Taking Risks

When I was 20 weeks pregnant with Jace we found out we were having a boy. We also found out he only had one kidney.

It was a long, crazy journey after that with a roller coaster of worry and wonder, but in the end he was born with one, perfectly healthy kidney--our perfectly healthy baby boy. Since then, we go back for yearly checkups that basically tell us the same thing...to lay low on: animal proteins, high contact sports, and Advil. The info is always a little more in depth with a few doctor opinions sprinkled in here and there about life choices we should be making.

Every time I leave these appointments, I simultaneously want to hug the doctor for the good news that he is healthy and thriving, but I also want to kick her in the shins for setting parameters around my baby.

On the car ride home I always reevaluate our parenting skills. How should we handle this? Do we stay responsible and adhere strictly to the doctor's every suggestion? Do we bubble wrap Jace? Do we throw it all out the window and leave caution in the hands of God and let Jace try any sport he wants  (except football...kidney or no kidney, please no football), and eat as much meat that suits him and pop an Advil or 2 every now and then? Do we allow the things we want to allow but then stay strict on the things we want to be strict about? As the people in charge of steering and raising and bringing up this little man into a big one...WHAT DO WE DO?!?

Our predicament isn't really any different than anyone else's. Risk is a part of everyday life...it's just not as glaring as a missing kidney, so we all participate anyway. Wasn't it a risk the first time we strapped his tiny body in a car seat and drove away from the hospital? Isn't it a risk when we let him ride his tricycle or pig pile on his cousins or play in the water at the beach?

Isn't every second of living life a risk that we are all bravely taking without knowing we're actually being brave? Getting out of bed is a risk! The possibilities are endless once our feet hit the floor. Loving people, doing something you love, accepting that new job, making a new friend, apologizing to an old one, trying a new hobby, sharing our stories, our talents, or our time.

Anything worth anything in life is a gamble because there will forever be something to lose. There is a risk in our yes and a risk in our no. We constantly have to decide what is worth more to us. Sometimes it's moving but sometimes it's not. Both are acceptable answers. Both are risky.

But, these are when the big moments in life happen. After putting something on the line, after being a little vulnerable and a little afraid because on the other side of those hard decisions is where amazing things are born. That's when we glitter and shine and hold up the sky like stars in the night.

To be alive is to be brave. Each moment, each breath, each decision we make has a consequence. We are always putting something on the line--pride, reputation, health and wellness, money, status, friendships, happiness.

But, a huge part of our lives are a sum of the choices we are constantly making. Maybe if we look at people through the filter that we are all in this thing together--making hard choices for ourselves and the people we love--the world might seem a little smaller, judgments might come a little slower, grace might spill a little easier. We are all doing the best we can with the facts in our brains and the beats in our hearts.

So, we'll just do it bravely and boldly and cautiously. We'll listen for the small whispers telling us to stand still and the loud echoes that are shouting at us to move!

And we're gonna trip and we're gonna fall,

but then sometimes,

when we least expect it,

we're gonna fly.

 

All Good Things Must Come to an End

 

As I sit here on the last couple days of my 20s--I feel like I'm drowning in a lake of bittersweet emotions. I've talked to many people about this big, life change and the majority have expressed that I'm sailing onto calmer waves and smoother terrain as I turn my vessel onto the road of the 30s. It's a weird feeling, really.

When I think of the 20 year old version of me, she seems like an old friend I lost touch with and barely remember. I look back at her with fondness and some days an envy--but the better part of me knows that it has been a healthy goodbye-- even if I still love the memories of this past decade. I got to live with my best friends in an apartment in Seattle while going to UW, I became an aunty, I graduated from college, interned in London and travelled Europe with my best friend, did missions trips in Mexico and India, found a job, got engaged, married, bought a house, had a baby, visited family in India with my new family, and had another baby all in a ten year timespan?! I mean the weight of this is just crazy to comprehend.

I started out my 20s as a fairly insecure girl...I mean I was obviously just fresh out of my teens. I often wondered who or if I would ever get married. I survived on little to no sleep as I stayed up way too late with my friends having way too much fun but still managed to study and get good grades in school--time seemed to multiply back then. I did pretty much whatever I wanted whenever I wanted because the only schedule I was on was my own. I struggled with my faith--what I believed in versus what I wanted to believe in. I was skinny on a diet of pizza and Thai food and midnight runs to Jack in the Box. I watched Grey's Anatomy every Thursday night. Wait, why do I still watch Grey's Anatomy every Thursday night? I was challenged by escaping the confines of the 4 walls of the U.S. and rubbed shoulders with the uppity, rich folks at the Cartier Polo Tournament in Windsor, but also rubbed shoulders with the poorest villagers living in the rural mountains of India and Mexico. I saw things that I cannot unseen. Both breathtaking and horrifying. I said goodbye to people I love as they left earth for heaven. I learned a lot and changed a lot as the beginning of my 20s faded into the middle and end.

And this is where I started to figure out a little more of who I wanted to be and what I loved and what I believed. I hitched my heart to the man of my wildest dreams who will forever be the best decision I ever made. I traded in whimsy and spontaneous nights on the town with my girls for 2 am feedings and diapers and the sweetest little boy snuggles. I lost friends along the way but made friends that I know will be forever. I traded going out outfits for mom sweaters and heels for a closet full of boots. I have exchanged the need to protect myself to a need to protect my babies. I have a better idea of who I am and what I want my mark on this world to be.

So, I use the cliché bittersweet because it truly is that--as I leave behind this decade that holds my cousin's last breath and my babies' first cries. It tugs on my heart to say goodbye to this beautiful space of my life where so much growing and exploring and happening happened. Where I tried and failed and succeeded. Where I survived things I thought would surely end me. Where my eyes were opened to the beauty and the pain of this world.

But, I know 30 has good potential.  I don't have to waste my time stuck in the mind of an unsure girl--still nervous about the world. I get to ride it out on the solidity of knowing who I am and where I stand. I have the best group of people cheering me on and significantly less drama than my early 20s. I have the joys (and hardships) of being a mom and a wife that I would trade for zero things on this entire planet. I have 2 little boys that I get to go on this journey with filled with countless adventures ahead. I have more vision and purpose for my life and a tremendous love for the lives that have intersected mine. I have seen how the Lord will use me if I am willing--and my love for Him intensifies everyday as I learn more wildly, vibrant facets of His character.

I'm looking back at my 20s with a grateful heart over the hard moments that refined me and the joyous moments that filled me.

And with the lineup of new, precious additives to my life, I am venturing forward with my heart ready and willing and expecting much more for me and the people I love. To learn more, to explore more, to do more. I'm looking out on dreams and purposes and plans with an actual hope that things will come to fruition--dare I say in the midst of my 20s I shifted from glass half empty to glass only 1/4 empty?

So, ready or not here I go. A heart filled with gratitude for my past-- and for the future that is awaiting.

It's been real 20s. But, all good things must come to an end--

--so that better things can begin.

Three.

 

I cannot even begin to deal with the fact that you are three whole entire years old!! You are such a little man now! I still remember the day I found out I was pregnant with you, it was the longest 3 minutes of my life waiting for the pregnancy test to reveal what my heart already knew. I remember that first ultrasound where you were a black and white, blurry little blob with the most beautiful, flickering heart beat. I remember car hunting for something perfect that would fit your sweet, little car seat and keep you safe and protected. I remember looking at houses trying to envision you learning to crawl and walk and play with Duplo blocks (you were always playing with Duplos in my envisioning.) I remember baby showers and baby jabs to the ribs. I remember freak out moments and exciting ones. I remember arriving at the hospital on Thanksgiving Day, with our bags packed, foregoing the turkey dinner and ready to Do. This. Thing... and slightly terrified. I remember the first time I finally saw your perfect face. I remember your first cry. I remember your first night at home. I remember asking your dad if we should take you back to the nurses at the hospital because they knew wayyy more than we did. I remember your first bath. I remember baby smiles and baby laughs and baby coos. I remember first crawls and first steps and first cake. I remember you as the first purest love I ever knew.

It breaks me just a little to know that all your baby firsts are becoming a little fainter in my memory bank as we grow further away from those firsts and inch toward first days of school and first lost tooth and first sports team. 3 seems like it's kinda a bridge from baby to big boy and my heart doesn't want to watch you venture onto that bridge just yet.

Because 2 was good. Scratch that. 2 was AMAZING. You got to go to the movie theater for the first time, you were in a book, you went on your first big family trip to Chelan, you pretty much potty trained yourself, and you started preschool! And watching you become a big brother was one of the most emo moments in all of history. That day you pranced into the hospital room, smiling from ear to ear proclaiming to all who would listen 'THIS IS MY BROTHER.' And I cried like a 5 year old girl. Just when I thought I might break your heart by sharing my time and love with Cole, you caught my heart instead and filled it up to overflowing. You made every fear evaporate as you kissed your brothers face and sang him songs and helped and loved and showed patience and grace. 2 was special. I kinda hate saying goodbye to 2. Because how could it possibly get better?

But, in true Jace fashion, you seem to outshine yourself. You make everything better. And so I know, 3 is good. We can camp here at 3 because as long as it's you, 3 will blow our minds and make us belly laugh and shift our paradigms and expand our light and our love for you and for everyone we know.

Because it's just who you are and it's just what you do.

You make our world bigger and you stretch our hearts wider and you make us a little braver and a lot stronger and you dare us to boldly set our limits somewhere past the moon and beyond the galaxies.

So, cheers to your first day of being 3 with a whole new year full of firsts ahead. It's destined to sparkle as bright as the stars.

Now.

Let's. Do. This. Thing.

He Sees You

I remember one hot, summer night when my husband asked me to come outside and star gaze with him. As we laid out on our deck I remember looking up at the canopy that hung over us--a perfect midnight blue sky with millions of sparkling stars. I remember feeling so small in that moment.

It's easy to feel small and insignificant in such a big, fast paced world filled with so many hard, trying moments. I've lived through times of feeling betrayed by friends or consumed by my own failure. I remember a time being so weak from despair I had no other option but to collapse into a soggy pile on my closet floor drowning in a lake of my own tears. I have seen friends die, families fall apart, spouses betray each other. I have seen far too many people living in this world feeling all alone and invisible while the rest of the world seems to thrive around them.

When engrossed in these moments, it is often hard to comprehend that God cares. Especially when I look around at people whose lives seem to be going great. Those times when I'm feeling crushed in a valley while I watch people flourish on their mountain tops--it's easy to wonder 'Does God even see me down here? How can He be with me here when He's clearly with them up there?'

I was reading about Sarah and Hagar in Genesis the other day. Here are two ladies in very different positions in life. Sarah was the wife of Abraham. She had control to do what she wished with her servant. She was married. She was promised a son. She was in a much higher place of authority and power than Hagar.

Hagar was all alone. Pregnant. A servant. Out in the wilderness with no promise of a future. No plan to prosper. Just despair on her horizon.

And yet. The same God that fashioned the stars in the night sky saw and heard them both. He was able to be with Sarah in her place of authority and Hagar in her time of struggle.

When Hagar felt like not a soul on the planet cared, the God of the universe sought her out. He called her out of a dead end in the wilderness. He promised her generations. He became her soft place to land and her steady rock to hold because He was there when no one else was. He was all she needed. She called Him 'El Roi'--'you are the God who sees me.'

And He sees you. Right where you are. Whether on the peak of your mountain, or in the hollow of your valley, or somewhere in the middle. He cannot be contained to just one space or time. He is bigger than the sky that hovers over the mountains and the foothills. He is a God who sees and hears our deepest, painful groans in the middle of a lonely night and He laughs and smiles with us on those days we are swept up in the breeze of joy. He is grieving with the family who is watching a loved one pass away while rejoicing with the family welcoming a new baby into the world.

He is great enough to hold all of it in His gentle hands. He wants you to know you are not alone. He will seek you out in the wilderness so that you will feel the weightlessness of being seen and heard. And he will dance with you in all the beautiful, breathtaking moments because He desires to just be with you.

So the next time you look up at the night sky and feel the smallness of who you are--

Rest in the knowledge that the same God that hung those stars has climbed down into your life.

He is big enough to reach the corners of the earth and the crevices of your heart.

He saw a lonely, pregnant, servant girl out in the wilderness.

And today, right where you are,

He sees you.

A Second Chance

"What was wonderful about childhood is that anything in it was a wonder. It was not merely a world full of miracles; it was a miraculous world." --GK Chesterton


When I was younger, life seemed to have a mysteriously, enchanting element to it. Even the most mundane of activities were seen as adventures because being so young made every activity feel fairly new. The simplest things like washing the car and mixing the cookie dough batter and then licking the mixing spoons were enough to make the whole day seem quite accomplished. I remember thinking riding in the back of mom's station wagon to Burlington Coat factory was such a long, fun drive (and now reality has set in and it was about a whopping 15 minute drive and riding backwards makes me want to barf and Burlington Coat Factory is where people go if they want their car stolen from the parking lot). Nevertheless, these were the kinds of things that deserved my excitement, these were the things that made life so pleasantly perfect.

I don't remember when those feelings of excitement and adventure in the ordinary started to wane, but eventually they did. The world stopped being so fun and innocent all the time when I started to notice it could also be boring or daunting.

And then I had a little boy and all of a sudden, the magic started to emerge again. I now see the flicker of adventure and excitement in his eyes over things like tackling dad or using the scissors to cut up a magazine or blowing dandelions in the backyard. A boring day to me is a brand new day to him with something relatively exciting and new, considering he's only been alive for about 3 years. I forget the simplest things are sheer delight to him. There is a weightlessness and freedom he possesses from not having to worry about anything right now--but to just explore and enjoy. To be whimsy and silly and present.

Last week, Jace spent the day with my mom and as he and me were cuddling at bedtime, the sweet scent of her perfume lingered in his hair and it overwhelmed me. In that moment, I was simultaneously a mom to Jace and a little girl again. I remembered a little girl who found all her comfort and security in the lap of her mom. I felt that enchanting innocence in those sweet, silent moments--the magic of being both a kid who found comfort and a mom who gives it.

It's so easy to get wrapped up in the stories on the news or in our jobs or finances or relationships or all the millions of things that take root in our minds and grow into a wilderness of worry. It's easy to see cloudy, murky days, or just boring, mundane ones. If we're not careful, we can miss those moments that steal the breath from our lungs--the ones that are like fresh, warm blankets draping over us, inviting us to take comfort and delight in the small things.

Tonight,

I'm grateful for the perspective from my boy who is marveling at the wonder of it all.

It's because of him I've realized I get a second chance --

to live in awe of this magical world.

Releasing You To The World

I've been dreading this since a week after I found out I was pregnant with you (that first week I was still in denial/terrified that you were actually in there). Today we went to your preschool orientation and met all your wonderful teachers and new classmates.

Next week, you walk out of this safe, impenetrable fortress I have been creating for you since the day you were born. See, I've been building a space where you only come in contact with the people I choose for you.  People I have trusted because I have watched them handle me with care, and so know they would only do the same for you. People who love you, will protect you, will fight for you.

But, now it's time to start tearing down some of the highest bricks of our fortress and releasing you to experience little pieces of the world as you begin preschool. You will now come in contact with people I have never met-- people I had no choice in choosing for you. You will begin to build relationships on your own. You will find people who your personality and interests click with or people who you just enjoy being around. You will make decisions all on your own and I won't be there for you to ask my permission. You will also learn things from a teacher who is not me.

What I'm trying to say is, I'm letting you meet the world and experience it at an arms distance length away from me--and a little part of me is dying inside.

Jace, bud. These last 2 years and 9 months I've been doing the best I can to love you and teach you good things to equip you for life. Now, I have to give you some space to try to put it all together and apply it to the real world. I have to let you start becoming your own you-- away from me.

Whenever I look at you, I know I've done something great with my life--so as much as I wish I could hoard you to myself, the best and most vulnerable thing I can do for the world is share you with it. It scares me more than most anything I've ever done because the world is not always kind (I saw that boy stomping on your foot today. Took everything in me not to grab you and run for the hills). My love for you comes from the deepest depths of who I am and I want nothing more than for this world to be careful with this fragile part of my heart that I'm letting run wild and free.

In turn, I expect you to treat the other kids this way, too. Behind every one of your classmates is a mama with the same hopes for their baby as mine. So, you must take care of each other.

I know you're going to preschool to learn numbers and letters and color pictures and hear stories. But, school is also a training ground for life, so make it count. The world needs more people using the full potential of their gifts --so, don't waste a drop. Use them all. If you're pouring those gifts out on others--they will never run dry. I want you to use that heart of compassion toward your teachers and classmates. Even if there is someone who you don't understand--you owe them respect and care. Be generous. Share. If anyone is left out, bring them in. Be the bridge in a gap of friends. Be a peacemaker and an encourager. Be bold and brave. Meet the world with kindness and sincerity. 

And always, always remember. Your dad and I are here to lasso the moon for you. Forever and always, you can come to us for anything.

Ok, Jace bud. Deep breath.

Now, go and change the world.

Seek Justice, Love Mercy, Walk Humbly with Your God.

 

 

 

 

In a World of Hurt



(Image made by my awesome friend, Jenni Claar!)

It's been a heavy couple weeks in my soul.

From innocent children being brutally killed in Iraq, to the suicide of Robin Williams, and the mayhem in Ferguson, Missouri, it's impossible to not feel the heaviness that spans across distances, countries, and cultures and settles itself into our hearts. I find I become so  burdened for those in the midst of tragedy that I retreat inward and grieve for the injustice I see in our fragile humanity. It seems like we are living in a world of hurt and there's not much I can practically do aside from signing petitions and mumbling heavy prayers.

When I tuck my babies in to sleep, or watch a movie with my friends or worship at my church, there's a constant humming buzzing in the background--it's what we commonly refer to as guilt. Why should I be given the freedom and luxuries I've been given? Why was I so fortunate to be born in a place where I don't have to go to bed worried that my children may have to pay the consequences of my beliefs? Why do I get to decide what to watch on Netflix tonight while some parents are deciding which of their children gets to eat dinner tonight?

Since there is no real answer, I can let my guilt swallow me whole, chew me up and spit me out worthless and hopeless. Or, I can allow an overflow of gratitude for what I do have, spur me on to change.

The world may seem too big and bleak to change. But, if we shed our guilt (or indifference, or hopelessness, or ignorance, or detachment, etc.) and step into the natural rhythms of gratitude--we will see the world for what it's actually made of--individual, beating hearts. At the core of it all, it's not just a group in the Middle East or a town in Missouri, or a demographic of low income families--it is a broken humanity filled with actual, real people who happen to be everywhere. When we see hearts instead of labels, the world gets a little smaller.

I may never get to physically help a child in Iraq, or walk someone out of their depression, or help the people of Ferguson cope with all the realities of this tragedy. But, I have been given access to a broken, hurting world. We need not look far to find a soul desperate for someone to stand up for justice, to encourage them or to care. For those people, I am responsible.

I'm encouraged to say that I have seen people moving spaces of earth to fit in pieces of heaven. A good friend is helping launch a youth center dedicated to improving academics and bolstering self image in teens who are in need of this. A woman at my church has been reaching out to people in the motels on Highway 99.  A group of moms in our area have started collecting school supplies and shoes for families who can't afford these necessities.

Our gracious, loving God sees each personal need and has invited us to participate in taking care of His most precious creation--His people--all people. We can certainly grieve, but we must also act.

Though we may not be able to single handedly rescue the world--we can be a part of influencing change or offering hope to those whose lives have intersected our own.

And I'd say, in a world of hurt

--that's a pretty great place to start.