When Please and Thank You Become a Lesson in Shared Humanity

From potty training to people training, kids cause us to think through all the whys of what we do.

Tonight, as we left our favorite local pizza joint - me with a baby and a pizza in my hands and my boy carrying all of the accoutrements - someone was kind enough to hold the door for us. Because it means the world to a mom with her hands full, I thanked him and my son walked on through without a word.

I gently reminded him that if he feels grateful when someone holds the door for him, he can say thank you. He responded, “I just forgot.”

“It’s ok, we all forget sometimes.” And I went on to explain to him that we don’t say “thank you” because we’re supposed to or because it’s the polite thing to do. We say thank you to show our gratitude. We say thank you because holding the door for someone and offering a thanks in response is a simple exchange at the intersection of our shared humanity.

That guy who held the door for us - I don’t know how he voted or what he believes or if he’s pro-this or anti-that. None of that mattered in the moment. What I do know is that he saw someone who needed a little help and he stepped in. I also know that I felt grateful for the help. As Brenè Brown would say, “that’s what is true between us.”

Mac N Cheese Please: A Lesson in Understanding Differences

Who knew mac n cheese could be so controversial? As a child, my memories of mac n cheese include only my mother’s carefully crafted homemade concoction with real white cheddar bubbling up along the sides of a CorningWare dish. That is until the summer of my eighth year when I joined a friend’s family for dinner. Her mother placed a bowl of elbow noodles coated in a bright, almost fluorescent, orange liquid in front of me - a far cry from sauce, in my young opinion. In all innocence, I asked, “what do you call this meal?” Her mom, looking puzzled, responded, “Well dear, it’s macaroni and cheese. Haven’t you ever had it before?” 

I stared at my bowl dumbfounded, silently questioning how anyone could call this mac n cheese? Nevertheless, I politely ate the orange noodles masquerading as macaroni and cheese. Years later I would understand that when prompted with the words, "mac n cheese", not everyone envisions a baked noodle casserole oozing with real cheese. Some people picture the word, Kraft, written across a blue box.

From an early age we become accustomed to the food, traditions, and styles introduced in our homes. The whats, hows, and whys of life are initially shaped by that which is familiar and framed by what takes place in our families. Our earliest memories are likely peppered with the foods, styles, and traditions around which our families were centered. If those memories are positive, when confronted with an idea outside of what's familiar, the memory is often viewed as negative. To encounter a foreign way of doing something is to lift the veil, exposing our limited thinking. 

Is boxed mac n cheese wrong? Of course not. There's no right and wrong when it comes to noodles and cheese, only subjective opinion. But my reaction to the noodles from a box coated in orange told me otherwise. It felt wrong, because it was different.

Does homemade mac n cheese taste better than its boxed counterpart? I’d answer with an emphatic “heck yeah.” That is unless I’m pregnant. When with child there’s something about that powdered cheese that I crave. As it turns out, people hold some pretty strong opinions when it comes to noodles and cheese. Some prefer it homemade, some the gourmet alternative such as lobster mac n cheese, and some feel comforted by the boxed version.

These preferences may be based in familiarity, taste, or even convenience. I may have looked down my nose at that Kraft mac n cheese as a kid, but now as busy mom, there are nights where I say, give me the box. Sometimes convenience trumps taste as the reigning value of the moment.

So, the next time I find myself faced with a situation or idea that feels strange, I’m going to run it through the mac n cheese test - does it feel weird simply because it’s different or unfamiliar to me? If I acknowledge that my aversion to an idea is connected to my lack of familiarity with it, then I might view it with more openness and less disdain. If I learn more about a tradition or way of doing something, and why others choose it, my circle of familiarity expands. And perhaps, like boxed mac n cheese, I might even choose it myself some day. 

The Lost Art of Sitting Still

The kids are back in school. And for me, that means I have relinquished responsibility for two thirds of my charges for approximately 6.8 hours per day. Not that I'm counting. 

The combo of summer break and three kids gave me a run for my money. I kept my head above water but just barely, as I described here. But suddenly, my daughter started sleeping through the night which happened to coincide with the start of the school year, and I feel like a new woman. I can breathe.

So, during my first week of freedom, err the boys being back in school, I decided to take advantage of a chunk of time between clients and go sit by a lake. And by sit, I mean only sit. Typically, if I take the time to sit by a lake I am also doing something else like eating or reading or sending emails or scrolling Facebook. Because let's face it, my life is one long massive string of multitasking moments. 

But I decided I would see if I could just sit. Still. For five minutes. When do I ever do that anymore? Never. I mean, when sitting down to a meal by myself which is rare in and of itself, I am usually also doing something on my phone. When I watch tv, I'm folding clothes, ordering clothes, or online attending to some details in my tinies' lives. Even when I pray, I'm usually also showering, running, driving etc... Multitasking. Always. So, there, on the park bench I just sat.

You guys, it was hard. Really hard. My mind kept wandering. I started fidgeting with my fitbit. I meal-planned for the week in my head. I struggled to turn everything off. But as I sat and stared, I began to sink into the moment. I observed a host of cool cloud formations dancing in the sky. I witnessed geese splashing about. I soaked up the beauty of sunflowers standing tall, waving in the wind. I sat.

And for five minutes of my day, I felt like a human being rather than a human doing.

I think I will practice this art more often. When was the last time you sat still for 5 minutes or more?

“Be still and know that I am God.”

Swimming in the Sea of Three

Though it feels like a lifetime ago, I vividly remember nearly every detail of my first triathlon. My excitement was palpable, as were my nerves. Having spent my first decade and a half on swim team, I was most looking forward to the swim portion of the race.

But the morning of the triathlon ushered in a wind so unruly and fierce, whipping the water of the Boulder Reservoir up into actual waves with whitecaps. Standing in the wild waves, swim cap and goggles in place, I awaited the sound of the whistle, signaling the start of the race.

And like that, we were off, our bodies cutting through the angry water. But the waves, they were intense, churning me about, threatening to suck me under at any moment. While I remained afloat, barely, every stroke felt like it zapped the energy of five.

As I rounded the last buoy and headed for the shore, my muscles were voicing the soft cry of fatigue, and I questioned my ability to complete the bike and run that were to follow. I dragged my tired body out of the water and willed myself to the transition area where I prepared for the bike portion of the race. And one pedal, one mile, one step at a time, I completed the bike and the run, and thus the race.

It wasn't pretty, and it certainly wasn't enjoyable every moment of the way. In fact, brutal might be my descriptor of choice, but I was buoyed by a deep sense of contentment as I pushed through each hard moment, and crossed the finish line with an explosion of pure joy.

Fast forward to my life today, the one in which I find myself adjusting to three kids, a whirlwind of activity, and a life always on the move. When people ask me how it's going with three kids, I can't help but remember that first triathlon. 

Life today feels much like my effort to swim through the choppy water of the Boulder Res on that day long ago. Life with three -  I'm constantly being churned about by a stormy sea, trying desperately to stay afloat, while the threat of drowning feels altogether real. And though I'm thoroughly fatigued, I'm still in it, doing it, day after day, filled with a strange sense of peace and contentment as I go. It's wild and unpredictable; challenging and exhausting. And I wouldn't trade it for anything.

Not too long ago, at the end of a wonderfully packed but loooong day with the kids, Tom asked me if I wanted him to go out and get some wine. I quickly snapped, "NOOOO. I want to go. All by myself, with no human attached to me."

So I went, I browsed, and I lingered, admiring all of the pretty, shiny labels. I assembled a lovely case of wine and prepared myself to head back to my den of chaos. When I pulled into my driveway, I just sat there, staring up at the stars, giving myself a much needed pep talk to exit the car. 

I opened the door to the house, only to be greeted by my 5 yr old donning mismatched pjs, a pair of underwear on his head fashioned like a superhero helmet, and displaying a tongue so green it could only be described as phospho luminescent.

Somebody who shall remain nameless, thought it was a good idea to let him use **liquid** food coloring {I meant the color decorating gel when I said he could use food coloring} to decorate his freshly made cookies. Face palm. 

I was also quickly informed that his brand new white shirt had become a canvas for said green food coloring, but that Dad had applied some stain remover and it was already soaking as we spoke. Husband had handled it. Thank God. I mean that literally, because while it's all funny now {especially because the stain came out - thank you, OxiClean}, in that moment, I felts as though I had no capacity to handle it, certainly not well anyway. I was simply too exhausted in every way. 

It's not even that any one of my kids is particularly difficult. It's the sheer number of them that does me in.

And I know, three is not a large number, but it is one more than I had before, so I'm being stretched in new ways. There's one more to feed; one more to schedule doctor appointments for; one more to do laundry for {oh, the laundry}; there are now three kids who could potentially burrow their way into our bed at night; and three kids with near constant needs and whose wants are always intersecting with moods, producing a mountain of big feelings. Big feelings everywhere.

It often feels like there aren't enough hours in the day nor energy in my tank to address all of the needs and big feelings in a way that feels right to me. 

I recently explained to Tom how I'm someone who tends to live in the present. Most of my time is spent living not in the past nor the future, but in the here and now.

And life with kids presents a serious challenge to my way of living because it's as though I'm engaged in a never ending game of chess, requiring me to think three moves ahead at all times.  

I'm always strategizing - how can I get the groceries, feed the baby, fold the laundry, call the client, prep the dinner, call the doctor, and get the baby some unwanted tummy time, and feed the her again, all before afternoon school pick-ups begin.

This is the life of any parent, and the addition of each child brings a new normal with added layers of planning and responsibility. The constant need to plan ahead wreaks havoc on my natural desire to live in the here and now.

I don't know how people with 4 or 5 or 6 kids do it, except that I do. Because they tell me, "we just do it. It's what we know," which is exactly what I used to say when asked how I managed with a 17 month old and a newborn. I just did it.

And isn't that the truth for all of us, for whatever challenging circumstances we find ourselves in?

We just do it. We just keep putting one foot in front of the other, we keep going, tired and weary, but nevertheless clinging to the hope that buoys our being and pressing on until we cross the finish line. 

And while there are now three children to think about, whose needs must be met, it means there are also three children who fill my heart with love - three healthy children to give thanks for; three wildly different personalities; three children who make me smile and laugh daily; three children whose growth and development I get to play witness to.

These are but a few of the positive intangibles in a world of easy-to-decribe negative tangibles. 

So, while I may be exhausted, swimming in my sea of three, it's a contented kind of exhaustion, and I will just keep swimming, because I wouldn't have it any other way. My hands are full, but oh, so is my heart.

I Will Rise Up: An Ode to Moms Everywhere

Darkness had swallowed up the last of the day as I sat in the Chick-Fil-A parking lot with my three kids, monitoring a possible anaphylactic reaction. As the lone adult, I agonized over the decision whether or not to Epi-pen my 6 year old, contemplating a drive to the hospital or a call to 911; alternatively, I thought, maybe he's ok and I should just drive home and monitor him for the night. Of course, my husband, Tom, was out of the country and at dinner with work colleagues, so I couldn't reach him, despite my 11 attempts to do so.

I stared at the red patches on my son's neck, listening to his sudden cough, and noting his complaints of a stomach ache - all three, mirroring the symptoms of his last anaphylactic reaction. Yet, it seemed different this time. The coughing could be explained by his running around. The redness on his neck wasn't exactly hives, it was simply red. His cough appeared to be settling down. Unsure of my next move, I started driving home, EpiPen in hand, hurling questions at my son for the duration of the drive.

My husband called as we were pulling into the driveway. I explained the situation in detail. After asking me follow-up questions, he uttered a statement that landed on me with the force of a thousand pounds of concrete, "I trust you to make the decision." NOOOOOOO. No. No. No. I didn't want to be the one to make the decision. To be the sole person making a judgment call regarding my child's life or death {for context, we almost lost him once, which you can read about here} is decidedly the most lonely and weighty place in the world for me. I really didn't know what to do and I didn't want to be the one to make the decision. But, I was the Mom, the adult in charge, and I had to make the call. I had to rise up and face the situation head on. And then I had to live with whatever decision I made.

Once home, his cough completely subsided and according to him, his stomach didn't hurt anymore. Listening to my gut, I decided not to administer the EpiPen, choosing to monitor him through the night. He and the baby spent the night in my room. He slept like a champ. Me, I didn't sleep a wink. 

My counseling practice is called Rise and Shine Counseling, not because it's a cute little saying, but because of the powerful image it represents. Much like the sun at dawn, people everywhere are rising up in the darkness and learning how to shine. As moms, we do this every day, literally and figuratively. We rise up, weary and sleep-deprived, from our beds, often at the beckoning cry of our little humans rubbing their hungry tummies. We rise up day after day to meet the needs of our families. We rise up in small, mundane ways, which we hope in turn, send big, life-long messages of love. And we rise up in the darkest of situations to, as Bruce Cockburn writes, "kick at the darkness until it bleeds light." 

Photo Credit: Karis Jordan

When compiling a playlist for my daughter's recent birth, I chose mostly calm, instrumental music, but I also added a handful of songs that spoke to me in the deepest of ways. By far the most powerful to me was, Andra Day's Rise Up {listen to it here}. To this day, I cannot hear it without sobbing big, heavy tears and chills covering my body, as I imagine women everywhere rising up.

I think about exhausted moms, sacrificially driving their kids from one activity to another, ensuring they have clean uniforms to wear and nourishing food to eat. As they stand on the sidelines in the heat of the day, cheering on their children, these moms silently mourn and celebrate at the very same time, considering the growing independence of these humans who have been in their care for so long. They're plagued by wonder - did they make the right decisions for their kids, did they spend enough time with them, did they push them enough, did they push them too hard, and on and on.

“You’re broken down and tired
Of living life on a merry go round
And you can’t find the fighter
But I see it in you so we gonna walk it out
And move mountains
We gonna walk it out
And move mountains”

I think about my mom friends who because of unexpected obstacles facing their kids, are now attempting to navigate the world of the NICU, autism, hearing loss, heart defects, sensory processing disorder, and hip dysplasia, among others. They rise up each and every day, tirelessly hunting down resources and advocating for their beloved children. There is nothing they wouldn't do for their kids and yet, there are days when they wish this wasn't their mountain to climb.

I think about the moms I know who just received word of a devastating diagnosis, those battling depression, and those busting their entrepreneurial tails trying to bring in extra cash for their families. You are all warriors, warriors who keep rising.

“And I’ll rise up
I’ll rise like the day
I’ll rise up
I’ll rise unafraid
I’ll rise up
And I’ll do it a thousand times again
And I’ll rise up
High like the waves
I’ll rise up
In spite of the ache
I’ll rise up
And I’ll do it a thousands times again
For you”

I think about my dear friend who held her husband as he died in her arms. In spite of the unfathomable ache, she went on to rise up over and over again. She led her two young girls forward and learned how to embrace the both/and by embracing the grief as they remembered him and the hope as they created a new life for themselves without him. 

“When the silence isn’t quiet
And it feels like it’s getting hard to breathe
And I know you feel like dying
But I promise we’ll take the world to its feet
And move mountains
We’ll take it to its feet
And move mountains”

I think of moms who suddenly find themselves parenting solo, for one reason or another. Laying alone and utterly exhausted, in their bedroom, they question where they now fit in the social structure of their world and they wonder how they will muster the strength to face another day.

 I think about Syrian moms, displaced by war, fighting with every ounce of their being to find shelter and food for their frightened babies, unsure of where to go or what to do next.

Photo Credit: Yunny Wolff

I think of moms of adopted children, who want so desperately for their kids to know in every corner of their beings how absolutely loved they are. These moms, going to great lengths to build bridges with birth parents or seek support for their kids still suffering the impact of trauma.

I think of moms who find the darkness still banging at their doors as they grieve the loss of a child(ren) and fight through the ache that never seems to fully go away. And I think of the women who are moms in their hearts, who yearn to be moms in their bodies, but whose dreams go unfulfilled month after month.

I think of the moms who lay in bed at night, smothered in a blanket of self-criticism, as they reflect on the ways they let their frustration and irritability seep out into the day.

“And I’ll rise up
I’ll rise like the day
I’ll rise up
I’ll rise unafraid
I’ll rise up”

It's only when we face the darkness, that we can rise up into the light and fight. It's the very acknowledgment of the darkness - of our own pain, weakness, uncertainty, and fear - that allows us to rise up and forge a path forward with a love so fierce. As Paul Coelho writes, "The strongest love is love that can demonstrate our frailty." Even with doubt and ache as our companions, we keep going. We keep waking to receive the grace that is life and breath itself. We keep leaning into the hope that we have. We keep rising, with the strength of the one who rose from the deepest darkness. 

Moms are rising up everywhere, everyday, in every kind of darkness. And on this Mother's Day, with tears in my eyes and admiration in my heart, I celebrate you. Well done, Mama. Keep rising.

Engage, Enjoy, and Expect

It happened, my first official postpartum run - 4 miles in a canyon, with the company of a sole sister, a rushing creek, and big horn sheep. At a balmy 20 degrees, it proved to be wintery and wonderful. There's dirt on my ankles and sweat on my brow, and hot tacos it felt good!!

I'm almost 6 months postpartum and this is the slowest I've ever returned to consistent exercise after having a baby, but I'll be honest, a little slow feels good and right amidst a fast-paced life.

The older I get, the more grace I have for myself and my body.

The more I am embracing the phrase, engage and enjoy, when it comes to exercise - choosing to walk my son to school rather than drive because it facilitates movement and connection; choosing to go for short hikes with my baby girl, and evening walks with my family; choosing to ski, ride bikes, and shoot hoops together - they all move me toward health, though perhaps not at the pace I've moved in the past. They also move me toward relationship, a higher priority in the present.

My blog is called The Expectant Life, and I chose that name because I aim to live expectantly.

But a shift has occurred and the aim of my expectancy has evolved.

Rather than expect results, I find myself more often expecting quality in the journey - adventure, joy, relationship, health, and even some pain - moving a little more slowly, that I may engage, enjoy, and expect along the way.

Her Story Unfolding

Stillness. I'm captivated by her tiny being. I see her. And I wonder a wonder so big.

That heart. The many colorful emotions she'll feel. That heart, big enough to hold love and hope, sadness and rejection, joy and fear, peace and disappointment. And who all will she love with that heart? 

Those ears. All the messages she'll hear, for better and for worse. May she hear them through a filter of grace and the unshakeable knowledge of her belovedness. Who will she lend her ear to? Who will she know because she listened? What stories will those ears hold?

Those lips. They will one day birth words, giving substance to her voice. Prayers for life-giving words of love, truth, and encouragement to cascade from those lips. Words that bring change, change of the best kind. 

Those hands. Hands to create. Hands to welcome. Hands to build. Hands to hug. Hands to give. Hands to hold. 

Those feet. Those long, flaky feet. Oh, the places she'll go. To think of the far off lands, highest peaks, lowest valleys, and driest deserts those feet will take her to. And through. 

Her story so new. May she keep loving, listening, speaking, giving, and walking on, all the days of her life. Her story unfolding. 

Keeping My Babe Safe and Snug

While working on a Mother’s Day project last year in preschool, my son was asked a host of questions about his Mama, including this one, “What is your Mom’s job?” His answer, “to do her best to try to keep us safe.” I smiled when I read it, mainly because it was evidence that some things we say to our kids really do sink in. Admittedly, it’s something I’ve said to my kids quite often over the years, whether I’m commanding them not to run into the street or saying no to riding their bikes down a huge hill which bottoms out into a rock-ridden lake. Why not, they ask. "Because it’s my job to do my best to keep you safe,” I say. Kids need adventure, yes. And I can’t protect them from everything, but I will do my best to keep them safe in the places where I can.

As parents, there are so many things having to do with our kids that are beyond our control. But when it comes to safety, we do have some choices to make. So, you can understand why I was thrilled to participate in an event hosted by Denver Metro Moms Blog where we had the opportunity to learn from the team at Britax about their revolutionary Click-Tight car seats, the Britax Click-Tight Advocate in particular and the many new safety features it includes. I’m a Consumer Reports girl, so when I’m looking to purchase something new like a car seat, I first check out the safety ratings of the various brands. When the boys were in Convertible car seats, we chose the Britax Boulevard for each of them because it had top safety ratings. So, while I’m no newbie to the Britax brand, I sure learned some very useful information at this event regarding their newest technologies which have only made their car seats even safer.

Did you know 75% of car seats are installed incorrectly but 96% of parents believe they have theirs installed right? So, what’s going on? Well, for starters, let’s talk about the latch system. Did you know that all latches have weight limits? Usually, it’s 65lbs, including both car seat and kiddo. So, come to find out that we were using the latch system unsafely. We were still using the latch system for our boys when they weighed 40 lbs and their car seats weighed 30 lbs, meaning we were exceeding the weight limit for the latch system. But let's be honest, we like the convenience of the latch system. While still often requiring the strength of professional weight lifter, the latch system is way easier than trying to blindly wrestle the car seat into the car while using the belt system. Until now. 

Britax Advocate ClickTIght Advocate 

Britax’s revolutionary Click Tight Technology eliminates the need for the latch system and makes using the belt system so much easier and more convenient. No more spending unnecessary time and sweat equity trying to wrestle the car seat into the car. No more reaching blindly through the belt path trying to find the buckle or using your knee for leverage as you yank the belt tight. Instead it simply involves a mere twist of a dial to lift the seating area, exposing the belt path. There is both a forward-facing and rear-facing belt path. Run the belt through, lower the seat, and wait for the click. You don’t have to tension the belt, you only need to run it through and make sure there’s no excess slack in the path. When you close the seating area it cinches the belt for you, tightening it automatically. SO easy. SO safe. 

Did you know that the #1 cause of death in crashes is head injury? As a leader in car seat safety, Britax addresses this issue with various different technologies, all of which work together to keep the head as far back as possible in effort to minimize forward head movement.

• Steel bars that run along the sides of the carseat - prevents the seat from flexing forward
• Red components in the back reveal the energy-absorbing base. As the car seat is moving forward, those components compress to counteract the forward head movement and drops the center of gravity to keep the head in place.
• Patented V-shaped design tether for when seat is forward facing to further manage the energy with staged-release stitches that slow and reduce the forward movement during a crash
• Specially designed chest pads that act like brake pads to once again slow that forward movement
• The Anti-Rebound Bar (ARB) - a padded, steel bar that attaches to the front of the seat when rear-facing. In U.S. Federal Motor Vehicle Safety Standards (FMVSS) testing, Britax found that the ARB reduces rebound rotation by 40% and stabilizes the car seat during frontal, rear-end, and side-impact crashes.

And last but not least, there are a few other bonus features that make this Mama particularly happy:

•  Side impact protection to limit lateral head movement. The Advocate has a third layer of side impact protection with a vented pad, releasing air through the vents in a crash, absorbing energy from the impact.
• the way you adjust the seat height. Rather than having to remove the material and straps, you simply have to pull the handle on the back of the seat to raise or lower the height.
• There’s a compartment on the back of the seat to hold the tether straps when not in use. It used to drive me bonkers when I would have to move the car seats or take them on a trip and the super long tether straps would be dragging everywhere, flapping about. It’s little details like these that I love.
• All Britax car seats are made in the USA.

To learn more, be sure to check out the All About Baby Safety Event where you can also save on select Britax products from 9/1-9/30. 

Thanks to the team at Britax for the opportunity to learn more about Britax car seats, their ClickTight Installation system, and SafeCell Impact Protection. Now, I can drive my newest little addition around with the peace of mind that comes from knowing she is snug, comfortable, and well protected. 

The Waiting Game {and how it can be good for us}

Are you currently in a holding pattern, a waiting period in your life? Maybe you're waiting for something but you don't know when it's coming or perhaps you're hoping for something but you wonder if it will come to fruition, let alone the when. Either way, waiting is hard. It goes against every attempt and desire we have to control our environment. It forces a crack in the illusion of control, and much of it is an illusion. So often we live with an if/then mentality - if I just do X then Y will happen. Finding ourselves in a period of waiting can throw a wrench smack dab in the middle of all of those if/thens.

As difficult as it is to be caught in the waiting game, it can also be good for us. Waiting presents us with a choice. We can choose to look out the window of our lives, wishing we were somewhere else, occupying space in someone else’s life or we can choose to be present in our own life, just as it is, in the waiting. And there’s a fine line between living vicariously through someone else and using their life as a numbing distraction from our own.

I currently find myself in the middle of a waiting game as I am 40 weeks pregnant today with my third child. That’s right, it’s my due date. And I am so very ready for baby girl to come. Perhaps more aptly stated, I am so very ready to NOT be pregnant anymore. But I have no idea when she’s coming. Which day this week or next week will our world be turned upside down? 

I feel caught in what I can only describe as an in between place. There’s a word for this phenomenon, it’s called a liminal space. It’s a space where you find yourself in between, where one thing or season has ended but the other one has not yet begun. Due to my exhaustion, nausea, and contracting belly, my life with my boys as I knew it has ended. For weeks now, I haven’t been able to exercise nor have I wanted to be outside due to the heat. I don’t have the energy to engage with my boys in our usual active activities. I started my maternity leave over a week ago and my dear husband has taken over most of the housework. Yet, the next stage, that of life with a newborn has not yet arrived. You’d think I’d be grateful, with all of this “time” on my hands but I don’t feel like myself and I don’t quite know what to do with myself either.

So here I am in the midst of a liminal space and it’s not the first time I’ve been in this kind of holding pattern in my life. There’s an opportunity for growth here, an opportunity to practice being present in the hard space of waiting. As I want to look forward, to wish away this time of waiting, I am challenged to stay right where I am and to ask, how can I lean into this space well? How can I look straight into my life, see and love the people around me, and inhabit my own life in this very moment, as weary and wanting as I may be?

The next season always comes. Whether it’s when we want it to or the way we want it to look, well, that’s another matter. But it always comes. The question is, how will we live in the space that fills the in between?

Hope Rising: The Song of the Sparrow

Truth be told, I'm a sucker for details. Connections are made and symbolism revealed through the weaving together of life's tiniest details. As I sit here almost 39 weeks pregnant I feel not only like I’m bursting with baby but with gratitude as well. It has become so clear to me that slogging through the low valleys of life are what cause the high peaks to feel so intensely wonderful. We couldn’t have the one without knowing the other. And it’s for that reason I needed to capture in writing the details of the journey.

Exactly two years ago today, I finished a trail marathon with a stress fracture in my hip. This led to 3 months on crutches which in turn delayed our timeline for trying to get pregnant with a third. Because, it’s all about our timeline, right? But on December 31, 2014, I felt certain I was pregnant only to discover 10 minutes before midnight that I was not, or at least not anymore. Happy New Year. The next morning I sat at my in-law’s kitchen table in silence, with the weight of disappointment upon my shoulders, journaling my way through the sadness. And in the stillness, I noticed a bird firmly perched upon the deck railing outside the window, singing what could only be described as a cheerful tune. And as the tune danced around the morning air, my mind filled with the words of the old hymn, “I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free. His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me.” I found it peculiar because I don’t really even know that hymn, nor do I particularly care for hymns in general. But the words and tune would not leave me, continuing to replay in my mind; as if to say, God cares about you, about your sadness, and your story is not over yet. 

A month later I found myself pregnant and nothing short of ecstatic, only to experience the silent and strange heartbreak of miscarriage thereafter. As I lay curled up in a ball on my bathroom floor, an endless stream of tears cascading down my face, I looked up with my eyes fixed on the door handle, the door handle which in that moment looked exactly like the face of a bird to me. I’m sure it wouldn't look like anything but a door handle to anyone else but to me it was the face of the sparrow, singing to me once again - God cares about you, about your sadness and your story is not over yet.

I sing because I’m happy, I sing because I’m free.                                                                           His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me.

The sadness I experienced following the miscarriage was far more intense than I had expected, not that I had ever expected to miscarry. I thought I would grieve a little and move on but I couldn’t. I executed my days like a robot, going through the motions, all the while feeling unmotivated and lethargic. I sank into depression, attempting to grab at the smallest strands of hope - God cares about your sadness and your story is not over yet. I held on to that very hope. I also knew I needed a new storyline to walk through the sadness with. I thought to myself, maybe I need to train for a race. Running has always brought me great joy and freedom. It's my go-to when I need to work things out. But due to the hip fracture and then pregnancy and miscarriage, I hadn’t run in over 6 months and the thought of starting again felt daunting. It all felt daunting. Because getting pregnant and staying pregnant at my age suddenly felt like a metaphorical mountain, I decided I needed to climb a real mountain. So, I signed up for a race that, given my out of shape condition, felt so much bigger than me - The Imogene Pass Run - a race starting in Ouray, CO and climbing 5,000 feet in 10 miles and then proceeding to drop down 7 miles to the finish in Telluride. It seemed like a crazy, impossible goal but at the time, so did getting pregnant. So, I went for it.

I ran and I worked and I trained for that goal, the one that felt impossible, the one that felt out of reach. Mile after mile I pounded out the sadness, because sometimes that's how we find healing, one step, one breath at a time. As I ran through the mountains, whenever I would hear a bird singing, it served to remind me that I was not alone, not even when I ran in the darkest hours of the night. Not even in my deepest sadness. I was never alone. And so on September 12 of last year {2015}, I toed the start line of the unknown, to set out after a goal that still felt beyond my reach - the top of Imogene Pass. I knew if I could climb the 10 miles to the summit, I could make it the 7 miles down the other side. After all, the challenge is most often found in the rising up. 

With every step I felt hope rising up in me a little more. 10 painful, sweat-filled miles later, as I stood upon that mountain, a stream of tears cascading down my face, I couldn't help but stare down at the valley from which I had risen. While we often tend to look ahead, there's value in looking back to the places from which we've come, from which we've risen. Looking back can provide a beautiful perspective which we carry forward with us into the future. Standing on top of that pass, something in me had lifted. I felt free - free to be sad, free to let go, free to move forward, free to hope again. I sang because I was happy, I sang because I was free. His eye is on the sparrow and I knew in every corner of my being that he'd been watching me, and holding me, and carrying me through it all. 

I found healing running in those mountains and I think that would’ve felt like enough, enough to accept the door had closed on a third baby, enough to move on. But as it turns out, the door had not closed. On December 31, 2015, disbelief filled my being as I stared down at the word, Pregnant, on the white stick before me.

So you see, I'm in awe when I consider that on December 31, 2014 my deep sadness was first met with the song of the sparrow and then one year to the date later on December 31, 2015 I discovered I was pregnant with this baby to whom I'm now about to give birth. And to think that my journey through miscarriage to healing and freedom culminated atop a mountain on September 12, 2015, the poignancy of it all is not lost on me when I realize that my due date for this sweet baby girl is exactly one year to the date later, September 12, 2016.

I sing because I'm happy, I sing because I'm free.                                                                               His eye is on the sparrow and I know he watches me. 

Lovey, as she is currently known, we are ready to welcome you into a story and a life that can be both brutal and beautiful. But know that you are never alone and you will be surrounded by love every step of the way. And as a symbol of this, a sparrow necklace will rest upon my chest as I labor to bring you home into our arms.

My story is not over yet. And neither is yours.