in before his depression drove him to do something that cannot be reversed? Something that cannot be fixed? Something that cannot be treated?

I wish they had. The VanderStelt family wishes they had. Roosevelt Park and the greater Muskegon community wishes they had. The Nexes realty company and the WMLAR group wishes they had. And I'm sure, in the end, Robert Johnson wishes they had.

It's a journey through the valley, and while it is your burden to carry, you cannot carry it alone. That's what community is for.

Still Checking Closets

I've been thinking lately about Narnia. Not the films, though I am irresistably drawn to them. Not the books, either, which I read aloud to my husband over three years of road trips. I'm talking about the place itself. But there's really more to it than that even.

When I'm reading about Narnia or thinking about it, riveted in my seat after the credits are rolling or lying in bed wishing my closet opened to magical lands, I am filled with longing for a place like that. For walking with the Lion of Judah and losing myself in His wild mane. For the place where my heart is at ease and time flies but stands still at the same time. For Home.

The Pevensie children were called to and drawn to and created for a magical land. And once they'd tasted of it, they couldn't be content in this world. Except for one.

"Sire," said Tirian, when he had greeted all these. "If I have read the chronicle aright, there should be another. Has not your Majesty two sisters? Where is Queen Susan?"
"My sister Susan," answered Peter shortly and gravely, "is no longer a friend of Narnia."
"Yes," said Eustace, "and whenver you've tried to get her to come and talk about Narnia or do anything about Narnia, she says 'What wonderful memories you have! Fancy your still thinking about all those funny games we used to play when we were children.'"
"Oh Susan!" said Jill. "She's interested in nothing nowadays except nylons and lipstick and invitations. She always was a jolly sight too keen on being grown-up."
"Grown-up, indeed," said the Lady Polly. "I wish she would grow up. She wasted all her school time wanting to be the age she is now, and she'll waste all the rest of her life trying to stay that age. Her whole idea is to race on to the silliest time of one's life as quick as she can and then stop there as long as she can."
--The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis

I do that. I waste my time wanting to be somewhere or something other than what I am. And in doing that, I miss what I'm called to, drawn to, and made for. Narnia may not be in the back of my closet, and I may visit only in my dreams. But there is something about it that I can keep alive within me. I am allowed to hope and dream for a place of my own and find it in Him.

"Created for a place/I've never known/This is home/Now I'm finally where I belong/. . . I've been searching for a place of my own/Now I've found it/This is home" (Switchfoot, "This is Home" from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian)

My heart is not meant to live in this land. My heart wants to be Home. For me, now, it is a dream. A magical dream, but it is one that I can hold on to. It is one that I can share with other Narnia lovers and wishers and dreamers. Others who were made for more than this. Because in the end, even though Peter and Lucy and Edmund lived in this world, they longed for another. They held on to another. And one day, in the end, they were home to stay. "The term is over: the holidays have begun. The dream is ended: this is the morning." (Aslan, in The Last Battle, C.S. Lewis)

I don't know when my dream ends and my morning begins. There are days that I hope it is soon, and there are days that I hope I get to see my girls grow to love God and others and have children of their own to lead to Him. When I walk through a valley, I remember that this is not the end. This is the term, and my longing for Home is the dream right now. But one day, one day soon, really, the dream will end. I cannot wait for the day that God will hold my face in His hands, look into my eyes, and say, "The dream is ended: this is the morning. You are Home. This is your land."

But until then, Dearest One, I'll live. I'll live here and now. But you need to help me not waste any more days, forgetting what matters, forgetting that dreams can be real, wishing to be grown-up. While I'm here, though, know that I'm thinking of Home. I'm thinking of magical lands where time flies by while it stands still. Where I am a queen. That's what I was made for. And one day, I'll be there with you.

"It isn't Narnia, you know," sobbed Lucy. "It's you. We shan't meet you there. And how can we live, never meeting you?"
"But you shall meet me, dear one," said Aslan.
"Are--are you there too, Sir?" said Edmund.
"I am," said Aslan. "But there I have another name. You must learn to know me by that name. This was the very reason why you were brought to Narnia, that by knowing me here for a little, you may know me better there."
--The Voyage of the Dawn Treader, C.S. Lewis

Let me know You. And may my times with You in my dreams and in my Narnias help me to know You better here.

This post is lovingly dedicated to the Rings.

I Check Closets for Narnia

It started out as a feeling
Which then grew into hope
Which then turned into a quiet thought
Which then turned into a quiet word
And then that word grew louder and louder
Till it was a battle cry
I'll come back when you call me
No need to say goodbye

Just because everything's changing
Doesn't mean it's never been this way before
All you can do is try to know who your friends are
As you head off to war
Pick a star on the dark horizon and follow the light
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when it's over
No need to say goodbye

Now we're back to the beginning
It's just a feeling and no one knows yet
But just because they can't feel it, too
Doesn't means that you have to forget
Let your memories grow stronger and stronger
Till they're before your eyes
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
You'll come back when they call you
No need to say goodbye
"The Call", Regina Spektor, from The Chronicles of Narnia: Prince Caspian

This song makes me weep.

Pray. Without ceasing.

I spent the morning, frantically looking for any proof. Any proof would have worked, but I found nothing. So I prayed. I prayed that the friend I have living in China was not in the school that will prove to be a grave for many. I prayed that she made it out of her apartment. I prayed that she didn't even live in that part of China. I prayed. And I continued to look for her address, a note, a clue, anything.

Finally. Proof. The northern part is her home. Not the central part that saw the death of many of its youngest and brightest. Safe. I breathed in deeply, with gratitude.

And then I ceased praying.

But why? Just because I don't know them, are they any less? Do the daughters, sons, friends, family members of others matter less than those who are mine? No.

Dear Abba, be with these, our Brothers and Sisters, and those who are not. Give them safety this night as they struggle with pain from wounds physical and emotional. Give them breath. Give them peace. Give them hope. And give them You. Amen.

400 Days--Part Two

Our four hundred days are over. In the end, it was less than 400 days and it wasn't as hard as we thought it would be. And yet every day was a tender one, with tears at the ready. We did get to talk on the computer quite a few times, Curly-haired Cutie remembered her grandpa with a passion, and She Who Is Named After Him was smiley to see him. Our reunion was tearful and joyful and giggly. Not to mention early in the morning.

All that said, it seems as if we are still waiting as I keep forgetting to take the yellow ribbon from my old oak pillar, and our National Guard Deployment flag is still in our window.

Here was our four hundred days:
* Three wedding anniversaries, including one for my parents
* Seven missed birthdays, because Soldier Dad was home for Grandma's and Brother-in-law's.
* One hurt birthday girl on a warm day in May when her mom neglected to call on her birthday, her dad was states away hadn't talked to her in nearly a month and still didn't call, and her sister was too busy to call.
* One pregnancy announcement, and seven subsequent doctor's visits with reports of the babe's growth
* Memorial Day, Fourth of July, Labor Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's Day, Super Bowl, Valentine's Day (whatever), Easter. Oh, and Flag Day, which FunnyWriterMommy's husband thinks is important to include.
* Eleven Curly-haired Cutie's overnights at Grandma & Grandpa's without Grandpa
* Eleven dinners on the Tuesdays after the overnights
* She Who Is Named After Him's birth on Super Fat Tuesday

So much of my world was gone, but now he's back. And it's like he never left. But it's still good to have him back for many more birthdays and holidays and overnights and dinners and maybe another pregnancy announcement and birth.

He is such a good, good man. And we are so, so blessed.

Your feet will touch the soil of many countries.

Some time ago, another lifetime, really, my husband and a friend's husband got the crazy idea that we should pack up and move to South Africa. A dream come true. And yet, the dreamer friend and I knew it wasn't right. So we didn't. And it hurt.

Because God will use anything in front of us to speak to us, I got a good fortune to end my lovely dinner of Orange Chicken the night I knew we couldn't move. "Your feet will touch the soil of many countries." Peace. I knew that I knew that I knew. And it hurt.

It's time again to be a dreamer whose dreams get closed behind doors of reality and "not yet." But the dream doesn't have to die. I'll close it behind the door, and I'll extinguish the flame, leaving only an ember. When the time is right, perhaps He will fan the flames . . . because sometimes the dream never dies.

So, yes. My feet will touch the soil of many countries. And maybe some day I'll be the one packing up to move and explore a new city. Maybe some day I'll be the one visiting grad schools and making a different life for myself. Maybe some day I'll be the one on the book tour. For now, though, those dreams join South Africa behind a door that I can't afford to open.

Sometimes it still hurts.
But when I know, it doesn't matter that I can't see.

Isn't it just like the Lord to invite me
To put all my dreams in His hands
Forever releasing the grip that once held them
Forever surrendering my plans
And then when He's certain it's not born of man
He calls for the fire to rekindle again
And he askes me to know with my heart
What's not seen with my eyes
So the dream never dies.
-"When the Dream Never Dies," Child of the Promise

rev·o·lu·tion

Moments earlier she was asleep on her father's chest. Blissfully oblivious to the state of affairs in the world or the significance of days on the calendar. Unaware that her shirt was purchased, by a friend, for a purpose higher than she. Unaware that she, too, was purchased, by a King, for a purpose higher than she.

Now she lies peacefully, practicing smiles. Still unaware of much of the world and her place in it. Behind her bright eyes are hopes of prompt meals and avoided baths. On her chest, one word. On her heart, one purpose.

A Tuesday earlier, her fourth, she laid cradled in the arms of her mother. Dozing, careless, blissful, oblivious, content. Her parents heard these words: "Every revolution that has ever been fought started in a room like this." (Ashley Scott as Emily Sullivan, Jericho 2:4 "Oversight")

How true they are. Nearly 2,000 years ago it was an Upper Room. More than 200 years ago it was a pub or a printing house. When and where will the next room be as a girl stands up a woman and calls for change? Brings about change? And what will be that change? {God, let it be peaceful.}

But how can a mother look in those bright eyes and see revolution? How can a mother see bright eyes that betray passion and heartache and danger and bold leadership? Can a mother then put aside personal fear and wishes for her daughter in order that her Father--her daughter's Abba--may fulfill His grand purpose in her little one? {God, keep her safe.}

Her sister is Grace. Her bright eyes find beauty. They betray joy and hope. She makes beauty out of ugly things.

But this one . . . her eyes say something else.

Black Tuesday

It's official. The day we always dreaded has finally arrived. Tonight I shall sleep in my jersey in honor of the greatest QB ever to grace (yes, grace) the gridiron. Sad, sad day indeed.

I shall miss you, my favorite.

The Difference a Week Can Make

One week ago today we were still waiting . . . and not so patiently. One week ago tomorrow, we were welcoming the newest member of our family. She's beautiful. Breathtaking. Incredible.

Megan Leigh was born at 2:24 p.m. on Tuesday, February 5. Fat Tuesday. Super Tuesday. It was a good day all around.

My labor with Megan was harder and a bit longer than with Ellie, but the delivery was actually a nice experience. I dilated from a 6 to a 10 in about five minutes, I had a few minutes reprieve, and I pushed through two contractions (four pushes in all) for less than five minutes. Then she was there. 19 1/2 inches long. 7 lbs. 12 oz. And I lost my heart again.

She looks almost exactly like her big sister did.

Soon She'll Kick You, Too

It's past time for an update on the impending birth of Baby #2 (formerly known as Breech Baby). Big Sister is TERRIBLY impatient for the arrival, and while FunnyWriterMommy appreciates the time to work and clean and (occasionally) rest, she hurts enough to be getting impatient, too.

It's not that I hurt. I'm just so sore. I was thinking that as I was tossing and turning flailing around like an overturned turtle around 3:30 this morning. "Gosh, I'm so sore that I can't wait until the baby is born. It will be so nice to be able to sleep flat on my stomach and whip around to my back or side at whim." I'll welcome all that other pain and soreness this time, just because it won't be in my lower back anymore.

Ellie, on the other hand, is just plain eager. The other day, she laid with her head on my stomach, rubbing absentmindedly with her hand. "When will we get to see Baby Meggie? We would have her by now if Dr. Dood wasn't in the way," she said wistfully. (Never question the mind of a two year old!) She has also been known to walk in to the room and say, "I just want to see her!" Mommy and Daddy do, too, honey. The sweetest two incidences happened this week (Monday and Thursday respectively): I woke Ellie up early so we could go to our doctor's appointment, and Ellie said, "Again?! Will Dr. Dood finally give us Baby Meggie?" Aww. Then yesterday Ellie picked up Megan's adorable little white Sunday dress, and I told her that we would put Megan in that and take her to church. Daddy asked, "Can we take Meggie to church with us?" Ellie jumped up and down and said, "And I'll hold her hand!" Seriously? Adorable.

As for the real update that extends beyond our eagerness (and slight anxiety at times), all systems are go for an early February arrival. Dr. Dood reported that it doesn't appear that we'll need to induce unless we go past Brett Favre's amazing Super Bowl victory on the 3rd. Instead, we just wait with bags packed and Eric & Julie's number on speed dial so that they can take Ellie while we go have a baby. Then, six glorious weeks to spend with my girls and not working . . . aside from dishes, meals, diapers (those things are small!!), naptimes, nursing, cleaning up toys, fending off jealousy with my amazing mothering skills, maintaining our potty training successes . . . but, come mid March I'll have to do all of that WHILE working. So these six weeks will be heaven.

By way of another update, I'm next on the new mother doting list. Congrats to the five down and best wishes to the five still to come. May I join the list before all of you. ;)

Give me an "S"! Give me a "U"!

SUCCESS!!! It's a beautiful word . . . and it's amazing to see it written on your child's face.

Only 2 1/2 months after we started, we have it! We're POTTY TRAINED!!

Yay, Super Big Girl!

We felt like the moment was here, but it became clear this past weekend.

Just after Christmas: Thinking that we had a good long time with Trying to Be A Big Girl alone with Mommy during the long break, we decided to wear Big Girl Underwear. First attempt also included plastic pants. We peed. In our pants. And continued playing. Second attempt included only the Big Girl Underwear. And a puddle. The carpet can be cleaned, and no one can duplicate the look on I Really Want to Be a Big Girl's face when she puddled. "Take me to the bathroom!!" became a common refrain over the next few days.

Friday, January 4: Pull-ups on because we were en route to THE AIRPORT TO PICK UP SOLDIER BOMPA and then to lunch with the newly reunited family. Mommy didn't hope for too much on the potty front, so she even packed an extra pull-up. Ever-Eager To Surprise Girl asked to go with both Mommy and Daddy when they had to go to the bathroom, though she did head toward the "Big Girl Bathroom" instead of the "Big Boy Bathroom" in the restaurant when Daddy was walking with her. She surprised everyone at turning the correct direction when Daddy said, "Go to your left." (So she knows her directions?! Yes. Before she can potty consistently. Nice.)

Sunday, January 6: Celebrating Christmas at Bompa & Gramma's house . . . there is no way Big Girl Underwear is a good idea. We tried it. AND IT WORKED!!! But will it work without Mommy and Daddy around?

Monday, January 7: Oh, yes it will! Definitely Big Girl stayed dry for a one-hour car ride, all day long, and even cried when she woke up pottying in the middle of the night. WHOA.

Seriously. Clearly a Big Girl lives here.

P.S.
Monday, December 31: The whole family went to the doctor to get a small picture of our schedule for the next month as we checked on Breech Baby. The doctor poked and poked and happily declared that she is No Longer Breech Baby. Then, said baby head butted Mommy. She was still declared, "Good girl, Baby Meggie!" (by her big sister, no less!)

Another Year Is Dawning

I missed singing one of my favorite songs to close out 2007, so I'll share it here:
Another year is dawning!
Dear Father, let it be,
In working or in waiting,
Another year with Thee;
Another year of leaning
Upon Thy loving breast,
Another year of trusting,
Of quiet, happy rest.

Another year of mercies,
Of faithfulness and grace;
Another year of gladness
In the shining of Thy face;
Another year of progress,
Another year of praise,
Another year of proving
Thy presence all the days.

Another year of service,
Of witness for Thy love;
Another year of training
For holier work above.
Another year is dawning!
Dear Father, let it be
On earth, or else in heaven,
Another year for Thee.

2007 closed out so beautifully, meeting, embracing, and hugging old friends--and new ones in the form of a darling nearly one-year-old girl from Ethiopia & Oregon. It truly was a lovely ending to a hard and beautiful year.

It's interesting to stand on this side of 2008, the dawning of another year, and wonder what it will bring. To whom will we say goodbye this year? Whom will we greet with the wonder and celebration of new life? Whom will we treasure and draw closer than ever before, and from whom will we grow apart? There is certainly great comfort in knowing that whatever this year may bring, whether we face it with ourselves or loved ones on earth or else in heaven, it will truly be another year lived in the grace, wonder, awe, beauty, and tender arms of God.

A new year is nothing without New Year's Resolutions--the kind that will hopefully become new ways of life rather than something I chuckle about in twelve short months.

In the year of our Lord 2008, I resolve to:
1) Cook with more veggies (thank you Jessica Seinfeld and Deceptively Delicious)
2) Think--and speak--positively rather than critically
3) Potty train our toddler
4) Welcome our darling Megan into our home as she has already been welcomed in to our hearts
5) Cherish our time with both of our daughters--especially since one will be in school already in the fall
6) Pursue publishing something I wrote years ago and swore I would publish one day
7) Spend less money and pay off more debt
8) Make real progress toward living the life I was made for and looking like the One I love and Who loves me far more than I am capable of dreaming
9) Celebrate the quiet, happy rest of Sabbath--true Sabbath