Milo

I'm siting in my living room, the one with an open wall to the kitchen, the other half is a faux brick painted the same muted beige yellow as all the walls in the house. There is a large bay window where I watch the birds peck away to the death of small worms and grubs.

This room, it's awkwardly rectangular. Just this past fall I finally placed the off white couch center to the window and a thick runner at the foot of the couch. Because I hate the affect that hard floors have on bare feet- picking up and tagging along until they discard on a surface. I absolutely hate the feeling of sediment, no matter how recently I swept, crumbling off onto the couch... or worse, between the bed sheets where I have a nightly ritual of obsessively wiping away any mysterious crumbs in my bed.

Back in my living room, where I sit in my second-hand blue armchair that actually fits my 5 foot 3 inch frame with silver buttons all down the sides... I remember him.

This room is near empty and I can't help but feel a pull to minimize more, release more. I hate clutter, and yet every day, it finds me. The simple act of living, having two school aged children (how did that happen so fast) and birthdays and holidays and just life... all these ordinary days build up into wrappers and trimmings discarded on my beautiful coffee table.

I've never loved a piece of furniture like I do that coffee table. And yet, I dared to sell it. Thankfully, my sister on the other side of the continent persuaded me to keep it. And another friend whispered words of keeping it, letting it be the one piece that I choose to store when we move overseas in 2020. The one piece that feels elegant, clean and the detail of the woodworking puts me in awe. Because I'm the daughter of a carpenter and I find these small details to be worthy of a swoon, a mason jar of simple $4 white flowers and getting on my knees, crouching down to wipe away the dust and dirt that seeps into the toes of my beloved three footed coffee table.

While our mostly re-purposed, hand made and educational decor still stands in place on these walls we have called home for 19 months, our tiny Charlie Brown tree is still strung with illuminating lights, while the runner is still rolled out, awkwardly in the middle of the room with discarded shoes next to it and a strewn Woody the Cowboy at one end. In this mostly furniture-less room stacked with soon-to-be-filled boxes as we pack our final things tomorrow, I think of him.

I remember visiting their apartment this month ten years ago and his wife saying that he once said he would like a room with nothing but a chair in it.

Imagine that. A whole room in a house, with just a chair.

I know, right? It sounded silly at first, but as I have mulled over this thought, I actually really liked it.

So as we move, again, for the 7th time in 10 years, I think, what about a room with just a chair in it? Well, we went from living in a nearly 200 year old house that was 2,000 sf to an RV, to a 1,000sf 2 bedroom ranch, now we are heading to a 800sf 2 bedroom second floor apartment. Clearly, the last three homes mentioned don't allow for a room with just a chair in it.

But in moments like tonight, I want to remember him. Milo. His name was Milo and he died three years ago with his grandfather in Oregon when their plane spontaneously combusted.

I've never met a more adoring couple. And to my nearly 22 year old self, about to be married, I looked up to them and wanted to be so much like them. As they moved across the country, we inherited most of our newly-wed apartment furniture from them.

Two and a half years ago, when we made our big move, I re-homed those pieces of furniture and told them about Milo again. How he wanted a room with just a chair, how he was one of the most content and peacefully joyful people I had met, and how he adored his wife with such a love that made me want to be a better wife for my soon-to-be husband.

When I move, when furniture is placed and I struggle with trying to make due with what we have and save up for a rug that I later purchase on clearance at Target, I think of him. Because his life was a good one. A happy, welcoming, peaceful and loving one. And I learned about making a house a home from watching him and his wife. To keep it simple, make it cozy, open the doors and let the broken people in, so that they might find rest.

Thanks Milo.

Ten years later, I'm still learning from you.
Three years in heaven and I still don't understand why God chose to take you when and how He did.
Today, I want a house that is a home, no matter the location or size. All are welcome here.

When pictures don't tell you the story

We just returned from a 24 day trip that took the kids and I from North Carolina up to New Hampshire and then over to Colorado where we met up with my husband. Neither trips were planned and I actually booked our flights to Boston on a steal of a deal,one way. I was hoping to score a good deal with a flex return flight home. At the time, I didn't know we were going to Colorado and within a few days it worked out best to just fly to Colorado from Boston. Easy peasy (said no Mom traveling with two kids carry-on only, through senseless security "lines" that are empty but you still have to zig zag the whole way somehow pulling 3 suitcases and wearing an overstuffed backpack... and forgetting your license at the check in kiosk. Turn around, go back.) Anyway...

I know that opening sentence might sound like a wildly fun adventure, and yes fun was had, but these two trips were not planned even a month in advance and while both were very much necessary, my body and soul longed for rhythms of home life. 

If you've followed our journey these last several months, you have heard about the crazy upheaval of our "ordinary" or anything that resembled a "routine" or "rhythm." And that is just how this roller coaster of life goes. You rarely get warnings. 

Nobody told me that my husband was going to be severely injured and unable to fulfill his contracts doing professional bike shows for the rest of 2018. (Because that's his job. For real. He does bike tricks and public speaking and I have a huge crush on him.) 

Nobody gave this homeschooling Mom a heads up that she would have to find work almost overnight.

 I didn't even really know what a brain aneurysm was when my Dad called in September and within two hours I was flying to see my Mom. 

No, I didn't get a note in the mail, a text or an insurance policy that made up for our major loss of income while my husband recovered. But I did get this one thing, this one little bit that I could hold onto when we found out my husbands recovery would be 6-9 months. This one little bit that I could hold onto while I spent a week at Mass General Hospital with my Mom hooked up to dozens of machines in the Nero ICU.

I had such an overwhelming sense of peace and hope and I knew beyond any doubts and fears I was carrying that the peace and hope filling me was from the Lord. 

Isaiah 46:4 washed over me on repeat-

"I have made you. I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you." 

Maybe that sounds weird to you. That's okay, I don't really know how to explain it right now. I'm still processing this crazy train I've been on. I will probably be chewing on all that I've learned, saw, felt, experienced these last several months for a very long time. Because that's how I process things and it's a lot to unpack. But I don't want to forget in the weeks and months to come, that in the midst of the hardest moments with the least certainty and lack of security, my hope and peace came from the Lord. 

And we shall call the boy Billy. Because he is a Billy-goat!

Do you see my monkey girl up there!?

Abby in her self declared "beast mode" 

She's on top of the world, hey!

Garden of the gods was incredible. 

We went just before the sun went over Pikes Peak and it took my breathe away.

 Literally.

 Abby and I were filled with zeal as we ran up some of these wondrous rocks. On my way down it all hit at once. Sadly, the contents of my last meal needed to be scrubbed off of the side of the minivan. And it didn't get better for a long while. 

Colorado, I love you.

But can you maybe not be so "mile high" and maybe lower the altitude?

We're Going on a Bear Hunt

I remember watching my little Abby marching around the library during story time as the librarian read the book We're Going on a Bear Hunt 

{If you want to listen/ watch it read, it's on YouTube. Amazon also has an animation}

I don't think that Michael Rosen (the British author) could have anticipated how profound his little book would be. It's a fairly common book to gift young kids and to be read/ sung with motions at story times. Yet, here I am at thirty one years old singing it to myself when I feel my anxieties rise and depression is looming. 

"We can't go over it. 

We can't go under it. 

Oh no! 

We've got to go through it!"

This season of life, this next big challenge, the heartache, the pain and suffering, the uncertainty, the hardship- we have to go through it. 

It's the only way out of it.

I have a friend whose six year old son is dying of cancer. They celebrated Christmas this weekend with him... in the middle of October. Because he won't live to see this coming Christmas.

My sister, on the other side of the continent, is doing life as a single Mom with three kids while her husband is deployed... again.

My Mom is suffering the aftermath of having a brain bleed four weeks ago. We learned yesterday that she is one of only 20% to survive or have permanent damage from what she endured. She will recover completely, but it's going to take months.

One of the sweetest women I know just delivered her full term stillborn daughter.

My friend in New Hampshire is pregnant with her fourth son and just found out that she has stage 4 breast cancer. She is my age.

This month marks three years since my friend lost her husband in a spontaneous plane combustion. My eyes still sting every time I think of them. 

When the news hits me, I don't know what to say, or think. One thing I have learned the last few years is that we each process pain, suffering, and hardship differently. It is no competition of whose pain is greater, who is stronger or weaker. 

Being away from my parents during this delicate time as my Mom recovers from her brain aneurysm is harder than I would have ever imagined. There are so many little and big things running through my head as I process that emergency flight during the hurricane, my week in Boston with her at the hospital, coming home and having to be a Mom to my kids when all I wanted was to just be a daughter to my parents during this critical time. 

I've been learning a lot about my own strengths and my weaknesses these last four weeks. Traumatic experiences will do that. They allow you to flex your strong muscles and they reveal your deeply weak and vulnerable parts. 

As my friend Ashley wrote recently (the one losing her son) I found myself agreeing with her bold statement. I can't say that I hate this season of life, but rather, I'm thankful for it. Not in the moment or all the time, but overall, I'm truly grateful to go through this. 

My weak and vulnerable parts being revealed are being strengthened and getting some nurturing that they need. So maybe when the next crisis arises (and you know it will, because our world is so broken) maybe I'll be stronger then. 

I'm learning new and helpful things on this journey through people in my life, resources and seeing a counselor. I like to think of counseling as learning how to use the tools in my tool belt. Maybe I didn't know I was capable of processing something differently, looking at it from a different perspective. Maybe I need to scrape away the way I've grown to react or handle hard things, heal, and grow. Maybe I need to learn to rhythms, practice until it becomes a habit, second nature.

I just don't want to be the same person I was six months ago when this roller coaster of our life took off. I don't want to just survive the ride while throwing up on the person behind me. I want to find the joy in it and help the person next to me thrive in their wild ride as well. 

Over and over again, my soul has cried out these last several months. From one crazy unexpected turn after another, I have felt every bit of this journey. Songs like Though You Slay Me have been sung through gritted teeth as hard parts of my heart have been ripped away, to make those areas soft and new.

While in the hospital with my Mom four weeks ago, I sang the song So Will I. A friend who knows much physical pain and is an avid prayer warrior/ cheerleader of our family called it "Defiant worship- the ultimate testimony of faith during times of stress and hardship." Sometimes, I don't have the words to pray, the tears to cry, or the thoughts to gather, I just need to play worship music and let them wash over me.

Maybe you need to hear these ramblings of mine. To know you're not alone. To know it's okay to say you're not okay. To get help. To cry out to the God who made you. To feel the moments you'd rather ignore or stuff deep down inside... they will come out by the way. I know.

One way that I have been encouraged these last four weeks is watching my Mom cling to hope and joy in Jesus like I've never seen her do before. As I said to someone who asked recently, "she's joyful. I mean, she's in a world of pain, but she's joyful." While we were in the hospital she took every opportunity to share about Jesus with the medical staff. As I sat there in shock, staring at my Mom hooked up to machines and holding my breathe while the chorus of "are we out of the woods yet?" rang in my head. Meanwhile, in the midst of my Mom writhing in pain, she would say, "I'm clinging to Romans 8:28! If all this pain and suffering helps lead someone to Jesus, then it is worth it!"

Romans 8:28

And we know that for those who love God all things work together for good, for those who are called according to his purpose.

And can I tell you some really good news? It has. Last week, after sharing deep, hard parts of this journey and my Mom's story, a friend of mine who has been seeking Jesus but struggling to give her life to Him finally made that choice. She told me Sunday morning, and again I was stunned, struggling for words. How good is our God that He would literally draw someone to Himself from this suffering my Mom is going through. How good is He that someone would choose salvation in Jesus Christ after two years of seeking and use this story of suffering and praising Him through it all. What joy in the pain to know that God is using this to bring glory to Himself.

So, yes. Yes, I still choose to worship. Yes, I still choose to praise Him. HE will go through it with me. I can't go over it. I can't go under it. I have to go through it. And by God's grace, I don't have to journey alone.

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