Hello courage.

A dear friend from Oklahoma came to town for a short few hours visit, and we shared lunch across the big farm table.

"My heart is longing for deep community," I told her.  I poured it all out.  "I love people.  I need people.  Over the last few years, I've realized that although I'm still an introvert, I'm much more social than I ever realized.  And so many of our close friends have moved away or are moving away soon.  It seems we're just left here in this holding pattern, not knowing what comes next.  I often feel that so many of the gifts I know the Lord has given me are just not being put to good use.  I know and feel confident in my worth here with my children and husband, but I mean as a member of the body of Christ, as a friend, as a member of a community."

She put down her fork and, smiling with tears in her eyes, spoke words over me that I needed to hear more than anything:

"When you take flight it's like no other...and you will take flight in this next season with great courage.  The best is yet to be." 

My eyes brightened.  I sat up a little straighter.  "I feel hopeful," I said. 

"This is always how it feels right before everything opens up," she replied.  "Let hope arise and spring up from every place your feet tread."

A few days later, I received a package from her in the mail.  I opened it to unveil this beautiful "hello courage" piece of art and a note:

"You've felt in a cocoon at so many different times...but you're about to take flight with fresh courage and strengthening hope. When you spread your wings you release the most magnificent aroma of Christ.  Keep fighting from victory not for it.  There is no one like you!"

~ ~ ~

Sometimes, sometimes, sometimes we just need to hear what God thinks about us.  Scriptures say it, of course, but I'm talking something more personal.  And He often uses those close to us to communicate that.  What a sweet gift.

I'm reading the incredible book Love Does by Bob Goff right now and I'm reminded of the chapter where Bob says, "Words of encouragement have their own power.  And when they are said by the right people, they can change everything.  What I've found in following Jesus is that most of the time, when it comes to who says it, we each are the right people."

As I'm reading this book, my soul is stirring to live a bigger, more adventurous, more whimsical life.  Still a simple life, but one that is opened up for God to work even more.  It's a blog post for another day, but for now I'll keep reveling in this message from the Lord just for me. 

Because apparently, I'm about take flight.  I'll wait in expectation and polish off these dusty wings and get ready for the beauty that awaits.

From fear to faith.

My childhood summers were filled with one of the most wonderful pastimes - swimming all day, navigating the underwater crystally caverns, eating popsicles in the sun, drying off on a towel and eating snacks as the sun became lower in the sky. 

My swim teacher, Sharon, was a cute high-schooler with a short feathery hairdo and bright smile. As a young child, I thought the older lifeguards were practically celebrities, and my one-on-one swim lessons with Sharon were treasured times.  I felt so special when on the last day of swim lessons, she gave me her lifeguard whistle, which I still have to this day.

Now, my heart quickens to see almost-4-year-old Luci Belle learning to navigate the water, becoming a little fish in her own right.  This past week, she overcame a huge hurdle and learned to swim.  Before swim lessons started, my daughter wouldn't even allow a single drop of water to touch her face during bathtime.  She loved to swim in the pool but only with floaties on her arms.  I knew this was going to be a rough lesson to learn, but an essential one - for safety purposes if none other. 

When we arrived at swim instructor Mrs. Angie's pool on day one, she utterly panicked and clung to me, screaming.  It was all I could do to remind myself that this was a step my daughter needed to take without me.  I had to hand her over into the {loving, capable} arms of Mrs. Angie and step away.

From behind the tinted windows of Mrs. Angie's livingroom, I could see the pool but hear nothing.  Over the next few days, it was like I was watching a silent movie of my daughter moving from fear to faith.

The crocodile tears as she was reluctantly carried around the pool.

Then, the tears stopped flowing.

Tentatively sticking her chin in the water, then the rest of her face.

Being pulled up by strong arms to gasp for air.

The full body submersion, the kicking and reaching.

The smiles as she re-emerged and saw photos of herself underwater.

The look of hope and focus in her eyes as she tried her first jump.

Squeals of joy as she jumped off the side with abandon.

Confidence, empowerment, joy.

Because once you know how to navigate the waters, it's not scary under there; it's beautiful.

At the end of day two, she was already swimming freestyle across the pool, underwater, by herself.  I could hardly believe my eyes. 

Seeing her learn to swim brings back so many sweet memories for me.  It's so exciting to see her enter this new stage of childhood.

Now, she asks everyday if we can go swimming.  In the pool at a friend's house yesterday afternoon, she beckoned me over to where she was splashing around on the steps.  She said, "Mommy, come look!  It's magical under here!" as she dunked her face underwater without hesitation.  I smiled and swam over and joined her, because yes, I do know it's magical under there.  And I couldn't be happier to join her underwater and see for myself.

My daughter's leap of faith has led to freedom.  And this past week she's taught me more about courage, about taking risks, and about looking for the beauty that's just beneath the surface - if only you'll have the courage to jump in.

Mother's Day and imperfection.

Mother's Day pancake breakfast tradition ~ last year // this year

This Mother's Day, in a quiet moment on the couch eating blueberry pancakes served by my oldest daughter, I had a glimpse of her as a big girl, and my heart exploded a little. 

I don't even remember how she went from barely speaking words to us having full conversations about thing like "where do fairies live?", "what makes cars go?"  and "what's it like to live in africa?"

And this year, I feel even more heavily the weight of time passing.  A few weeks ago, on our first morning of homeschool, I announced it was snack time, and Luci Belle dashed out of the playroom into the kitchen ahead of me.  In the 15 seconds it took me to put my pen down and gather the baby from where she was playing on the floor, I heard screaming coming from the kitchen. I ran in there, and she was standing on the floor in front of the counter holding her bloody mouth, and one of her bottom teeth was on the floor. 

Her first lost tooth.  At barely age four.  And not on purpose.

You'd think I'd grown accustomed to these moments, as in less than four years, she's already busted her forehead open twice and knocked the wind out of herself another time while jumping off the coffee table {which we've since gotten rid of until...hmmm...our kids leave for college}.  But no, there's no "growing accustomed" to your child screaming in panic and pain and the realization that she's again been scarred by life in this imperfect world.

I don't know where I got the idea that life should ever be perfect, but unfortunately I carried it into motherhood with me.  My babies came into the world without scars, and I wanted to keep it that way. And although I know it's just appearances and it sounds ridiculous to be upset about a tooth, I'm still human, I'm a mom, and it makes me sad.

I kept my sadness about the tooth falling out between my husband and I and a few close girlfriends.  {"Daredevil!" one friend responded.  Another appeared at our front door with a Dora balloon.  Yet another reminded me, "Perfection is boring."}

I looked on the bright side - the tooth was on the bottom, it wasn't a permanent one, and it came out cleanly without any other damage.   And of course more than anything, my daughter is still whole, still her beautiful, spunky self.  Thank you, Lord.

But I just feel fragile now.  I'm feeling the weight of the fact that there's really only so much I can do to protect my children.  It's such a difficult thing to love them and protect them while also surrendering them to the One who actually loves them more than I ever could.

And as much as I want it to be, life just isn't perfect.

The best part is, she doesn't mind at all.  She thinks it's fun to have a window in her mouth and keeps showing it to people proudly.  She's blissfully unaware of how long it's going to be until the new tooth comes in.

Please, my sweet girl.  Stay this innocent and unaffected by the world as long as you can.

On Mother's Day morning, I looked at her sitting across the couch eating chocolate chip pancakes {her favorite} and uttered a silent prayer,

Please don't let me do anything to break her carefree spirit.  Don't let me crush her with my own faults and weaknesses.  Please rid me of this desire for a perfect life so I don't pass it on to my children.   And thank you, thank you, thank you for protecting my girl once again.

So we approach age 4 with a window in her mouth.  I look through, and I see a picture of the little girl she still is, a glimpse of the big girl she's yet to be.

These are days...

"These are days you'll remember.

Never before and never since, I promise, will the whole world be warm as this.

And as you feel it, you'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky.

It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you.

These are days you'll remember.

When May is rushing over you with desire to be part of the miracles you see in

Every hour.

You'll know it's true that you are blessed and lucky.

It's true that you are touched by something that will grow and bloom in you.

These are days.

These are the days you might fill with laughter until you break.

These days you might feel a shaft of light make its way across your face.

And when you do you'll know how it was meant to be.

See the signs and know their meaning.

It's true, you'll know how it was meant to be.

Hear the signs and know they're speaking to you, to you."

~ "These Are Days" by 10,000 Maniacs

"When the kids were young..."

"Though childhood slips like sand through a sieve…
And all too soon they’ve up and grown,
and then they’ve flown…
And it’s too late for you to give..."
~ Mary Poppins

One day Steven and I will sit around talking about "when the kids were young" or "when we had little ones in the house."  Onesies will be gone for good, diapers will be a burden of the past, and we'll wish we had puzzle pieces and crayons and Sophie The Giraffe toys to pick up off the floor before going to bed.  The days of when we had small children will all be one big, beautiful memory, their childhoods already created.

Lately, this has been weighing so heavily on me.  Probably because Norah is {most likely} my last baby, I find myself feeling differently this time around.  Although it seems like our family is rounded out with two children, I still have that sad feeling that my childbearing years might be over, and this is the last time I'll have an infant in my arms. 

This is what one of my favorite authors, Sarah Bessey, calls "The Ache."  I can barely get through that entire post, because it touches the pit of my soul.  She says,

"It’s simply the Ache of time passing, because this is what time does, and our souls are noticing the passing of a season, and it’s okay. It’s okay to let it Ache. It means we’re living and it means we’re loving our life as it stands, loving it enough to notice a transition away."

Yes, I love this enough to notice that it will be gone.  Sigh.

So this time, I don't really care when Norah wakes up in the middle of the night not the least bit sleepy and looks up at me with her big, chubby, jolly smile.  This time, I get her out of her bassinet and play with her for awhile and realize that sleep can wait.  This time, I don't read tons of books on my Kindle or check my phone while I'm nursing.  I mostly just look down at her and try to memorize every detail of a sleepy, milk-drunk, contented baby, and I praise God for the ability to feed and nourish and comfort two girls in this way. 

I don't feel weird about taking a million pictures of my children.  I look back at all the photos I have of Luci Belle as a toddler and can't believe those toddler years are already gone.  I'm thankful beyond words to have so many frozen moments.

My goal as a parent is to give my children "roots and wings" and raise them to be healthy, self-assured women who hopefully love and serve the Lord.   Still, one day everything will be quiet here, and I can hardly bear to think of it. 

But today, sweet today, I still have two little ones at home.  As long and hard as the days can be, and as frustrated and wrung-out and beyond-tired I can become, I cling to the reality that I've been given a chance to be a mother, and I love this calling.  I will try to mother them the best I can, hold their childhoods in my hands as the precious commodity they are, and not let others make me feel guilty about seeing these little years as a blessing.

I will put down my fork and leave the dinner table on Thanksgiving to capture a photo of my carefree 3-year-old.  And twenty years from now, we'll look back on this image together and remember that she was a child who loved to dance in sunbeams.

"Comparison is {still} the thief of joy."

Image source: howjoyful.com

When I first heard the quote, "Comparison is the thief of joy," it impacted me so.   During my first pregnancy, I wrote about it here, a post which has somehow become the most popular one on this site.  I suppose we're all yearning for more joy and realizing how much comparison cripples us.

But no matter how much I know this quote is true, it seems that comparison is still a problem for me, and now in a totally new way - comparing myself to myself.

And that's exactly what I've been doing lately.  At age 36, I'm compelled to look back to my 20s, or even who I was five years ago.  In so many ways I love who I am now more, but the comparisons to the "past versions of me" keep coming...

Back when I had less wrinkles...

Back when I was skinnier...

Back when I could wear those jeans...

Back when I had the ability and time to work out everyday...

Back when I was able to be more present in others' lives...

Comparing myself to myself rather than to others almost seems more deadly, because it tends to be an internal battle. It doesn't involve another person, so it can be kept secret, just simmering beneath the surface until it explodes.  Unfortunately it usually explodes in front of my husband, God bless him.

I see again and again how the comparison saps my joy.  I may have been those things once, and I may or may not be those things again.  But either way, it does not define my today.  My joy should come from where the Lord has me in this moment.  So, this is something I'm really working on.  If you've struggled with the same thing, I'd love to know your thoughts.

Lack of sleep, caked eyeliner, and embarrassing parking lot moments.

Signs you're a mom of two little ones...

...you look in the mirror for the first time of the day at 1:43 pm and actually scare yourself.  What the??  Your hair looks like you attempted the "sexy messy look" but grossly missed the mark, and the already cavernous dark circles under your eyes are caked with yesterday's eyeliner.  The best part is that after the initial shock, you simply shrug your shoulders and go on with your day.  After all, what can be done at this point?

...while standing in the kitchen with a baby perched on your shoulder, you don't think twice about gnawing on the cold, spongy crust of your daughter's pizza from yesterday's lunch.  And yes, you actually saved a pizza box with only crust in it.

...yesterday after finishing grocery shopping and getting everyone buckled in the car, your little one starts screaming.  Baby girl is hungry and can't wait another minute.  You unbuckle her and bring her into the front seat to nurse her before you head home, and almost immediately your 3-year-old announces that she suddenly has to go potty right now.  Poo-poo.  You beg your big girl to hold it until you finish nursing the baby, then get everyone out of the car and carry your 13-pound 2-month-old in one arm while you hold your older daughter's hand to rush her to the bathroom.  You then perform a feat of mythic proportions as you help your daughter get on and off the potty, wipe her bottom, and pull her jeans back on and button them, all with one hand.  

...you're sure you just put a massive, jumbo-sized package of wipes in your diaper bag and that's why it feels like you're carrying around a boulder all the time.  Still, every time there's a blowout diaper or carsickness episode, the wipes mysteriously seem to be down to the last three measly ones in the package.  

...you actually feel like you "got a lot of sleep last night" if you slept more than 3 hours at a time, and you feel a little less like you just got punched in the face.

...you meet two kind moms at the park, and as they're introducing their children to you, you suddenly panic because you can't find your oldest daughter on the playground.  You interrupt the mom who's talking and start calling for your daughter very loudly with a crazy voice.  When your daughter quietly replies, "I'm right here, Mommy," you realize she is literally standing three feet away from you - in front of you - playing in the sandbox.  The other two moms stare back at you with a mixture of sympathy, understanding, and amusement.

...you suddenly notice that the tank top you've been wearing for the last two days is so old and threadbare that it's become see-through at the precise spot of your cleavage. And there are spit-up stains on the shoulder.  And you're leaking milk.  Consider the park moms quite impressed.

~ ~ ~

 Many people told me "the transition from 1 to 2 kids is the hardest..." and now I see why.  I keep reminding myself that I used to be able to have a coherent conversation and stay on top of tasks to be done at all my former jobs.  Really, I did.  Now, I hardly ever have clean clothes, can barely plan what's for dinner much less what we're doing next week, and seem to be frazzled every time I attempt to run a simple errand.  As another blogger so aptly put it, I'm "having a baby year."  Ohhhh, so that's what you call this. 

Being a mother of little ones drives me to Christ daily, both in feelings of overwhelming gratitude and staggering inadequacy.  I couldn't possibly be more thankful for my two daughters, for these two precious lives entrusted to me.  I'm also human, and it's hard work...so hard that it sucks every ounce of patience and energy from my bones sometimes.  But I also think that's how it's supposed to be.  A new human has entered the world, and that requires an adjustment to make room for another invaluable life.

So let's be kind and graceful to each other, mamas.  We're fighting noble battles out here.  

Letter to my girls.

Luci Isabelle, 3.5 years // Norah Jewell, 2 months

"You’re mine to love

Come into these open arms

It took some time to wait it out

But I see it now, you’re worth all the dreaming."

~ Dave Barnes

Luci Belle and Norah,

I love saying that now - "my girls."  Do I really get to be the mama of two beautiful, precious daughters?  I look at each of you, so unique, so wonderfully made.  Luci Belle, the top half of your face is your Daddy's, your bottom half is mine.  Norah, you look more like your Daddy everyday, but I'll claim your wavy chocolate brown hair and little pointed chin.

Each day, I pray for you my girls, asking that the Lord would captivate your hearts at an early age, that you will grow to be best friends and share lots of laughter.  Selfishly, I pray that your Daddy and I will be fortunate enough to live alongside you for a very long time, that we have years of fun and silliness together as a family - cross-country road trips, cooking together at home, creating, taking walks and hikes, living and loving together on this journey.

Luci Belle,

You first made me a mama.  My biggest hope for you during this transition to a family of four is that you would still feel ever so loved and treasured.  I feel so inadequate most days, like I'm not giving you enough attention.  I pray that God would give me the patience and ability to love you the way you uniquely need right now - through one-on-one cuddle time, a listening ear, or a mommy-buddy to share ice cream with.

How did you get to be such a big girl?  Wasn't I just cuddling your newborn body in this very room?  I'm so proud of the girl you've become.

I see these photos and am moved by how perfectly they capture you - your smile, your passion.  I know God has special plans to use that spirited soul of yours.

Norah,

Welcome to our family, sweet girl.  You have such a peace and calmness about you that perfectly balances out our family.  We waited so long for you and now I can't imagine life otherwise.

It's so fun to have a tiny baby again.  Since you are probably my last, I find myself just sitting and staring at you and smelling your sweet smell for minutes on end.  I don't want to miss a thing ~ like your gorgeous cock-eyed smile and pillowy cheeks.  You don't cry much and sleep pretty much anywhere and love being carried in the Moby wrap or Boba.

I've always had ambitions to do work outside the home, and I've been able to accomplish that.  But above all, what I always wanted was to be a mother.  In many ways, it's the more difficult path and more challenging than I ever thought possible.  But to see the face of God in each of you, to be challenged to be a better version of myself everyday, and to be given this immense gift and responsibility, is worth it a million times over. 

Love you with all my heart,

Mommy

*All photos by Erin Fletcher.