Bond

I am holding my daughter, watching her big eyes become droopy. She tries to fight off sleep but sleep is winning. I slowly, ever so carefully lay her in her crib. She squirms on her sun-warmed pink baby sheet. I lay my hand on her chest to comfort her. I am here, my love. I am here, my baby. She grabs my pinky with her left hand and my thumb with her right. Don’t leave mommy. Don’t leave. If I was a walking puzzle I would have fallen to pieces. My heart warms and breaks at the very same time. Such a great love. She teaches me so much. She shows me my true self. She makes me want to be the best woman I could ever be. She gives me hope and breath and strength. She makes me want the world to be a much, much better place. She has done no wrong. She is THE demonstration of purity. She is my whole life in a tiny package. She is absolute perfection. She teaches me how our God sees us. I will protect her. I will let her live. I will love her without condition. I will hold her hand, whether I can be there through each moment or not. I will cheer at her triumphs and cry with her during defeats. I will lift her up always.

Seven years ago, around this time, I began spending time with a man with an enormous heart and a spring in his step (literally). We could not keep our eyes or minds from each other. We were stuck. I am thoroughly convinced we were created in our mothers’ wombs for each other. I—his helper, he—my appuyer à moitié. Four years later, on his mother’s birthday, he proposed to me on a cliff overlooking the Pacific. A question mark in the dirt.

“Then the Lord God formed a man from the dust of the ground and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life, and the man became a living being.”*

Three years ago tomorrow, we were married. We came together as one. To share everything. To give everything. To celebrate everything.

Norah’s daddy—the great man of my life, my iron.

I celebrate you.

I celebrate Norah.

I celebrate this life.

My love for you is never-ending.

I believe this is what He meant all along.

*Genesis 2:7

Trespasses

I’d like to spend a good amount of time studying the art of forgiveness. This is probably the most important component of humanity. Anger is a parasite—literally transforming our “helper” cells into a virus, and it’ll continue to replicate until it kills its host and infects others. Only by Jesus does true forgiveness work. We must die to the world to truly live. One of my favorite teachers, Pastor Steve, jokes about baptism, “We’ll hold you under for a while”. I was only held under for a few, quick seconds, and the water was warm and a towel and changing area were near. August 6, 2006. I chose life. We are forgiven even if we aren’t dunked. And I don’t feel particularly compelled to throw baseballs at a tiny target to get your seat pulled out from under you so your butt gets dropped abruptly into the water. Everyone sitting in that chair is wondering, “Why did I volunteer for this?” They wouldn’t be in that chair if there wasn’t an audience prepared to applaud.

I was happy to take the tank out of the equation and happy to make the public declaration. However, the whole event was rather comfortable. And chlorinated. Frankly, it is in each moment that forgiveness becomes a forefront, emotional priority (and battle) that I am re-immersed—though, these times in a chilly, brackish, murky river. The shore is rocky and I am barefoot. I never thought to bring a towel. My wet clothes stick to me and the wind blows through the fabric. It starts to rain as I walk back home. I forget the sun ever does shine because I need it now to dry me and warm me but it’s not here. I will get home, though. I will get dry, warm up, and heal. And it’ll feel so good that I did it. I made it home again. And it was hard. But He is there. This home has a firm foundation.

I am trying. The water was my way to say that. I’ll walk with you to the river but I won’t push you to the tank.

See Matthew 18:21-22 (Jesus is being funny)

Honesty

Being a bystander in and enduring the most dishonest weekend I can ever remember, I feel insanely compelled to open the moon roof and let others look in for the evening. It’s dark but there are small bits of light.

It’s easy when things are going well to have people thinking that it’s always going well for you. It’s easy to think when it’s going well that it’s going to keep going that way. When it is good, it feels so good because it has felt bad.

My greatest nemesis is guilt. I wish there was a way, after calling my husband at work in furious anger, to apologize and have it feel better. But it sticks around, like an oily film. I wish I could endure more. I wish that I didn’t expose him to my anger. I wish I didn’t get so impatient. My hands are shaking, my mouth is so dry that my spit has become bubbly, I’m seeing shooting stars that aren’t there, I am looking at the clock wondering if I can make it another two hours until he gets home. I daydream about handing my daughter off to him and walking away, crawling in my bed. I used to daydream about jumping up in his arms, wrapping my legs around him, and just being close. The pregnancy changed all that. But I thought it would come back once the baby was born and the belly was gone. It breaks me apart every day that I am too exhausted or nursing or comforting our daughter to do this. I love him. We made a life together. We are happy. We are doing this. But we crave closeness. When does this come back? When is this possible again? My colicky infant has been crying for hours. When she falls asleep I think I have time to do something, anything, and sometimes I do. Today I made the mistake of trying to shower. When a tiny life from your body shows you that she needs you so desperately, you feel overcome with the need to be there for her. You forget to eat, you forget to drink water, you don’t sleep, you hurry through everything and forget to enjoy the things you should enjoy. So here it is, 2 pm and I haven’t eaten or drank or slept and I’m shaking and seeing things and angry at my little girl for crying for the last several hours. I am angry at her for spitting up on my clothes again. I am overwhelmed. Beyond overwhelmed. I have no help. No family or friends close by whom I can call to come relieve me. So I call my partner, knowing full well he cannot help without losing his job. And I am drowning in guilt. Guilt for being mad at my 7 week old, guilt for calling Curtis and yelling to him, guilt for being stressed again, guilt for allowing Norah to cry so hard she’s struggling for breath because I know that if I don’t eat NOW I will pass out and be absolutely no good to her, guilt about being so pissed off about the weekend, guilt for the undone laundry and dishes, dirty floors and bathrooms, unmade dinners and many, many resulting meals out, guilt for not returning phone calls or emails, for putting plane tickets back home for Thanksgiving on a credit card, for even having credit cards…and so on. It’s become a filthy fire inside of me. One that started about seven years ago when I knew there was someone I wanted to be good enough for. And no matter what he tells me, how lovely he might think I am, I feel guilt because I can be better. I struggle so deeply just to be human. Being a good human is a whole other ball game. You have got to bust your butt 100% of the time to do this. And you will know where you fall short. You will be your own biggest critic.
He doesn’t love me because I am perfect. I don’t want to be perfect. So why do I feel so terrible for falling so short?
I know why this is wrong. I know why I must give this up, release my burden because I am too human to handle it. And I know that honesty, in whatever form you can stomach, is the first step to repair.