Category: honesty

Maybe…

Maybe it’s in pulling out the winter blankets for the girls’ beds.

Maybe it’s in realizing how much Rachael has learned in last year’s homeschooling as I flip through this year’s homeschooling outline.

Maybe it’s in the realization that Abi no longer fits pants I got out last month.

Maybe it’s in hearing her add “certainly” and “presumably” to her 3 year old vocabulary.

Maybe it’s in watching Hannah’s eyes now open daily and soaking in her world.

Maybe it’s in overhearing Abi use words, “it’s ridiculous!” instead of screaming every time she’s frustrated (evidence of growing self-control).

Maybe it’s in the realization that Rachael will be 4 years old in just a few months.

Maybe it’s in noticing Abi’s face elongating and planning for potty training in just a few weeks.

Maybe it’s in the realization that Hannah’s 5 weeks old already.

Maybe it’s in contemplating bunking the beds after Rachael’s birthday.

Maybe it’s in looking into the “new kid room” and wondering who will be joining us
… and when
… and feeling like it is so soon
… and that I need to redress the beds in there sooner than later.

Maybe it’s a combination of all these things, but today they all just feel so big… so old… so “growing like weeds”.

Rubbing my hand through Hannah’s soft red-tinted hair takes me back to Rachael’s newness
 … like it was just yesterday.

And then I see her, Ms. Long-legs, dancing down the hallway with Abi squealing and chasing her. Free and so alive.

– In the blink of an eye…


– Snuggling a little extra today.

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Her Voice

The phone rang at another inopportune moment: the baby crying and ready for a fresh diaper, two little girls needing encouragement at the table to choose eating over playing. I heard the familiar family answer machine message inviting the general public into a sample of Rachael’s cuteness before leaving the necessary essentials for correspondence. Then came the almost unrecognizable voice, it sounded important but I knew I wouldn’t be able to hear over the baby’s needs. Freshly diapered and reswaddled, my tag-along and I returned to the answer machine, figuring I had a call to direct to Pastor through my husband. I couldn’t place what small portions of the voice I was able to distinguish before, my mind filing through names and faces. Replay and a now quiet room revealed her voice. A voice of deep hurt mixed with desperation. A voice needing a friend.

I wasn’t used to hearing her this way. She always holds herself so strong. Her years of experience carry such confidence and assurance. When someone like that takes on such a broken tone, it doesn’t matter that you just conversed the other day. All of a sudden they become masked until something in their speech is revealed. “Son, I have been trying to get a hold of you and I just can’t,” her semi-whisper broke through. “I need to talk to pastor and I don’t have his number,” her voice unmasked her tears. I was frozen. The rest became a routine. My husband, the assistant pastor was needed, but far more than that, my husband, a son… a friend, was needed.

He wasn’t responding how we thought he would. We all had high hopes. The statistics felt manageable. The promise of a distance from pain coming. The promise of mobility, healing and hope being on the horizon. The family came in as support, encouraging and praying. They got to visit and send their well-wishes in person, face to face – a rarity for such distant travelers, though close in their hearts. Then it took an unexpected turn. Health being a funny friend… or foe.

I’m going to miss him. His quirky wit. His stubborn tone. I’m going to miss the way his face lit up while watching his great grandkids. His funny remarks and commentary leaving some confused as to his sincerity. Hehe. Great Grandpa was just great grandpa – grouchy, stubborn and lovable all wrapped up in one. And he will be missed. He is missed as we say goodbye.

It just hit me all the more,

when it came through her voice.

– praying.

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Born from the Sometimes

Sometimes you just need to cry.
Palm on your forehead,
Face buried in your blanket,
Laying alone in your bed.

Sometimes you just need to stare off.
Disappointment not taking on words,
Fuzzing out of reality,
The bassinet still empty.

Sometimes you just need to lay quietly.
Drowning out the unwanted commentary,
“Helpful” others due date predictions,
Filtering out prying stares.

Sometimes you just need to close your eyes.
That blurry burning in your eyelids,
Headache incurable,
Months of tension in your lower back and shoulders.

Sometimes you just need a moment.
Replaying hospital discharge words,
Medical assistant’s “common” classification rolling so easily from her tongue,
Lip quivering and that lump welling in the back of your throat.

Sometimes you just need to stop counting.
Fake progress’ painful contractions surmounting nothing,
Distance allowing the illusion of control,
Ripping up the latest record sheet.

Sometimes you just need the silence.
Just alone without expectation,
Letting down the game face,
Months of others’ Hallmark hope sayings falling from your mind.

Sometimes you just need to not know what you need.
Heart-ripping frustration rolling from your cheeks,
Not even understanding yourself,
Welcoming the isolation of pregnancy in the moment.

Sometimes you just need to hurt.
Months of sleeplessness and silent symptoms dealt with alone,
Patience statements from well-rested, comfortable others, 
Endless pain welling over the brim.

Sometimes you just need to cry.
Outpouring of honesty to a responseless audience,
Frozen in space and time,
A blender of misunderstood and brushed off.

Sometimes…

Then the sometimes ends,

And you go back to your normal,

Filing the sometimes in honesty and growing into a newness.

… A newness born from the sometimes. 

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