A Good Neighborhood

The drums are out tonight. There’s a special party across the street, breaking a 6 week pause, and our upstairs bedroom window is perfectly positioned to meet the music before the noise is drowned out by the freeway behind our headboard.

I met a lady this week while shopping who had two young children, our toddler boys’ friendliness only surpassed by her eagerness to also make a new friend. They have lived here for a couple of years, renting, and were not sure about buying, the neighborhood and all. Their church is in Pasadena, their job at USC, and we met next to a water fountain in the middle of USC’s new village shopping area–the reason Trader Joe’s is now a local grocer.

As our conversation continued about where we lived, how long we’ve lived here, if we wanted to stay or just accidentally let 12 years slip by, I shared about some of the things I liked about the neighborhood though we are not homeowners. People commonly ask us about this–what is this LA thing all about? Yes, we have chosen over and over to stay, and yes, we really do love it here. I admired her baby, Lucas shared some popcorn and we went on our way, pleased to make their acquaintance. I ended up walking away confused a little too. Could Western in any way be considered Inglewood? I thought to myself. No. And what is wrong with Inglewood? I have often admired the small, landscaped homes surrounding my local Costco, and thought it’d be a nice area to live in. The guys ringing up my cases of diapers and granola bars are always adding a good joke or two to the lineup, or bantering about the latest bad call. They’ve had to endure incredible construction over in Inglewood on their thoroughfares, as the new Rams stadium has suddenly inspired greenspaces, palm trees, and asphalt for better or worse.

Tonight as the drums and indiscernible hollers of the the band backdrop our home, I remember one night our first year living here. We were not used to mariachi and parties from our home cultures are muted, controlled affairs. It was summer, and windows had to be open in hopes of any relief from the heat. From the second floor of a wobbly apartment building, it felt like we were the actual tent of our next door neighbor’s party, hanging over and pulsating with the sustained chords. As the party wore on, I became increasingly agitated. Joining the raucous, I yelled out the window something I cannot remember but undoubtedly was embarrassing and ineffective, a winning combination. I blame my behavior on being hot and 21. But really, it’s because I hadn’t endeared myself to this neighborhood yet, and it to me, and I thought I could assess what should and should not happen amongst neighbors. I thought I knew what was good for a neighborhood.

This weekend I’ve spent some time in an old school kitchen with a hood exhaust fan whose volume rivals an airplane ready for takeoff. A dark, forboding stove, oven and grill line one side and a stainless countertop with wonky drawers and off-brand foil lines the other. One day we were plating tacos for about 75 people; the next we were cleaning up desserts from our young breast cancer survivor, bad ass math teacher friend’s baby shower. That kitchen is emblematic of my neighborhood and now I understand it better. Not perfectly, but better than I did when I was 21.

The kitchen and everything in it is shared by about 4 churches, one school, and a lot of us who just think we can use it whenever we want to–and somehow it works. The shelves are a jigsaw puzzle of mismatched volunteer work and loose sugar packets, the green tiles on the floor could use some ammonia, and no matter what, there are a lot of jugs of expired creamers in the fridge. In the walls of that kitchen, people have shared news of births and deaths, arrests and miscarriages, leaving and joining. Next to the stained potholders and the greasy industrial pans used to heat lunches daily, women have shared of abuse, betrayal, giving in and letting go. We’ve cut wedding flowers in those sinks and cried hard, away from the memorial service, leaning on the stove.

The doors to the kitchen are never closed; I don’t know why. The kitchen has witnessed and held and built resilience even as its appliances groan and endure with all their use. There, people have made and stepped into and tackled messes for decades, and the place is still standing. There is a respect and humility by the queens of the kitchen I have witnessed many times in the form of differing when they know best, laughing off criticism or speaking up for one another. Their royalty informs and trains those of us who are younger and rushed. In the kitchen, abuelas have graciously let interns from Missouri help them prepare the beans (or me plate tacos), and tías have shown teachers how to make horchata. In the kitchen, a million different stories have strengthened each other’s voice, not to mention all the stomachs and souls who have been fed from its labors.

There is not one thing visibly impressive or relevant about the kitchen in terms of Joanna Gaines, DIY, vintage, modern, or otherwise. It is not particularly safe, or well-planned. Parts of it drive me bonkers. But even I can see its sacred space now. Even I recognize that there’s a magic of an anchored spot where crowds of people have spent their lives serving, giving, sharing, with just enough belonging and ownership to maintain the space for the next person. The next neighbor.

I’ve had to stay to see it. To learn it. I’ve had to wash dishes on the outskirts while I watch the real stuff unfolding by the oven. It’s a kitchen with utility and beauty that surpasses any on my Instagram feed, but this was a slow dawning. The way the towels are organized has become less important and the wonder of so many people working out a dance in such a small, assorted place now catches my eye and hooks my heart.

The drumbeat tonight may be waking babies, and generally doesn’t help my migraines, but it far preceded my calling of this place home. My children learned to sleep through parties at an early age, me a little later. Tonight at least, the beat marks that some people are having a good time, generously sharing what they have to celebrate with others, to enjoy this moment, whatever it is. Tonight, the drums announce a break in the rainfall and the perseverance of life and culture despite the mud, much like our beloved school kitchen.

Tonight the drums signal home in my neighborhood, and yes, we love it here.

 

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Speaking of Brave Women: A Guest Post

We have all watched, read, and maybe even felt within ourselves today courage. It is not only a scary time of reckoning in our country, in our Church, and in our families; it is also a time where immense bravery …

To the First Woman of my International Women’s Day

The situation I grew up in was pretty traditional: men preached, led, made money and were the heads of the household. At the same time, I was surrounded by very good men. There are those. There are men who are …

Maybe Happens

One thing that I have not shared much about is a very good and important thing that happened over the summer. Last summer had some real downers but those don’t subtract from our joy, and rejoicing, over a new victory.

Our second born had a rough time for a few years. A major accident at our church, febrile seizures, and getting very sick in Guatemala. When we returned home and began fostering, he embraced her fully as a toddler would, and his febrile seizures continued but thankfully he was not often running a fever. 9 months after her arrival, in the aftershocks of her sudden removal, some of his first sentences were heart wrenching. While we were fighting that battle, Asher began having many more seizures. Maybe stress and the emotional trauma of losing a baby like that did something, maybe it’s just coincidence. It was a very hard period. These were not just febrile seizures like they had thought and the medical bills started piling up.

There are many things we don’t know about epilepsy, and that doctors and scientists don’t know. It is a scary diagnosis. Asher began treatment, and despite changing jobs and insurance twice, and becoming part of medical, was able to see the same pediatric neurologist his whole life. Because of the Affordable Care Act, we were able to have continuation of care and not be penalized for his epilepsy. I tried going to the first neurologist we were referred to on one of our new plans at the time. It was a truly terrible experience and I could not imagine working with them to sort out appointments, let alone solutions, as we found ourselves on this path.

The first medication didn’t slow down the seizures. We gave it a good run but we saw the negative side effects and didn’t notice much relief. It was hard because he couldn’t tell us how it made him feel, and if he sensed anything different before or after his episodes. We slowly began a different medication–one which introducing too quickly to patients could end in fatality. Doctors said after more testing and overnights that they didn’t think he would outgrow epilepsy. I briefed babysitters and teachers and sunday school. I tried not to think about IEPs one day, or driving, or camp, or anything restricted on this bright eyed wonder.

He did well on the new medication and we could breathe once we reached a therapeutic dose with no rash outbreak. We were still dealing with collections, payments, and billing reductions but we were not documenting seizures. Eventually the grip on the phone when separated loosened. The spans of playing out of eyesight lengthened. The months between UCLA neurology visits and that $14 parking garage grew. He was pro at taking his pills. We were pro at fighting, I mean working, with the local pharmacy to help them keep their inventory up and refills regular.

As Asher’s Kindergarten graduation plans were taking shape, and no ambulance was ever called, we had another checkup. It was a slow breakthrough. With epilepsy they call seizures emerging under medication “breakthrough,” which is the opposite of any headway a parent wants to make. I was shocked to hear of a real breakthrough: the dr thought we could try titrating down, off the medication, to test the epilepsy. Maybe he was outgrowing it. Maybe it was different than they had thought. It had been over a year. No delays. No jumps in dosage. Maybe the prayers, the hopes, barely spoken aloud for fear it would ruin our ability to walk the prescribed, long road ahead, were coming true.

On my birthday, Asher took his last, now tiny dose of epilepsy medication. And there have been no breakthrough seizures during the months of transitioning off. His moods and energy seem to have panned out, from however the drugs affected his system, combined with the excited exhaustion of starting 1st grade. We don’t wonder if something is seizure, drug, or age/misbehavior/mood related now. It’s just C, a 5-year-old boy, learning. We are thrilled at his progress and health, for him, for us, and for the pharmacy on the corner. I don’t know when we can say he does not have epilepsy, when it will be far enough away that a glazed look doesn’t cause my 2nd take, but each day is closer to then.

To be sure, it has been a rough year on almost all accounts. Homes, literal and figurative, are burning down all around us. But this is quite the foil. We are so proud of this boy and his love and tenacity and incredibly excited that this is yet another new normal. This victory, this praise, deserves our tears, applause, and thanksgiving and I’m so glad to be able to share this today, in the midst of all the todayness that weighs heavy. We’ve learned so many lessons by his side. From the waiting, to the hurting, to the forgiving and the grieving, to the advocacy, to the pain of children’s hospitals, in which so many have stayed for far more time. We’ve learned to take things by the day, that anesthesiologists have their own groups, and nothing is for granted. We’ve seen how limited we are as parents, and how scary pre-existing conditions and medical bills can really, really be. And we’ve been encouraged to keep places of hope in our lives that defy reason, that may be hibernating, for an unexpected spring. Who knows, maybe your birthday is coming. Maybe the breakthrough is slow. Maybe because this maybe came true.

Glory

It was fitting that I was cooking with a fair amount of bacon grease when the call came. Grandpa Pruitt, Bobby, had passed on to the next life. Suffering no more, he was gone. And like that, as my dad said, the oldest generation was departed, leaving behind deep roots and so many branches in this family of faith.

I remember as a little girl, wrapping presents with Grandpa in our guest room in a split level house in Oregon. They had come for Christmas again, and we were busy downstairs, just me and him, somewhere between the DOS computer and patchwork quilt. He used the scissors with a constant up and down motion, snipping each 4 inch segment of the wrapping paper at its appointed time. I showed him what I liked to do: hold those scissors at a steady angle and ZIIPPP, that new line was slightly curled in the wake of my linear efficiency. “Well, I’ll be,” he beamed, sputtering something about the thought of ME (who he commonly referred to as “ugly”) being able to teach HIM something. He wasn’t one for pretending so I believed that I had introduced this technique.

It’s hard to explain a man who called his young granddaughter ugly without once causing her to question how much he loved her and thought otherwise. He was the Zeke Braverman of the family, with less Berkeley and more suspenders. He got away with too many things, and was my first teacher in the well-meaning, if not downright inappropriate, insult. He wasn’t too proud to tear up when noticing the significance of a moment, or laugh that high, vacuum-sounding pleasure at his own mistake.

Proverbs 13:20 Become wise by walking with the wise; hang out with fools and watch you life fall to pieces.

I give thanks for this man, this legend of the river and woods, of missions and letter writing, romance and brusque ways both. For the life he and Grandma built. Thank you, God, for the son they raised in my father. For this undying legacy my siblings and I are swept up in. Thank you that he is no longer lonesome, no longer limited. Be with us, the crowds of Pruitts and beyond, grieving this loss, the passed generation of scaffolding, stability and faith, which not one of us has ever lived without. Our ankle twists in the hole left behind the removed pillar. Our eyes squint at the absent shade. Their hands, their hearts, their foibles, all so big. All such a gift.

He found mansions of glory here, on this earth—in his garden and around the fire, on the water, in the kitchen and beside his bride. His eyes twinkled with endless delight at innumerable grandbabies, the piano, a pie, a bad joke, and always, always, at the sight of any of his six children. But now, the mansions of glory, and endless delight that do not end are his—the ones needing no repair, that do not age and move away. All his senses restored, reunited with Grandma, with his youngest daughter, with so many of his friends who went before him. I don’t think that Rush Limbaugh is turned on in every room up there, but who could hear it over Grandpa’s storytelling anyway. The hymns have taken over, the berries are ripe, the river glass.

I love you Grandpa and miss you already. Thank you for loving this life, and us, so well.

Wherein I Say Nothing About Any of the Things

I went to high school in East Africa. Nairobi in fact. Sometimes I forget this. Sometimes it’s like a dream. Because, in many ways, it was.

While in said high school, I had the opportunity to fly back to the US and attend a youth leadership conference in Washington, D.C. It was one of those programs made to look very prestigious, bringing young leaders from near and far. Eager to build college admittance resumes, we were attending our first overpriced conference, strategically and suggestively set in the nation’s capital. We dressed up in professional garb as though we were not sixteen years old, wore lanyards, and stayed in a college dorm. Not a parent in sight. I was very fortunate to go, with people sponsoring my trip and registration. The theme for the week? Medical Ethics.

Never once did I consider a medical profession, mind you. But nonetheless, that was the option that fit best with ticket fares and summer travels and so why not. There I was surrounded by high school students who had set their pubescent sights on med school, or at least their parents had. I was headed towards an English Department somewhere, glad to have finished my high school (and lifetime) science credits with Environmental Studies.

The Thai food in D.C. was incredible. But one other thing was especially impacting (…other than the Korean guys who were interested in me, yes me, the nerdy girl in the permanent friend zone back at home in Kenya…). We all watched a movie one night, as a part of this Medical Ethics Conference: Wit, starring Emma Thompson. I was moved deeply by the film, but very soon after couldn’t quite describe why. It was obscure and no one had seen it apparently, except that select group of lanyard-clad young leaders, that I knew of. Its title stayed with me all these years and I finally watched it again yesterday, a mere 15 years later.

Wit still touched my soul, the first taste nostalgia, the rest merited profundity about the human condition, life and death. I had forgotten the strong elements of poetry, language and academia which would have been intriguing that week, way back when. I had forgotten the nurse, who always cared and rubbed lotion on the hands of the lonely patient. I had forgotten the pretentious rigor of the researchers and attending doctor. I had forgotten the main character’s journey towards both death and kindness, by way of suffering.

Wit likely watered my love for writing and studying poetry and Donne. It probably loosened some fears of the hospital, 7 years before I would work in one for a summer, and it probably planted a seed about bedside manner that made rubbing lotion on a dying woman’s back when she asked not that strange, but rather, a privilege. It tickled my appetite for academics, words, and the deep respect for women who become experts. It still speaks today to the value and pain of suffering and the great equalizing force of health and illness and endings.

Endings, health, ethics, and maintaining people’s humanity are themes that weigh on my mind these days. Also, always the thoughts and feelings about identity, my work, my worth, my gender…how I am changing and how I am not. These mazes are human and however difficult they are, whatever conflicts they may rise, and cloudiness they waft…they show life. The awareness of my own fragility, mortality even, however upsetting, is also an indicator light that my heart is beating and compassion is still kicking.

And maybe 15 years later, something will make sense. Or maybe along the way there will be a connection that leads you to give thanks, or a theme you recognize as directive, definitive, and distinctively tender. A theme God’s been showing you, patiently, relentlessly. We are alive, and yes, we are struggling, but the long game is still afoot. Our kindness, our attention to people’s humanity, our memory—these are of utmost importance now and our hurt may be the best indicator that these things are indeed on the rise. I must remind myself: the illness isn’t the story. It is the filter. Refining. Focusing.

Continue, sister and brother: forward.

Weeds, Anxiety and Home

“I need me some home.” -Johnnyswim

There are days that by 6pm, starting a load of laundry seems far too hard.

When the thought of next week, tomorrow, next year, carries too much work to bring that rush of Looking-Forward-To-life I think it will.

This infancy, this 3rd one from my own hormones and womb, has left me fighting demons of anxiety. Most common when I am quite literally feeding this little doughboy does the sense of alarm and despair threaten emptiness. It has improved over time, and has become less surprising, but still, Tired is nearer, No More is always within arm’s reach…and in the crevices of a cheerful, cuddly live teddy bear’s light and joy, there’s the bone tired drought and knots that appear from no where.

This afternoon, I battled a weed as big as me. It comes back every couple of months and I glare at it and I put in a request for a chainsaw (yes, this weed has a trunk) and a male’s upper arm strength and I wring my hands and maybe yell a few times. I let it take over the planter, filling my vision of the patio. And it can feel overwhelming.

Today I cut off all the parts of the weed and its spawn that I could. I made a heap of something that used to be feeding, growing, and absorbing energy, and will now shrivel and die. I didn’t solve anything but I don’t feel defeated when I look outside for the moment. Now it’s not the only thing I see when I look out the window.

In my refined, oldest child, perfectionist, Good-Christian, missionary kid/adult mentality, it’s really easy to think that going without is a virtue in and of itself–that somehow faith and being good and blessed has landed me in a stressful, tired place and that’s the way it is meant to be. That the weed is a thing of glory or a test or some crap theology like that and I just have to figure out how to BE HAPPY, doggonit.

And then I listen to a song. Then I spend 10 minutes of quiet with Galatians. Then I plant something or encounter a safe friend on the street or am spontaneously embraced or helped by one of my sons. And I remember Home.

Not a home I can find on a map, like many third-culture-kids and millennials nowadays. Not just my family of origin that shared so much with me. Not just a feeling of humanness and connectedness, or freedom and contentment that worldly beauty and comfort can aid. The Home that beckons us forward, that makes us bow our head in thanks. That disentangles our mind and our heart–our death grip–out and off of the lies of anxiety and shoulds and going without for no reason at all.

The Good News that’s kept my attention in the darkest does not proclaim that God wants me to carry a strained look around all the livelong day. He doesn’t send us things like illness, MediCal sagas, computer glitches that freeze our savings, and random phone calls asking if we can take a child (“We hope we can help soon…”) the very day we’re worried that that dream is dying. Yes, He’s grieved by asinine global and national developments and He is deeply involved in the loss and otherness and margins that invoke pain. But He isn’t behind every closed door and every upsetting curve ball. He isn’t preaching the Gospel of Muscle Through and The End.

My Courier of Good News is not the grim reaper of deprivation.

He’s the Home. Christ before me, Christ behind me. Christ beside me, Christ beneath me. Christ above me, Christ within me. The constant. The meaning, the refuge. Home.

Today, once again, I did nothing to actually end the battle with the nightmare weed, but I made it seem less big. So now I can focus on the plants I do want to grow–the choosing, the watering, the tending, out from under the lying shade of a bully weed. Today, I still do not have control over when and for how long I will experience anxiety and my chest muscles contracting and all the other blasted adulting that makes laundry too hard by 6pm. But I can rebel by doing the small things that help me be centered. I can partake in the things that whisper of Home—of being home-free, abundant, graceful and calm. I can avail my self to that which spites the weeds of this life, stripping them until they are only one part of the picture. I can lay claim to Home.

 

You Had Me Before I Had You

It was the best of times, it was the worst of times.

And by times, I mean, all the times since April 26, 2009.

There’s nothing like a child to magnify your vices and hang-ups, melt your heart so its more human, and muster a prayer-life filled with long pauses and questions. There’s nothing like the delight of how funny they are, how clever they are…how much wonder they bring to all the mundane they’ve brought. There’s nothing like painstakingly raising a strong-willed child to give you the holy opportunity to reframe things in grace that were once set in judgment, or remember things in gratefulness that still support you today.

Dante Kamau was a miracle. Strong in the womb, and stronger still on the outside, he has had us from the moment we knew we were having him.

In times of big change and big crisis, he has been remarkably, as his name implies, steadfast. Though a man of routine armed with a killer memory, he can somehow adapt to change and walk in confidence through the things we thought could rattle him—that rattled us. He is an excellent traveler and sleeper, having spent time in D.C., the Midwest, the Northwest, Amsterdam and Kenya in his first 2 years of life. He is brave and has faced many an adventure, head on, the past 7 years, giving us so much joy and new delight. He has done much for our arm muscles, and not much for our backs.

In the times of small upsets and tough social nuances, the tenderness and fragility of still being a young child, with too-big emotions, in a too-big body, with too many thoughts, all create a windstorm of fury and collapsing and we are caught off guard, new to this creature, all over again. He wears his heart on his sleeve and there is nothing discreet, like, ever. His straightforward manner of talking can seem rude and his analytical questions can make me want to hide. In a battle of an NF parent and an SF child, I just can’t sometimes, and he just can’t sometimes, and so we pat each other’s J’s and do our best. Sometimes his best response is “I don’t really want to talk.” and again, new, fretting like first-time parents of a newborn—how to maneuver with this miracle son.

He’s the one to first show us what it’s like to physically hurt for your kid and how wonderful it is to read for the first time and how you learn to read them better than you read yourself. What it’s like to hold yourself back from a violent urge to protect, interfere, speak for, defend, and, in general, smother, your offspring FOR THEIR OWN GOOD I’M SURE. He’s the one to first push every single button and make us feel insecure or embarrassed or loveydovey or playful from the tips of our toes. He’s the one to show me the tangible process of differentiating and letting go, slowly, barely, but surely, of your kid. He’s the one to show us the power of sin passed on through generations and to cause us to take more seriously our own repentance and rely more heavily on God’s grace. He’s the one to lead me to that desperate prayer at night, Lord save this kid from us. From my own blindspots, insensitivities, oversensitivies, and poverty.

We have never been here before, sweet Dante, wherever we are with you now. You are our first, and we feel like kids, and we love you so much it hurts. As you begin a new year, grow another foot, and take another step away from us, may your heart grow bigger, your identity in Love and Grace and Jesus surer, and your sharp mind stronger. You are His and you are ours, and we are so, so blessed by you.

Life Unfurled

** Childbirth is an amazing situation I’ve found myself in 3 times. With each son, I’ve written out my account of their birth and shared it with sincere disclaimers. Like the first two, this is long, personal and likely boring to the vast majority of people. It is not important to our friendship. It does not encapsulate the theme of this blog. Consider yourself excused, or warned, whichever strikes your fancy. **

 

// There Is A Time for Everything //

Our trusted doctor, who seems like a friend that we’ve never managed to have over for dinner in 7 years (Ryan says I have too many friends…), showed slight concern about how big he was. The baby that is. The third baby I was blessed to grow; the third son to rock my world of order and organization, predictability and pretty.

After giving birth to two large-craniumed, 9 pound, 14 ouncers already I was surprised by the doctor’s mention of size and needing to interfere at all with nature’s timing. He wasn’t one to over-plan, or worry, and just how big could this kid be?… I mean, in comparison to the others. I didn’t ask too many questions, biding my time, mulling over the options. Week by week, we measured, I grew, we talked in incrementally more detail about breaking water, a date, not being precious about letting him come late. I tracked but I wasn’t sold. I prayed that the conversations would be less relevant and my birth plan more. We waited.

On February 10^th, a check-up revealed that my body had started showing signs of preparing for labor 2 weeks early. My mom wasn’t arriving for another 4 days. My doctor-friend said to be a couch potato, and wait until my mom came. Meanwhile I held an appointment at the hospital for the 19^th, at 6am, to break my water, and maybe have “a whiff” of Pitocin should the baby wait that long to come, the start of the 40^th week. I mostly obeyed doctor’s orders except for, well, still being a mom, and a compulsive night of mopping our laminate floors; I have completely reasonable priorities.

Every night we thought we might meet our son. Our son who we were hoping for, then didn’t expect after months, then learned of the week we were due to finish recertifying for fostering. Our son who was so big and so strong, I felt him move clearly and repeatedly in the first trimester. Our son whose name we couldn’t decide for months, with agonizing discussions, transporting us back to our last naming process—whom we had finally come to peace with as Lucas, light-giver. Related to the Luke who penned the Gospel, and Acts, which has driven our adult life. Luke, a doctor and healer—the detailed writer. Lucas, a sure light to our family we didn’t fully anticipate but so treasured once we knew of his joining.

The nights went on. Mom arrived. The hospital check-in I thought was irrelevant a week ago neared and I kept praying, kept walking, kept waking up in the night to listen to my body—am I in labor? Or was that just a wishful interpretation of a normal ache? Strangers wished me well as though we were at the threshold of the hospital. I received a couple pointing amused gestures, which I’ve come to expect. People asked about twins. It’s all very glamorous and flattering, my last trimesters. This one I was even bigger. Only a few shirts finished the race with me. I was tired of all the comments. My stomach felt so cumbersome. I was ready. But I didn’t want to check-in and evict the kid at 6am on Friday.

In the meantime a family crisis arose up north. It was good to be with my mom while news broke, though hard for her to be far. As we waited for new life, we all grieved what had happened and where it could lead together. I watched the dissonance of a mother’s love again, something I had watched all my life and had felt now as a mother too—the responsibility, the disappointment, the anguish, and the fierce protectiveness, the love, the physical response to your child’s pain. We recalled a different but a related experience—in which we were unprotected, we were sick, and our story was convoluted and complicated and we felt so vulnerable and at the mercy. A mistake had been made and it was serious, wrong, and upsetting, but not, we believe, worthy of a too-serious, life-derailing sentencing. The flippancy of people’s judgments, of the difference between 17 and 18, of minimum sentencing laws, of racist comments and prejudice, of the struggle for identity and the significance of what is not reported—all of it became personal in new ways, and we ached and held our breath and took it a day, an hour, at a time. And still are, though the first harrowing ones are over.

After this, after our brother and uncle and son was back in his own bed, and Grandpa had had one or two good night’s sleep, Lucas came. At 2am on February 19^th, I knew I was in labor. We woke up the doctor, the Sho Sho, the neighbor for a sleepover with the boys, my friend who would come witness his arrival—and by 3 we were walking into the emergency entrance.

I am a quiet sufferer. I’m not one to yell, or sweat, and Ryan blames this for the nursing staff’s lack of urgency in getting us into a room and checking my labor progress. I said I was an 8 on the pain scale but maybe I should have said 9? In any case, by the time they checked, I was an 8 in more ways than one and I was starting to really, truly regret the whole birth scenario again. It was like the last four years of recovering mentally from Asher’s birth was enveloped in a wormhole and the exhaustion and fear found me again, quickly, and there was no where to hide. CRAP.

A few contractions passed and I was a 10. For pain and dilation. Thankfully, doctor-friend arrived just in time. “Push whenever you feel like it. Push through the pain.” The damned shaking had started and I hated the thought of holding onto my legs with my shaking, floppy arms. Seriously, I have to use upper and lower body muscles? But I remembered to curl forward, instead of the leaning away approach I had accidentally with Asher—an unconscious and feeble attempt to get far, far away from my own body. Something about opening my pelvis…lying down…sit-ups…and then…when I was really scared about not getting through it he said, “Okay, one more contraction—push through one more and you’ll meet your baby.” That’s what I needed. With the support of Ryan, my mom, and Tammy, praying and cheering me on, I could face one more contraction’s worth of pushing to get this thing out of my body. Yes, our baby, that’s it.

At 4:10am, Lucas Tyndale was on my chest. The doctor immediately commented on his size, another difference in his reaction to this baby versus the others. He suspected he would be the biggest and he was right. Lucas was a dark, handsome, 10 pounds and 5.6 ounces, and he came at the perfect time. No breaking my water, no whiff necessary; cancel my 6am appointment—we’re already headed to post-partum. I was so thankful and relieved. Thanks, God and thanks, Lucas. Impeccable timing.

Post-birth is such a nuisance without an epidural when a new baby’s on your chest; it isn’t fun and games just because the watermelon is out. As per my request, the doctor showed us the placenta and amniotic sac. Our inner biology nerds (well, for my mom, hers is very apparent as a nurse and bio teacher…) were satiated as we saw a magic piece of a baby’s internal world and growth. Wonders.

With each of his older brothers, we checked in to the hospital at 6am, after a good night’s sleep. Checking in at 3am was quite different. Birth announcement texts were sent to sleeping people. By 7am, Ryan was toast. Our first visitor came bearing coffee. Already, the cloudy perception of time and day and night had started…and I suspect it won’t be over any time soon.

Lucas is a rudy, beautiful kid with a set of lungs. He’s battling some newborn ailments right now that are keeping mom busy online and during her feeding breaks. He needs sun time, naked time, open shirt time and various ointments. It’s quite the regimen he has me on! Just in case we parents start feeling too secure or relaxed about starting over again. My body is steadily recovering and remembering nursing and changing yet again. In two days, it was suddenly without 19 pounds and I literally heard groaning and strange sounds coming from within (organ resettling??)–what a brutal and beautiful thing, this body we women bear.

In the midst of it all, I am trying to soak it up. Soak up the sweet smell of his newborn breath and skin, the soft cushiony hair and head and those heart-warming newborn stretches and reflexes—oh those faces! As Asher noticed, he’s squishy all over, and we are all pretty pleased around here.

Everything isn’t sorted out and easy yet. Sho Sho had to leave two days later and Ryan is in high demand at work. The boys keep going to bed late and I’m pretty sure the floors need to be mopped. Juxtaposed with Lucas’ newborn innocence and mystery is the reality of what my family is walking through and the daunting task of raising boys. And yet, it is a sweet reminder too of love and connection and the steady marathon of parenting. My love for my brother, the first baby in my life, is no less poignant now than it was when I was changing his diapers when I was 13. My confidence in his gifts and future is not less than before; I’m sure of his long game and God’s relentless grace upon him.

As I am forced to sit and nurse, watching the mess grow in my house, as I wait for sunning to happen and skin to heal and the night to become day, I must remember there is time for the other things. We must be patient because this time, won’t be again and we can only do and solve so much. For better or for worse, it is all fleeting. More than anything, I’m thankful and I’m watching. I’m praying and waiting, so glad that I have this story to tell of Lucas’ timely arrival and the light he is already bringing to all of us.

An ultrasound and a birthday

Yesterday, on National Daughter’s Day, we found out we were having our third son.

Today, is our first foster daughter’s 2nd birthday. It’s hard to believe that almost 2 years ago, we began our journey with that precious girl, and she still touches us each day. 9 months of being her family, then a terrible goodbye, with the remainder of the time passed defending ourselves and compiling notes and documents to try and love another needful child. Next week, we are finally getting a visit from a social worker—to re-tour our house, to re-establish our guidelines, and to, hopefully, finish the traumatic chapter of losing her in a wrongful way. So that one day, we are ready again.

We know nothing about how she is doing and growing, what was done with her baby book and the loving notes everyone sent, how her family is and if she is down to 1 nap a day. We are painfully aware of the anonymity of being foster parents, combined with the unique distinction of being guilty till proven innocent should someone say something against you. We feel like veterans but really have only loved one absent child.

It’s hard to explain why we know that 3 carseats fit across our car bench, or why I know that 3 kids is really tough, or why there are boxes of girl things and a pink lamp in our home. It’s hard to accept that a social worker can come in here, 15 months later, and try and ask our kids about it all, again, still.

A lot of people, including myself, thought that conceiving a daughter may help us and encourage us as we continue entrusting Sweet Girl to her permanent family, continue putting to rest the wrongs that were done, and continue with the future of our family. So many thoughts and emotions came flying in after finding out we were having a son. Relief to know. Thankfulness for his healthy limbs and heartbeat. Surprise over the verdict. Wonder over if we would ever have a daughter to raise. Wonder over how he will be different from his very distinct older brothers. Fear that he would be the same size as his brothers.

For now, we will keep the boxes of girl clothes, the unused hair ribbons, the fabric bought for curtains. They will still be marked with only her memory and the hope and mystery of what could be. We will figure out what to do with the lace curtains, and if 3 boys can share a little room, and, eventually, assuming we are re-certified in this lifetime, we will know when to open our doors and hearts to another miracle of a daughter. We will joyfully assess the boy onesies and dust off the old craigslist infant swing. A baby boy is coming, and, like everything, he will be a surprise and a grace to us.

He is so loved already and our arms have been ready for a long time.