an abstract on the scale

“When I call something concrete, I’m calling it something tangible, something that catches light, with texture, temperature, weight. A small, lovely group of writers has been joining me in using the concrete to speak of the abstract. How else can we show you the invisible things?“,  Amber at The Runamuck.  Doing her writing prompt today: an abstract on the scale.

we hold atticus on the scale with us, and then without us, to figure out how much he weighs.  when its me with him, the scales keep marching up even though his pajamas fall off of him now.

i wonder how much worry weighs; does it have numbers like pounds? at meal times he’s not eating his food and it all turns to fret and feeds me.  tonight he asked “what happened” and i flashed back to the night we are sure that “it” happened and he asked that over and over again.  my heart started racing until i realized i had turned down the volume on winnie the pooh and  he noticed the change.  at night, the toilet flushes it’s pipes and every time i think it’s him throwing up.

more than likely this worry and tired are invisible weights and the climbing numbers are the bread  and the chocolate from the good hearted people leaving food at our door. and this precious one inside of me is taking up more room, each elbow and foot having less space to swim, closer to the surface for me to feel.

i am thankful that the numbers on the scales have never been the marionette strings that pull my emotions up or down.  i feel their tug when i see the line underneath my chin filling in, but they are cut loose pretty easily.  it will fall off with nursing, i tell myself.

it’s the weight without numbers on scales that are holding me so tight, making me dance when i want to stay still.  it’s the tired.  the worry.  the patience wearing thin.

it’s 9:30 and time for bed.  life is a marathon, not a sprint, i am learning; the next day determined by the night before.  i am learning too that there is a beauty laid bare in sickness, that is not in health.  when he pats the space next to him and asks me to stay in bed next to him, when he and daddy spoon on the moon watching football, when he runs his fingertips through my hands…the quiet lets me feel each tender detail held in a moment like one can see the millions of colors in a water droplet if time stops, and the sun hits it right.

mr flu comes to town

it was selfish today when i slipped in bed next to him and stroked his hair while he slept.  he didn’t need me in that moment and i woke him up, but i haven’t snuggled him like this since he was a baby.  these past three days atticus has said a dozen words to his usual hundreds; walked maybe twenty feet; hasn’t smiled once.  not even once.  he is is a very sick boy.

being with him in the middle of the night took me back to labor and those first baby days.  i turned down the heat, ran the bath water, and stripped him down to free his body.  he was brought low to the earth and i followed him there.  it was a very base experience, the two of us bringing in the new day sun – desperate for relief – together.  in a peaceful moment he fell asleep holding my hand.

tonight we took him to the emergency room and learned that we weren’t giving him enough liquids to stay hydrated.  since 1 tablespoon every five minutes of coconut water, he has thrown up once and still just lays beside us, but our little atticus has come back into his face. his eyes are familiar again.  of course there’s nothing like knowing your child is going to be ok, but ole’ mr. flu has sunk us deeper into the sand of each other.

give us three hours and it will all make sense again

“Jo’s ambition was to do something very splendid. What is was, she had no idea as yet, but left it for time to tell her.” -Little Women 

i have been telling ben for a while now that i miss us - not us the parents, cleaning-cooking duo, couple friend, or ministry partners – but just us.  this weekend between the three parties and one concert we hosted and attended, he began to feel this too.  so today after work we left atticus at nana’s a couple hours longer and snuck off to dinner and the bookstore.  sipping coffee, searching for baby names to bestow on our littlest one in my tummy is by far my favorite date of all time.  if that’s all having children was, i’d have a thousand.

ben feels that more than us is getting past him, so he ordered his life with a list of goals that will bring him back.  as i read his goals, it reminded me of someone i once knew.  me in high school, spending hours with God, not leaving until i found peace.  me in college, reading books and praying with girlfriends.  me in grad school, writing life mission statements and reading more books.

i told ben that if i were to make resolutions to get that person back, atticus would become a burden, keeping me from all the rest.  besides work, i keep my days open slates for me to meet our basic needs and for him to write on.  it’s not that i will never return to a life of intention and resolutions, it’s just that too much purpose gets in the way of who i really want to be right now – a present, contented mom of young kids.

i was going to tell you a true {free} story that one has called a “story for the ages”, but Ben wants to start The Hobbit together.  there were a couple of things on his life list that move me along too; i am grateful he is there, providing the broad brush strokes that paint our life picture, while i follow behind, filling in spots that he left with the detail and color of following through.  one of his goals is for us to read together.  it’s been so long since i’ve read a classic.

instead of the story that would take too long to tell, i will leave you with a list of boy names that we found tonight that means peace, which is the vision we have for our second son…and his name.  not a lot to work with, but we will find the perfect one.  feel free to pick a favorite.

Aaru—Egyptian—peaceful

Absalom—Hebrew, father of peace

Axel—Danish, German, father of peace (a form of Absalom)

Calum—Celtic—dove, symbol of peace

Casimir—Slavic, peaceful leader

Colm—Celtic, dove, symbol of peace

Frederick—German, peaceful ruler

Geoffrey—pledge of peace, God’s peace

Godfrey—English, peace of God

Halim–Arabic, peaceful, gentle

Humphrey—German, peaceful warrior

Jonah—Hebrew, dove, symbol of peace

Kynaston—English, royal peace settlement

Manfred—German, man of peace

Milo—German, peaceful, mild (among other possible meanings)

Oliver—Latin, the olive branch is the symbol of peace

Paciano—Latin, peaceful

Pax—Latin, peace—Roman god of peace

Paxton—Latin, peaceful village

Paz—Spanish, peace

Placido—Spanish, peaceful

Salamon—Hungarian, peace (version of Solomon)

Salem—Hebrew, peace (related to Shalom and Solomon)

Shalom—Hebrew, peaceful

Sheehan—Celtic, peaceful

Shiloh—Hebrew, place of peace

Shlomo—Hebrew, peace

Siegfried—German, peaceful victory

Solomon—Hebrew, peaceful

Wilfred—English, hopeful of peace

Zalman—Yiddish—peace, form of Solomon

a heart ahead of my hands

“Gather ’round, ye children, come, Listen to the old, old story of the pow’r of Death, undone By an infant born of glory…”

i cannot listen to andrew peterson without writing.  that is how i know he is a true artist; he inspires art in me.  my good friend elisabeth and her mother invited me, along with their cousin and our good friend, Bethany, to travel the three long hours to attend Andrew’s Christmas Concert.  i am listening to his cd in preparation.

when the songs first played through my house today, i knew none of the words but i just had to sing along.  my dad is like this, especially with new worship songs.  he starts humming as soon as he gets hold of the tune and he fumbles out words he doesn’t know.  this always puzzled me, but now i understand his heart holds the song before his mind knows it exists and can’t help but get ahead of his mouth.

this year, i identify with Mary, who was tired and pregnant and “hid these things” in her heart.  there is something so intimate and complete about carrying life on the inside, that the outside world seems unnecessary.  and so it is with me.  on the outside, a Welcome pumpkin greets you at my door.  but on the inside, there is a crackling fire, twinkly lights, and a heart that is swollen with the quiet joy of the New Life that was born.

East of Eden

there really is a garden where food is always in season.  just when one ripe fruit falls off the tree, another takes its place.  there is a knowing that we are made for the land and the land is made for us; eating is the completion of a good circle.  in this place, our hearts are full too.  there is a comfortable knowing between two people and company is more than just physical.  all of creation lives in each heart yet each life pulled apart is whole and complete.  work and food and people and sun and sky move together just right.  all of life spins on one axis.

work, food, people, sun and sky: my life has all of these things too.  i bet the moment Adam and Eve fell, their world torn apart, nothing changed around them physically.  life outside the garden looks so much the same as in, yet everything feels different.  everything is different in the heart, where it matters.

up to this point, I have lived this pregnancy outside of the garden and it has been all i could do to just make this baby.  writing, praying, naming a person, which have all been joys before, are gone.  creativity is Eden’s gift.

ben and i took a long drive in the country today.  the land is giving way to winter and the barns glow red more now than in the summer.  stretching fields bending under the seasons remind me of God’s expansive, faithful love, that with Him all these things that are crashing in me have worked in harmony before.

i do not say all of this to be sad or to conjure compassion, but simply to write from my heart.  tomorrow i would like to pick up a journal from Barnes and Noble on my way home from work.  with a steady diet of psalms and proverbs and writing prayers,  i hope to return to Eden and clear the weeds that have grown in my absence.