For me, saying "goodbye" carries connotations of moving vans, packing tape, and stacks of boxes. I remember last playtimes with my friends, and the strange feeling of walking away knowing that I wouldn't be back. I remember getting in the car and driving away, feeling for all the world like I was going on a vacation instead of traveling to a new life.
Dave worked his last day on Wednesday. Even with more than 6 months of notice, that goodbye has made this week bittersweet. We didn't drive away, but we're very much in a different place than we were a year ago, or even a week ago.
Right now we're walking a twisty path. In some ways, it's easy going. We're not climbing mountains or negotiating crevasses with ice axes and crampons. On the other hand, it often feels more like wandering than hiking. Instead of following a trail, we're on the lookout for the next cairn, hoping that someone bothered to mark the path in front of us or else we risk getting lost.
Fifteen months ago, I was living a different life. Sometimes, I feel like the only thing connecting my life in April 2009 with my life now is me.
As I've walked this crazy path, I've pondered and meditated and contemplated. Since many of these thoughts center around certain themes, I've thought about starting a new blog. But right now I crave continuity. I cherish the thought of being the person who has lived these different lives and who unites them. And so over the next . . . as yet undefined period of time, I'm going to be posting the fruits of my wanderings (and occasionally the wanderings themselves). I think they have the potential to change this blog, to move it beyond commentary on my life, what's going on, and the people in it, into something else.
I can't help but wonder where we'll be fifteen months from now. October 2011, what do you have for us?
02 July 2010
29 June 2010
Thankfulnesses
Remembering to give thanks today.
Thankful that/for . . .
11. This life is not the end
12. Cloudy days and drizzle that fogs the eyes without actually getting anything wet.
13. Stories that sweep you away.
14. Soft light sweeping in through the window.
15. Others have walked this road of life and found peace and balance.
16. Friends who say, "Let me know what's going on."
17. Unexpected friends.
18. Purple pens.
19. How she almost rolls over.
20. Slow, steady days.
Thankful that/for . . .
11. This life is not the end
12. Cloudy days and drizzle that fogs the eyes without actually getting anything wet.
13. Stories that sweep you away.
14. Soft light sweeping in through the window.
15. Others have walked this road of life and found peace and balance.
16. Friends who say, "Let me know what's going on."
17. Unexpected friends.
18. Purple pens.
19. How she almost rolls over.
20. Slow, steady days.
21 June 2010
Giving thanks
May I never forget that there's no place so dark that light doesn't shine through somewhere. Today I'm tired, but I still give thanks (for) . . .
1. Little hands reaching for my face.
2. The daddy who loves her, so very much.
3. Parenthood as an object lesson, teaching me that gentleness and faithfulness aren't characteristics of the weak.
4. Water reviving droopy leaves.
5. Strength that comes day by day.
6. Sparkly green bangles.
7. 750 words
8. The stories still bumping around in my head, someday to be written.
9. Giggles that erupt from my baby's belly.
10. Her special, wake-up smile.
1. Little hands reaching for my face.
2. The daddy who loves her, so very much.
3. Parenthood as an object lesson, teaching me that gentleness and faithfulness aren't characteristics of the weak.
4. Water reviving droopy leaves.
5. Strength that comes day by day.
6. Sparkly green bangles.
7. 750 words
8. The stories still bumping around in my head, someday to be written.
9. Giggles that erupt from my baby's belly.
10. Her special, wake-up smile.
16 June 2010
When the Night is Long
It's been a long time.
And it might be a long time before I'm here again.
I want to offer some sort of explanation for where I've been and why I haven't been here. The truth is, every moment of the last 5 or 6 months has been so full and there's been so little time for synthesis and reflection that I don't have much commentary to offer on life, the universe, or anything.
The last months have felt like what I call and, " . . . and then" story. It's one of those times when, just as you feel like it might let up and you might get a breather, something else happens. And then something else happens. And then . . . and then . . . and then . . . and you have to catch your breath between laps because there's always something else.
Dave looked up at me the other day and said, "I feel like I've been tired since November," and, honestly, that's the truth. One.thing.after.another. Without time for air, let alone contemplation or reflection or much more than falling forward into the next step and hoping we land on a stepping stone and aren't swept away by the river.
When Dave said that, I told him that the only way I was going to make it to the end of the year was one day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time. Sometimes one breath.
There are bad days. There are good days. On the whole, I don't think 2010 is going to be a year that I care to repeat any time soon. But we will prevail, because we have a God who doesn't get tired. He's never tempted to put us down and not pick us up again because his arms are tired, and he doesn't try to soothe us just so he can go get some rest already. Instead, he watches through the nights, these long, long nights, so we can take what rest we can.
And then he brings the morning.
He is the morning.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
And it might be a long time before I'm here again.
I want to offer some sort of explanation for where I've been and why I haven't been here. The truth is, every moment of the last 5 or 6 months has been so full and there's been so little time for synthesis and reflection that I don't have much commentary to offer on life, the universe, or anything.
The last months have felt like what I call and, " . . . and then" story. It's one of those times when, just as you feel like it might let up and you might get a breather, something else happens. And then something else happens. And then . . . and then . . . and then . . . and you have to catch your breath between laps because there's always something else.
Dave looked up at me the other day and said, "I feel like I've been tired since November," and, honestly, that's the truth. One.thing.after.another. Without time for air, let alone contemplation or reflection or much more than falling forward into the next step and hoping we land on a stepping stone and aren't swept away by the river.
When Dave said that, I told him that the only way I was going to make it to the end of the year was one day at a time. Sometimes one hour at a time. Sometimes one breath.
There are bad days. There are good days. On the whole, I don't think 2010 is going to be a year that I care to repeat any time soon. But we will prevail, because we have a God who doesn't get tired. He's never tempted to put us down and not pick us up again because his arms are tired, and he doesn't try to soothe us just so he can go get some rest already. Instead, he watches through the nights, these long, long nights, so we can take what rest we can.
And then he brings the morning.
He is the morning.
Amen. Come, Lord Jesus.
22 March 2010
A Nightly Travesty
For my 10-weeks baby.
Sweet mystery.
Eyes flutter under closed lids.
Do you dream of warm breasts and milk,
the funny fleshy fingers that find their way into your mouth,
or maybe of rolling over?
Sacred smile
that you offer in your sleep,
happy in the weary arms that hold you.
Inspired breath
flutters in and out and in,
your fragile life so present and so strong.
This is your sanctuary,
where you offer the only worship you can muster.
To put you down would be unholy.
Sweet mystery.
Eyes flutter under closed lids.
Do you dream of warm breasts and milk,
the funny fleshy fingers that find their way into your mouth,
or maybe of rolling over?
Sacred smile
that you offer in your sleep,
happy in the weary arms that hold you.
Inspired breath
flutters in and out and in,
your fragile life so present and so strong.
This is your sanctuary,
where you offer the only worship you can muster.
To put you down would be unholy.
08 February 2010
Is "Easy" Really What We Want?
I think the incredible difficulty of parenting a newborn is one of the best-kept secrets I've ever encountered. Before Mirren was born, people said (and I quote, more or less), "Oh, babies are so much fun. You'll have such a blast when she comes." Now, almost 4 weeks into this endeavor, they say, "How are you guys holding up? That transition is hell."
That's one heck of a mixed message. Maybe they just didn't want to scare us off? But what were we going to do at that point? We've been committed to this course since April.
All kidding aside, we've had a rough transition. Not, as far as I can tell, more rough than other people's similar transitions, but rough enough.
It's hard to say that, because, as far as I can tell, most people don't. Babies are supposed to make us all happy and giddy and ga-ga and if they don't, there's something wrong. But I'm not depressed, nor am I overly hormonal, anxious, or anything else. I'm a normal human adult whose whole life changed focus over a 9 hour period almost four weeks ago and I'm trying to not just survive the change but to get a handle on what it all means.
Don't get me wrong . . . I love my baby girl. I love her eyes and her toes and watching her grow into and out of her clothes and wondering who God made her to be. I would choose this path again a million times. But that doesn't mean it's easy. It doesn't even mean it should be.
What it does mean . . . well, it means we figure it out. It means we stick through the hard until it turns into the blissful. It means we hang on with hope and trust until we see the beauty on the other side.
It doesn't mean we lie or deny or hold back from the truth. It means we learn to speak the fullness of the experience: good and bad, hard and easy, tiresome and restful.
It all makes me ask why we don't tell ourselves and each other the truth more often? The whole truth, and nothing but. I think we fear people would turn away, pull back, refuse to enter because the way is rough sometimes. And we fear revealing our own weakness, only to find that no one else feels the same.
When we stop telling the truth, because of fear or whatever else, we water down life. We make it into something less than what it really is. I submit to you that real, true living means acknowledging the whole of our experience and proclaiming it when we have the chance. Action, adventure, risk taking, and living from the heart are all well and good when it comes to living a full life, but we can't always do those. And when we can't, maybe we remain our most alive, true selves when we are completely honest.
That's one heck of a mixed message. Maybe they just didn't want to scare us off? But what were we going to do at that point? We've been committed to this course since April.
All kidding aside, we've had a rough transition. Not, as far as I can tell, more rough than other people's similar transitions, but rough enough.
It's hard to say that, because, as far as I can tell, most people don't. Babies are supposed to make us all happy and giddy and ga-ga and if they don't, there's something wrong. But I'm not depressed, nor am I overly hormonal, anxious, or anything else. I'm a normal human adult whose whole life changed focus over a 9 hour period almost four weeks ago and I'm trying to not just survive the change but to get a handle on what it all means.
Don't get me wrong . . . I love my baby girl. I love her eyes and her toes and watching her grow into and out of her clothes and wondering who God made her to be. I would choose this path again a million times. But that doesn't mean it's easy. It doesn't even mean it should be.
What it does mean . . . well, it means we figure it out. It means we stick through the hard until it turns into the blissful. It means we hang on with hope and trust until we see the beauty on the other side.
It doesn't mean we lie or deny or hold back from the truth. It means we learn to speak the fullness of the experience: good and bad, hard and easy, tiresome and restful.
It all makes me ask why we don't tell ourselves and each other the truth more often? The whole truth, and nothing but. I think we fear people would turn away, pull back, refuse to enter because the way is rough sometimes. And we fear revealing our own weakness, only to find that no one else feels the same.
When we stop telling the truth, because of fear or whatever else, we water down life. We make it into something less than what it really is. I submit to you that real, true living means acknowledging the whole of our experience and proclaiming it when we have the chance. Action, adventure, risk taking, and living from the heart are all well and good when it comes to living a full life, but we can't always do those. And when we can't, maybe we remain our most alive, true selves when we are completely honest.
15 January 2010
Welcome to the World, Baby Girl
Dearest Mirren,
You're here. Your dad and I keep looking at each other and saying, "We have a baby," like this is somehow still unexpected, even after anticipating you for the last 9 months. It's just that you're so much more than we'd asked or imagined that we can't quite believe you're what was waiting for us inside my tummy.
People keep asking us about your name, little one, and I want to tell you what it means to us so I don't forget it and so you know what to tell the people who ask you about it someday. The truth is, I saw "Mirren" online and knew almost immediately that it belonged to you. It took daddy a little longer to come around, but one day when I asked him what he'd been thinking about names he just looked up and said, "I like Mirren," and that was about it. We had other names, in case you came out looking more like a Madeline or a Sophia, but I don't think there was actually much chance of that. Maybe God gave you this name, for your sojourn here on earth.
Your name means so much, on several different levels. Mirren (MEER-ren) is a Scottish form of Mary, I assume via some of the same linguistic routes as Miriam and Marian. There are lots of ways to spell it that are more Celtic (like Muiren, which is, I believe, the way they spelled Maid Marian's name in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves), but we wanted to give you the best chance of having people pronounce it correctly on the first try. We figured we could give you an unusual name as long as you didn't have to tell every single soul you met how to say it ;)
Anyway, both your Dad and I like Celtic things. He's of Irish heritage and I have some Scotch blood, and loved Scotland both times I visited it. Somehow, it seemed right to give you a Scottish name.
In addition to all of that, Miren (with one "R") is also a girl's name in Euskera (the Basque language). While we didn't choose that spelling, it seems appropriate given the fact that I once spent 4 weeks in Pais Vasco (Basque Country) and have a deep love for the culture, people, and language of the place. It was my first overseas experience and meant so much.
As far as meanings go, Mirren carries the same traditional meaning as Mary, which is "bitter." However, further research revealed that the name is also associated with being one who is loved, or beloved.
There's something about that juxtaposition that seems so right for life on this earth. Things will be bitter, and I know I can't keep you from experiencing that along the way. But no matter what happens, you will always be loved, and I hope you can remember that when you get a bad life-taste in your mouth. Because it's the love that matters in the end, and not so much the things that happen along the way.
Your middle name has raised some questions, too. Clarys (CLAIR-iss, rhymes with Harris) was your maternal great-grandma's name, and between her being a special woman and the name being too unique to lose, I wanted to give it to you. I would have considered it as a first name, but it reminds your dad of Clarice from Silence of the Lambs and neither of us wanted you associated with that.
I don't know what the name means, unfortunately. Apparently, there's a story about where it came from but no one quite remembers it. It's what it means to me that's most important, though. My grandma was a strong woman who lived a hard life in a hard place and still made something beautiful of it. Someday I'll take you to those wild, rolling South Dakota plains and show you where she came from, and I think you'll understand. I'll show you her grave, clustered with others (most of them your relatives) in a small, well-kept plot in the middle of a wheat-grass field. When you watch how the wind hits the tall sentinel pines that do their best to protect the cemetery, I think you'll see the sort of place where she made her life and made it work, even when it was hard.
That's what I want to give you, baby girl. That strength, that stands tall in the face of the things life offers and bends but doesn't break. My grandma had that strength and I hope my daughter does, too.
Little girl, you're our treasure. We talked about you as our little gift, the entire time you were inside, and you certainly are that. There's so much more to say, so many more thoughts and hopes and blessings I could give you, but I don't have the words right now and, besides, I think everyone is concerned as it is that I've been sitting on the couch crying for the last 20 minutes. I can't help myself. You're so very, very special to both your daddy and I and we love you so much.
Welcome to the world, baby girl. I hope you learn to treasure love and laughter and God and family and friends and that you have some sense, even now, of just how much you are loved.
More later, little darling, I'm sure of it. Meanwhile, sleep well.
You're here. Your dad and I keep looking at each other and saying, "We have a baby," like this is somehow still unexpected, even after anticipating you for the last 9 months. It's just that you're so much more than we'd asked or imagined that we can't quite believe you're what was waiting for us inside my tummy.
People keep asking us about your name, little one, and I want to tell you what it means to us so I don't forget it and so you know what to tell the people who ask you about it someday. The truth is, I saw "Mirren" online and knew almost immediately that it belonged to you. It took daddy a little longer to come around, but one day when I asked him what he'd been thinking about names he just looked up and said, "I like Mirren," and that was about it. We had other names, in case you came out looking more like a Madeline or a Sophia, but I don't think there was actually much chance of that. Maybe God gave you this name, for your sojourn here on earth.
Your name means so much, on several different levels. Mirren (MEER-ren) is a Scottish form of Mary, I assume via some of the same linguistic routes as Miriam and Marian. There are lots of ways to spell it that are more Celtic (like Muiren, which is, I believe, the way they spelled Maid Marian's name in Robin Hood Prince of Thieves), but we wanted to give you the best chance of having people pronounce it correctly on the first try. We figured we could give you an unusual name as long as you didn't have to tell every single soul you met how to say it ;)
Anyway, both your Dad and I like Celtic things. He's of Irish heritage and I have some Scotch blood, and loved Scotland both times I visited it. Somehow, it seemed right to give you a Scottish name.
In addition to all of that, Miren (with one "R") is also a girl's name in Euskera (the Basque language). While we didn't choose that spelling, it seems appropriate given the fact that I once spent 4 weeks in Pais Vasco (Basque Country) and have a deep love for the culture, people, and language of the place. It was my first overseas experience and meant so much.
As far as meanings go, Mirren carries the same traditional meaning as Mary, which is "bitter." However, further research revealed that the name is also associated with being one who is loved, or beloved.
There's something about that juxtaposition that seems so right for life on this earth. Things will be bitter, and I know I can't keep you from experiencing that along the way. But no matter what happens, you will always be loved, and I hope you can remember that when you get a bad life-taste in your mouth. Because it's the love that matters in the end, and not so much the things that happen along the way.
Your middle name has raised some questions, too. Clarys (CLAIR-iss, rhymes with Harris) was your maternal great-grandma's name, and between her being a special woman and the name being too unique to lose, I wanted to give it to you. I would have considered it as a first name, but it reminds your dad of Clarice from Silence of the Lambs and neither of us wanted you associated with that.
I don't know what the name means, unfortunately. Apparently, there's a story about where it came from but no one quite remembers it. It's what it means to me that's most important, though. My grandma was a strong woman who lived a hard life in a hard place and still made something beautiful of it. Someday I'll take you to those wild, rolling South Dakota plains and show you where she came from, and I think you'll understand. I'll show you her grave, clustered with others (most of them your relatives) in a small, well-kept plot in the middle of a wheat-grass field. When you watch how the wind hits the tall sentinel pines that do their best to protect the cemetery, I think you'll see the sort of place where she made her life and made it work, even when it was hard.
That's what I want to give you, baby girl. That strength, that stands tall in the face of the things life offers and bends but doesn't break. My grandma had that strength and I hope my daughter does, too.
Little girl, you're our treasure. We talked about you as our little gift, the entire time you were inside, and you certainly are that. There's so much more to say, so many more thoughts and hopes and blessings I could give you, but I don't have the words right now and, besides, I think everyone is concerned as it is that I've been sitting on the couch crying for the last 20 minutes. I can't help myself. You're so very, very special to both your daddy and I and we love you so much.
Welcome to the world, baby girl. I hope you learn to treasure love and laughter and God and family and friends and that you have some sense, even now, of just how much you are loved.
More later, little darling, I'm sure of it. Meanwhile, sleep well.
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