Welcoming March  2

March is a hard month for me.

It was March 1, 2000 when I found out my sweet Grandma had cancer.
It was March 15, 2002 when I got the call that Lauren, firstborn of my best friend Jamie, had quietly slipped from this life.
It was March 16, 2001 when my dad called me and told me that my cousin Heidi had been in a car accident and was killed along with one of her twin babies, Jasmine.

And it was March 9, 2009 that we welcomed our second sweet daughter, Annie Jane into the world.  She lived six months.

When the calendar turns to January, I feel myself tensing up.  February comes and my chest tightens and I start remembering more– some good things, some not so good.  I start to notice all the four year olds around me and I try to imagine planning a party, hearing her sweet voice proudly proclaim that she will be four!  March hits me and I just want to curl up into a ball and not open the curtains until April.


Four.  Such a long time since I held her that very first time.  Since I looked into her deep blue eyes and took her in, studying her from head to toe.  Since I watched William and Kate fall in love with her. I work so very hard to remember the days she was with us, to memorize my memories and yet as each year goes by, I find it more and more difficult.

This morning I got up and decided that March may have been named for me.  Because this year, during this hard month, I’m going to MARCH through March.  I’m going to be thankful and I’m going to remember God’s grace in my life.  I’m going to claim the truth.  And I’ll probably cry a little more than usual, too.  But I’m going to MARCH.

Growing Up  2

I was downstairs throwing a bunch of laundry in the washing machine when I heard the sound of a little chair scraping along the kitchen floor.

When I got upstairs, I was greeted by this face:

And a new trick was learned.

Perhaps my favorite trait of two year olds is how proud they are when they discover something new they can do.

It’s worth a few spills to watch her grow.  But not too fast, okay Eliza?  Mama need a little time to catch her breath.

All is Grace  1

I’m thick into Ann Voskamp’s book One Thousand Gifts, this time in the form of her Bible study.  This morning as I read Chapter 7, I found myself really thinking.

A few weeks ago, I wrote about being hemmed in by grace.  Certainly those things that are so amazing, so wonderful– that’s grace.  But is that it?  Is grace God’s favor, only when things are good and I am happy and the kids are hugging and dinner is ready on time?

Today rain falls.  Yesterday it was snow, then ice, followed by rain.  There are puddles everywhere, people grabbing their shop vacs, trying to race the water that’s pouring into their basements.  The back roads are a mess and it’s dreary.

And I see it.  This, too, is grace. The dirty, messy, confusing parts of life are also grace.  My brave husband stood in front of a church full of people on Sunday and told them, “Your personal circumstances are not a reflection of God feels about you.”  Do you think he’s learned that from books? No, he’s learned it by living it.

Grace like rain falls down on us.  It redeems the stains of life, but it doesn’t negate them.  And it certainly doesn’t mean there won’t be more.  But grace teaches us to take each moment, to thank God for it, and to believe that in spite of it all, He loves us more than we comprehend.

“You would be very ashamed if you knew what the experiences you call setbacks, upheavals, pointless disturbances, and tedious annoyances really are.  You would realize that your complaints about them are nothing more nor less than blasphemies– though that never occurs to you.  Nothing happens to you except by the will of God, and yet [God’s] beloved children curse it because they do not know it for what it is.” ( One Thousand Gifts, p. 125, originally quoted by Jean-Pierre de Caussade)

Week In Review  2

I still find it hard to take pictures– not because I don’t like to, but because it reminds me that someone is missing.  But, reality is that while I’m having my little pity party, life goes on and it’s easy to miss out on the little moments that make life scrumptious.  
So, here is our week, Instagram style:

 Kate drew this about a year ago.  It’s our family, as flamingos.  I proudly framed it because I love so many things about it.  Kate is so artistic and one of the things that she and Uncle A love to do together is watercolor.  Andrew is always so kind to let her use the “good paint” and they sit together for hours sketching and drawing. I love that she made our whole family– even disguised as flamingos (the “baby”at the far left is Annie, then Peter, me, Eliza, Kate, and William).  ðŸ™‚

 We lined up the fingernail polish and painted away a few days ago.  I finally gave in to Kate’s request of being able to paint everyone’s toes herself (again, my artistic girl).  Currently, I am sporting blue on one foot, pink on the other, green on my fingernails.  It is taking everything in me not to take it all off.

 One of my friends said that she was surprised I allowed these sorts of shenanigans in my house. I told her I was feeling generous. 🙂  I was getting ready to strip the beds and wash the sheets, so I let them pile everything up and jump off.  Eliza landed and laughed, by the way.  And that’s William’s head covered by a sheet.  They decided that diving off blindly was more fun.

 We are still working on our Jesse Tree.  It will take until Easter, I guess.  Sigh.

 Oh that belly!  I may be guilty of buttoning the buttons on her sweater to show off that little pooch.  I love it so.

 I’m cheating a little, because this was a few weeks ago when we were a few hours into our road trip to South Dakota to see Peter’s family.  We had a few hitchhikers (my mom for 3 hours and my brother for 6), so William and I passed the time in the way back of the car.   We were next to the snacks, which made our less-than-stellar leg room worth it.

And lastly, I’m missing this sweet baby– my first (and only!) nephew.  We loved meeting him while we were in South Dakota.  He was doted on quite a bit by my baby-loving kids (well, and me).  He took it all in stride, though.  Eliza still tells me daily, “Jacob come to my house?”.  The 30 hours between our house and his is just too long!! We miss you, Little Man!

And that’s that.  Great little moments to remember.  Let’s see if I can make this a weekly assignment to myself . . .  just don’t hold me to it.  ðŸ™‚  Happy Weekend!

Mulling Over Expectations.  3

  It started when I posted this picture on Facebook.

I like this picture because it’s all sweet and cozy.  But it bugs me.

It bugs me because there are only three stockings there.  And it killed me to think that someone would see it and think I was leaving Annie out.

So I moved her stocking from the living room, tied it up with the others and took another picture later.  Then I didn’t post it since I couldn’t come up with a good one-liner to pair with it.

The truth was that her stocking is filled with our Jesse Tree ornaments, and we gather at night to get a new ornament out so that we can reflect on the way that Jesus has been leading us to Him.  I wasn’t leaving it out of the picture– it was serving a purpose somewhere else.  And by the way, did anyone even care besides me?  Probably not.

It’s never easy to grieve.  Still, three and a half years later, I’m second guessing myself.  I don’t have it all figured out and it’s a struggle to know just how to work through this stuff.  And I probably won’t sort it all out in this lifetime.

 I shared this week with a group of ladies about how my high expectations for myself tend to get in the way, especially in my grieving.

I remembered sitting in the hospital room, the fresh news that the baby in my arms would not travel life with us washing over me.  I had a two year old and a four year old and I fully realized (and am still realizing) that their very first memories of life are going to be those horrific moments of death.  At that point, I remember resolving to grieve in a way that would lead them (and me) into a closer, deeper relationship with Christ.  I was determined that if Jesus was going to ask me to travel this road, by golly, I would do it right.  I would prove to Him that He could trust me with this.

It may have been an okay resolution, but in the classic Sarah way, I put a lot of pressure on myself to get it perfect.  After a few years of feeling the intensity in my heart, I just couldn’t keep it up.  It was at that point that I finally heard God telling me to rest.  To let up on myself.  To quit feeling the guilt and to allow Him to heal me with His favor.

It’s working.  Slowly.  Just as we struggle to know how to be the right parents to our children who run through our lives each day, I struggle to know how to be a parent of my sweet girl who is safe in the lap of Jesus.

We all get caught up in the guilt and expectation, don’t we?  Honestly, there’s no end to the things that I could do better.  Some of them are easy for me to let go of.  Others not so much, especially the things I hold so close in my heart.

But Jesus doesn’t ask us to prove anything to Him.  He doesn’t throw something our way and then stand back with His arms crossed, waiting to see how well we can take it.

Instead, He hears the desires of the afflicted, He encourages us, and listens to our cry (Psalm 10:17).  And before we know it, our strength is renewed, He gives us a new hope and power.  We remember what it is like to run and not grow weary, to walk and not be faint (Isaiah 40:29-31).

Whatever it is in your life– don’t let your own expectations get in the way of God’s favor for you.

Notes.  3

I’ve been noticing all these notes around the house lately.  It makes me so happy when I see how the kids are developing their ability to communicate.  

 Kate lost her first tooth.  In order to keep William from spilling the beans about the Tooth Fairy, I told him that he would get to act as her Tooth Fairy.  He worked so hard on a letter to her and I swallowed hard at his suggested amount for her first tooth.  I think we’ll stick to a quarter after this.

 “To Santa.  Here is my Christmas List for next Christmas.  I want a puppy!”

  “To William.  I am sorry for cutting your shirt.  Love Kate.  P.S. You are my best friend.  Love Kate”  Yes, a shirt somehow was cut in the process.  I still haven’t gotten to the bottom of this.

 William disappeared into his room and made a library for Kate.  She had been wanting to borrow some of his books and he wasn’t too sure about that.  We talked and he took off with the idea.  He even made her a library card that she had to sign.

 This one is on my closet door.  We’ve come up with a formula for Kate when she needs to apologize for something she’s done.  First, she says what she’s done.  Then she says she is sorry.  Last, she asks for forgiveness.  It’s helped her to know what is expected of her.  In this instance, she was particularly sincere, as demonstrated by all the hearts.

 This one?  The kids were on some secret mission.  I was glad to comply as it gave me quite a few minutes of peace and quiet.  It’s serious business when there are seven exclamation points!

 William came home with the sweetest Christmas card for us (and gave me permission to post it). It says, “I wouldn’t want to be in another family. Dad, thank you for your job.  Mom, thank you for your awesome ideas.  Eliza, thanks for being the youngest. P.S. Don’t pick your nose. Annie, I hope you are having a great time in Heaven.  Kate, thank you for your hugs even though I don’t like them.  From William”

  This is the best.  I love being married to William’s Dad.

A Saga Named Hank  2

I’m going to just suck up my pride and share this story.  Please don’t tell me I’m a terrible neighbor, even if you think I am.  Ok?  ok.

So Hank.

Hank is a great dog, really he is.  But he has some . . .  quirks.

Like terrifying the UPS man, which I find mildly hilarious.  Shouldn’t you just expect that if you’re the UPS man?!

Also?  Hank runs away.

We have an electric fence.  Doesn’t matter.  We have a choke collar.  He slips out of it.  You name it, we’ve tried it.  None of it works.  None of it, I tell you!

A few months ago, the doorbell rang and I looked out the door to see a uniformed officer.  Because of the way our driveway is situated, I can’t see the car in the driveway.  Which is why I assumed that it was a cop.  Which is why I assumed that Peter was dead, because why else do uniformed officers come to your door except to tell you that someone has died!?  Which is why I started sobbing before she even said a word.   I may have a problem with jumping to conclusions (usually I disguise it as ‘discernment’).

Turns out she was just an Animal Control Officer, coming to tell me that someone had filed a complaint against Hank.  She was super nice to me, probably because she thought I was a FREAK.  But the complaint remained.

We thought he was doing better sticking to his territory until we got a handwritten letter in the mail last week.  It was addressed to Resident.

I’ll spare you the details.

Apparently Hank has been on the run again.   And we had no idea.

I felt terrible.  No one wants “those neighbors” . . . and now we are “those neighbors”.  I wanted to give her a numbered list of excuses why we have been lax lately, along with a bulleted list of things we have done and ways we have cared for him.  Because we really aren’t bad dog owners.  We walk him and feed him every day.  He always has fresh water and we sometimes even give him baths.  So maybe we don’t brush his teeth or buy him the organic dog food, but we do take him to the vet regularly.  Doesn’t that count for anything!?   So what if we completely lose track of him a few times a week!?

Instead, we went to our neighbor’s house.  We knocked on her door and we asked for forgiveness.  We were wrong.  Guess what else we did?  We introduced ourselves.

Perhaps this is the part that I am most ashamed of.  We have lived here for eight years and we had not met our neighbors four houses away from us.  She had to address our letter to “resident” because she didn’t even know our names.  Ouch.

We talked for awhile and we gave her our phone number and promised to try harder.

Until a few days ago when I panicked.  I forgot I’d left him out, without his shock collar on (not that it matters).  When I looked out the window, he wasn’t in his spot at the back door.  Or in the garden, sheepishly digging a hole to burrow himself in.  I yelled his name (quietly, so the neighbors wouldn’t hear, of course).  Nothing.

Panic.
Dread.
Shame.

And then.  I heard his collar jingle.  In the garage.  In his dog house.  I heard Hank, yawning and stretching, slowly walking to me with a look that questioned why I interrupted his afternoon nap.

Ahh, Sweet relief.

Last night he was outside the back door.  We were getting ready to leave, throwing around our various hats, gloves, boots, coats, scarves, etc (except for William who still claims he’s hot enough for shorts and pushes his sleeves on his coat up to his armpit just to prove his point).  In the general chaos of that 3 minutes, he saw his chance.

Poof!  Hank was gone.  For most of the night.

Never mind that we slowly drove the back road over and over again, softly calling his name, trying to shine our headlights inconspicuously into the neighbor’s backyards.  He was on a mission and he was not going to reveal his location to us.

This morning we found him in his doghouse.  With the normal symptoms (he always has a limp and an bloated belly when he returns.  It’s nice).  And the sheepish look to his face.

What are we going to do?  Because, well, he’s a dog.  I guess we can take away his peanut pop treats and break out the toenail clippers for punishment.

You know, we always jokingly said that we wanted to try out a dog first before we had kids so that if we messed up on the dog we’d know to just skip the kids.  Apparently we forgot to wait until the dog hit the teenage years.

Hopefully this isn’t a look into our future.  Because we all know that shock collars don’t work on teenagers either.

P.S.  Of course I’m just kidding.  About the toenail clipper thing.

Hemmed in by Grace.  1

Grace.

It’s been the word I’ve been mulling over for the past few years.  Somehow, a word I’ve always known seems to have new meaning with every morning that my feet hit the floor.

Grace was my Grandma’s name.  She always, always hinted that it was a popular name and that I should definitely name one of my children after her (even William.  haha).  It just didn’t seem to fit until Eliza Grace came along, which seems so perfect in my life right now.  Ah, she was so tickled (because ‘tickled’ is such a grandma word, isn’t it?) when she found out that after 16 great-grandchildren, I had finally used Grace (I’ve always tried to be the favorite and this sealed the deal). She only got to see Eliza a few times before she died, but you should see my Grandpa when my baby walks in the room.  He gets a tear in his eye and asks how “little Gracie” is.  Cracks me up because Eliza gets this confused look on her face since we never actually call her “Gracie”.

Anyway.

I was standing in my pew a few Sundays ago, singing a song I don’t remember now, when the lyrics from “Grace like Rain” came into my head.  And I pictured it.  Grace, falling like rain, down on the heads of all the people standing there, singing with hands raised and eyes closed.  Favor from God, lavished on a people who struggle to get it right.  We are so undeserving.

I slowly opened my eyes and looked around.  I looked at people and saw stories.  That guy over there? He’s picking up the pieces of his life and it’s starting to make sense again.  That family?  They are living  with a fresh diagnosis and it isn’t good.  And yet here they are, praising Jesus.  The one with her hand raised?  Even though her actions don’t always show it, her heart is learning how to obey.  And her?  Heartbreak happens over and over, but she’s surrounding herself with prayer and friends and it’s truly making a difference.  My friend?  With tears streaming down her face she’s realizing the difference Christ can make in her life.

You and I and all of us are part of a story, a bigger story.  I have been reminded of it over and over again.  And this week, as we got out our Jesse Tree and I fingered the pages in our journal from the last few years, I remembered.  From the very beginning, there was a Story.  It started with Adam and Eve.  And it hasn’t ended.

It’s Grace that keeps the story going.  Unmerited favor.  We mess up, we get lazy, we quit caring, but He never does.  He refuses to stop writing the story, or to jump plot lines and pick up something else more exciting.  It’s about You.  It’s about Me.  And it’s about how He won’t quit loving us.

He hems us in with His Grace.  This gentle rain of His favor goes before us and follows after us.  We can’t earn it or win it.  There is no test or deadline.  It’s simply a gift, a kindness, a favor because He loves us.

Leaning In  0

It happens every year without fail.

I set up the kids’ Nativity scene, with Mary and Joseph and Jesus in the stable and all the others spread out, looking outward.

Every year, it stops me dead in my tracks when I glance at it and see that the they have changed it.

The characters tipping forward, leaning in to see Jesus.

Ah.  Those kids.  They teach me so much.

May my life be like this.  Eager, yearning, longing to be closer to the One who gave so much to me.