A Fine Line

Ellie has been talking to herself lately. A lot. The really crazy part is that she is arguing with herself. It's interesting to eavesdrop on those interactions.

Beau asked me if it was normal or if we should be concerned. I told him that imaginary conversations like that are a mark of creativity. He said they are also a mark of schizophrenia. This is true, I said. There is a fine, fine line between creative genius and lunacy.

And there is. John Nash is a perfect example. Albert Einstein once said, "A question that sometimes drives me hazy: am I or are the others crazy?" Many authors and artists have stepped over the line into lunacy, and their art had a price to pay.

I have obsessive compulsive tendencies. I count stairs, and I obsess over things. Fixate on them. I also have sensory defensiveness, which is a sensory-integration disorder on the autism spectrum. I talk to myself regularly, and there is always some sort of imaginary world in my mind. I blame it on being a lover of words.

So what of my children? I'm not saying anything either way about them, but the older two are proving creative beyond imagining. We prayed that they would be. Each of them exhibit some form of sensory defensiveness, though (thankfully) it seems to be much less broad spectrum or severe than mine. What of the OCD and whatever else lunacy may lurk in their brains? And what of the fact that it just may be that all of us are a few hormones shy of being committed?

Who knows. All I can see is that they are creative. And I must note that there is a fine line between genius and lunacy. I'll walk it. But I'll always wonder if I'll be the one to cross it. And I'll always pray that my art--and theirs--doesn't ever pay the price.

May my dear children always be lovers of words and taking pen (or colored pencil) to paper. May they always be creative beyond imagining. And may their grip on reality always be tenuous enough for their art to be genius but strong enough to keep them sane.

'Tis THE Gift to Be Simple

I have been thinking lately about being "simple" or "living simply."

I'm not certain if the reason for this is that I'm completing Christmas wish lists and contemplating all of the new toys and pieces of furniture that are about to move into my already cluttered and messy house. It might be that the reason is that another person has moved into our house, and I am again lamenting the loss of space my husband and I have endured as a result of the first two little people who moved into our house. They take up a lot of room, and they carry a lot of baggage. (Or maybe that's me.) It could be that I'm sensing a lot of emotional lessening that I need to do, and that is carrying over into my physical life. Or it could just be that I watched just five minutes of Hoarders the other day. That freaked me out.

All I know is that I want to simplify. I go through this phase from time to time, and my husband hates it. I always fill up the garbage or the basement "garage sale" pile or bags (and our living room!) with items that I continue to forget to drop off at Goodwill. I just want less. Less stuff. Less needs. Less stress. Less debt. Less. Less.

But how do I get there? And then how do I stay there. Because inevitably I purge and then I binge. There's always more that I want just as there is much I long to lose.

I have long sung an old Shaker dance hymn, though I discovered today that I have sung it wrong. I sing it more as a reminder to myself or in an effort to convince myself that it really is true. Every time I have sung it, I have replaced the essential word with a word that changes the meaning completely. I am not alone in this, but I still lose what Brackett intended. It just doesn't work to say, "It is A gift to be simple." As if to say, "There are many gifts, and today I choose another." Brackett wrote, " 'Tis THE gift to be simple." The only one there is. Everything else flows from this gift to be simple, this gift to be free. This gift to come down where we ought to be.

Dear Lord, grant that I may somehow find a way to simplify. In this world that pulls at my heart and creates longings I do not want for things I do not need, help me to live simply. Open my eyes to see that all I need to live is already mine. Amen.

A Life of Gratitude

Today I am thankful for second chances. And for family. And for friends and good movies and turkey and football. And for my mom's apple pie.

Forever I am thankful that God has set eternity on the hearts of men. And that Home is where Jesus and Baby Zion wait for me.

Surreal Wednesday

Ellie announced that she wants me to get a Smooth Away.



Victim of advertising or embarassed by her lazy mom?

It's not me, it's my Coulrophobia.

It's official, and it's real. I like validation. Thanks to Criminal Minds, I actually have it. The validation. We're not sure where it actually came from.

For some people it is the result of a bad personal experience. Unless I've blocked it out, I can't say that I've had that. For others it stems from a sinister portrayal in the media. I know I've had that (thanks a ton, Stephen King), but this came much earlier than that. Wikipedia informs me that it is more common in children, but sometimes it occurs in adulthood. It does in this adult.

Now that we have it named, I have a complaint to lodge. Obviously I'm not the only one with this debilitating (I'm not exaggerating) condition. One in seven of us (and the rest of you are nuts!) have it. So can I call Johnny Depp and P. Diddy to help me form some sort of class action suit against the Garmin people? Their new commercial leaves me paralyzed in my chair. Oh, and now I can't even watch How I Met Your Mother without seeing it. And it isn't the friendly one that certainly appears harmless, though we aren't sure what's hiding under that big, red nose. Both Garmin and HIMYM have identified it by its name: Scary Clown.

And yet . . .

They keep. On. Showing. It.

I need a drink. Or some kind soul to ban it from my television. Please. For the love of all that's holy. I am begging.

While we're at it, I understand that it will soon be Bowl season. I very much like to watch college football. For those of us whose phobias extend beyond those with painted faces and into the masked devils, can we please discuss a ban on mascots? Take a tip from the University of Notre Dame. That little leprechaun is cute. And also my Masklophobia will thank you.

"Everything happens for a reason . . . except for clowns. I mean, seriously, what the hell?!"
--Anonymous flair on Facebook

Willing to Relocate

Beau had a meeting with his supervisor last week, and they did some goal setting and talking about Beau's future in Corporate America. Now, let it be said that we really like Corporate America so far. Coming from Nonprofit World it isn't hard to be enthralled with the beauty of Corporate America. Especially when they reward hard work.

Beau came home from said meeting and told me, "I said I'd be willing to relocate." I thought, yeah. I've been telling God that for ten years. Obviously I was pleased that Beau said that. There have been times that I've wondered the same thing about him.

Then he asked me where I want to relocate to, if we had our choice.

Where wouldn't I go would be an easier question. Florida. Down south. I don't like humidity, and I really have no desire to move to Texas, Oklahoma, or Arizona. Nevada either. Most of those southern states hold little appeal for me. I think I would also decline the midwest. Why leave Michigan to go somewhere else exactly like it?

My quick answer to Beau was New England. He claims the winters are bad, worse than here, but I love the history. I've never gotten into Michigan history. We moved from here in 3rd grade, just as they were starting to teach it. And we moved back here in 7th grade, just after it was all over. So I know nothing. I can count the number of times I've even seen the Mackinac Bridge, and I once cut a college class to go to the Michigan Capitol Building in Lansing. It was the only time I've been there.

Michigan isn't "home" for me. When people ask me where "home" is, I tell them it's somewhere on the road between California and Michigan. The truth is that there have been three times I have felt "home" when arriving in a specific location. The first was when my mom took me to Oxnard, CA, in between my freshman and sophomore years of college. I was born there, and I think I'd like to die there, too. The second was when I crossed the bridge in between Washington and Astoria, OR. My dreams were born there during endless watching of The Goonies, and I nearly did die there. (Okay, a bit dramatic, but the story is a good one.) The third was when I visited the TeKrony farm outside of Castlewood, SD, for the 4th of July. Sometimes it's people that feel like home.

So I'd pick New England every time, because I love American history. And it's so rich there. Or maybe I'd pick Colorado. Ooh, or Utah. The mountains, snow . . . but I hear I'd need a big dog to keep away the rattlesnakes when I'm hiking. The Pacific Northwest is a gimme. I'd move there in a second. I also hear San Diego is lovely this time of year. Every time of year.

Now I'm restless again. Longing to relocate. Beau could have told them that, and I wouldn't have minded. "My wife is longing to relocate." Especially if Corporate America is willing to pay for it AND sell my house. Sign me up. But I'm not really looking for home. My parents taught me how to make it wherever I am. With my husband and my kids. With my pictures and my books and my dreams. With whatever friends I am lucky enough to have. Because there have been three times in my life when I felt "home." But none of them were really Home. I'll get there one day . . . and, yes, God. I'm willing to relocate.

The Church

I've been thinking lately about the Church and what we're made of. Christ calls us His bride, which is a lovely analogy. I think there are places when it falls short, though. On my wedding day, I worked hard to be certain that I wore a beautiful dress and my hair and makeup were lovely. My bridesmaids, my mother, and Mom's Mary Kay lady worked for hours to get my eyebrows, bangs, cheeks, ear lobes, and lips exactly right. This was after we worked to decorate the church and order the best food for the reception and perform any number of other tasks to be sure the day was perfect.

On most wedding days, the bride wouldn't dream of being 100% real and authentic. I'm a jeans and t-shirt kind of girl--give me a hoodie sweatshirt, and I'm a happy girl. I didn't walk down the aisle in my Notre Dame football hoodie, though. Weddings reflect different parts of different women's personalities, but I challenge you to find me a single bride who marched into her "happily ever after" with all of her flaws exposed.

Yet with God, with Christ, they are all laid out. Bare. It's rather like the nightmare I had shortly before our wedding day . . . I stood in front of the congregation--in front of our friends and family--naked. Exposed. Visible. Vulnerable. There. With nothing to protect me from being seen by everyone for exactly who I was, including my love of food and distaste for exercise.

In my church there are divorced men and women. There is a couple--both parties divorced--who have married each other and blended five children into one family. There are several couples married for fewer years than their oldest children have been alive. We have at least three alcoholics, one of whom is in the hospital suffering from the effects of his most recent detox. We have men who verbally abuse their wives, women who suffer from eating disorders, and couples married but living separate lives. We are a mess. And it's so, so lovely.

Nowhere in the world can I be completely myself and know that I will be embraced, save for in the arms of my Beloved. How sad, then, that we march into church each Sunday pretending that we are beautiful and perfect. We do it because we feel like we need to, like we need to put on our best for a God who couldn't possibly accept us in our weakness. Or maybe we feel we need to put on our best for a family who couldn't possibly accept us in our weakness. In doing that, we likely sell each other short and put endless pressure on those who share our pews so that they march on in the endless pursuit of perfection. In doing that, we certainly sell our God short. He doesn't expect perfection from us, He expects brokenness. And He makes that beautiful.

Something for me.

A number of years ago I made a weekly drive to Lansing, driving just over one hour to be somewhere for just over two hours only to drive just over one hour back home. I did it because it was something for me. It was something I loved, something that drove me. Something that made me feel like I was making some sort of difference in someone's world.

It was Ele's Place. It was a place where kids who were grieving the death of someone significant in their lives could gather to be human again. It was a place for them, and it was a place for me. I volunteered there one night each week for a bit better than one year. And then I got pregnant with my oldest daughter, and it no longer made sense for me to make the drive. I cried when I left.

Yesterday, my sister asked me how things were going for me right now. First she asked in code, and then she spelled it out: Have you been feeling depressed again? She said, "Because you seem more chipper."

Having recently written about it, I had a quick and easy answer for her. Fish oil pills.

Then I had a longer answer for her, one that took us most of the way from Grand Rapids to Muskegon. I explained the Omega 3s, which I really do believe are making a difference. I also explained this blog and my 20 November posts. I told her that I believe that the time I have taken each day to type out some thoughts--no matter how random or how low the quality--has made a huge impact on my life. Dear Writer Friend said that it is quantity not quality, but I have to say that this quantity leads to a completely different kind of quality--quality of life.

As I was thinking about writing today, I thought about my mindset when I started this whole November thing. I knew that there were people who regularly check my blog to see the ramblings of a self-proclaimed FunnyWriterMommy, and they often teased me for not writing more. (Maybe I should start a new blog: FunnyNONWriterCauseI'mAMommy!) So then I made this commitment to write every day of the month, and I wondered how the followers would grow and how many comments I would get. When I would log back on and see that I had none, I would feel a twinge of "Is it worth it?!"

I didn't volunteer at Ele's Place because I thought that any of those beautiful middle school students grieving the death of fathers, brothers, and grandfathers needed me for even one second. I volunteered there because I needed something for me. Some little corner of the world set aside for me. It was selfish, but I loved every minute of it. That's why I cried when it was gone.

So here I am. In the middle of a new corner of the world that was sitting here waiting for me--almost as soon as Ele's Place left and Ellie Grace arrived. I have gotten more followers, and I have gotten a number of comments. The comments encourage me, and I feel honored that people take the time to read what I think is important enough to get down on "paper."

But that's not what it's about anymore. This is about me. This is something for me. And the 20 minutes I get for this each day is making me sane for the 22 hours I give each day to everyone else. So comment if you want. I'm not writing for you. I'm writing for me, because it gets hard to hold on without this bit for me. But I'm happy to let you eavesdrop.

+1

Today marks the day when the number of my November posts has officially surpassed the largest annual total of my blogs. I'm not certain if I deserve a pat on the back or gasps of horror. Clearly I've been slacking up to now. Still, I must say I'm pretty proud of myself.

{I would like to accept this pat on behalf of all of FWM's faithful readers. And I need to thank Dear Writer Friend and NaBloPoMo. Without them, I would have posted about six times in 2009.}

This +1 Day begs the question: what will happen when November ends? One thing is certain, I won't feel pressure to write. Another thing feels almost certain, I won't write as much. But will I write? My track record suggests that it will be January or February before I post again. I don't want that, but that has too often been my reality. So how to change? How to become who I am?

I've been wondering this for years, since Dear Writer Friend and I first started meeting to discuss who we are and how to become that person. I came across a tiny card recently; it was sent to me by DWF, and it reminded me that greatest intentions mean nothing. It's not merely pursuing a dream or intending to dare. It's facing reality and becoming who I am. Who I was made to be.

So, Dear and Faithful Readers. I am a lover of words. I am a writer. +1 is only the beginning.

A Writer's Muse

"I have never believed that everything happens for a reason. But I do feel very strongly that everything happens so that it can be turned into a column." -Gail Collins, The New York Times

My cousin posted this as his Facebook status today. He is one of my favorite cousins, and while I don't always agree with his ideas (though I do more than some would believe!), I do have the utmost respect for him. He's the "cool" cousin, and we all hope a bit of his "coolness" could rub off on us. I'm excited to be his friend on Facebook, because I appreciate catching the glimpse into his mind that his new iPhone offers through his more regular Facebook updates (and because I think he's cool and I enjoy "cooler by association").

So I noticed this quote when he shared it. And, because of Writer Mama and my assigned exercises, I'm starting to notice things more. I've always had opinions, but I haven't always shared them through words on a page (just words screamed from my mouth!). Somehow I think they'd be better received on a page. Reading the Gail Collins quote posted by my cousin Michael made me think about how much the Writer Mama should like the quote.

While I DO believe that everything happens for a reason, I also think that, in the writer's mind, everything also happens to be made into a column. Or a blog post. Or a journal entry. That's what Task One was really all about: seeing the muse in the every day and every thing. Whether it is what my girls say or how I lost my temper today or how many times I had to clean the floor or how amazed I am at the lines at Barnes & Noble last night or how alarmed I am that people would rather the USPS continue to lose billions of dollars than not bring me junk mail on a Saturday . . . whatever it is, it's my muse. It has to be if I want to embrace this writer's life.

So, while it can be said that not everything that happens to ME is interesting, somewhere something interesting IS happening, and it's either my job to find it or to make something dull interesting. Either way, I have to do it, because for me writing is like breathing. It's natural and it's necessary.

Surreal Wednesday

ESPN Radio's Mike & Mike in the Morning (Mike Golic and Mike Greenburg) don't have the Detroit Lions on their "4 Totally Hopeless Teams in the NFL" list. Why?

Because they see a glimmer of hope.

Task One = Disappointing Revelations

Task one: Search magazine shelves to gauge "current events." Use them to inspire your written words.

Last night (largely because of the deep breathing yesterday required), I got a "Free Mommy" pass to get out of the house for a couple of hours. Since I wasn't interested in meeting up with the Rogue fanatics at what Beau believed was the Monday-night Palin book signing at Barnes & Noble, I went to Schuler's. In addition to checking out all of the little gifty things (can't resist them!), I stopped by the magazine racks to knock Writer Mama's first task off my list.

Observations:
* There are likely more magazines published each month than literate human beings to read them.
* Literacy is likely not required to enjoy all of the publications. Intelligence is certainly not required.

* Clothing for cover models is obviously not required.

* The line between what consumers actually want and what the media forces down our throats is blurry. All too blurry.

Now, don't get me wrong. I'm as superficial as the next girl. I also enjoyed reading the Twilight series. It was a great story--a fun romance for a girl who doesn't much like romances. But there are a few things worth noting, Dear Media:
1) Stephenie Meyer is not an outstanding writer. She spun a great yarn--much like Stephen King does--but her writing isn't gripping, her dialogue is lacking, and her characters lack depth.
2) Kristen Stewart and Rob Pattinson are not my Bella and Edward. Sure, Pattinson is fine to look at, but did his acting need to be stonier than his vampire flesh? And don't even get me started on Stewart! I hoped it was just for the film--just because Bella is supposed to be a bit awkward and shocked by the small-town obsession with her--but I've seen her in other things. She. Can't. Act. Period. If I am forced to swallow one more quote about her being one of the finest actresses of this generation, I'm going to scream. And I'm going to quit going to the movies. Or at least even believing I might enjoy them. Her being one of the finest actresses of this generation says bad things about this generation.
3) While the films and the novels might "define this generation," they won't stand the test of time. My children won't be studying them in their literature classes, and my grandchildren will find them on my bookshelf and likely pass right by them. They surely won't watch the films (except with the same amusement that we offer the acting in [all of] the Star Wars films).

Perhaps my thoughts above are indicative of many of the challenges facing this generation and its definition of art, reality, and talent. When "reality" TV encourages parents to use their children as pawns to hijack the media and already-budget-tapped law enforcement agencies or as ATMs to fund their jetset lifestyles and tummy tucks, a generation just might be lost. When "talent" is limited to celebrities who are famous for doing absolutely nothing other than spending money and sleeping around and partying their youth away, a generation just might be confused. When "art" is defined by subpar literature that carries a decent plot and acting that would bore even vampires to death, a generation just might be bought. And sold.

It all makes me concerned for my children. What will they watch, read, enjoy? It also makes me concerned for my own entertainment. Smart television is pulled from the screen for sex and crude comedies. The best movies of the year tend to be animated or rehashed from what we watched when I was a kid. Books are republished as soon as the movie version is released, and the actually artful cover art is replaced with the faces of the actors and actresses that destroyed the characters' limited credibility and deviated so far from the original plot that it is barely recognizable.

I may actually have to start using my brain here to come up with my own entertainment. That is, if I can find it under the mountains of trees wasted to print whatever I'm being sold this week.

As I'm looking for it, perhaps you could answer a question for me, Dear Media. Which came first: my desire for more on Jon & Kate, New Moon, Carrie Prejean, Sarah Palin, and the Balloon Boy or you burying everything that would be more worth my time so all I can see is this? And where can I opt out of what you're selling?

Task one: I suppose disgust can be as great a muse as intrigue.

{Deep breath.}

Today was a slow down and breathe deeply sort of day in the world of parenting. Little One was up from 2:30-5:00. In the morning. Middle and Oldest were up by a bit after 6:00. Then, at 6:45, Little was up again. I know, because Middle shouted from her crib, "Mama! Addishun. Cah-ing."

So begins the day.

It didn't get too much better.

Days like this are very hard for me. They are also scary. I want so desperately to get through this without sinking into postpartum depression again.

The screener at the hospital met with me before I was discharged, because I am so high risk. I'm high risk for a number of reasons, but the two greatest are that I am a past sufferer and that I had an emotional pregnancy. To say the least. But I don't want to take meds again, and I don't want to sink deep again. I just don't. The screener recommended taking an Omega-3 supplement. Apparently there are links to Omega-3 and postpartum depression. Hey, I'll do whatever it takes. So I'm taking it. 2,000 mg a day. So far, so good.

But days like today set me back. They freak me out. They make me wonder if I'm sinking or if I'm drowning or if I'm just a little bit crazy.

I need to remember that three kids is a lot. Especially when one of them is only 3 1/2 weeks old. And the next one is nearly in her terrible 2s. And the oldest is only 4. Three kids--three girls--under 5 is quite a handful. Especially when one of them is up for 2 1/2 hours during the night, and the others wake up only 1 hour after I finally fall asleep.

It's a lot. For anyone. So I just keep taking my Fish Oil pills and my deep breaths. But it still freaks me out a bit.

Altering Reality

Sunday is football day at the FunnyWriterMommy house. Why, it's almost a sacred day, and when it isn't football season, we're all just a bit lost.

At the FWM house, Football Day often equals "Altering Reality." Inevitably someone is miserable as a result of Football Day, so we work hard to change the rules--real or Fantasy--in order to alter our reality to something a bit happier.

For example, in my altered reality, our Fantasy Football league takes total points into account instead of win-loss record. Look at me in fourth place!

It didn't work for BeauDon today. His new altered reality rule is that only the first quarter of the Lions games counts. That made the Lions nearly undefeated this season. At the very least, they are playoff eligible. Today he added an extra quarter for good measure. Still didn't work. Sorry, BD. It's just another sad Football Day.

Today

Today is day one of truly investing 86,400, and I did it! I lived each moment. Some I didn't want to live (scrubbing behind the toilet and discovering the kitchen sink backing up and leaking into the cupboard), and others I would live again and again (snuggling a freshly-bathed Meggie).

Today I relished the weather by ditching my sweater and driving with the windows open.

Today I decorated my front porch for Christmas.

Today I located my Writer Mama book from Dear Writer Friend, and I pledged to start reading it tonight. I also located a lovely and quite empty journal to fill with the exercises.

Today I washed one load of laundry, scrubbed behind the toilet, put away laundry, organized my wrapping paper closet, and set my cool red phone up in my "library."

Today I christened my landing as my library.

Today I snuggled in bed with my husband and our two oldest daughters.

Today I made eggs and bacon for my family.

Today I heard Steven Curtis Chapman's new song about heaven, which he wrote after his daughter died. As he sang that heaven is a sweet, maple-syrup kiss, I thought about Baby Zion and all that we will miss. Then, when he sang that heaven is where his daughter will take his hand and lead him to God and they will run together into his arms, I wept. Right there, at the red light. And I dreamed about the moment when my little one will lead me into the arms of the Father who has known us since the beginning of time . . .

Today I met my oldest girl's new fish: Argy and Cargy (the two Mickey Mouse goldfish--with Mickey's head on their tails) and Fibonacci and Fibonacci (the two fantails).

Today I tucked my middle girl in her bed with her two "pashas" (pacifiers) and her four blankets, all of which she tucks underneath herself like a little nest she lies in to dream.

Today I lived.

How Alive Am I Willing to Be?

I've been thinking a lot lately about making my life count. Leaving a mark on history--on my children, surely, and those we meet--but even more than that making each day count for me. I want to live each moment, because I'm not so good at that. I want to live in my passions, in my weaknesses, in my strong moments, in my joys, in my sorrows . . . I want to soak it all in and really live it.

It gets so easy to live for what will happen next (see yesterday's post!) or think that life/happiness/fill in the blank will begin after the kids are gone/I'm done with school/we're out of debt. Realistically that is all so many years away for me, and I already thought surely I'd be pursuing all of my dreams when Beau graduated from college. Alas. I may never start if I always put a starting point on it.

So . . . let the living begin! Let the dreams come. Let the goals be achieved. Let my writer's heart break through. Let me love words and fall and laughing and sweet music and amazing literature and oranges and a good cry and facing fears and even failing from time to time.

Now . . . how exactly does one begin?

Simple Pleasures

So the biggest event of 2009 is now complete for me, but that doesn't mean there is nothing left for me to anticipate. It's interesting, because I love anticipation. For me, the planning and dreaming about and waiting for is almost as good (often better!) as the actual event I've been longing for. Having a baby is never like that. I know that heaven will also be better than any of the dreams I have for it. But most other things . . . movies, vacations, meals . . . they all go so fast and often fail to live up to what I've anticipated.

Even so, here are a few of the favorite things I have left to dream about this year:

* Jumbo navel oranges
* Family pictures
* Going back to church
* Opening Wii EA Active on Christmas Day
* Being done nursing
* Sleeping through the night (closely related to the one above)
* Reading a book for pleasure
* Dinner at Mangiamo! and Green Well (thank you, Kampers!)
* New Moon
* Getting my hair cut
* Ending November with 29 blog entries (some even worth reading!)
* Making hair things with Julie, Abbie, and Ellie
* Designing Addie's birth announcements
* Eating prime rib at Logan's
* Writing the 2009 Christmas Letter
* Getting rid of all my maternity clothes (okay, this may spill into 2010, but it will happen)

And there is so much more that I hope for 2010. They're simple pleasures, but they're mine. And I love to dream about them.

Surreal Wednesday

"C'mon. Give me some sugar."
Linny's grandma reaching for a hug from Tuck and Ming Ming on The Wonder Pets

Yesterday

I missed blogging yesterday, so today I will attempt two. Either way, I still thought about what I would write, and I was aware of my surroundings. Both of these things are what I love most about writing.

Last night a man was killed. He was found guilty in a court of law and was sentenced to death for his actions. I suppose that if anyone deserves to die for the crimes they have committed, then he did. Killing people at random . . . targeting them like a sniper . . . wow. I can't imagine the fear that instills.

But . . . does anyone deserve to die for their crimes? Is the payment for a life taken ever another life? Is anything ever solved by that? Does it change anything?

"No, I don't feel any closure. I mean it's . . . it . . . nothing changes." This was spoken by a man whose sister was killed by Muhammad. And, at the end of the day, that's the truth. Nothing changes. The victims aren't magically brought back to life, the pain for those grieving doesn't end, and life doesn't go back to normal. Nothing changes.

So . . . was it worth it?

"Deserves it! I daresay he does. Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgment. For even the very wise cannot see all ends." Gandalf, in The Fellowship of the Ring, J.R.R. Tolkien

Twenty Short Years

I'm waking up at the start of the end of the world,
But it's feeling just like every other morning before,
Now i wonder what my life is going to mean if it's gone,
The cars are moving like a half a mile an hour if that
And I started staring at the passengers who're waving goodbye
Can you tell me what was ever really special about me all this time?

But I believe the world is burning to the ground
Oh well I guess we're gonna find out
Let's see how far we've come
Let's see how far we've come
Well I, believe, it all, is coming to an end
Oh well, i guess, we're gonna pretend,
Let's see how far we've come
Let's see how far we've come
("Let's See How Far We've Come"-Matchbox Twenty)

Twenty years ago today was a big day in history. I vividly remember watching the footage of the Berlin wall falling, and while I can't imagine Germany as East and West, I can picture the easterners flooding through. I can see the young men standing on the top of the wall or along its sides, striking the wall with pick axes and hammers, trying to knock down what never should have stood. I didn't understand what it meant for communism and the Cold War and the Soviet Union, but I knew it meant that school would be disrupted that day. I remember sitting in my 7th-grade homeroom and talking about what we had seen on our televisions that day.

Twenty years ago? Really? Because I don't remember it being that long ago. It must have been, because so much has transpired since then--in the world and in my life. So many more walls have been torn down and nearly as many have been erected.

Twenty years ago my family had just moved to Grand Rapids from our lovely home in the prairie. I was now a big city girl living across the street from a fire station and within spitting distance of my neighbors. Gone were the bull across the road, the cows that came into our yard, and the acres and acres of yard and farmland surrounding our house.

Twenty years ago I started 7th grade at my first Christian school. My mantra was "If God is For Us, Who Can Be Against Us" (yay DeGarmo & Key!), and I was scared to death.

Twenty years ago I didn't know a thing about who I was or what I believed beyond what my parents lived out in their every day. I didn't have anyone but my mom, my dad, and my sister. And God. And a library card to get me through the summer. God, my family, and the library are my only constants. And somehow they're enough.

Today I have a faith that carries me through valleys and over mountains. I have a husband who is my best friend. I have three beautiful daughters who make each day worth getting out of bed. I have a job that challenges me, whether or not I love it and working. I have a house in the city within spitting distance of wonderful neighbors. I have a great church with people who challenge me to learn and grow and love.

I believe that while today is the start of the end of the world and it truly does feel like every morning before, my life will mean something when it's gone. In fact, it will mean much, much more than it does today. Because when you worry, when you feel like the world is caving in, He is stronger than our weakness, faithful to the end. And like the master taught us, there is life beyond the cross. Even though we're weary, the battle won't be lost. After all, if God is for us, who can be against us? No power on earth can take His love away. If God is for us, who can be against us? We can live in victory today.

A Song for Addie and Zion

Weak and wounded sinner
Lost and left to die
O, raise your head, for love is passing by
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus
Come to Jesus and live!

Now your burden's lifted
And carried far away
And precious blood has washed away the stain, so
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus
Sing to Jesus and live!

And like a newborn baby
Don't be afraid to crawl
And remember when you walk
Sometimes we fall...so
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus
Fall on Jesus and live!

Sometimes the way is lonely
And steep and filled with pain
So if your sky is dark and pours the rain, then
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus
Cry to Jesus and live!

O, and when the love spills over
And music fills the night
And when you can't contain your joy inside, then
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus
Dance for Jesus and live!

And with your final heartbeat
Kiss the world goodbye
Then go in peace, and laugh on Glory's side, and
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus
Fly to Jesus and live!

"Untitled Hymn (Come to Jesus)," Chris Rice

Providence and the Lovely Day

What a beautiful day we enjoyed today!

It all began with Addison waking for the first time at 4:00 a.m. (which Beau paid for as she didn't actually go to sleep until 2:30 a.m.!). Next, the other girls didn't wake up until a bit after 7:00, and we had family snuggle time in our bed. Then on to breakfast and a visit from good friends. I brought the girls to meet my mom for overnight at "Gamma & Gampa's" and headed to the grocery store with Addie.

Then the real fun began.

Addie and I went to USA Baby where they had great sales, and I had a coupon for 20% off the sale price. Yay for the new "youth chair" that will save me about three years before I need to buy another dining room chair. Does it get any better?! Oh, yes. It does.

On to Barnes & Noble--the new two-story mecca at Woodland Mall--with a generous gift card burning a hole in my pocket. Alas, it was for spending on the girls and not on me, but still! The girls now each own (well, after I write in them and make the presentation) their own copy of Little Women, for Christmas they will own There is a Monster at the End of This Book, and Addie is the happy recipient of To Kill a Mockingbird. Oh, yes. She is happy about it.

And STILL, can it get better? YES!

Target = gift card. Woo-hoo! (We should have had babies long ago!!) The gift card wasn't enough to buy the baby gate we need/want, so I got to spend it on other things. Addie has a little chime thingy (in a nonoffensive volume and tone) for her carseat, we have cupboard locks for the "Meggie cup/Addie bottle" cupboard that Meggie LOVES to rearrange--all over the kitchen floor!, and the tub toys are about to meet their organizational match.

Even better, I happened to be in the onesie aisle at the same time as a lovely couple was approaching the aisle in the midst of their discussion about not being able to find a maternity winter coat. I have one. I don't need it. I want to sell it. Give me your email, dear soon-to-be Mommy.

Photos and description sent. Hopefully money and goods will be exchanged next week. Ah, what a lovely day of Providence, coupons, and gift cards. Oh, and sunshine and breeze and relaxing. So far I love November.

Success Equals Five

Today, November 6, marks the day of success. I have now "blogged" every day (except the first) of November. In addition, I have now "blogged" more in the month of November than I did in the entire first ten months of the year. Nice.

I've come to realize that my problem is prioritizing. I can't blame it all on my work-from-home job, though I'm sure that is part of it. At the end of the day, though, there are more than enough hours to raise my girls, do my job, clean my house, and fulfill my drive to create. There have to be, or I'm not going to make it through the next 18 years until Addie is on her way to the University of Notre Dame (or Cornell).

Oh, to master prioritizing.

Oh, to master getting out of bed at 5:45 a.m. to take my shower, get in some devos (at DeVos or in my big, comfy chair), blog a bit, and then make breakfast for the girls. That, of course, means prioritizing the end of my day--vegging in front of the TV, watching the news for the 10th time that day, or climbing into bed? It all depends on what my priorities are . . . vegging or becoming who I'm supposed to be.

I used to meet my Dear Writer Friend at DeVos for devos once a month. It wasn't really devos as much as outlining our goals--physical, spiritual, financial, emotional, creative, and professional. I found my notes the other day from our last meeting before DWF moved to the sunset. That was years ago. She's back now, and I'm no further on crossing those things off my list. Well, except for write a letter to/call Grandma once each week. She's in heaven now, so I'm exempt from that one.

So . . .
Physical. I need abs. And I have dozens and dozens of pounds to lose to be healthy. I want to be a runner some day.
Spiritual. I need to pray. More. Some. At all.
Financial. Thanks to Dave Ramsey, we have had some success here. There is still a long way to go, though. Gotta snowball.
Emotional. I need some space. Some time. Something for me. Tomorrow I should have time away. But I need to create that time with my friends, too. And some accountability to get it all in.
Creative. Blogging daily is a good start. How about that journal which shall be burned upon my death? (Really. I think I mastered that spell from reading through the Harry Potter series three times.) I have a lot of books on my shelf that need to be read, too. They're crying out for it, and so is my brain.
Professional. I need to develop a work schedule for each week and stick to it. There is much for me to learn to do my job well, so I should learn it. I also need to chat with Mom about the blogging (there it is again!) and other social networking she needs me to take on for her. Creativity in exchange for free child care? Works for me! And DWF just might get me on Twitter after all, though it my be as my mom.

So maybe success actually equals six, but five is a better start than I've made in a long, long time.

Happy Unbirthday, Baby!

Today is the day we originally assigned as the birthday of our youngest children. When your labors are as predictable (short and late) as mine, you get to do just that: assign a birthday. Seems like this entire pregnancy had ideas other than predictable, though.

As we approached our due date--and assigned induction day--I had severe moments of anxiety, wondering what the initial unpredictability would bring. What would it be like to deliver twins, knowing that only one of them would leave the hospital with us? How would the birth certificate for the live child look? How would we explain it all to Ellie, to Meggie, to Addie? So many questions, all saved for the 5th of November.

The unpredictability deepened when my doctor said he would like to induce at 39 weeks instead of just after 40. That bumped the assigned birthday to October 27 and took 10 days from my predetermined timeline. I came to terms with that and busied myself with the laundry, nursery set up, and other little projects around the house.

Then, as unpredictability would have it, my water broke at midnight on October 21. As we rushed to the hospital (after about ten minutes of disbelief and confusion about the next step), we forgot so many things. The camera, last kisses for the girls, my pillow, pens for the scrapbook, anxiety about delivery . . . so much was brushed aside by the confusion of not knowing what was going on. As the night would dawn into morning and realization that the moment was here and Addie would pick their birthday after all, all that we had forgotten made itself known.

I wish I could put words to the matter-of-fact feelings mixed with deep sadness as I delivered Addison's placenta and Baby Zion all at once, with no effort and almost no awareness. Then to hear that Baby Zion's body had been absorbed and to watch them seal my beloved child--Addie's twin--into a plastic container to be sent in for testing . . . but there are no words. Just feelings as mixed as they were the day we learned that there had been two.

Today there were three beautiful girls in the van on the way to Addie's two-week checkup. There were three loud girls in the waiting room and three crying girls during the shot-giving portion of the checkup (H1N1 vaccines for the older two and Mommy). Addie slept through our shots, and the tears were mine at both Ellie's reaction and the awareness that though there were three, there should have been four. Forever there should have been four where there are three. This is our life. And it is a blessed life even when it doesn't make sense.

Today my third of four children is finally "full term." She is 7 lbs. 13 oz. and 20 inches long. She is healthy and growing and beautiful. And her life is richer for the time she spent with Baby Zion.

Surreal Wednesday

Two Wednesdays ago was one of the most surreal days of my life. I was due yesterday. I should have had a one day old today, but instead I have a two week old. Despite all my thoughts and plans, my water broke on Wednesday, October 21, at midnight. I spent that night in a delivery room receiving penicillin through an IV and delivered a healthy baby girl around 10:40 a.m. Then I spent the next week trying to comprehend that I was holding the baby in my arms instead of my womb.

In honor of that surreal day in late October, we will begin celebrating Surreal Wednesdays. Today's surreal moment:

Meggie meets Starbucks.

You buy the kid one apple juice in a red holiday cup and suddenly she's too grown up to even come in the house when she's told.

Baby, don't ever let anyone cheapen you.

Let's get something out in the open right away: having a baby is never cheap.

There is research that puts the cost of raising a child near $200,000, not including college. It really is worth every penny, but that doesn't mean it isn't shocking. I'm due today, but our beautiful daughter decided to take it upon herself (or my Alaskan Seattle friend paid her off!) to arrive two weeks early. That means that yesterday, the eve of her "birth," we received our first of at least three bills related to her.

$1,729.70.

In August, just 11 short weeks before our expected arrival, BeauDon took a new job, which meant new insurance. Through the grace of God the former insurance carried us through the dreaded COBRA period and right up until the new insurance took effect on October 1. That saved us nearly $1,200 in out-of-pocket (and nonreimbursable) expenses. Whew. Dodged that bullet.

That said, the new insurance just isn't as good as the old. Say what you want about Former Job, but the coverage was decent. I do have to say that Current Job coverage is better than nothing (WAY better), but we do now have a $2,500 deductible. Then we have to pay 20% of our bills, up to another $2,500. Nobody wants to anticipate delivery of a newborn knowing it is likely they will be billed $5,000. Thank goodness for HSA accounts and Current Job's generous seed money in said account! Now that we have (at minimum) reached our deductible, everyone in the family is invited to get sick and/or need some sort of medical care. Commence all elective surgeries and medical treatment (ahem and sorry, BeauDon).

$1,729.70. Yeah. Even with the HSA, we're going to need a while to pay that off. (Baby girl, does anyone else think it's excessive to charge us $1,390.00 for the nursery you were in for less than two hours?)

This is only bill number one, you say? Of three, you say? And the next one will be more? That would be the true reason I don't get an epidural. I'm too Dutch to pay for it.

Ah, well. When we're all cold again next winter because our tax return had to pay you off instead of buy new windows, we'll just snuggle you extra tight, young one.

The silver lining:
Today's call to billing services revealed that our account has not yet been adjusted to reflect the discounted rate we're eligible for through our insurance company.

So, darling Addie Maye . . . never let anyone cheapen you. Except maybe the insurance company.

For Wendy, who always seems to somehow know what is best for me

It's the dreaded guilt-inducing month yet again (already?!), and I failed miserably at it last year. One might wonder why I would ever give it a go again this year when my win-loss record rivals that of the Detroit Lions, but like the Lions I can be assured that I have faithful (to the point of eligibility for sainthood) fans in my corner. So, in honor of WMW, my committed inch-by-inch writer friend; our better-than-average elder and his beautiful wife; our lovely neighbor who is moving too soon; my favorite worship leader who always believes the Lions will play football that first Sunday in February; my hubby's former WW coworker who thinks I really am funny--or at least worth laughing at--and any cyber stalkers I don't know about, I give you my best efforts at posting every day this month except for the first.

(NOTE: Full disclosure statement--last year I blamed my lack of posting on my nearly full-time work schedule and my toddler and preschooler. While this year I have (naively) added a newborn into the mix, I also happen to have the entire month of November off. Thus, I lost the major part of my excuse and have added 2:00 a.m. feedings in as the perfect time to doze off or dream up witty blog entries. Or explore excuses for my failure at NaBloPoMo.)

As a tribute to last year's failure, I have decided to dedicate today's post to all the times (since November began) that I have meant well and, well, fell short in the final minutes of the game:

* My Fantasy Football team, Sassy Frass, had far too many Packers on it this week . . . normally that works for me, but this year my defense is no match for the grand ol' #4.

* It is day two of odd-even parking in this fair city--and my ninth annual effort at it--and I still can't remember which side I should use on which day.

* The "over easy" egg I made for my preschooler ended up closer to over hard than raw. She cried.

* I took aforementioned preschooler's "Yes, I want toast, Mom," to mean she actually wanted it toasted. She didn't. She cried.

* I left the newborn on the chair for a bit too long while trying to make said egg and toast. She cried. Then she stopped. I came out to find aforementioned preschooler holding her and rocking. Without supporting the baby's head. She meant well. I almost cried.

* Prior to newborn's most-recent feeding (about 1 hour late, according to the shrillness of her cry), I neglected to secure a cup for toddler to fill with her healthy ten-minutes-before-lunch snack of Cheese-its. She found a shoe.

Here's hoping that none of this rubs off on the baby wrap auction ending tomorrow morning. So far that thing is mine, but the hours to go make me fear my chances. Stupid eBay and getting all my hopes up only to steal the dream from me at the last second.

I'm sure there's more, but it's all slipped my mind for now. And the kids are a 1/2-hour late for their naps, which means there is apple pie calling my name. Ooh, and Halloween candy. One day down. How many more to go?

A Mother's Intuition and a Father's Preparation

I got pregnant in February. It has never been hard for us to conceive--we've been blessed to get pregnant in the month that we have started trying for all three of my pregnancies. It's a blessing that not many woman get to enjoy.

So, knowing that we wanted our last two children close together, shortly after our youngest daughter's first birthday we conceived our "number last" child. During the early stages of pregnancy I struggle with nausea, tiredness, soreness, and many other ailments common to those early days. I also struggle with anxiety, wondering if the baby will be okay, if it will live, who it will look like, how it will fit in our family, what gender it will be . . . again, common to any newly-pregnant woman.

This time was a bit different. This time my cravings were different and some of my normal symptoms weren't there. This time my anxiety led me to check with friends and call the doctor's office. This time I just knew there was something wrong.

I explained those feelings away by referring to the postpartum depression I struggled with after the birth of our second daughter. I explained them away by chuckling at my belief that God could never give us only good, being afraid of what blessings He had for us, and knowing that the shoe would have to fall eventually. But they persisted. Even through the two checkups where we heard the heartbeat and I measured the right size, they persisted. Something was wrong and soon we would learn what--I just knew it.

Our one and only ultra sound was scheduled for June 16 at 2:45 p.m. As I tried to sleep on Monday night, I was plagued by dreams and anxiety that I haven't known for years. I woke early on Tuesday morning and laid in bed wishing, willing, praying, breathing away my anxiety. Nothing worked. I spent the day being quite productive in the office--it helped to keep my mind off the knots in my stomach--and left for my appointment at 2:30 p.m. Walking out of the office, I had the overwhelming sense that I would not return the same. I knew that our appointment that afternoon would change everything about our lives.

"Don't WE have a flair for the dramatic," I thought. Then I whispered a prayer that God would prepare us for whatever we would learn that afternoon.

Leaving the parking garage AFTER the appointment, I admitted to God that it would have been hard to be prepared for what we learned. But I thanked Him for doing it anyway.

We got called early for our ultra sound, and I settled in to the bed and the goop and prepared to see our baby for the first time. As the tech zoomed around, we caught a glimpse of Baby. She kept moving, and we saw Baby again. She said, "Is this your first ultra sound?" We said yes. Then she focused on Baby again, but I couldn't see its heart beating. Momentary panic. As focus became more clear, however, we saw a little heart beating away. 146 beats per minute. Strong, solid, consistent. Beautiful.

Then in a quiet voice, the tech said, "I see something else that I have to tell you. There's something here." I cannot express the terror that sets in at words like that. Then rationality: a hole in the heart, a problem with the brain, a missing limb . . . we can deal with these things.

I held my breath, and I'm sure Beau did, too, as we heard her say, "There is a twin, but it's heart isn't beating. It's much smaller, and it stopped growing. I'm sorry."

I'm sorry?!
We're having twins?
Our baby died?
How? Why?
Does this dead baby stay in me until I deliver?
I have to deliver it?!
Will the other baby be okay?
What would we have done with two?
Can I please go home now?

So many questions, and almost no answers. Even worse, so many conflicting feelings flooding my mind. Grief over the baby we lost. Joy over the baby that is there. Relief that we never knew there were twins and didn't have the chance to wrap our hearts around two babies. Pain. Fear. Regret.

Peace.

We were prepared, if you can be. I had known that something was wrong, so I was ready for it, even though I couldn't have dreamed up this reality. We had no reason to suspect twins, and the doctor had nothing but apologies to offer us. But we had more than that. We had peace. We had the knowledge that our beautiful baby--whose gender we may never know--is now Baby Zion, celebrating eternity in heaven with a Father who has always known its identity, its heart, its beauty.

The rest of the ultra sound was thankfully much less eventful. Except for gender, we got every glimpse, picture, and reassurance that we needed from Twin A. And every time the tech typed "Twin," my heart lurched. The true pain came when she needed to record the heart beat, or lack thereof, of Twin B. To watch her push record on a flat line and see our baby on the screen with its still heart . . . I have never known that pain. The true joy came after I got to go to the bathroom (a small joy in itself!), and she resumed the ultra sound on the healthy baby. Up until that point, the position had been wrong to get a picture of its heart. I laid back down, accepted the goop again, and settled in . . . she put the paddle on my stomach, and we were immediately rewarded with a beautiful four-chambered heart. I have never known that relief.

So here we sit. There is one healthy baby in my stomach, and it is kicking me regularly. That, in itself is a gift from God, because I normally only feel it every 2 or 3 days. It kicked me to sleep last night and is reminding me again this morning that life goes on. That I am loved and held and have beheld the true beauty of life--and death--in the presence of God. There is also one dead baby in my stomach, and its little body will remain unchanged while we monitor the growth of its twin. In 20 weeks I shall deliver them both. One will be tested, and the other will test us. One will live with God and in our hearts, the other will live with us and in our arms.

Someday what I have written here, and the kind thoughts we have received from our Family, will perhaps help our living twin to understand what it lost and what it gained in its 14 1/2 weeks shared with Baby Zion. It will be an entry to talk about heaven and eternity and how God carries us. Delivery day, baptism day, birthdays, the first day of kindergarten, graduation, wedding day . . . every day will be tempered with what could have been and what is. We will always wonder, yet we will always rejoice that our Zion is in eternity forever without ever having to spend a day living in sin and pain. To slip from its mother's tummy, from the love it was created with and our desire to have it with us, into a world with no more night is a beautiful thing. It's a sad thing, but it is joyous too.

My grandfather died in September of 1998. My grandmother died last October. My sister's father-in-law, who was like a dear uncle or extra grandfather to my own girls, died in January. Countless friends have lost babies they didn't get to hold. All of these people--these people we love and who loved us--were there to greet our Baby Zion on its arrival on a day in mid May. This is the first of his great grandchildren that my grandpa got to meet. There is comfort there. May they know true joy together until the day that we are greeted by them and can celebrate eternity the way we were made.

We are blessed.

A Subtle Reminder.

"People, I love this country. It's the best Babylon on the face of this earth, but it's still Babylon. This is not the kingdom of God, and my ultimate allegiance belongs to Jesus and so does yours."

- Tony Campolo

Keeping Up Appearances

I honestly thought it would be more romantic than this . . . I'm not referring to marriage or motherhood, though in both instances life is a bit more changing diapers and washing dishes than lingering the days away on the beach or exploring foreign countries.

This 109-year-old farmhouse that is now in the city.

I pictured it as cozy and full of history. It is those those things, but it is a bit more dust and falling apart and cupboards smaller and shorter than reality demands.

I spent the better part of the past two days cleaning. The bleach smell on my hands and the cracking skin lead me to believe that it is likely a bad thing that I can literally count the times I've scrubbed those cupboards (six) and the time that I cleaned under the hood of the stove (yesterday) in the 8 years we've called this home. But there is a party at my house today, and in the interest of keeping up appearances, I have scrubbed cupboards and floors, forced my husband to recaulk the tub and the toilet, put away a month's pile of clothes in the girls' rooms, and sucked cobwebs out of windows, blinds, and crevices.

Come on in, company.

As I was scrubbing the kitchen cupboards, my mind was wondering to how silly it is that I clean and clean only when my house will be full of my casual acquaintances. It's nice to have friends that at least my house can be itself with.

But what about me? Don't I do the same for me when I'm about to walk out of my house? The things I say and the things I do are not always an accurate reflection of myself. It's often an act that I adopt in keeping up appearances. And those appearances aren't even for just the casual acquaintances. I told a friend how much I weigh the other day. She is the only one who knows besides my doctor, and he is bound by doctor/patient confidentiality.

I know it isn't just me, and I know it's important to adopt social skills in public even if I don't really have them in real life. The challenge is this: in a lot of ways I'm embarassed about who I really am.

Perhaps my only resolution for 2009 should be to get appearances and real life come more in line. Instead of resolving to lose 10 20 at least 30 pounds this year or clean my house regularly, I should just resolve to be more real. Not that I shouldn't try to fix those things, but I shouldn't try to fix them just in keeping up appearances. If they embarass me so much that I'm frantic that someone might see them, perhaps I should try to fix them permanently. I just might save myself another four months with a counselor.

So, in the interest of not keeping up appearances:
* I hate exercising. I hate it so much that I just don't do it.
* I wasn't joking when I asked for a creative solution to my lack of self-discipline.
* I hate cleaning. Especially the dishes and the bathroom. Yuck.
* I LOVE food. In fact, I hate how much I love it. No. I don't even hate it. I love loving food.
* Candy is my weakness. Followed by peanut butter, ice cream, and mint. Oh, and red meat. And carbs. See what I mean?
* Sometimes I'd rather read "People" or "US Weekly" than some great work by Dostoevsky. And I'd generally rather discuss the latest celebrity gossip than said great work. Unless it's a David McCullough book . . . no, probably even then.
* I find it difficult to not spend money. Even when it's something I don't want.
* Most days I'd like to be a stay-at-home mom without doing the laundry, washing the dishes, cleaning, cooking, putting kids to bed . . . mostly just the stay-at-home part.
* I have to force myself to pray, and I can't remember the last time I did devotions.

{Deep breath.}
Okay. Now it's out there. Embarassing. Seriously.

Even this blog is judging me. I'm going to go call my therapist.

A Year in Random Review

So 2008 is over, and we're three days in to 2009. If this year is anything like the last, then these three days might as well be three hundred for how fast this year will go.

I don't really get the whole "celebrate 'til you puke" at the sunset of a year or the sunrise of another. Even the worst year of my life--2001, which was also oddly the best--didn't provoke that sort of feeling in me, though there was hope that maybe "this year would be better than the last."

All that said, I do have the desire to somehow recap 2008 with a list of my significant discoveries from the year. Some even with links to demonstrate my internet savvy or perhaps just prove that I'm really not making these things up. Many of my discoveries were wonderful, some were a bit disappointing yet significant, others were rediscoveries, a few were discovered on the very last day possible, and most were actually discovered by others but noticed by me. In the end, electricity, Coca Cola Classic, and the internet are much the same (thanks for that last one, Al Gore).

"Forever" by Chris Brown
iPod Touch
Taylor Swift
Guitar Hero
Missing Grandma
The Favre-less Green Bay Packers
Ben Barnes
Harvey Milk
James Franco
Old Friends
New Friends
True Friends
Michael Buble
"Doubt"
". . . faith and desire and the swing of your hips . . ."
"I ache to remember all the violent, sweet, perfect words that you said"
A friend's baby born with spina bifida
John Mayer's cover of "Free Fallin'"
The twisted emotions of having a deployed soldier
Megan Leigh McDowell
Laughter
Amazing harmonies
Fighting children
Prince Caspian
Knock knock jokes from a three year old
Mrs. Astor Regrets, Meryl Gordon
Hope
Using cash
Death by Christmas tree
David Cook
"Jericho"
Facebook
"Fringe"
"Freaks and Geeks"
Seth Rogen
"I tried to be chill, but you're so hot that I melted . . ."
"Thunder" by Boys Like Girls
Post-partum Depression
Down Came the Rain, Brooke Shields
Edward, Bella, and Jasper {*SIGH*}
Beaver Island
Camping in a pop-up
The ER in Ludington
November 4, 2008

And now for a tribute to those whose passing (regardless of the date) left an indelible mark on me in 2008. . .
Tim Russert
Brooke Astor
May Boatwright
Esther VanderMeer
Harvey Milk
Jesus Christ
Julie's cousin Joshua

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.