Gratitude

My world last week was debilitating neck pain.  It was peripheral awareness of ebola spreading and ISIS advancing.  It was sadness for a friend's profound loss.

It was a long, heavy week, the kind of week you survive by allowing the laundry piles to spill onto the floor, the dust bunnies to remain untouched.

On Saturday, we woke up to the laundry piles and the dust bunnies, to children who once again needed to eat and be entertained.  CJ and I snapped at each other, tired and frustrated, burdened with the responsibility of it all.

But somehow, some way, grace broke in.  We ate chocolate chip pancakes.  We listened to our little girl giggle with one of her good buddies.  We invited friends over for a spontaneous lunch, and all four kids played quietly for fifteen blessed minutes. Other friends made us dinner and brought it over, allergy-free dessert and all.  It was a sweet day, and we went to bed feeling gratitude for the palpable fullness of it.

And then there was Sunday and Monday and Tuesday - days marked by the deep suffering of another good friend, by a fussy baby and a napless toddler, by my vain efforts to keep up with the piles and the dust bunnies.

At one point in my life, I would have gotten stuck here, frustrated by these very real days, certain that I was entitled to a week's worth of Saturdays.

But I think motherhood has taught me a particular gratitude for the sweet moments - for the little miracles of both kids sleeping in until 7:45, of children playing in peace, of conversations (and friendships) sustained in the chaos.

Life is hard.  It just is.  Sometimes, it's unbelievably, unbearably hard.  Often, it's simply exhausting.

But every now and then, in the laughter of children, in the swirling leaves of a perfect fall afternoon, in the companionship of seasoned friends, we get a little taste of what we were made for.

And when those precious, holy moments come, I am learning, we don't grab on tight and try to figure out how to recreate them.  We hold them loosely, and we simply whisper, Thank You.  

Three and a Half

They said it would go fast.  They said the days are long, but the years are short.

I nodded and smiled.  I believed them.  Sort of.

It's just that it seemed you'd never sleep past 5 a.m. or stop spewing piles of spit-up on the floor or sit still long enough to read a full book.

But you did, eventually, do all of these things and so much more.  And now, you're three and a half and off to preschool, a toddler no more.  You are a bright, inquisitive, silly, creative little girl, and I love you so much that my heart feels like it might burst just thinking about it.

We weren't planning on sending you to preschool this year, but a spot opened up last-minute and your Daddy and I felt we were supposed to take it.  I didn't realize until the opportunity was presented to us how much I didn't want to let you go.

I knew you'd love it, that you'd enjoy the teachers and the new friends, the playground time and the crafts.  But I also knew that in sending you, your world would become a little bigger, that there would now be this part of your life I wouldn't get to experience with you and could only hear about from afar.

And as much as I've longed for your independence, for you to need me a little less, as much as I'm glad you no longer cry when I say goodbye, the honest truth is that it is also hard to watch you growing up, for I know that growing up is a series of leavings, of separations, of steps you'll take on your own in this wide, crazy world.

Ten Months

You know your name.

You turn your head toward me when I say it, pausing momentarily from whatever piece of mischief you are up to at the moment:  climbing the hardwood staircase, shoving some dirty scrap or crumb from the floor into your chubby cheeks.

You smile, and your whole face beams.

What are you doing?  I say.  And I smile too, because really, there isn't another option.

You, my Celia Bug, are a joy.  A crazy, busy, exhausting joy, but a joy nonetheless.

You were a calmer, more content infant than your sister, and I expected that you'd be slower than she was to crawl and to walk.  But you've surprised me.  You took your first steps last week, almost as if you knew she walked at ten months and you were determined to do it sooner.

And you did, baby girl, you did it.

The funny thing is that while you're only just learning to walk, you think you can run.  You often push off of one piece of furniture toward another, moving your little feet as fast as you possibly can, diving toward something your hands can grab, hoping you'll stay standing, but not really caring if you fall.  It's all about the thrill for you, I think, the speed, the rush.

It's unfamiliar to me, the way you move.  I am, in all things, slow, measured, wanting to be in control.  Your sister too tends toward caution until she's confident she's mastered a skill.

But you, my sweet girl, just go for it, full speed ahead, come what may.  I love that about you, look forward to seeing how that aspect of your personality will unfold as you grow.

I think often of those prayers I prayed for you before you were even conceived, that you would be a fighter.  That you are Celia:  tenacious, adventurous, reckless even.

But what I didn't expect when I prayed those prayers was that you would also be pure delight, that somehow even your most determined pursuits would be infused with contagious joy.

Here Too

For a long time, for as long as I can remember really, I've lived my life in view of building toward a future reality:  high school and college courses completed in preparation for a future career, money saved and choices made to further my plans for marriage, children, and a home we can call our own.  I worked.  I prayed.  I waited.  I cried many impatient tears.

And now, my dreams have become my reality.  I have a husband, two beautiful daughters, and a comfortable home.

Most days, I can scarcely believe it.  The two little girls snuggled side by side in the basket of my Costco shopping cart - they're mine, slobbery grins, sloppy ponytails, and all. The handsome man who swoops them up in a flurry of tickles and giggles at the end of the day - mine too.  And the home we've all built together, the wood floors and book-lined walls, the light and the laughter - another sweet gift.

This is it, I've realized lately.  This is the life I've always wanted.  It's crazy and exhausting and we have plenty of arguments and melt-downs, but it is also beautiful and full.  For the first time in a long time, there is no deep desire unfulfilled.  I still miss Avaleen, but even that grief feels settled, at peace.

There is gratitude in this place of desired fulfilled, deep, deep thankfulness for the sweetness of these days:  a sleeping baby in my arms, a quiet morning on the couch with my big girl and a pile of her favorite books, the chaotic joy of a family  adventure to a children's museum.

But I've felt a certain anxiety too.  This is it means this time is boundaried, fleeting.  I no longer have the leisure of simply dreaming of the kind of family I will have; instead, in the thousands of little decisions I make each day, decisions about schooling and discipline and leisure, I am determining the kind of family we do have.  I worry we're not doing it right.  I worry about surviving until bedtime; I worry that a childhood full of bedtimes will pass and we'll wish we'd done things differently.

Perhaps another way of saying this is that I am no longer in my twenties, or as of this summer, my early thirties.  Life no longer seems to stretch before me full of endless options and possibilities.   The months pass with an increasing rapidity, and the things I can control seem to grow daily smaller, as these two little pieces of my heart push their own ways out into the wide, wide world.

I've struggled to find Jesus in this new place, the marks of His presence unfamiliar here.  I know the way to Him in the well-worn paths of unfulfilled desires, grief, disappointment.  But in sweet fullness, in the fleeting moments and daily decisions of parenthood, I find Him elusive.

He does not change, but I have.  I feel the need to find Him again, to figure out new ways to connect my heart to His.  And so I pray small prayers.  I write feeble words.

And I begin to remember that what was true in the empty places in the past is true here in the chaotic fullness too:  He will find me.  He will lead me.  He will meet me where I am.

When Your Friends Prayers Aren't Answered And Yours Are

I'm honored to have a guest post running on the (in)courage site today.  It's about being a mom of two living daughters and also being a woman who's experienced infertility and miscarriage.  It's about holding both life and loss in balance as I relate to women currently struggling with reproductive loss.  I hope you'll visit, read, and join in the conversation.

Eight Months

You are coming into your own, Celia Joy.  You are still full of smiles, but new skills and opinions are surfacing every day.

On vacation last week, I rocked you to sleep one afternoon, your damp forehead nestled against my shoulder.  I looked at you in the mirror and saw suddenly how big you have become, how your face has matured, how your frame has stretched.  Your babyhood is fleeting Celia, slipping away from us daily, and it is both sad and exciting.

You're on the edge of mobility.  You've been sitting without support for weeks now.  You can roll and scoot your way backwards across the floor.  Every day, your ability to stand while holding on to the ottoman or play table increases.  You can even pull yourself from sitting to standing in your crib and take wobbly steps across the floor when I hold on to both of your pudgy little hands.

But you want more.  I can see it in your searching eyes, hear it in your frustrated cries.  You want to be able to do it all yourself, and I see in you echoes of your big sister's determination, her all-consuming desire to "go-go."

You're eating more solid foods now.  You love applesauce, sweet potatoes, and avocado and can pop frozen peas and sweet potato puffs into your mouth with ease.  You love gulping water from the sippy cup you can hold yourself.

You can clap and wave, and you're playing with sounds.  You especially love saying "da-da," and I think you might know what it means.  I've only heard you say "ma-ma" once, which makes me a bit sad, until you are in your crib at 5:30 a.m. saying "da-da" and I get to roll over and tell your Daddy you are calling for him.

Your demeanor is still pleasant, characterized by joy, but you are no longer passively watching the world go by.  You are finding your voice, pulling and grabbing your way into the world, into the little universe of our family.  We will miss your sweet, snuggly days, but we look forward to knowing more of you, to the ways our family will grow through the gift of your emerging personality.

Why Vacationing with Kids Is Worth It

Prior to kids, I looked forward to our week-long summer beach trip all year long.  It was a precious opportunity to sleep late, enjoy leisurely conversation with my husband and family, read my way through piles of books, and nap in the sunshine to the sound of ocean waves.

When Ellie was just a few months old and parenthood was still new, we took her to the beach for a long weekend with my parents.   I remember that trip clearly:  the rhythm of feedings that had to be continued, day and night, the difficulty of squeezing in a few hours on the beach in between naps, the never-ending stuff that had to be carted with us everywhere we went. 

I learned that summer that vacation with a child was, well, pretty much like being at home with a child: days filled with caring  for the needs of another.  If anything, vacation threw off our routines and made us all extra tired and cranky.  I sometimes wondered if it was worth it, especially the next summer, when one year-old Ellie started every morning of our week-long beach trip well before 5 a.m.

Amy Julia Becker describes this phenomenon well in her recent post entitled "When Summer Vacation is Hard."  She's right about pretty much all of it:  the high expectations we have for vacationing with our children, the difficult reality of traveling with babies and toddlers, the increasing pay-offs as children age.

What Becker doesn't address, however, is what those of us with small children are supposed to do about this, besides look forward to the days when our children are older.  Do we, as one of my Facebook friends suggested in response to the article, skip the family vacation and spend our money on a couples trip sans kids?  Do we adjust our expectations, drink extra coffee, and hope for the best?  Do we just stay home?

All are valid choices, even good choices.  There is wisdom in recognizing the limitations of this season of life and not investing a lot of money and energy on vacations that are far from restful.

But, fresh off a weekend trip to the beach with another family, well aware of the burdens of vacationing with a toddler and a baby, or in this case, two toddlers and two babies, I'd like to suggest another approach: embracing the realities of stressful car rides and sandy bath tubs and dinners where no one gets to finish a sentence, choosing to believe that the chaos and the extra work and the missed sleep are all, in fact, worth it.

They are worth it, in part, because my three year-old can now appreciate and remember the experience. She is old enough to spend a blissful day at the beach digging and splashing and sipping juice boxes, and her delight is mine too, a delight worth the days of laundry, packing, and driving that made those few happy hours possible.

But there's more than that.  Vacationing with kids is worth it because it is real, because in the clash between expectation and reality, desire and duty, our truest selves emerge.  We receive the gift of seeing ourselves and others as we really are:  in our pajamas, before coffee, before make-up, when our toddler was up in the middle of the night and our baby is screaming for breakfast.  It isn't always pretty, but it is how real relationships are made.

When I think back on this weekend, on the other trips we've taken with our kids and other friends and family members, I can think of many of these real moments:  of tantrums and snappy comments and tension and occasional outright arguments.  They've often felt like the moments that need to be endured in hopes of getting to the good stuff:  the post-bedtime ice cream and pleasant conversations, the laughter.

Don't get me wrong.  I'd rather it all be easy and fun.  But I can look back and see that I know my family and friends better, that our relationships are deeper, because I took my kids on vacation with them.

In a culture where so much of what we call relating happens virtually, via status updates and filtered images, there is real value, I think, in doing life together for a few days, even and perhaps especially when doing life involves the ceaselessly hard and very real work of caring for small children.

For My Husband on Father's Day

You love them.

I know this because I see what you do.  I see you roll out of bed night after night, the first one up to change diapers or wet sheets.  I see you welcoming a pancake making assistant when I know her presence makes the process longer, more difficult.  I see you say no when it would be easier to say yes.  I see you put aside money each month for their college funds.  I see you hold and tickle and snuggle and just enjoy being with them.

I know this because I watch them with you.  I see the big one's face light up when you come home from work, watch her put down her toys and run full force across our little court to your arms.  I hear her request a Daddy-Daughter Date, beg for a run with you in the jogging stroller.  I see a smile spread across the little one's face at the sight of you, her cheeks round and joyful.  I see them both in your arms, and there is trust and contentment and peace.

I know this because you grieve the one we lost.  We mourned her together, and I was never more sure I'd married the right man.  You wore the cuff links with her footprints to your brother's wedding.  When you pray for her, there are still tears.

You love them.

There are lot of things I could say about you on Father's Day, but I think this is the most important one.  Our girls know the love of their father, and in that, you are giving them a priceless gift.

Two Years

Two years ago, when you'd been gone just a few days, when our grief was fresh and deep and consuming, I just wanted to get away, to be somewhere bright and happy and healing.  So we packed your big sister in the car early one morning and drove to the beach for the day.

We left early and ate McDonald's in the car while she slept, tracing the familiar back roads through Maryland and Delaware to Bethany Beach, where I've vacationed nearly every summer of my life.  We spent the day in the sun, digging and splashing and eating our favorite French fries, and it felt good to be a family and to enjoy life even while our hearts were full with the missing of you.

Last year, we repeated our journey near the one-year anniversary of your death.  We decided to make it a yearly pilgrimage, a way to remember you, to keep your life part of the rhythms of our family.

Then, your little sister was growing in my belly, and our grief had softened, mellowed.  Still fighting pregnancy-related fatigue and nausea, I spent most of the day in my beach chair, watching your Daddy and sister run in and out of the surf.  At night, after dinner, we stood with our feet in the lapping waves.  Your Daddy thanked God for you and your life and asked Him to take good care of you for us.  His voice broke, and my eyes welled with tears.

We went again two weeks ago, both of your sisters in tow.  It was a colder day than the previous years, the air misty with cool rain when we arrived.  We ate the lunch I'd packed indoors, at your great-grandparents' beach house table, and we talked about you to Ellie.  She'd been too small to understand the previous years, but we wanted her to know about you, to grow up understanding that you are a part of our family.

She wanted to know why you died.  She wanted there to be a way to make your heart start beating again. And then, finally accepting that this could not be, she wanted to die too and go to Heaven to see you.  Your Daddy and I hugged her and cried with our arms wrapped tight around her, and then we all went to the beach where she ran and played like her normal water-loving self.  We stuck Celia's toes in the water for the first time, and we all reveled in her shock and then delight.

Ellie talks about you every few days now.  She knows she has another little sister.  She's learned how to say your name.  She still wants all of us to come see you in Heaven.

I'm glad she is learning to know the little bit of you that she can, glad that your life is teaching her and all of us something of eternity.

Three Plus Two Months

"What causes quarrels and what causes fights among you?  

Is it not this, that your passions are at war within you?  You desire and do not have, so you murder.   You covet and cannot obtain, so you fight and quarrel."  -James 4:1-2

For months, everyone's been telling me that three is a harder age than two.  Still, the intensity with which you are willing to battle over the smallest of things continues to surprise me.  This morning, it was the long-sleeve Ravens shirt you were determined to wear, even though it's supposed to approach 90 degrees this afternoon.

"I want to be cold," you wailed, even after I suggested a compromise:  you could put the long-sleeve shirt on top of a short-sleeve one until you got too hot.

A few times recently, at the height of your distress over losing a battle of the wills, you've stubbornly declared, "I want God to take the whole world apart," as if to say that if you can't have your way, the entirety of creation might as well be destroyed.

It's made me smile to hear you say that, even in the midst of my frustration and, yes, anger with your outbursts.  It's an apt way to describe it, that desperate desire for control we all feel from time to time.  Sometimes, it really does seem like if we can't have things our way, the world should just come to an end.

I'm trying to remember this Ellie-girl, when our battles arise, that though it feels like you and I are at odds, like I simply need to win, the truth is that we are both fighting the same thing:  the cravings of hearts that want to control.  You want to wear sparkly black shoes and white socks with jean shorts, to eat chocolate for lunch.  I want peace, quiet, order.

I can delude myself into thinking that my desires are more valid and therefore more important.   Perhaps they are.  I've had about 30 extra years to refine them.  But the deeper truth is this:  we are both desperate sinners, and we both in desperate need of a Savior.

If you being three can teach us both this, it will be a good year indeed.

Reading

I've started reading again.  The past few nights, I've found myself curled into my easy chair with a book.  A genuine, for-pleasure, not-for-my-kids-or-for-Bible-study book.  Two books in fact because (gasp!) I actually finished one book last night and then started another.

It's hard for me to explain this sudden renewal of my love for reading, my choice to finally pick up two books that have been sitting on my nightstand and coffee table for almost a year.  Perhaps its the fact that our Hulu Plus queue is finally empty.  Or maybe a friend's recent mention of one of the books was enough to get me started.  I'm not entirely sure.

I can tell you this with certainty, however; I am not reading again because I've finally gotten my life in order. Last night, while I read, there was a long task list waiting on my phone, clean laundry wrinkling in my dryer, even a poopy cloth diaper sitting in the bathroom, waiting to be rinsed.  Gross, I know, but the point is made.   I am not reading again because I've found free time.

In fact, I think perhaps I'm reading again because I've realized there will never (at least in the foreseeable future) be free time.  I will always be tired.  There will always be things to do.  No amount of running around all night is going to get me caught up.

I think perhaps I am finally learning to choose rest, to carve out little spaces for my soul in the midst of all the chatter and craziness of life.  For most of my parenting career, I've been fleeing my weariness with the satisfactions of productivity or with the mindless distractions of Facebook and TV.

But in reading again, I'm starting to remember.  Reading feeds me.  It helps me think and dream and process and be still long enough to know what I am feeling.  It helps me write.  It helps me be me.

Six Months

You smile.  A lot.  You smile when I come into your room after a nap, a big grin lighting up your whole face when you see me.  You smile when someone says hello to you, then shyly bury your face in my shoulder.  You smile at your sister, eyes tracking her while she spins and sings and dances.

The other day, your Daddy said to me:  "I hope she's okay.  She just smiles so much!"  And I laughed because he's always the one telling me that I find crazy things to worry about.

You are more than okay, baby girl.  You are a beautiful, babbling, bouncing source of joy in our lives.

You regularly start my mornings at 5:30 a.m.  You eat and sleep on your own terms, making it impossible for me to plan my day and difficult for us to leave the house.  You can't crawl yet or sit for more than a few seconds, but you're no longer to content to rest in a bouncy seat for long periods of time.  You want to be held, carried, played with.  And thanks to your GI issues, I'm still eating more quinoa than I'd ever imagined possible.

You do not make my life easy, my Celia, but you do make me smile.  Your demeanor is characterized by joy, and your joy is contagious.

For My Struggling Friends On Mother's Day

This will be my fourth year celebrating Mother's Day.  It's not a huge deal at our house, but I have pleasant and sweet memories from the past three years - getting to sleep in, not having to cook, walks and playground time with my little family.

But I know Mother's Day isn't a simple holiday.  For many of us, it evokes not only gratitude, but also griefs and disappointments.  It calls attention to what we've been given, but also to that which is missing and that which might have been.

I still remember five years ago, when I wasn't yet a mother.  We'd been trying for almost a year with no success, and I was certain something was wrong, that we'd never be able to have children.  CJ and I went to church that morning and I watched the mothers stand and be recognized, tears brimming, and when we left after the service, the tears just wouldn't stop.  Somehow we ended up on the roof of a parking garage in downtown Fairfax, and I sobbed.

Last year, I stood in church, ever so grateful for my Ellie girl and for the baby I'd recently learned was growing inside of me, but still missing Avaleen.  There were no tears that day, but it was bittersweet.

I think the tricky thing about Mother's Day is that many of the mothers most worthy of recognizing are the very same mothers it's hardest to honor.  Hallmark doesn't make cards for their situations.

I think of my friends who've lost babies this year, who held them for a few short moments and then had to let them go.

I think of my friend who's a single parent, who pours herself out day after day, serving her children in the face of unimaginable suffering.

I think of my friends who long for babies, who wait and wonder and weep.

These women would probably tell you that they are weak and hurting and lonely and afraid, but this Mother's Day, I want to honor them for their faith.

It takes faith to love a baby you know you might lose.  It takes faith to stay engaged with a thankless child. It takes faith to joyfully snuggle other people's babies, even as you long for one of your own.  It takes faith to keep crawling back to Jesus' feet, even when you don't understand His ways.

Thank you, my dear friends, for living out that kind of faith.  I watch your lives, and I see Jesus.  Even if Mother's Day can't feel happy for you this year, I pray that you will taste some measure of joy in the very real presence of a God who sees, who knows, and who cares very deeply about each one of your tears.

Race Day Reflections

On Sunday morning, I ran a race.  Actually, more accurately, I put one foot in front of the other, very slowly, sometimes running, often walking, for 3.1 miles.  When I signed up, I had high hopes of being in shape by the time this race came around, but the honest truth is that before crossing the starting line, the only running I'd done in over a year was chasing my toddler at the playground.  I was (and am!) woefully out of shape.

Still, it was a gorgeous morning, and as I pushed the jogging stroller around the front of the Capitol building, I couldn't help but be thankful for the opportunity to participate.  There was beauty in the glistening sunshine and the hum of the crowd in an otherwise quiet city, and there was even deeper beauty in the thousands of people running and walking for love, carrying the names of those lost to and those fighting brain tumors on their sweat-drenched backs.

I'd sent CJ and Ellie on ahead after the first half-mile, knowing I'd only slow them down, so it was just a sleepy Celia and I as we neared the finish line.  "Go Moms and Dads!" cheered a supportive onlooker from the sidelines to myself and several other parents with jogging strollers close by.

To my left, one of those dads suddenly slowed to a stop, lifting a toddler out of her seat and setting her feet on the ground.  I realized what was happening as I passed them by.  He was letting her run the last 100 yards or so of the race.  How sweet, I thought, what a great way to give a kid a positive running experience, to let her taste the joy of the finish line even though she's not old enough to do the real work of getting there herself.  I made a mental note to tell CJ what I'd seen, to suggest we let Ellie try something similar at the next race.

It wasn't until the next day, when I thought back on that moment again, that I heard the gentle whisper of God's voice illuminating what I'd seen:  You are like that little girl, Abby.  So often in your life, I've let you cross the finish line.  I've let you taste the adrenaline rush and the thunderous applause and the outstretched hands.  And like that little girl, you've thought you'd run a race, been proud of your accomplishment.  But the truth is, I carried you.  I pushed you.  I set your feet down near the finish line, when all you had to do was take a few, simple steps.

I thought back on all my successes in life, and I realized it was true.  My childhood, my education, my mind, my financial resources, my health, the care and support of my friends and family - these are all gifts that have been given to me by God, gifts that have enabled me to go to school, to write, to care for my family.  And yet, so often, I've thought that I've been responsible for my successes in these areas, that I have achieved by my own strength and determination.  In short, I've been proud.

But in His mercy, God is beginning to show me glimpses of what has always been true - that behind each little victory in my life, He has been there for a long time, pushing me along, carrying me through the difficult patches, and in His kindness, allowing me to taste the joys of the finish line.

Four Months

I wrote last month about what a delightful baby you were.

And you are delightful still.  Your smile.  Your cheeks.  The way you snuggle into my shoulder when you're pretending to be shy.

But the past month has been a harder one.  You're so excited about your newly acquired rolling skills that you often wake yourself up to practice them in the middle of the night.  You are no longer quite so content to sit in a bouncy seat or lie on the floor; you are ready to go further than your tiny muscles will allow.  And even though I'm no longer eating much of anything, your GI issues have continued and even regressed.

I am tired.  I miss chocolate.  My arms and back ache from carrying you.

But, sweet Celia, the simple truth remains:  I'm so glad you're here.

Three Years

Once, I worried I would never be able to have a child.  In fact, in the long year before I got pregnant with you, I was convinced you would never exist.  Your Daddy wasn't concerned, but I, ever the pessimist, was sure that something in my body was not right, that a baby would never come.

But here you are my Ellie girl, full of chatter and wiggles and endless ideas.

You are three today, and I can scarcely believe it.  The baby we prayed for all those months is growing up into an observant, joyful, precocious little girl, a girl who loves dancing and puzzles, dress up and baby dolls, building and coloring, a girl who says delightful things like "Would you care for some of this, Mommy?" and "I'll see what I can do, Daddy."  Sometimes, I look at you and at your sister, and I feel quite simply, overcome with gratitude.

You see Ellie, ever since I was your age myself, I've wanted to be a mommy.  I've wanted to have a home full of life and laughter.  I've wanted to spend my days at libraries and playgrounds.  I've wanted to make ants on a log and paper dolls and to play house.  Even as I went to college and pursued a career, I wanted most of all to be a mommy.  I couldn't imagine doing anything else.

And now, finally, I am a mommy.  For the past three years, I've had the fearful, wonderful privilege of being your almost constant companion, your diaper-changer and lunch-maker, your ouchy-healer and cuddle-giver.  I've felt more tired and more powerless than I'd ever imagined, but I've also known more joy than you will ever understand, until, perhaps, the day you have a baby of your own.

I want you to know Ellie how grateful I am for these first three years of your life.  Your name means "God has answered," and you, my child, have been an answer to prayer - not only the prayers prayed by your Daddy and I in the year we waited for a baby, but also to the often unspoken yearnings of a little girl's heart and to the whispered longings of young, single woman.

Ellie, I still struggle sometimes to believe that God is good.  It is easy for me to see all the hard and broken places in life, to get stuck there, wondering where He is in the pain and the darkness.  But today sweet girl, as we celebrate three years of you, I see His goodness all over you.  I see it when you smile at the pleasure of speaking your latest "silly word."  I see it in the pitter-patter of your feet running to greet me when I come home from an errand or meeting.  I see it in your tender affection for your baby sister.  Most of all, I see it in the simple reality of your presence here with us, a sweet fulfillment of my heart's desire, a generous gift from a God who is indeed, good.

A Letter for Rachel

I wrote this letter for the daughter of a friend, whose baby was born at 24 weeks and lived just a few short hours in her arms...she's given me permission to share it here as a tribute to her sweet baby girl.

Dear Sweet Rachel,

I never got the chance to meet you.  Few of us did.  You spent the few short hours of your life in the loving embrace of your Mommy, one of the bravest women I know.

I never even got to see you inside your Mommy’s belly, watch your growing body make her stomach swell, feel your little feet kicking against the confines of her womb.  In fact, I don’t think I've even seen your Mommy in ten or more years, since we lived in the same college dorm and worshiped together with other students in our campus fellowship.  I've seen pictures of her and your sisters and your Daddy on Facebook, and we've exchanged a few e-mails.  But I haven’t really been a part of your family’s life in any meaningful way.

I didn't know you Rachel, and I don’t really know your family all that well, but I do know a few things about you, things that I want somehow to make sure you know too. 

First, I want you to know that your life was very real.  It was real to your Mommy and Daddy and to your big sisters and to so many of us who prayed round the clock that you would be born healthy and strong.  It was real to the doctors and nurses who fought for you to live.  Most importantly, it was real to the God of the Universe, who made you and knew you in all the ways we wish we could and so many more.  Your life, as short as it was, was real, and your absence leaves a big, big hole in a family already grieving the loss of your Daddy. 

Second, I want you to know that your Mommy is an amazing woman.  Even from my distance, I can see that clearly.  She loved you, deeply and selflessly.  Even when your Daddy died suddenly, even when she found out two days later that you had spina bifida, she loved you.  In the midst of her own deep grief and the very sobering realities of your health, she took the time to tell me that she felt blessed to have been chosen by God to care for you.  She risked her own body in hopes of giving you a stronger, fuller life.  And when you came too soon, too small, too fragile, she simply held you.  She loved you Rachel.

I believe you are in Heaven now, that in ways I cannot begin to understand you know the full realities of selfless love.  But I hope you can see too that your short life on earth, spent in your Mommy’s womb and then ever-so-briefly in her arms, were a beautiful picture of what you now know in full – selfless, sacrificial love. 

When I see your Mommy, I see Jesus, and I hope that as you look at Jesus, you see a bit of your Mommy too.

I look forward to meeting you one day, Rachel. 

Love,

Abby

p.s.  If you meet a little girl named Avaleen, please give her a big hug for me. 

Three Months

Your middle name is Joy.  We chose it in faith that your birth, almost exactly one year after your sister's due date, would be a joyful, redemptive occasion, that after the painful experience of losing one child, we might be able again to taste the joy of holding a healthy baby in our arms.

I expected that bringing you home would be joyful and healing and beautiful, and it has been all of these things.  I am very aware of just how precious your little life is, of the miracle of your steady breaths while you sleep, of your warm body in my arms.

What I didn't expect was how much your middle name would suit you, not only because you came after what was lost, but also because of you and who God made you to be.

You have been a delightful baby, Celia Joy.  In spite of some gastrointestional issues that I know often make you uncomfortable, your demeanor is characterized by peace, contentment, and yes, joy.  You do not demand attention, but respond to it with a smile that makes your still-blue eyes sparkle.  You are quiet by nature, but you coo eagerly when I have a moment to sit and talk to you.

I am still learning to know you, watching as your personality begins to unfold.  But I want you to know this my baby girl:  these first three months of your life have been a great joy.  They've been joyful in part because your life is a gift after a great loss, but mostly, they've been joyful simply because of you.

Two and Three-Quarters

Two and three-quarters.  That's precisely how old you were when your baby sister arrived, after many long months of anticipating her arrival.

I'd worried about your adjustment, about how you'd handle sharing my attention after two and three-quarters years of demanding most of it.

But from the beginning of Celia's life, you embraced her with joy and understood that she belonged with us. I will never forget coming home from the hospital with Celia snuggled in her car seat, walking my still tender body gingerly toward the front door, and seeing your colorful "Welcome Home Celia" sign and your face plastered against the glass, beaming.

You've had your moments of adjustment for sure, but they've been brief and uncharacteristic.  Mostly, you've loved your sister.  You've loved her not just in the typical toddler fashion - the plentiful smothering hugs and sloppy kisses - but you've also loved her with maturity and grace, learning to entertain yourself more as I take care of her, trying to understand what makes her sad and how you can help to fix it.

You are two and three-quarters my Ellie girl, but you are a little mother, a nurterer, a life-giver.  Watching you become a big sister has been one of my greatest joys.

Where I Am

When people see me these days, with a toddler and baby in tow, they usually ask how we're doing, how our adjustment to being a family of four is going. 

My answer is always the same, "We're doing really well.  Celia's a really chill baby, and Ellie's adjustment has been smooth."  

And I mean it.  To be honest, these first almost-three months as a family of four have been better than I could have imagined.  

Celia is a peaceful baby, generally content unless she's tired or hungry, problems I can understand and easily solve.  Pop her little pink pacifier in her mouth, and she snuggles herself right to sleep.  Set her down on her play mat, and she'll entertain herself quietly for half an hour.  Put her to bed at night, and she generally wakes up 8-12 hours later.

Ellie adores her sister and has risen to the occasion of sharing my attention with surprising grace and patience.  She has her moments for sure, but her overwhelming response has been one of love.  

I know I am blessed.  With her reflux issues and general fussiness, Ellie was a challenging enough baby that I fully appreciate what a blessing Celia's temperament is.  And I have good friends whose toddlers struggled to adjust to their baby siblings.  I've seen how exhausting and difficult that road can be.  

All that to say, I'm very grateful, grateful not only for the relative ease of these transition months, but also for the two sweet, healthy girls I get to spend my days with.  Last night, after bouncing an unusually fussy Celia to sleep and then joining CJ to sing "Amazing Grace" to our tucked-into-bed Ellie, my eyes brimmed with tears.  

My girls are here.  Unlike my Avaleen, I get to hug them and hold them and dance with them and make them smoothies and play Tinkertoys and dress up with them.  Their lives are beautiful, amazing gifts, and I still really can't believe they've been given to us.  

Don't get me wrong.  Being a mom of two kids is hard.  The days are long, and juggling the needs of two little people doesn't leave much time for anything else.  My back aches each night from all of the carrying and lifting and bouncing.  Celia's had some gastrointestional issues that have required me to cut not only dairy, but many of my other favorite foods from my diet.  And when Ellie skipped her nap three days in a row last week, I thought I might go crazy without those treasured moments of silence.  The introvert in me is struggling to find the places of solitude, rest, and reflection I need to feel like myself, to truly connect to God and to others.

Those are real challenges, and each one of them has left me in tears on at least one occasion.  But mostly, I just feel blessed.  Tired, overwhelmed, and disconnected from my heart, but blessed.  I prayed for these girls; God answered; and it is a sweet, sweet thing.