An open letter

My dear sister in Christ,

On this, the last day of Advent, I want you to know that I have been praying for you this season.  I know that darkness is often deep and enduring, and it can crowd out the light the Christmas season brings.  I know, because I have griefs of my own.   Advent, dear sister, is the season for us.  Advent is for those who sit in darkness, for those who yearn for redemption, for those who await from the Lord great and abundant mercy.  Advent is for us.

Advent gathers our sorrows unto herself and bids us cry our penitential tears.  And so we do. She reveals our sadness, hopes, and fears, and bids us lay them before the Lord.  And so we do.   She brings an ever-burning light into our homes, and bids us look to Christ.  And so we do.

On this night, when Christ, who is our light descends to us to cast out our sin, let not your hearts be troubled.  For though your griefs are many and your sorrows deep, Christ has entered the world to be your light.  His birth quells the power of hell, and his great and abundant mercy flows far as the curse is found.

We, with the shepherds, kneel before the manger to see Isaiah's prophesies fulfilled in Christ- a child, a son, the Word silently pleading for us.  Nails and spear pierced him through, as he bore the cross for you.  He, the second Adam, came to mend what sin had marred, and to give us the right to be the heirs of heaven above.

I pray for you this night, as I have been praying for you:

“O Jesus, very light of light,
Our constant star in sin’s deep night:
Now hear the prayers,
Your people pray,
Throughout the world this holy day,
Aleluia!” (LSB 403 v. 2)

“Thou, Christian heart,
Whoe’er thou art,
Be of good cheer
and let no sorrow move thee.
For God’s own Child,
In mercy mild,
Joins thee to Him; how greatly God must love thee!” (LSB 372, v. 4)

God’s great and abundant mercy be yours tonight.

Award Night

Last Friday, I told my son he could invite his friends over today.

I delayed making arrangements this morning.  I kept hoping he'd throw up or something so I could avoid dealing with extra children and take a nap this afternoon.


Mother of the year, indeed.

There's something in a Sunday

Sunday mornings are tough.  Somewhere between the struggle to put down the trains and put on church clothes, the two of us have successfully broken the first five commandments, and finally show up for church with our angry eyes.  I'm sure most parents have heard the same complaints: There's nothing for me to do at church.  Church takes too long. Church isn't fun. I don't want to think about Jesus, I want to think about trains!

Imagine my surprise then, on Tuesday morning, when my child starts proclaiming the truth about church.

"God doesn't give us too many gifts at church.  He just gives us a few.  He gives us his Word."

"But what does His Word produce?"

"Faith."

"And what does faith give us?"

"Life and salvation.  But that's only two gifts."

"But they are very valuable gifts."

"And no one can steal them from us. And these are the gifts we should rejoice.  And if anyone came to my house to try to steal them, I would say, 'Sorry, Jesus died for me and saved me from my sin.'"

So there it is.  The sound of a Sunday morning coming down might seem awful lonesome to me, and the congregation may be sick of our angry eyes, but my child's faith is growing, despite his stubborn sinful nature.

A poem for when your losses press hard

A gracious Sabbath stood here while they stood
Who gave our rest a haven.
Now fallen, they are given
To labor and distress.
These times we know much evil, little good
To steady us in faith
And comfort when our losses press
Hard on us, and we choose,
In panic or despair or both,
To keep what we will lose.

For we are fallen like the trees, our peace
Broken, and so we must
Love where we cannot trust,
Trust where we cannot know,
And must await the wayward-coming grace
That joins living and dead,
Taking us where we would not go–
Into the boundless dark.
When what was made has been unmade
The Maker comes to His work.

by Wendell Berry, emphasis mine.

Baby Season

And thus it begins.  Everyone is giving birth, or announcing a pregnancy, or about to give birth, or about to announce a pregnancy.

At least, that's how it feels.

To a woman who is desires to feel her womb filled with life, Facebook is an unmarked mine field.  If she spends enough time there, she's bound to stumble on something that triggers a flow of emotions, regardless of how hard she tries to keep it together. The longer she stays, the more she feels the weight of her own cross pressing into her shoulders, and the grief welling up inside until she feels she is alone in her sadness.

Lord, have mercy.  For in my ignorance, I heedlessly posted pictures and updates of my own pregnancy and newborn child, unaware of the effect they may have had on my own dear brothers and sisters in Christ. 

Lord, have mercy.  For now I understand.  Now I feel that weight and that grief, and now I struggle to do the very thing our Lord commands of us: rejoice with those who rejoice.

Lord, have mercy. For centered in myself, I want only the things of man, not God.

Lord, have mercy. Christ, have mercy.  Lord, have mercy.

For Ewe

I made a new friend. In fact, I made several new friends. We met at a lovely retreat, hosted by two dear women who write here.  What a blessed reminder of the life that is ours through Christ both here on earth, as we join together as His body to encourage and build one another up; and there in eternity, where the crosses we bear will be exchanged for robes of righteousness.

Broken again

I'd like to think that I'm mature enough in my faith to join with Mary in saying, "Be it done unto me."  That is, that I would accept the gifts God gives as they come, and not desire any other gift or blessings in life than the ones I have been given.  After all, I have been blessed richly with many gifts, including a child-a son!  A healthy, well-behaved, intelligent, polite son.  He brings joy to me and my husband; he is the delight of his grandparents.  He charms the elderly and young alike.   I'd like to think I am content with this, my family, and spend my days rejoicing in the blessings of the Lord.  Most days, I am content.

Still, so many other days, the longing for another child overwhelms me in a flash, and my joy is turned to mourning.  The grief is so deep my stomach caves in on itself, and I am consumed.  I yearn to bear life again, to feel the quickening and eventual weight of a child in my womb, and to memorize the features of a newborn child sleeping in my arms.

Perhaps I ought not be taken by surprise at how quickly a pregnancy announcement or newborn's photo can bring on this sudden change; and yet, I am.  Just when I think I have learned to be content, I find myself desiring more, weeping over my brokeness, and wondering why.

In the time it's taken you to forget about this blog,

I've
  -lost my computer to a virus
  -lost my phone to St. Louis humidity
  -got blocked from my email
  -moved to a new state
  -settled into a new home
  -found three snakes in the house
  -joined a book club
  -watched the dog chase a cow out of the backyard
  -repeatedly bribed my child with gum to get through church services.
  

What I haven't done
  -updated this blog.

 
Consider it done.

Thrifty? Or just hopeful?

Part of this year's move is downsizing.  I've acquired a piano (it was Great-Grandmother's, how could I say no?), and I intend to make space for it in the moving van by ditching it's cubic-foot equivalent in boxes of other stuff.  So it's out with the extra tongs and rarely-used spatulas, vanilla scented candles and flower vases, lidless Tupperware and tired-out clothes.  I'm even sorting through boxes the boxes we we left in the basement labeled, but unpacked.

There's one corner of the basement, though, that pains me each time I walk past.  It's the corner where we've piled up the bins of clothes our son has outgrown, the supports for the cradle we no longer use, the baby toys he doesn't like anymore, the box of maternity clothes I haven't worn in years.

In saving them, I had no question I would need some of them again- at least the maternity clothes.  But possibly those baby clothes as well.  We could have another boy!   So we kept them.  A year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them that summer, thinking they'd save us money if we had another boy on vicarage.  But the year passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  I moved them again.  Another year has passed without a pregnancy, and therefore no baby to wear the clothes.  Now they sit in the corner of the basement, reminding me all the while that there still is no other baby to wear the clothes, despite all of our prayers.

I can't help but wonder if there ever will be another baby to wear those clothes.  I can't help but wonder if I'm missing the small wonders happening around me with the son I do have by holding on to those clothes and moving them one more time.  I can't help but wonder if I ought to let someone else get some use out of them, and trust that God will provide should he see fit to give us another child.  Perhaps letting go of those clothes would help ease some of the pain.

Leave the tricks to the magicians

Folks, if a woman shares with you that she's been praying for another child, the correct response is, "I'll pray for you, too."  Please no more advice about strategically placed pillows, or tracking and charting of temperatures and discharge (gross!), or trips to the doctors to discuss special pills, or relaxing about it because she's still young.  Say, "I'll pray for you, too."

Chances are, she's already feeling enough guilt over the matter already, whether because she's gained some weight, or she had to have a c-section, or she used the pill for too long, or because she thinks she's being punished by God.  Whatever her reason is, don't add to her guilt by making her think she doing something else wrong.  She's burdened by the Law, she's feeling the weight of sin.  She's living daily with a body she feels is defective and is afraid she's the cause.  Share with her the Gospel she needs to hear.  Remind her of God's steadfast love, and his enduring mercy.  Then do as you said you'd do, and pray.

For the nursing mother

Or the humor-deprived mother, or the grandmother, or the mother's lactation consultant;  really, it's just a good book for anyone who has tried breastfeeding.  Especially good for those of us who tried it and found it rather daunting.

Seriously.  It's like she had been sitting on my couch with me all those months.

For the Kindle, for the bookshelf or that other bookshelf, for more information.

We'll Keep It

Once in college, I shelled out twenty-five dollars for a faded loveseat that harkened back to the 70s.  It was my first furniture purchase (and so far, my only furniture purchase-everything we now own was either a gift from family, or found sitting on the side of the road begging to be plastered with beer labels).   Though it was a bit small, I found that it was perfect for all the reading I did to get that English concentration, and, if I tucked up my legs enough, would sleep quite comfortably.

But it was kind of ugly.  So I tried covering it- first with a fitted sheet that forever had to be readjusted, and then by putting my high school set-building skills to work and attaching fabric to it with a staple gun.  Eventually, I made a slip cover, once the staples starting pulling out and stabbing my arm every time I attempted to use the arm rest.  So the little couch moved from dorm room to dorm room, and once I married, fit quite nicely into our oddly narrow living room.  It's now been lugged from state to state with all of our moving, even though we've acquired a real, unfaded couch.

Last summer, I overhead my parents discussing this little couch as it was loaded into our moving pods.  "How many more moves before they ditch that thing?" my father asked my mother. Well, Pops, that little couch isn't going anywhere soon.  I have visions of passing it on to my son when he moves out of the house.  It would be quite poetic.  After all, it's the very place I sat all those hours, weeks, months (!) after he was born- nursing, napping, eating, pumping.  The only seat in house I could find that was both comfortable to sit, and possible to leave.  And since my kid took for.ever. to nurse, and wanted to nurse every two hours, and wouldn't sleep unless someone was holding him, I spent a lot of time on that little loveseat.  Enough time, in fact, to catch up on the past seasons of House, CSI, and Friday Night Lights. 

Besides all that, it's still the most comfortable seat in the house, and should I have pleasure of nursing another child, I can't imagine anywhere else I'd sit.  Unless, of course, someone feels like buying me one of these: