The Inevitable...

I suppose it was inevitable...
I have a pretty wicked shopping addiction. Fortunately for my husband, it's the worst when I'm at thrift shops, yard sales, or resale shops. I'm also pretty practical about reusing and up-cycling (everything can be reused or sold). I haven't always been this way--okay, I've always had a serious shopping problem; it's just that until the leaner years (thanks, Mr. President), I wasn't as into the thrifts shops. I also put everything on plastic, which I'm in the process of paying off...again...
Anyways, I love to shop, but I love to sell...and I also love to give when I can. With both Hannah and Jericho, I was blessed with a considerable amount of new and used clothing. The clothing I was given has been passed along to several other new mothers, or has been upcycled at a favorite shop of mine, and traded for more secondhand clothes for my son.
Of course, Hannah didn't get to wear much; we had a huge amount of clothing that I had washed and sorted (so it couldn't be returned); I can't begin to remember all of the people we gave it to, but they all knew it was given with love, and with a broken heart. I'm glad that their little girls got to wear the ruffles and bows...and truthfully, I'm glad I never ran into anyone wearing one of Hannah's dresses. I think it would have shattered me.
With Jericho's clothes, it's been delightful to see where they've gone. One friend of mine brought her son home from the hospital in a particularly cute outfit of Jericho's. It was so cute to see our babies in the same monkey-suit! And since her baby was like, twice the size of mine, he looked even funnier in it.
As many things of Hannah's that we could reuse, we did. We had the nursery bedding packed away; she never used it, and it was a gender-neutral jungle design that Jericho loves. There were yellow onesies, white onesies, Blues outfits, some Cardinals gear--we kept what we could, within reason. I didn't get rid of the very last of her clothes until I found out Bug was a boy. We kept books, CDs, certain toys...we had hope that we'd have another baby, and I'm thankful we kept what we did.
So, it was inevitable that one day, I'd run into something of hers that I'd forgotten was hers, and that it would sucker-punch me in the gut.
And it did, 3 days ago.
Books are friends, right? And I firmly believe one should never gift a book without an inscription.
I grabbed a book for Jericho's nightly Bible time and story time, and there it was, from some dear friends and prayer warriors of ours..."For Hannah: Love, The Renauds, 2006"
I stopped breathing for a minute; tears welled up, and I couldn't help but cry...
But there was my boy,
Looking at me...
Big blue/brown eyes staring up at me quizzically...
Tiny hands touched my knees...patted my legs...
He is my now.
Even though I was sitting in what was her room, in the only piece of furniture that we kept--the rocking chair--even though the words on that page had me split-second thinking of what we missed out on---
He is my now.
I looked at him and dried my tears. I kissed his head, and said, "It's all right, Bug. This was your sisters. And now I'm going to read you the stories I didn't get to read her...but it's okay, because she's living them as we speak."
I know he doesn't understand, and I have no idea how David and I are going to approach the subject when he asks (I'm sure he will; her pictures are on the wall, and it's only a matter of time). What I do know, is that all I ever want him to know is how much we loved her, and how much we loved him; how much her tiny life changed ours forever, and how much we learned...and how faithful God is at keeping His promises, and in never wavering in His heart's desires for our lives.
The occasional sucker-punch never hurt anyone, right? Sometimes it's what it takes to remind us how far we've come...and how much the blessing right under our noses really means to us...
I love that boy.

The Garden Alone...

I had these wonderful aspirations of sitting down to write every day, and it just isn't happening. But I think I need to be okay with that--I mean, life is hectic (for me, and for everyone else). The drive to write, for me, is frequently sparked in frustration or in a lack of feeling like I've truly expressed myself (most of the time). I write the most when I'm untangling drama in my head; lately, although there's been no shortage of drama, I truthfully just don't care about it. I have other things to think about.
I keep waiting for the "new mom euphoria" to fade, but it hasn't. :) Don't get me wrong--there are days when I'm home at 6, after being up since 4, and I'm exhausted; dealing with the dishes or the house is NOT on my to-do list; and the Tiny Human is in full Tiny-Tyrant mode. Those aren't smiling-happy-shiny-people moments...but I wouldn't trade them for the world.
In my heart-of-hearts, I am happy.
That being said, I don't have much fuel for angst-ridden writing right now...and that's a good thing. I'm learning to write in all aspects of my life...without deadlines...without unrealistic rules...without comparison.  So, sure, I said I was going to write every day. I've failed at it.
Again.
And I have to tell myself that's okay.
It's officially SPRING, which is my absolute favorite season. When I was in college, Autumn was my favorite. After losing Hannah, Fall has taken on a particular melancholy...although I appreciate it, and it's truly the most beautiful season, it will always be colored by bittersweet memories. My life has changed...Spring has sprung, in so many ways...
Green leaves...sunny skies...gentle rains...Even though here in St. Louis, where we have the most bipolar weather in the world, spring still brings with it the freshest smells, longer days, and the sounds of birds returning from their winter away.  I love it. 
Spring also means it's time for me to start working on my Garden.
I started gardening 3 years ago, per the advice of some close friends. They introduced me to the concept of raised garden beds. I live in an area where our dirt is AWFUL; it's full of rocks, and the chemical makeup makes it unsuitable for growing anything but grass. I don't have a tiller (or the desire to shred my back while using one), and my back yard turns into a mudpit during heavy rains, so raised beds were a genius suggestion. I bought two of them, put them together all by myself, and started my small garden back in 2012. The best thing about it, is the fact that every year I start my seedlings in the windowsill of my office. Even my bosses seem to be impressed at my use of space; my windowsill currently houses 80 seedlings that are growing unbelievably fast. They'll sit there until next month, when my Burpee app tells me it's time to plant...(BTW--if you garden, get that app! It's fantastic!)
When I downloaded my Burpee app, it asked me to name my garden. Hmm--that's an interesting thought.
I got nuthin.'
I actually thought about it for a few minutes: Did I want something Cute ("Cooley's Corner?")? Something Funny ("Gnome Home")? What's in a name?
The words to the old hymn came to mind..."I come to the Garden alone; while the dew is still on the roses. And the voice I hear, falling on my ear, the Son of God discloses...and He walks with me, and He talks with me; and He tells me I am His own (yeah, I know--you can't read that without singing it!)..."
When I began my garden in March of 2012, I had many doubts. After all, I can't grow anything. I've never had the patience...and the more I worked on it, the more I began to see what a metaphor it was for my life. I didn't think it would work--after all, everything I tried to grow, died...even my child...It was a horrible thought to have, and as I started my seeds, I prayed to God the plants didn't die. I couldn't stand the thought of investing so much, and having it flop. Maybe, just maybe, I could start over...I could try again. Maybe my hands could find something to cultivate....maybe I could see something come to fruition.
I was still, even 6 years after Hannah died, deeply hurt by her loss. I hadn't quite gotten to April of 2012, when for some reason, the love of God just clicked in my head. I still felt like God hated me, like He didn't pick me to be a mom. I was still really struggling with disappointment, with feeling like a failure...I started the garden, praying my heart of hearts that I wouldn't fail at this, too...like I'd failed at parenting...
Clarification: I knew that I really didn't fail at parenting. Hannah's death was a disease, and it was something NO ONE could have seen coming. I just couldn't unbury myself from that feeling, though, that I wasn't good enough to raise her, and that I'd failed her, regardless of the sermons, prayers, and lectures that said otherwise. It just hadn't clicked yet.
So, I started the garden. In March, April, and early May, things began to change in our house. Someone preached a sermon where they stated that just because you had prayed for a healing one time, and God didn't allow it to happen, didn't mean that you STOPPED praying for healing. That registered with me...faith began to grow.
I planted seeds...watered them...prayed over them...I knew they weren't a metaphor, but it just felt like it was...
Someone preached a sermon about the love of God. I'm not sure exactly when, but around that time is when I finally told my husband that I didn't think God loved me...I don't remember what he said, but something clicked, and healing started happening...
And the seeds turned into plants...
Spring brought changes in the house; we did a mini-makeover, and I got to redecorate the living room and kitchen.  We freshened up the house, we opened up some windows and added more colors, and the garden continued to grow beyond my expectations...
David isn't too into the garden. Sure, he eats the veggies, and will do some of the grunt-work when I desperately need him (I really struggle with the 50-pound bags. I can lift them, but the consequences are not good); however, it's mine. And the longer I have a garden, the more I appreciate the investment of time.  It's my alone time...
It's me and God...in the garden...alone.
It's where He speaks to me...it's where He breaths life into something that was dead.
I can't go into my garden without thinking of the times that I felt like a desolate wasteland, and  thinking of the time that He spent healing me.
I spent many years as a broken woman; anyone who has buried their child can relate. The process of coming out of that brokenness is long, and cannot be judged by anyone. And as far as I can see, the only way out is through Jesus.
After many years of winter, March and April of 2012 began a season of Spring in my heart. Just as seeds were planted, hope was planted and renewed...by the time flowers began to appear in May of 2012, I began to suspect changes were on the horizon...
Sure enough...in June of 2012 I discovered I was pregnant.
Spring began...and so far, in my heart, it's still going on. 
My seeds have been planted this year, and are already going crazy in my planters on my windowsill at work. I'm not sure how I'm going to manage working in my garden while taking care of my little one...I may have to invest in a little bordered "pen" in my yard, for him to be in while I work, on the days David works late. I'm not sure--but I know that I am excited as I think about all of the beautiful possibilities in The Garden Alone this year.
Time in The Garden Alone...time to teach my son about life...time for God to teach me more lessons about His love...
Time for Him to "tell me I am His own," for one more season...

Gratitude and Cornerstones

Growing up in my tiny little Christian school, there was one family in particular that stood out: The Beumers.

The Grandmother of the family, Mrs. Krauss, was a stout woman of determination. She laughed loud, hugged hard, and saw enough in me to pass me out of her Kindergarten class.

The mother of the family, Mrs. Beumer, taught me to love books, love writing, and appreciate English.

The daughter of the family, Miss Beumer, tutored me through algebra, provided a sympathetic ear to my teenage angst, and taught me to appreciate the God of science.

The Son-in-Law of the family, Mr. Honeycutt, challenged my faith, and educated me in how to respectfully defend it to others.

I can honestly say that this family had the greatest impact of any person, or group of persons, in my life. Even though it’s been years since I’ve seen most of them, I feel like they’re a cornerstone of my heart.  I still hear about them, vicariously, and maybe someday I can tell them what they’ve meant to me …but really, what do you say? What would I say to them, if given the opportunity?

“Uh…thanks!”

And then I’d go run and hide, and ultimately feel like an idiot.

I couldn’t verbalize the gratitude I have…

”Hey, thanks for giving me advice that shapes my marriage to this day…”

“Hey, thanks for putting up with my drama, and for seeing through it enough to know when I was truly troubled.”

“Hey, thanks for teaching me that God shows His love for me through nature. I’m teaching my son about that right now.”

“Hey, thanks for introducing me to music, and books, and history…thanks for showing me the world inside my imagination, and that there’s an escape route when reality is too heavy.”

“Hey, thanks for encouraging my writing. Thanks for teaching me to ‘never fall in love with my first draft,’ and that just because a book is a “classic,” doesn’t mean it’s safe for all ages.

“Thanks for caring more about my heart than my education, and for doing all you could to protect one, while teaching the other.”

“Thank you for showing me there’s more to Christianity than empty words…for showing me that speaking the Word of God in love, rather than shouting it from the rooftops, is far more effective in the long run.”

“Hey, thanks for your long hours; for the car rides down the street; for teaching choir and for colored-pencil diagrams of the human body. Thanks for the handwritten notes on projector screens that lovingly depicted the intricacies of God’s Creation.”

“Hey, thanks for your patience when I wanted to throw my algebra book across the room, along with any chance for the scholarships I would eventually obtain."

I know that’s a lot, but when I look back over my life thus far, this family really, REALLY sticks out…like, their influence is inescapable.

I look back over my life quite a bit; I’m scavenging for tips, for information on how to raise our Tiny Human in the Very Best Way. I don’t know how to raise him; David doesn’t know how to raise him. We’re simply two people who love our baby more than words…two people who come from broken homes and parents who love us, who did the best they could…just like we’re trying to do.  We have hopes and dreams, and no idea how to make them come to pass…Like everyone else, we’re hanging on for dear life, and covering it all in prayer to make up for our mistakes.

The Beumers all come to mind not only for what they did in my school; they also come to mind because of their general family life.  I’m not stupid—perhaps it was all a rouse, and at home, they were just as messed up as the rest of us? I highly doubt it. I don’t think anyone can fake it that well; since they’re still involved in the school I graduated from 19 years ago, I’d say it has to be genuine.

They were the first family I’d ever met that DIDN’T HAVE A TELEVISION.

CRAZY, I know.

I never understood it…and then, magically, just a few weeks ago (during my beloved Olympics), it registered.

I GET IT.

We don’t have “regular” TV or cable; we have Netflix. I hate watching anything on a computer, so it’s not like I check in to watch much online. I check the news headlines, but that’s about it. I’d rather read on the computer/tablet. I’ll watch TV at my parents’ house, when I’m out there, but that’s it.  The only time I really feel it is during things like the Olympics or the Oscars—events that I miss watching as they happen. I’ll read the re-cap the next day, but I love to watch that kind of stuff live.  Otherwise, I’m not missing a TV…and I’m definitely not missing a cable bill.

You know what else I’m not missing?

Commercials.

I blogged a few weeks ago about the rampant materialism that has me wondering if I’m an adequate parent. I can’t afford the fancy tablets or toys that a lot of parents are getting their kids. I have a Nook tablet; I’m not giving that to my 13-month old to play with, regardless of the case that’s on it. I’m not giving him an iPhone to play with. These commercials fill kids with straight-up lust for things they can’t have, shouldn’t have, and in my house, won’t have. Does that make me a bad parent? Or does it make the person who DOES give their 2-year old an iPad to play with, a “bad” parent? Does it mean that one of our children will not have the advantages of the other, in the classroom?

Am I setting my son up for failure in life, because I won’t buy him an expensive educational toy that I saw during “Wheel of Fortune?!?!?!?!?!?!?”

This is the panic that sets in when I watch regular TV.

The Beumers lived what appeared to be a pretty simple life. Teaching at our school, it had to be a simple life; our school was small and broke as a joke. We fundraised the living daylights out of our communities, just to keep the tuition affordable. Very few families were affluent (if any), and there’s no way any of our teachers were making much. Teaching was more of a ministry than a job. I think not having a TV must have made that just a tiny bit easier.

Of course, there’s the usual garbage that comes with any kind of TV (Netflix or otherwise): What are you exposing your family to? How much time is it taking? Is it becoming your babysitter, or is it simply an educational tool? Everyone with a TV deals with these questions. To keep that out of the house, you’d have to get rid of The Box altogether…which may not be a terrible idea.

Not having commercials, to me, is worth the inconvenience of missing the Olympics. Not facing what I can’t provide for my child; not seeing what I can’t buy for myself; and not inflicting a massive case of the “I Wants” on myself at every turn of the channel, is well worth the feeling of being “out-of-the-loop” from missing the Oscars.  I’ll take the trade, for the peace of mind.

Looking back over my life and gleaning tips and tricks for raising a family from those I love, and from those who have shown me love, is a pretty educational experience. I’d like to live in such a way that years down the road, a dramatic, scraggly daydreamer can say she was influenced and encouraged by what I poured into her life.

I’d like to live in such a way that my son, though me may dislike me temporarily for not buying him an iPad or whatever, grows up and thanks me for teaching him simplicity…for teaching him to love the outdoors…for teaching him to pick up an actual pencil and write…for teaching him to open his mind, and make word pictures…for teaching him the importance of “showing your work,” as opposed to pressing a button for a quick answer…I’d like for my son to thank me for spending time with him, instead of entrusting his fragile soul to an electronic device…

Someday, I’ll tell my son about this amazing family, and how they influenced my life…and maybe someday, he will be able to tell them all of the things I could never (awkwardly) say:  “Thank you for loving my mom…for teaching her about Jesus. Because she’s taught me, and now I know Him.”

I really don’t think there’s any greater compliment or reward…in spite of what they tell me on the television.

Other People Stole My Memories...

Disclaimer: I've been sick with the stomach flu, and I just took something for the God-awful body pain that I've been in for 3 days. I should totally be in bed, but something on Facebook just tripped the writer's trigger, so if I don't write, my head will probably explode. I'm okay, just shaken, so don't take this as some kind of off-the-wagon head trip into the padded cell. It's just writing, people, and we're all a work in progress...

Other People Stole My Memories...

I saw your post online...
How your daughter sang your son to sleep...
How you heard her angelic voice over the
Monitor in the nursery...
I saw your hashtag:
#ProudMama
Did you know it would break my heart
Into a million pieces?
Of course not--how could you?
You have so many beautiful
Rights to boast...
So many beautiful children...
Voices ringing down your halls...
Birthdays to celebrate...
Songs to sing...
Ruffles and glitter and
Everything glorious.
You deserve it all.
I'm not jealous...
No...
It's just that sometimes...
Sometimes...
I wonder what your life is like?
Did you know she'd be 8
In October?
You're not the only friend I wonder about...
If we switched lives
For just one moment.
If I could see what you see--
Hear what you hear...
Older singing to younger;
What's it like?
Please don't think I'm not grateful;
Words can't express how much I
Thank God for
What
For
Who
I hold in my arms each night.
He is everything to me,
The small one...
The mighty one...
The one who Survived The Odds...
He is the strong one...
The one who was promised to me
And I have
No
Regrets.
But sometimes...
Sometimes...
I imagine what it would be like
To hear my angel
Singing to her brother
Down the halls...