C is for...

C is not just for cookie (though I have chosen to have no less than 5 dozen to bake - and C is for that choice I have made despite a wonderful sign reminding me daily to "Just Say No...").

C is for the chaos and the circus life of boys. 
C is for the coffee, vital, and C is for the challenges of life that build up and blindside at times.
C, lately, is for cleaning and most especially control.  Control: I am weary of it, but feel almost as though I can't help myself.  If things are chaotic all around me, I can try to buckle down and control the piles of laundry, dishes, and tiny pieces of paper from my children's creative endeavours. 

C is for checking tasks off the endless lists.  I feel like cleaning and clear spaces can somehow remedy the tide that overwhelms me.  But all of those daily things - the laundry and dishes and paper and the endless lists - are just that: endless.  And I know this and yet, even as I type this, I am here to admit that it's not "almost as though" as I've just written above: I cannot help myself. 

Our two household words for December are Contentment and Compromise; it flowed over from a family meeting (this is a new and welcome initiative - a time where we can all sit around the table and talk shop and bring up concerns, discuss manners and how we can help one another and (ironically) make jokes about farts.  Admittedly, I don't make those jokes but I just have to laugh.  These are boys, in my house, after all).  But contentment and compromise - these were selfishly chosen from my own weary discussions and negotiations with my boys.

And somewhere in the middle of it all, I realized that these words were equally meant (especially meant?) for me.

Compromise of my personal preferences.
Contentment in the flow. 
Contentment in the lack of flow. 

There's been so much lack of flow... on every level.  For a tangible and tellable example, I present this minor frustration as an allegory for larger issues: a lack of flow of words. 

For as long as I could write independently, I have written independently - intentionally for study or income, in journals, and even on tiny scraps of papers.  Words flowed.  I cannot claim that the sentences any had merit, but the words were a part of me and I couldn't stop the medium or the message.

And then there was (there is - even this entry has been such a challenge as though I am trying to open and use a jar of paint long dried out; I struggle even to gather the thoughts together to knit a simile which isn't a complete cliché) silence.

I have sat with it, feeling nothing for a while, save a certain resemblance of comfort with the knowledge that somehow this has been designed to be a season of silence.  A season that extends far beyond the spring, summer, fall (when did it even begin?) and, in spite of feeling a deep sorrow for my craft (I comfort myself in the words of others), I wait.

Then there's the lack of flow and a lack of contentment when A is for Anger and Anxiety, flowing up in ways I never expected and from situations that are far beyond my control.  These As made their appearance after a weekend of restoration at the end of November - and somehow that is how it happens in life as you come out of a furlough - and if there were places where this empath could be wounded, I was.  Each morning I battle the current, trying to shoulder my hope against the flow. 

I have been thinking a lot lately of B.

B is for broken.

In the midst of news that takes the breath away and relationships in pieces. 

Broken.

It's a refrain.

I hear it in two syllables even as I move things around the house.

Broke/en.

My son works on his haiku for Language Arts at the dining room table and simultaneously the cat breaks one of my ornaments.  Broken.  Two syllables.  And I think of how I am trying so hard to suspend judgement but then there's just something an optimist like me has to declare in order to be able to sleep at night: some things are just broken.

And I could focus on the broken because there's more ornaments to be found in shards and more hurts than lights on my Christmas tree.

The days are darker this close to the solstice and it has felt that way for me this season, in spite of knowing what I know and how I know it, the shadows of pain carve deep grooves in my thinking and the only way I can combat it is by calling it for what it is and then countering by choosing to seek out the joy.  It is truly a process of countering as it's counterintuitive; I just want to curl up around my wounds and the hurts I am carrying.  Choosing instead to plant my feet and face the next wave has been a test.  I falter.

I reflected this week on the fact that of the fruit of the Spirit, faithfulness is by far the hardest.  Don't get me wrong, I wrestle long and hard with self-control and imagine I have and do and will continually need divine intervention to even begin to show any progress in that department.  Undeniably, every fruit is a supernatural gift that I couldn't ever obtain on my own.  But faithfulness: this is the stuff of perseverance.  It's the medium of making the choice that is the hardest when the easiest is available within your reach and it's the medium of picking yourself up and learning from the mistakes that you made when you took the easy route.  It's the semi-colon when you want to put a period. 

Faithfulness in action: being a joy seeker and taking it on as a part of my daily objective.  Looking for joy when it seems impossible - and maybe it is impossible from looking at it from this perspective - to even catch a glimmer of it. 

Sometimes the joy finds me. 

Joy in embracing the silence in the midst of all of the noise and demands; practicing the art of breathing (when times get tough, you have to go back to the basics) these have been the bricks of the wall I have been building amidst all of the regular actions of keeping on keeping on.  And the mortar between the bricks are tiny pieces of paper - the only words that have come of late to be written- prayers, that I have folded carefully and pushed in the cracks - my very own wailing wall for the ones whose lives touch my own.   

There are times like this that I long for Home and for when all will be made whole again.  Home: it's no small thing.

It's no small thing, the encouraging message from a friend who took the time. 
It's no small thing, when I stumble over beauty in the midst of my mess and I am filled with wonder.

It's no small thing to hear small ones belt out "Thank You God for Baby Jesus!" at a Christmas concert... a kindergarten performance can have healing powers. 

Jesus coming in the middle of the broken.  It's no small thing. 

The small things that don't seem to be ever meant to be anything more than small things.  The tiny light of hope that I'm tending.  It's no small thing.  And so even though I see the broken, and I am the broken, I am choosing to change the two syllables I hear as I battle for joy.

I have changed it to Thank You.

It's an effort, this Thank You.

It doesn't come naturally.  Gratefulness is not a natural reaction of the heart which is overwhelmed, of the heart which has been broken.

It's no small thing to rename, refocus, renew in the midst of it all.  It's no small thing to be intentional and to really experience a moment. It's no small thing to discover joy.

I had a moment like of deep intentionality recently.  I really heard the lyrics of a song - really heard them - and it has been an echoed refrain in my heart since then:

You are holy
You are righteous
You are one of the redeemed
Set apart, a brand new heart
You are free indeed

It's no small thing to be reminded who you are.  

It's no small thing to be reminded who God is.

And that is what I would like to recognize in the midst of all of this: I may try to logically draw my own conclusions about the challenges and every other C that comes to mind, but this chapter hasn't been finished yet.  Learning how to faithfully wait for a conclusion, knowing that the ending will be immeasurably more amazing than I could possibly begin to imagine, shifts my perspective entirely.   

I'm not sure where you're at this intense time of the year.  Even in spite of all of what I've processed as I've written, I'm not sure even where I'm at; but for all of the C words that keep on running through my mind, I am writing this for my heart:

C is for Contentment
C is for Compromise
C is for Change
C is for Choosing Joy,
             Choosing to keep the faith,
             Choosing be thankful. 
C is for Conclusions based in truth and wholeness
and, most importantly, I gently remind myself:
C is for Christmas, when love came down, the best beginning to the greatest grace.  

Freedom

I am still processing the information yet I cannot but help to share the news:

I no longer have to take warfarin.

Nate's wearing a shirt today with this saying that completely expresses my reaction.

No more coumadin?  No more INR checks?  No more dietary restrictions and medication conflicts?  No more bruising?  No more medic alert bracelet?

Yes.

My hematologist is amazing but his communication method is hard to interpret.  I felt compelled to confirm this information several times in order to be sure.

No more warfarin?
As in: tonight I can stop taking this medication?
I never have to take it again?

Yes.

Apparently, three years is sufficient time for a PE patient (with an unknown source of the clots - which is approximately 1/3 of PE patients) to be anticoagulated (according to 95% of the specialists).  I could choose to continue to be anticoagulated but the risk of bleeding outweighs the preventative measure.

I was surprised.  I had anticipated a lifelong obligation to warfarin.  It isn't the easiest medication to take as there's so many things to balance and check.   However, in many ways, I had been comforted taking it; it was a safety net for my brain, an assurance that I would never have another PE again.  There is a small part of my brain that flagged anxiety - which I discussed with the doctor - around my concern about reoccurrence as asthma does often signal with chest pressure and (unsurprisingly) shortness of breath.  However, the larger part of my thinking process reminded me that when I knew, I knew that something major was amiss.  Ultimately, I know that I am ready to face that anxiety.  I am ready to start taking a low dosage of asprin for 3 months as I transition off.  I am ready to eat kale (and a dozen or so of other foods high in vitamin K) in copious amounts.  I am ready to cancel those future bloodwork appointments.  I am ready to move on.

Just two weeks away from the three year mark of the trip to the ICU, I can't help but feel a sense of freedom.

Ephesians 3:20 indeed.   

Inspiration

It's very interesting how timing works, isn't it?

I wrote my impressions on Pinterest in this previous post. Less than 18 hours later, I met a fabulous friend for coffee and was introduced to a brand new perspective on this site.

She explained this: it's about inspiration.

Essentially, my new friend explained, it's like a magazine where every page is a great article.  She chooses the content and who she follows very carefully.

Brilliant.

There's two opposing views on Pinterest here by other moms-who-blog.  I had picked up a Today's Parent magazine in my doctor's office to read Bunmi Laditan's comments: "I don't pin.  [Pinterest for me is all about] crafts I'll never do, meals I'll never make."  Yes. That's how I had felt.  More, I do deeply appreciate her take on not trying to make her children's childhood magical and I did like this excerpt from her blog entry that's been circulating this week:

Do we want to teach our children that the magic of life is something that comes beautifully gift-wrapped -- or that magic is something you discover on your own?

Planning elaborate events, daily crafts, and expensive vacations isn't harmful for children. But if the desire to do so comes from a place of pressure or even a belief that the aforementioned are a necessary part of one's youth, it's time to reevaluate.

A childhood without Pinterest crafts can be magical. A childhood without a single vacation can be magical. The magic we speak of and so desperately want our children to taste isn't of our creation, and therefore is not ours to dole out as we please. It is discovered in quiet moments by a brook or under the slide at the park, and in the innocent laughter of a life just beginning.

I agree with the principles behind this.  And yet, as I have discovered, there is that flip side: Pinterest can be a tool for creativity and fun.

So for a few days - in moments here and there around every day life - I've been pinning things to my pinterest board.  Not everything that I will pin will be done.  Nor should it be.  Each pin has potential to be a useful tip, technique or idea for my life - a busy, noisy, messy, wonderful life - that in ideal circumstances, could use a think tank's resources for life made simple(r).

I imagine that, like most things in life, Pinterest is a resource to be used with much about wisdom, discernment and moderation.

It's a resource.  It's not a plumb line.  It's not a goal-orienting-tool.  Used by perfectionists and the perfectly imperfect alike, it's important to remember who you are and whose you are when contemplating any project.

And as I was about to post this today, I read this very wise and articulate article which effectively sums it all up for me.  The highlight for me from her post is this:

As a Christian, I absolutely love what Edith Schaeffer writes in “What is a Family?” about how we are created in the image of God, and thus we are to be creative people.  Just think about the world that God created – the variety of animals, the beauty of a sunset, the flowers of spring.  We appreciate that beauty because we are made in His image!  There are a thousand ways to express that creativity, and as moms, none of us have to be the same!  All of us are to find beauty in everyday things and to encourage creativity in our homes.  Some of us may enjoy doing arts and crafts projects with our kids, while others excel at working to create a garden or a chicken coop, or cooking, or writing, or computer programming, or music, or babysitting, or any number of other things.  If done for His glory, God is praised in all of our creative efforts!

As parents, there is a balance between turning our kids loose to entertain themselves and overindulging them with fun things to do.  The balance is providing needed support so that they can learn to become creative individuals.

Although I will not be planting jelly beans (and reserve the right to not suspend my disbelief about content), I humbly admit that I am now actively interested in Pinterest because I see now that limiting my exposure to the creativity that's accessible on media is counter-intuitive if I am daring to be open to let God do immeasurably more in my life and, by extension, the lives of my boys.  

You can see what I've found interesting by going to the board immeasurably more.  

Significance

Before I even start writing this blog entry, I feel as though I should put out the caveats that I wasn't even going to attempt to write it because I was anxious as to not showcase my quirky side.  I was worried that writing it would be opening the door to judgement.  There is a part of me that knows I am going to make myself vulnerable in telling the world some of the things I do which could be perceived as nothing less than odd.  I am writing it because I read a wonderful post about an amazing mama who is sewing her children's bedsheets in the cutest of cute flannel fabric. And to her (and so many other of my talented, amazing friends) I say "Eshet Chayil".

I'm not writing it to receive accolades or invite critique or, not that I believe that it's even a possibility, promote some kind of strange peer pressure where others feel obliged to do what I am doing.

However, all this aside, I decided to write it because it was an epiphany of sorts.  One that has come from the fact that because of this journey, I am a different person.  I see the little things as much more meaningful.  Even if the little things mean pulling out a Sharpie as I am preparing my eldest's lunch and drawing on a banana peel.  Really.

Five years ago I had a radically different outlook on my life.

Five years ago, I was working on a scrapbook layout for my little boy who was fourteen months old.  It was an enjoyable experience, scrapbooking.  I had two wonderful sisters-in-all-things-scrapbooking who encouraged me on an experience that became more about life art than simply cutting and pasting pictures on a page.

We'd get together and work, talk, eat, and laugh for hours.  I treasure those times. Yet one layout from that time had left me with the feeling that it was still incomplete.  This layout was made during a particularly challenging time of my life.  It was following my maternity leave and then another 2 month leave due to chronic post partum depression.  I was almost finished this labour of love of a layout and at the very end had stopped.  I never truly completed what I had started.  I stopped because I thought that this layout was indicative of a need for me to go back to work.  Here it was - a scrapbook page with photos carefully chosen, stamping for each letter in the subtitles, backgrounds to match the colours and even a font researched and cut out to go along with the Curious George signature.  I had spent so much time, energy and creative resources on it that surely, I thought, it was a sign that I was ready to spend that time, energy and creative resources in the realm of my career.  

I see now that those pages of the scrapbook - with a journalling page I also included about 10 things I love about this boy - indeed required much time, energy and creative resources.  But I have also seen how much that boy enjoys the experience of reading his story.  By extension, I am given the gift of joy.

What once was insane and a reason to divert creativity, I now see as a language of love, a creation for each boy.

It is not to say that my previous work at the college was not significant - I hope that it was resourceful for the students and faculty I worked with - but I have somehow gained a new perspective on day-to-day investments of my time, energy and creative resources.  

I have found through talking to others who have gone through a medical journey that they often come to a place of recognizing significance in the minutiae of their lives.  Significance of the momentary gifts that they are given - or simply the significance of the time that they are given.  There is a weight which comes following recovery and in a way, it makes me reconsider so many different elements of my daily life.  

This is a good thing. 

I am more intentional, more thankful, more joyful and more willing to do unusual things.  

Like drawing on bananas.  My nine-year-old loves when I draw him pictures, write jokes or wish him a 'purr-fect' day with happy-faced-cats on the peel of his bananas with a Sharpie.  Mentioning this to another mother, however, I was met with skepticism. I know that as a parent, I'm going to face criticism.  I feel like I do often when interacting with other mothers.  But, as Jennie Allen points out - being liked is overrated.    I think this applies to my interactions.  Not only for fear of the perceived criticism that they may direct my way but rather the criticism that I hold for myself. 

So when I'm misunderstood by another parent, that's one thing.  Yet there's an internal monologue occurring sometimes when I'm drawing on a banana skin or making a pair of mat men for the twins - a voice that is making fun of what I'm doing, sarcastically pointing out that you have a university degree and faculty position on your resume and you are currently employing your time doing what?  I know that I have to stop myself from undermining the significance of what I'm doing.  

There is significance. With boys - or at least in this household - a significant dialect of our love language is spoken through food.  There is significance to what we do on the small scale as much as the large scale.  There is significance to the individualized gestures we can bring to the lives of our little people.  

But, as with all things, there is a flip side.  

Its name is Pinterest.

For so many Pinterest is a wonderful resource.  For me it is a source of angst (and I don't even have an account... I merely survey the postings which end up on facebook).  I am sure that this is not the case for everyone, but in my case I know I need to avoid the lure of the polished perfectionistic projects.  I am concerned about a society that seems bent on seeking out perfection in all things.

For his sixth birthday, my son was given the game Perfection.  The kids have had a lot of fun with the game but I have seen it more as an illustration of something that eludes me.  The game came with the correct number of pieces but instead of a turtle shape, there were two of one piece.  Based on the way it's set up, this means that the player can never truly reach perfection.  More, the timer goes and prompts a boy to frenzy - placing those pieces in as quickly as possible only to have the whole thing to pop when the timer is over.  The pieces fly everywhere and the player is obliged to start again.

It seems like a perfect illustration of perfection to me.   And that's how Pinterest could be for me.  Case in point:

I saw a posting on facebook from Pinterest for an activity with kids where you go out in the early evening to plant jelly beans in your yard and the next day the children wake up to find a lawn erupting in lollipops.

Although part of me finds this a whimsical idea and I imagine it would be a great deal of fun, I am concerned.  I see how I live in a society bent on happy children where there's already an overabundance of sugar (why was it that my childrens' Valentine's boxes were filled with candy this year?) without having it bloom outdoors.  As a gardener, I have a bit of a problem with teaching urban kids that planting a bean produces an overnight harvest of lollipops.  I think that I am even more concerned that life is presented to these little ones with many, many unrealistic expectations (related to a great article called "Why Generation Y Yuppies Are Unhappy").

However, all this aside, possibly the thought that seemed the most revealing was the fact that in trying to manufacture magic, parents and children alike lose track of the magic – very real supernatural and natural beauty – which exists within (and in) our reach. The good, the hard, the real, the mundane – in the extraordinary and significant lives which we each lead.

As for me, I will keep on drawing on banana peels, fashioning cucumber arms for Mat Men and writing down memories in books for the boys.

There's a kind of magic in that... beyond a momentary sugar rush and a significance behind the gesture.  I am giving thanks for the food that I prepare, for the moment in which I am experiencing it and for the child it is destined for.   

What if we give thanks for the gifts that we already have?

What if I take the resources I already have (bananas) and make it fun?

What if I take the learning platform (for the twins it's been Mat Man from the Handwriting Without Tears program) and make it accessible?

What if I capture the moment by living it out with the child and then recording it for them, even in point form and cement a memory for the both of us?

What if each mother was able to determine what she could do which was significant for her little one and the ones she loves in a given day and find that she is supported in her endeavors?

What if I find the significant in the seemingly insignificant?

What if I count my blessings in a habitual way?

I have discovered that the "what if" questions answered lead to joy.

It is a wonderful place to be.

*

“And when I give thanks for the seemingly microscopic, I make a place for God to grow within me.”
― Ann Voskamp, One Thousand Gifts: A Dare to Live Fully Right Where You Are

Breaking the Ice

I took the three youngest boys to the mountains a couple of Saturdays ago.  The long drive incited a much needed nap for the little men and allowed me to fulfill some much longed for thought processing time.  It was a gift.  

Once we got there, the boys were eager to enjoy a snack and then get out to explore.  They had remembered the big rocks on the shoreline here in the late fall and had wanted to return to one of their favourite pastimes of climbing and inspecting them.  

However, they soon discovered that most of the rocks were buried under a thick layer of ice.

Undaunted, they decided to find a new objective: breaking the ice.

It was cold.  The wind whipped all around us.  And aside from skating on it, I had never really appreciated ice (winter, snow, cold) very much.  At all.  In fact, it was really the antithesis of that.  But that Saturday afternoon I discovered how beautiful the ice could be.

Perhaps it is the journey I've been on... that I am on.  Perhaps it is the counting of gifts.  Perhaps it is the fact that in so many ways, I am recognizing the wisdom and lessons readily accessible through the ways of my children.  Perhaps it is all of this and more, but in that afternoon, I couldn't help but feel a wonder at it all - the mountains, the children, the ice - the incredible gifts above, below and right in front of me.

Breaking the ice. 

I like one of the definitions for this idiom: to get something started.  

My list - my lists - have surpassed a thousand gifts.
Yet, there is a phenomenon at work here as I am experiencing new joy in old places.
In breaking the constructs of my expectations and finding hope, beauty and peace in the most challenging moments, toughest experiences and unlovely situations.
When it comes to gratefulness, I discover, I am breaking the ice... I'm just getting started.
What a gift that is indeed.

The gift of immeasurably less

The tree is up in our house adorned with treasures from Christmases past and handmade creations by four little boys.  I listen to Christmas carols on the radio as I help my eldest get ready for school.

Although I've already been planning for the 25th, it seems as though the season of advent has come and I'm not prepared.  I wonder at these ironic moments when I feel like I'm not prepared for the season of preparation.  I could list all that I have yet to do.

Somehow I forget that I am the one who gets to determine that list.

Somehow I forget that I really not need to have a list at all.

There have been so many Christmases now that gave me the gift of revelation: less is more.

I have found myself wrapped up in the pursuit of perfection many an occasion but most particularly at Christmas.  I will never forget my first Christmas as a wife, our first Christmas together, working so hard to make Christmas turkey dinner just as I had always grown up with.  My stuffing turned out to be croutons.  I cried then but, looking back, I  realized that I learned that the gift of laughter.  We've enjoyed this memory in the years since and in that side-dish-based lesson, I learned that letting go is more important than trying to strive for my preconceived version of Christmas where I would re-create perfection.

The Christmas I was awaiting the birth of my first child seemed as though the day and his due date would never arrive.  I spent my time uncomfortably waiting with no small amount of anticipation.  His due date was December 20th and I had my own ideas about pregnancy, birth and motherhood.  I had (and still have) a lot to learn.  His arrival was delayed by weeks and I cried on the 25th holding the little sleeper I had bought for his first Christmas.  That Christmas I learned much about unrealistic expectations.

There was the Christmas where I was given the gift of learning how to be still in the quiet of the prairies - the peace of the fields covered in frost.  There was the Christmas of longing for another child - a hope deferred - followed by a Christmas where I held that very child in my arms.  I cried tears looking into his sweet face as the choir sang around us during the Christmas concert at our church.  They had asked me to play Mary and my newborn was to be the babe; as I held this sweet boy gift, and felt an overwhelming, indescribable, surge of joy.

Most likely due to sleep deprivation, my memories are ambiguous from Christmas three years ago - the year that infant twins celebrated their first Christmas.  In the midst of the busyness and messiness of my household that year, I learned the beauty of less is more when it came to Christmas. This was the year that I truly embraced the perfectly imperfect.

The following year I learned how even less can sometimes mean even more.  That Christmas -  the year I began this blog - is when I realized how I was blessed immeasurably more than I could have ever imagined through the love and blessings of family and friends who brought gifts of time and kindness to our family of inestimable value.  I grew in understanding even as my heart ached and my health condition placed me in a position of being unable to make Christmas happen for my family.  And yet Christmas still happened - perhaps the most beautiful Christmas ever - because our family of six expanded significantly, surrounded by caring family who made a beautiful, memorable, blessed Christmas possible for all of us.  Even less can mean even more.

When it comes to Christmas, our society seems to be intent on proclaiming the complete opposite of this.  In fact, when it comes to most areas of life, the goal is continually to strive after more.  And in that vein, it should be the perfect version of more.  I have discovered something about myself in the years when I worked diligently decorating cookies and trying to get everything done to perfection before midnight on the 24th: striving hinders my ability to intentionally live out the moment.  

This year I have already missed lighting the first candle on our Advent wreath on Sunday.  I also missed hanging up our first figurine on our advent calendar.  Somehow I forgot it was December.  Where once this would have distressed me, I actually felt a sense of peace about it.  I had been distracted the Sunday night by taking my eldest out for a Christmas skate - our first skate of the season - and it had been magical.  And missing a day?  Well, it simply meant a Christmas candle lighting on a Monday morning (which made the start of the week more significant) and an extra figurine for the calendar on the 2nd (which meant that two boys were able to add something together).  

This year I've already messed up a batch of shortbread cookies - using far too much butter and making a melted mess for two dozen before realizing my mistake.  What I eventually concocted was not anything near what I had hoped for (as I had taken the remaining batter and added icing sugar and flour without any gauge on measurement possible) but with a sprinkling of sugar on top, the boys didn't seem to notice or mind.  They had a cookie.  They announced that they were delicious.

As I battled my way through snowbanks with two toddlers trudging beside me, I spoke out thankfulness.  I was thankful for the sun and the blue skies and the little mittened hands that held mine.  This is the gift I want to intentionally give my boys this year: the gift of thankfulness.  

I have learned that thankfulness can be a transformative element.  Thanksgiving always precedes the miracle. It can change the stresses and anxieties of this heavily anticipated season into peaceful acceptance. More, it can move an overwhelmed mama to a place of deep gratefulness for the smallest of moments.

I've heard it all before but maybe it is slowly, year after year, sinking in: that first Christmas is characterized by immeasurably less.  The infinite in the form of an infant.  The king in the manger.  One book of one book alone describes His birth.  That first Christmas was wrapped in such great anticipation but arrived in a way that was unremarkable, perfectly imperfect, and mundane.  

I am deciding that this year, the lessons I've learned of
letting go,
embracing laughter,
joy for gifts unconditional,
less is more,
peace in moments of deep trial,
seeing miracles in the mundane,
intentionally in living out the moments,
thankfulness, and
love will be more important to me than all the trimmings this year.

The advent wreath has four candles representing hope, joy, peace and love.  Over these Christmases and the seasons between I have learned a depth about these beautiful components of faith.  However, more than any one thing, I have learned the truth of 1 Corinthians 13: but the greatest of these is love.

Love came down at Christmas.  It is the source of and the purpose of all that I do during this season.

May your preparations for Christmas be those of immeasurably less as well as immeasurably more in hope, joy, peace and love.  

If I didn't have you

There are two things in life for which we are never truly prepared:  twins.  

~Josh Billings

Even before I started writing it, I knew that this entry would be off track.  However, the more I thought about it, the more I believe it does fit under the whole overarching theme of this blog of immeasurably more.

You see, I am a mother of multiples.

Discovering that I was expecting baby 3 and 4 was most definitely immeasurably more than I had ever imagined.  My paradigm had always included me being a mother of two or three... never four.  However, I daily look at these little men and marvel in thankfulness.  

Before I go any further, I feel as though I need to also put out the caveat: this entry is not me writing to rant or to try to change a specific view.  This is me speaking only for me about mothering twins.  

I know that I am also living out what for some would be a miracle - that they would give so much to have their arms full of kids.  My world to them appears to be an illustration of 'what-might-have-been-if' with the resulting feeling of a sense of deep loss without ever experiencing it.  In that vein, I can't even begin to broach how heartbroken I feel for those who would love to have children (or more children) but are unable.  I can only imagine and I grieve with them and I appreciate their view of my boys as gifts. 

And in that same track, having many friends who are single, married or in relationships without children, parents of single children, parents of two children, parents of eight children... I can't express how much respect I feel about each individual's choices with regards to family.  

Yet, I guess that's what it comes down to for me: respect.  

I respect that everyone's journey is unique and different, but it is often challenging to live a life out loud (and it is loud... really loud) parenting four boys when the society I live in is very much set up for two children.  

And yet... here's the reason I am writing: I would like to change a perception about my life with four boys.   Countless times in the last three years I have introduced my family only to hear the comment: "you're exactly the reason I didn't have a third child!".

I don't suppose anyone ever wanted to be a walking public service announcement. Generally, I find levity or, at the very least, I am diplomatic about the many (and there are so many) comments about my twins; however, in this case, I have to say I am becoming most irriated by this particular comment.

Granted, I understand that for many parents, a third child is beyond their comprehension.   I get that.  I realize that they are only speaking for themselves and for what would (or wouldn't) work for their paradigm.  Maybe it could be seen as funny and I know it's been said in an entirely light-hearted-way many times.  Maybe it's a knee-jerk-inner-voice reaction that is said without much thought about what it might mean to the recipient of the message.  

Message received: my life appears to be some kind of reassurance that they made the right decision, a form of an ironic lottery recipient, an illustration from a parallel dimension of 'what-might-have-been-if...'.  No worries; it's understandable from this side of my own ponderings.  

Though last week when it was said to me by yet another stranger who I had just met, I hit a wall.  Thus my irritation.  However, I think it goes much more beyond this.  This quick assumption that less is more is missing some really important outcomes.

The comment about me being the reason to not have a third child because of my experience in having twins is a challenge.  It is delivered by the individual as a confirmation of the choices that she and her spouse have made, but for me, it is a dismissal of my children.  And lately, I've come to believe that it's a dismissal of the journey I am on.  

You see, no matter how challenging it is to parent two infants [two toddlers, two preschoolers, (not to mention to the challenge of learning how to parent twins in addition to two older brothers)], these two boys are incredible blessings.  The journey I am on is a hard one where it is necessary to be stretched in ways I couldn't have ever imagined - from carrying two babes to 38 weeks to having a very full lap whilst comforting them when they are both in tears.  As they are growing, they are growing me in ways I could have never anticipated.  

I remember that old me - the one who juggled life with two kids and a professional life.  I have changed so much.  We went into our third pregnancy prayerfully and after much deliberation.  I know that this is the path that we were meant to take.  It's not the path for everyone; it has meant pouring out in ways I never would have predicted.  Parenting the boys has brought me out of my comfort zone, changed my perceptions of how life is supposed to me, has taught me things that have made me wiser, has taught me lessons (and I am continually learning) which have changed the topography of my heart and, quite possibly, has made me a stronger woman.

Ultimately, as pointed out in this blog entry about marriage, true love means being in a relationship that is not for you.  Motherhood is not for me.

In loving these boys, I grow while I reap joy, I discover that peace isn't about a set of circumstances and I count my blessings.  

I had always loved the poem Song for a Fifth Child. Sometime ago I began writing a poem for my third and fourth children.  With a deep breath (and no small amount of trepidation), here it is...

If I didn't have you

Sitting on the worn dock

looking at the sun set

looking back to me ten years ago.

Remembering that life 

and that pace of days,

thinking about all I didn't know.

I can't sit here that long,

can't stay and meditate,

because your brothers are in a battle

and I've got to mediate.

You're so full of spiritedness

and not too shy for energy

There's so many endless days

that I'm sure you've got the best of me.

And maybe that's the point -

one of the best parts I find -

you've brought out the best of me

in all of me I've left behind.  

Mothering, all I have in each one,

goes beyond your child-like wonder

and joy in your having fun

I hold you tight

and tuck you in

and pray for futures

before dreams begin

but more than that

I see how it's true

what my life would be

if I didn't have you.

If I didn't have you

my life would be

One big pursuit

of things for me.

I might have travelled

or written a clever book

but you've moved my heart

in just one cheeky look.

The chapters written

in your steps

are worth tomes of words

people would soon forget.

So maybe I choose not to care

when people look at us

and stop to stare

because I've heard what they've had to say -

that there would've been an easier way -

but they'll never understand

because they never had you.

If I didn't have you

maybe I would've seen some places

and rested on sandy beaches and social graces

and I know that there's times that I'm left out

because of my life that speaks in untamed shout

But the geography of who I am 

has been sculpted into something new

and it's a thing of beauty 

that I'd have missed

if in this life 

I didn't have you.