Hope in Rough Waters

It is not lost on me that I was born in the land of privilege. My parents were not. When I go back to India and see the village my dad grew up in with all the little children living in poverty and see the tiny house that my mom and her 9 siblings shared, I become keenly aware that this life of luxury I live in could have easily not been mine. The ease to which I feed my children, put them in new clothes everyday, plan for their education and give them all the toys that no one needs--this ease comes in large part because of the soil I live on, the place I have called home all of my life. But, there is a whole world of people who were not born on a privileged land--who do not come by the comforts and ease of which I often take for granted.

As news unfolded yesterday of 3 year old Aylan, I was struck in horror. Seeing that little lifeless body washed up on shore made me ache to pick him up and clutch him to my chest--to wrap a blanket around his body and breathe into him the life he was never given."There is no such thing as other people's children"-- I felt the weight of this quote yesterday as I saw pictures of 2 little boys who I never birthed--yet experienced a fierce love and fierce agony over their sacred lives. In an interview after Aylan's body was found, his father, Abdullah said:

 

 "My children were the most beautiful children in the world. Is there anybody in the world for whom their child is not the most precious thing? My kids were amazing. They woke me up everyday to play with me. What is more beautiful than this? Everything is gone."

 

Isn't that us? Isn't that our kids? I say the same thing about my boys, and you say the same about yours. There is no difference in my existence than his, but that I was born on the kind of land that he only wished his own sons were born on.

I thought about the days or weeks leading up to their decision to leave. A husband and wife in the wee hours of the night whispering out the pros and cons of staying or leaving on this boat to give their kids a better life--a safer environment-- maybe just a chance. It has never been a conversation Owen and I have ever had to discuss. Never. How brave. How courageous. How daunting and terrifying. But, as everyone on social media is posting "you have to understand that no one puts their children on a boat unless the water is safer than the land." In the end, that risk was the better option. That risk was worth the risk. Because the idea of staying in a war torn area was no longer life to them. There was more hope in rough waters.

I woke up this morning with a pit in my stomach for all the untold stories. For all the children's names we will never hear about. For all the people who didn't wake up in a warm cozy bed with their children in their own, safe rooms while they cooked them a hot breakfast over a working stove. For all the heartbeats fluttering in fear. For all the parents having to make the hard decisions. For all the lives lost --the lost artists, doctors, poets, musicians, peacemakers, business owners, light bearers, world changers -- who this world will never have the privilege of knowing. I woke up feeling hopeless, guilty, and desperate. 

Hopeless that the problem is so vast and I am so small. Guilty that I'm cozy in my house with my 2 boys while Abdullah just wants to sit by his boys' graves and rest. Desperate to do something. Anything. Like write out a bunch of words that might not change anything but the prayers I pray and the gratitude I hold in my heart. 

We may be blessed to live in the land of the privileged. But, to those who have been given much, much is required. We cannot assume this privilege exempts us, but rather calls us out and expects us to act on behalf of the marginalized. We must be hope in rough waters.

In the words of Sarah Bessey:

"Now go do your own small and senseless act of peacemaking today. Pick one small stone, my friends. It feels like it’s not enough, I know, but let’s make this mountain move."

Here are some practical suggestions from Sarah Bessey on how to move forward:

 

• Join the Facebook page to Alyan’s Dreams: Welcoming the Strangers and Refugees to brainstorm and crowdsource about how we can practically help refugees fleeing right now.  
• Tweet a picture of yourself holding a sign saying ‘refugees welcome’ under the hashtag #refugeeswelcome — and tag your government and or your government representative.
• Partner with World Relief, give backpacks to a refugee child, or lean in with RefugeeOne to help refugees face this winter.
• Write an email to your MP and to Prime Minister Harper, asking them to open the doors. Here’s how to find your MP.
• Check out these practical ways to help and, once you’ve contributed, encourage your community to do the same.
• And Canadians, here are talking points and resources for us as we talk to our MP candidates about the refugee crisis.

And here are 5 ways to Stand Up and Be The Church in the World's Worst Refugee Crisis Since World War 2

 

You're There

You were there for 9 months (x2). Taking care of the house and the meals while I was too sick to move. Making grocery runs for popsicles at midnight and tying my fat feet into my too small shoes because I couldn't bend over to reach them myself. 

You were there when the boys took their first breaths. You saw them before I did. I saw the look on your face when you saw them for the first time --and I knew immediately that we did real good. I knew that these boys were the most priceless treasures you had ever laid your eyes on. 

You were there for the middle of the night feedings and diaper changes and the rocking back to sleep. You're still there in the middle of the night--snuggling sick kids or calming down the aftermath of a bad dream or grabbing a sippy cup of water. You're always there. Always. 

You're there after work when you're tired or worn out--you give them every ounce of energy, attention, and adventure you have--as if it were your only job in the world. And sometimes after they're asleep, you work more, because you're always there to provide for us.
 

You're there in your free time. What a high value you have placed on their lives by changing your priorities during this season of our lives. They are the center of your world. Even if that means your favorite hobbies don't get as much attention as they used to--or include the boys tagging along--you make sure they know you want to spend your time with them.

You're there for books and baths and bible stories. You pray with them and deposit invaluable worth into their souls. 

You're there to sing the same songs a thousand times without getting annoyed. You're there to teach how to crawl upstairs, ride bikes, build bonfires, swim and to show them how to get back up after a fall. You're there to cuddle and wrestle--you're there as a fun place to laugh and a safe place to land.

Because of the way you have chosen to be a life-giving, ever-present dad, you are changing the possibilities of their world. You are empowering them to be strong, godly men. You are showing them how to someday love and serve and honor their wives and their friends. You are showing them how to be confident and how to seek out adventure and to dare greatly and go forth boldly. You are calling out greatness in these 2, sweet little boys and I'm watching them learn to walk in that greatness because they watch their father do it everyday. 

They say the hand that rocks the cradle rules the world--so, keep rocking, dads--I can already see the world changing--

Because you're there.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Happy 1st Birthday, Baby Cole!!

My beautiful, baby boy!! How can one year have already passed since the first time I met you? As I put you down on your last night before turning 1, I sang to you our song as you smiled and giggled and nuzzled your face into my shoulder and I couldn't stop the tears that spilled out from my eyes as I remembered this past year with a sweet fondness and stood there holding you overwhelmed with honor and gratitude.

What a year it has been. You came into this world with your grand entrance as we hurried back across the ferry on Mother's Day and you have kept us on our toes ever since. There were challenges and difficult moments that are almost all forgotten in my mind because of the weight of joy you brought along with you.

I may have given you life, but you have given me more life. When I thought my love was maxed out to capacity you made me realize that the walls of our hearts know no bounds, there is always room for more. I watched as we all took on new roles: daddy and I as parents of 2 and Jace as an older brother-- I didn't realize there was a new kind of love to be had in those new spaces you gave us. But, there was so much more for all of us that we only fully understood after you arrived.

I watched as the bond between you and Jace started in motion the moment you laid eyes on each other. It was as if your souls had always known each other and they were finally meeting in a hospital room. I watched during those long, hard days when the only things that seemed to make you happy were the outdoors and the sight of your big brother. The giggles, the games, the way you light up when he walks in the room and the way he lights up when you're up from a nap--I see how you have changed him. You made him a big brother and he takes great pride and care in that privilege. It has caused my love for him to grow in a new way.

You have given us all new roles. So, not only did I get to fall more and more in love with you but I got to fall more in love with everyone in our lives who loves you. You gave me a new perspective and a fresh joy deep in my core. You made the colors of my world dance with a new, vibrant flare that arrived only when you did.

I love you so much, Baby Cole. My heart feels like it's being squeezed inside of my chest because I know I won't get to hold you this close forever. Turning one has a way of staking its claim in the ground that this life is perpetually moving in forward motion and I have no ability to press rewind to those tender, early moments. It is a reminder to grab hold of the very sweet present and savor it slowly.

So, for now I'm just burying it all so deep in my heart like the most sacred of treasures. Those early days of late nights, swaddles, naps on the go. The tiny toes and deep dimples. The way you eat everything in sight. How you flap your arms and shine your 6 teeth when you're excited. The soft thud of your chubby hands when you clap them together or pat my back. The way you bury your face into your blanket, come up for air and a huge smile--and then do it again. The way you play hide-and-seek with Jace and find him in the hamper 10 out of 10 times (and still feel so proud of yourself when you find him), the way you belly laugh when daddy throws you in the air and that smile you give me when you're being naughty. All of it. I'm holding it all so deep in my heart where I hope to keep it alive forever.

Happy 1st Birthday my sweet, precious boy! I thank Jesus everyday for entrusting me with the joy of being your mama. For giving me these precious years with you before I have to really share you with the world. For honoring me by giving me the chance to pour into you True Life and Love and Light so that it can all be released back out onto others someday--the greatest work I can ever be a part of. Thank you for teaching us what only you could. For giving us more life. For making us more full--more grateful, more playful, more joyful. And just for being ours. I love you with every thing I have in me to love.

 

 

 

A Little "Hawk Talk"--From a Highly Unqualified Fan

I'm one of those people who likes to feel all the feelings. If I'm sad or heart broken I will put on the saddest song that ever existed and let myself live in a space of tormented misery as I pour salt into my own open sores. If I'm happy I will put on the sunshiniest song and let all the happys fill me and pour out of me and command dance parties in the living room. It's this world of extremes I live in.

Because of this obsession with feelings, my memories are usually accompanied by the sights, smells, sounds, and the breed of butterflies that swarmed my stomach during different seasons of life.

Like when the Seahawks won Super Bowl 48. I will always remember that year when the 12th man was a movement that literally caused plates in the earth to shift. The way our friends and family would pile on each other after touchdowns. How Monday mornings meant you had no voice left. How strangers hi-fived and the state of Washington had a blue and green dress code. I'll remember listening to "I'm the Man" on heavy rotation on game days. That first year when the sweet, Super Bowl victory was ours. How the sun shone mightily on Seattle the week after and hundreds of thousands gathered for the parade of the century as the Lombardi Trophy commanded its presence in OUR town. Despite the fact that the temperature was at arctic levels, kids were pulled from school and adults took the day off work because, well, it was worth it. After all, we were the champions.

 

I'll also remember the year we beat Greenbay to win the NFC championship for the second year in a row sending us to the Super Bowl for the second year in a row. There will be the sharp recollection of the way my heart pounded in my chest when we faked that field goal and scored a touchdown. I'll remember we scored 15 points in 44 seconds. Unimaginable. Unexplainable. Our eyes were witnessing impossible things. The game where everyone realized that angels were in the endzone. That God was surely a Hawks fan.

And then that crappy time we lost the Super Bowl by 1 yard and the punch to the gut that felt like it might never stop stinging. The way the rain brought its dreary self to Seattle the following week as if to match the feelings we all felt. The smell of victory so close only to be stolen inches away from the endzone. How I wanted to sulk in the feeling of defeat so I read every article and listened to every sports radio station trash talk our players and us fans and the infamous 'worst call in Super Bowl history.'

Dr. Gary Smalley says, "men share facts--women share feelings." The guys I talk to are giving me the breakdown of all the things that went wrong. Where someone should've been positioned, how all the logistics should have worked out, all the stats and numbers and plays and where we went right and where we went left and where we went wrong. I hear you guys. But, I don't think I'll remember it like that.

Yes, I know Beast Mode should've gone Beast Mode and run that ball in. And Malcolm Butler came out of nowhere. And we shouldn't have blown our lead. You can talk to me about the facts guys, but let me just FEEL all of your FACTS because that is what I'm going to remember. Right now, for the love, I JUST WANT TO HUG ALL OF THE PLAYERS! No, really. Someone give me Russell's number so I can tell him how this one mistake cannot rob him of his worth and identity and we are proud! Let me sit these guys down and tell them all we still love them and support them and are so proud of how far they made it and that they got this next year and to not listen to all the sports announcing bullies.

And I love that Doug Baldwins's mom is texting him words of inspiration in the mornings and that Richard Sherman is about to be a daddy and that Russell Wilson is already back at Children's Hospital cheering up families. Yes, I love the game but I cannot separate out life. Leave it to me to turn this macho sport of tackling and testosterone into an episode of Full House.

So, that's where I'm at. The price of becoming a 12 has left me in a pit of sadness and devastation. Not in a sore loser sort of way, but out of empathy for these players I've come to love.

Don't worry, this too shall pass.

It's just a game, we made it so far, there's much to be proud of, there's hope to hold on to and there's always next year.

But, for now,

my heart is sitting on the one yard line,

feeling all the feelings.

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.