Full where I expected empty

 We’re in this season of life - it’s the preface to our boys leaving the nest. 

I think in some ways this is a gracious preparation. A kindness - preventing these levels of leaving from all hitting at once. 

Everyone has scattered, for an evening or two here and there, each week on the regular throughout the last year or two. But now - 

Now that summer has hit and the boys are older the scattering is longer and further. I’m so excited to watch them stretch and learn and grow. And I also have those quiet moments just to myself - those moments where my mama heart is smiling but weeping. Because deep love of course equals some need for time and space to learn the new. 

Noah is gone until the 30th of this month and he actually kind of nailed it the other day when we were talking. He said, “wow, it must be annoying to do so much for us and have us need you for so much and then suddenly have us begin to have our own thoughts and lives and go our own way.”

The part he didn’t nail was the “annoying” part. That word doesn’t even circle around the definition of what this is for me.  Not at all. But I think he came pretty close to actually getting it; this feeling that I carry and can barely even explain to myself. 

The time line between these amazing humans needing you for everything, to needing you for nothing (at least in a tangible sense) is shockingly more temporary than you think. 

With a graduation still fresh in the rear view of my mind, the processing of this life stage has been closely held in my heart. 

Tears have come quite easily, and sometimes without permission, of late. But it’s not in the way and for the reasons I expected. I remember watching “older” parents {ha!} as their children graduated, moved out, got married. And I saw the mama tears. “Oh this must be so sad!” - I thought. 

You don’t know until you’re there. 

And now I’m planted firmly “there”. 

I’m not sad. 

I’m deeply steeped in memories, nostalgia, and sentimentality. 

But it’s not sadness. Honestly I’m so relieved that this isn’t as crushing as my expectation had made it. 

At the same extent that this transition is not annoying, this phase is not sad. 

I suddenly get it - that the weight on your chest and the tightness of your heart is not the feeling of empty.

It’s the pressure of full. 

A pressing in from a fullness of life and joy and love and memories, 

not an emptiness from human presence being gone. 

Full to the brim of all the goodness of those years. The moments that I was intentional and I saw them and joined them and entered into their world. I fell deeply in love with that world. 

Magic. 

These tears seep out of that.

It’s the opposite of empty, but a fullness unlike anything I’ve ever known. Full of my purpose and God’s goodness. Full of traditions and surprises, and growing up together. 

They took my sleep and my pre-conceived ideas. They changed my body, and my mind. They obliterated my ill placed pride. They took my time, my second piece of pie, the color of my hair.

And in turn - they gave me…. Well, everything. 

So all of those articles and emotion manipulating media pieces stating that “you only have 18 summers” - 

yes, it’s true. 

Your time is limited with them. And there is absolutely nothing you can do to stop it. There is no pause button either. 

But it’s not to be dreaded! It’s absolutely, heart wrenchingly beautiful. 

Love each one of those summers with everything you have, but not with dread or fear. 

And when you do embrace that time, and it starts rushing by, you may feel this pressure on your heart that mimics sadness or emptiness - only to be pleasantly surprised that it is actually what being filled to the brim feels like. 

Jacob 's 17th

 Dear Jay,

My vision for the annual blogged birthday letters has been to type them each year and then on your 18th birthday to print them and bind them together into a book to gift you. 

I guess this means I have one more. 

There will be alot of "one more's" this year. I'm starting to settle that in my heart. It's such a bittersweet time. Remembering that bright eyed little boy who you were, to now watching those tentative first few attempts at using your wings. 

My promise to you as you turn 17 is that I will not clip those wings. God has created you as a wonderful human, in His very image, and He will guide you as you learn to fly. 

But know this (and I believe you do) - if those still-developing wings fly you to a place that brings regret or hurt, and bring you to places you wished you'd never gone, I will be there. The more you grow, I grow. The more you learn, I learn. I'm learning that tight rope balance of giving space and reeling in. Of letting you decide and of gently guiding. 

I read books about parenting, especially parenting boys, in the early years of your life. Some things were vaguely helpful - some things laughable. A book could never have prepared me for roughly 85% of what I've learned through simply going through life with you. Seventeen years of growing along side of you. 

You have delighted us, disappointed us, surprised us, and made us proud. You have shown us so many things about God's deep unchanging love. 

I respect who you are now and who you are becoming. Maybe I view things through a very mom tinted lens, but the potential I see in you has no limits. I think I actually see you through a God tinted lens. And what He says about you far outshines any over-the-top mom thoughts I could have. Even beyond the talents you have, what I love to see is the joy you find in them. Whether it's fishing, tennis, golf, music, forging, or the many other things you dive into, it's just fun to watch you enjoy them! Music especially stands out to me. I hope this is always a big part of your life. I see the calming effect is has on you and the connection to God it gives you. From a very young age you have been able to hear things musically and express them beautifully. 

So here we are. Nearing the end of your junior year. Alot of life lessons learned this year. Some aren't the ones I would've necessarily picked for you - but mom's not in charge. God is (thank goodness). He see you, He knows you, He defends you, He sings over you, He had purposes for your life before you were born that are so much bigger than anything I could dream up. I'm realizing more and more that I am but a small part of your big story. God knew a part of His unfolding plan was you. It's a privilege that He chose me to help bring you life. It's hard for a mom to transition from being life source and the one keeping you safe, to the one praying as God leads you and directs you. We're in the midst of this. Sometimes I fail and overstep. Sometimes I shrink and don't say enough. But through it all I love you fiercely. We'll keep learning and growing together. I'm praying for you always.

Happy happy birthday. I can't wait to get a front row seat of your continuing life story. I'll always be the one cheering the loudest. And probably crying, because it's me.... 

~Mom 

And then 18 years passed

 I can't believe I made it.  

I made it through your entire childhood.

In two weeks we will celebrate 18 years since you and your brother's untimely entrance into the world. You two would very likely be completely hilarious together.  We will forever think of you as we celebrate Caleb's milestones. Eighteen whole years! 

Of course, at the time I could not even begin to imagine making it through 18 entire years. 

I didn't even think I would be able to open my eyes again, let alone breathe. 

The light felt like it would shatter my eyes. 

I couldn't imagine feeling anything but numb at first. I didn't think it would ever end. 

I willed the tears to come, and they just would not. 

Until they did. At the most inopportune times.  And then they wouldn't stop. 

And then I couldn't imagine a time that seeing other people laugh wouldn't cause an immediate anger reaction. 

One foot in front of the other - seemed the only thing I could do. 

I felt the hardness in my heart. One of the strongest temptations towards cowardice. 

Let it harden you.  

Death and shock and disappointment in my life. It would've been too easy to let this thick darkness slither its way around my heart. I felt it in a tangible way.  

This is how I know there is a God and He loves me.  

He gave me a way out. 

 I had to take it - reaching out a limp and shaking hand to take hold of real living.   

I could never forget the horror of what it feels like to hold a body without a soul. It's engrained on me in a way that can not be removed. You branded me and scarred me with love. 

And now I live softer.  18 years of choosing soft. Not a weak soft, although often it sure can feel that way, but a soft open heart.  Open hands. 

I'm not whole, but I know I will be - someday.  I can still feel poison swirling around me and within me.  I am a broken human. But the prominent presence surging within me is not me at all, but the presence of God. He indwells me with everything that is good.  I feel shrapnel residing in my heart. But it shares space with hope. 

I'm honored to have space in my heart just for you.  I have spent every bit of this 18 years loving you intensely.  And letting that love compel me to be better.  I fought for that. 

I never thought I would find the seeds of creativity within me again. 

I never thought I would feel delight in anything.

I never thought a sweet fresh from heaven baby would completely claim my love again.

I never thought I would see beauty in the mundane.

I never thought I would find great satisfaction in a hundred other things in life. 

I never thought the sunset would set my heart on fire again.

I never thought the sacredness of music would move me.

I never thought the loveliness of holidays and milestones would bring surges of joy.

But those are things God placed within me when he created me.  They don't go away unless my soul leaves my body. They may have been dormant for a while.  But in choosing life, I choose to nurture them again.  Warm winds of change blew across my soul.  Deep waters of staying close to God and his Living and Active Word poured into the trenches of disappointment.  And the things that I love bloomed every year - a little more and more. 

By the grace of God I am not at a place where I deeply grieve the fact that I missed all but 10 days of your childhood.  I see you as a true stepping stone in my life.  In these 18 years the fear, distrust, trauma, and anxiety poured in. That is some of the shrapnel.  These elements still remain, somewhat.  They will show their ugliness, from time to time in greater measure than others. But the growth came when I looked them square in the eye, named them, and told them they didn't have control of me.  

No, they're not gone.  But I choose love.  I choose God.  I choose joy. I choose believing in all the good I sometimes can not see. 

I choose to love you with every bit of my mama heart and not let losing you make me hard. 

Caleb turns 17!

Dear Caleb,

Wow buddy - Seventeen!!

I learn things from you regularly.  Despite processing delays and learning delays and all the words the medical community could throw our way - which essentially could mean "less than",  you are "more than".

More than the ordinary human who chases fame or image or the best possessions.

You are simple and honest.   Honestly, unappologetically, you. You are interested in what you are interested in and don't care if anyone looks down on that.  Veggie tales and Little Einstein's for life. ;)

I have tried, as these years seem to go by faster and faster,  to just savor *you*.  Who you are, not who we can make you through therapy, and medical intervention, and medication, and talking you out of being you.  It's such a trap.  And such an easy one to fall into as a mama.  - Being embarrassed by your behavior or apologizing for you, in the absence of your desire to apologize for yourself.  - Which I just noted as a strength of yours.  Yes, this mama has a lot to learn.  While there is value in continuing to nurture and teach you through acceptable social skills and independence, I know God gave us *You* for a reason, and learning to embrace all that he has for us in that plan is still a process we are journeying through.

So, thank you.  For all you are teaching me.  For taking me out of the ordinary to see the treasure inside of something that is falsely wrapped in disappointment.  Thank you for slowing me down and anchoring me in the here and now, while simultaneously lifting me to the eternal and heavenly.

I am not even going to give time to writing here about questions, future, anxiety, adulthood, and change.  Because today you are 17, childlike, happy, and fairly uncomplicated.  We're going to live in the moment here, even as we slowly educate ourselves on the next step in front of us.

Sometimes I just so badly want you to see my logic.  My brain.  My processing.  I repeat myself so often and just can't make you see it.  You do not filter the world the way I do.  You do not see logic.  So we do an awkward little dance of me trying to get into your world and gently pulling you, where I can, into mine as much as is possible.  It's pretty routine now.  The compromise.  The praying.  Sometimes the walking away because this is like a language barrier, and the frustration level is not worth the fight.

I just want to love you.

Oh how I love you.  I have never seen so clearly my purpose and God's intervention and guidance as when I look in your eyes and see your place in my life.

As I reflect on your life, I can think of at least 3 distinctive times that God has used you to give me hope.  Hope that had nearly faded and I was desperate to find again.  While there may have been times that you have seemed to have been the cause of my hopeless feelings, I will never forgot the times that simply the thought of you has given me just the hope I needed. And in the moment I needed it the most.  Because the privilege hidden in the facade of frustration here is that you need me.  More than most mamas are needed, I have the biggest purpose.  When my life feels like it's crashing around me - there's you.

I have to be anchored, and strong, and soft, and nurturing,
and kick the discouragement, or desperation, or disappointment to the curb.  Because there is your smiling face and silly breathless laugh.  God gave you to me - sometimes to give me a desire to continue on.  It's one of his jobs for me. You need me. I need you.

Why me? I have asked it in frustration and I have asked it in complete and utter awe.

Of all of the amazing, qualified, strong, beautiful individuals He created - why were you born early, into my arms?

Because this is his plan, his shaping, his love - pouring through you - all around us. Like light pouring in and through and around our family.  If I don't see it and appreciate it and respond with the greatest of gratitude always, and I surely do NOT, please forgive me buddy.  My mind gets clouded by the world I live in, but in my better moments I see you for the life changing gift you are.

Love always,

Mama

Mali turns seven

Dear Mali,

The energy around your seventh birthday is something I won't forget.

You are a ball of energy - that's the truth.  But *this day*, well, that was an understatement.

Your chosen menu, your handmade signs, the decorations,  hayride - sparklers.  Seven year old dreams coming true.

My baby boy.  We ended on such a unique note with you. ;)

The two things you had asked us for as birthday gifts certainly highlights that fact.

1}  An essential oil diffuser

2} A goose down comforter.

What seven year old asks for those things? - Mine. ;)

You can be hard.

So, so hard.  And you know it.

But you are the baby.  And that's a thing. ;) {Said the mama who is also a baby}

You are also

kind

cuddly {SO cuddly}

a deep thinker

organized

focused

loving

energetic

creative


I don't want to forget your crazy {out-of-control?} affinity for stuffed animals.

The many insightful political conversations we have had together on this election year.

Our nightly routine of reading devotions together in your top bunk, talking all about your day, and cuddling.  The way you weave your arms around mine and won't let me go at the end of the day.

Your long eye lashes resting on your cheeks,  when you *finally* give in to sleep {always after a bit of a struggle...} and I fulfill your request to "check on me one more time!"

Your questions about God,  life,  trust,  friends, and the world.

You are our gift, Mal.  Our precious, tough, strong willed caboose.


We are so thankful for you.  For all you have added to our family.  Even on the days of struggle and the nights we fall into bed,  exhausted from going up against that will of yours - yep, even then.  You are our corner of crazy and our piece of precious.

~Mama

{Break Me to Better}

I remember when I was a child I felt strange to be around people who were "different".  Physical limitations didn't really make me uncomfortable, but I wasn't sure how to respond to those who had mental issues.  I had a cousin whom culture would label "different".  He was a child-like young adult.  Mostly he was fun, but every now and then I just felt unsure of myself around him, so it seemed easier to just not deal with those emotions and stay away.

When I became a mom in a rather scary way, 3 months before I was "supposed to",  I was immediately thrust into a life that consisted of medical information overload.

The boys were micro preemies.  They were dangerously early.  The list of things that could go wrong with them was extensive.  I tried to take it all in and adjust expectations of the life I thought I would have.   That's kind of too much to do in a few days time....  But oh my little quivering heart tried to stand tall and do just that.

I knew immature lungs were at the top of the major concerns. So I was trying to wrap my mind around ventilators, trachs, surfactant, and oxygen saturation.  In addition to that we knew that fine motor and gross motor skills were greatly compromised by the boys' muscles missing out on the growth and building that needs to happen in the last 3 months of pregnancy.

Having a child that may have breathing struggles for the rest of his life and possibly never walk or be able to ride a bike were very real possibilities.

And I thought I could probably do this.  Yes.  We would study up on how to help as much as possible, and get used to what that would look like for us.

Yeah - we could do this.

And then K had a brain bleed. And a whole new world of medical professionals and scary possibilities entered our life.

I remember sitting in a neurologists office with my tiny baby.  Just a few months old.  He was cute and cuddly.  Doing surprisingly well for all he had already been through.  While he was on a low flow of oxygen, his lungs were doing incredibly well.  We had started occupational therapy for fine motor skills and Physical therapy for gross motor skills.  While he was responding well to all of this,  neurological questions which no one could answer were creeping in.

Would he recognize us? Would he speak?  Would he be able to form any kind of intellectual skill sets?

To these and so many more questions the resounding answer was "wait and see".

I didn't want to admit to anyone that these were the issues that were like kindling to the  fear fire smoldering deep inside of me.

I would sit in these offices of various brain doctors and observe a lot around me.  I would see other babies like mine. 

"I bet they are hearing a lot of "just wait and see" too.." 

We would exchange little smiles and grasp any solidarity we could find in our tired selves. 

But then I would see some older kids.  Some teens.  Kids in wheel chairs - some drooling or moaning.      There wasn't solidarity because this was something I didn't know at all.  Something that scared me.  A foggy possibility that loomed in my future.  I felt something in the region of the fear fire.  I didn't know how to identify it.  Subtle waves of cultural influence would blow on the embers of that fire - and the flames would sometimes just rage.  But I couldn't really talk about it. 

"How do I do this?" 

"I don't know how to parent like this." 

"I'm lost.  I'm afraid.  I never asked for this."

And then there would be guilt.

I know my God sees our potential.  He sees our hearts.  He sees our biggest fears and hesitations as potential places for sin to settle into.  So he swoops down and rescues us - sometimes by pulling those fears up and making them our reality.  He does this in order to  make them impossible to harbor that which He knows is not for our best.  

Selfishness. 

Judgment.

Fear.

He knew I could do better. 

So he gave me a child with mental, emotional, intellectual, and physical struggles.  

And he called me blessed. 

Everything was different when he was a baby.  Cute and little.  Potential untapped.  "Wait and see".  

While wait and see may still always be a bit of a mantra when it comes to our K, he is now 13.  We see.  Maturity will take place, and changes will continue to happen.  But we see  - him.  

See my eyes? My face?  I believe my feeble heart, held in the hands of my all powerful God, shows there.  I am parenting some of my deepest fears.  And this young man has forced me to be braver than I thought I could be. 

I know my parents desire was to raise me in a counter cultural way.  They knew "culture" was devious, fickle, and a lie.   But it still sneaks in.  It whispers its way in like a tangled web of something unrecognizable -  that soon begins to resemble truth. 

I'm fairly certain I would have succumbed to several of those lies if I were not K's mom.   While I have always considered myself pro-life I'm not sure I valued every.single.life as a beautiful creation formed by a God who makes no mistakes. 

What a privilege.  What a privilege to start each day needy and desperate.  To peak behind the curtain of culture into the realm of eternity and truth.  

This guy shows me.  He teaches me.  He keeps me grounded and humble.  He shows me my limitations and God's power.  

And as he grows and learns more about his own struggles he keeps my heart soft and broken.  - And I am learning that is not all bad.  In fact a soft heart - willing to be shattered for purposes beyond my own agenda has begun to be a hesitant but bold prayer of mine.  

He prefers things very structured and clings to routine.  When things happen that are out of his control - and this happens regularly in a family of 6 - he melts.  It's the only way I can explain it.  I watch my sweet boy just melt away in a puddle in front of me and he goes to a place where he can not be reached.  It literally breaks me.  And that's ok. 

Brokenness has value.  - Just one more thing he's taught me. 

It is during those meltdowns that his realities pour out.  He isn't one to talk a whole lot about how he feels about things during day to day life.  He's getting a lot better about asking for help when he needs it and advocating for himself, but we never quite get a glimpse into his head and heart like we do when he has a melt down.  

"I can't do anything!"

"I am invisible!"

"I'm never going to be okay!"

"I'm afraid."

"I can't do anything for myself!"

And so much more.   So much that has helped me to see, really see, what it is like to be someone who does not have all of the advantages that I have.  

And I need to see that.  

I need to feel that.  

It is so hard to feel that.  And oh do I ever need to.  We all need to.  

I sit and hold him and I cry with him.  I wrap him in a blanket.  I feel helpless next to him.  And I cry out to God on his behalf.  

Among all of his diagnosis {which really mean less and less each year...} is autism. It hasn't changed a whole lot. But it has helped us figure out a few of his responses and form some helpful ways to deal with those responses.  Saturday was national autism awareness day and I gave myself a special "jamicure" in honor of the way our family dynamic has been shaped by autism.  

Puzzle pieces.  

Pieces of my heart.  Pieces that don't exactly fit together in any logical way.  

When I look at my hands I smile.  My boy has my heart.  I'm so glad.  I'm so glad that he has personified some of my fears and shown me an immensely bigger picture.  

Dear Jay - the night before the big 11

Dear Jay,

I just tucked you into bed - a ten year old.  Tomorrow we greet an eleven year old.

You are wise, you are fun - and still so full throttle.  From day one...

You ushered me into these new things.

Some of them were really, really hard.  You were hard.  And I remember that dichotomy of emotion... How could someone so soft... be so hard?

You are my precious Jay.  I love you so much - sometimes it feels like a physical ache.

The memories of the last 11 years...

Oh man.  What a huge blessing you are.  I can't imagine - don't even want to imagine - what my life would look like without you in it.

 Buddy, I hope you see it - what I see, what your daddy sees.
 This boy who has become a pillar in our family.  You have become so mature, so responsible, so helpful this past year!

You are unique and energetic.  Your role with your older brother has transitioned to something you truly embraced.

That chokes me up.  It warms me from the inside.  That ^^ That is God in you, buddy.  We have seen identity struggles in you, we have seen a kick back, obstinance, stubbornness, and then - this year - a slow surrender.  A subtle shift.  An accepting; embracing.  And Wow.  So much came with that.

You do Big Things to my heart. -Always have. ;)

Your sparkling eyes can shoot arrows or captivate.  You posses so much talent, so much fire, so much potential - it nearly takes my breath away.

We've got this connection - honestly it's one I never could've dreamed!  But here we are.

When I was just becoming a mom I felt that pre teen boys were foreign to me and I would basically screw that stage of my life all up.  It scared me a little, because I had no interest in parenting that stage.  It seemed awkward.

No one told me it was heart melting, beautiful, rewarding, and eye opening.  Is it hard? Yes. {duh}

But it's my favorite.  :) You have never been more dear to me.

Happy 11.  Thank you for changing my world.  You make it better every day.

~Mama