My Joyful Mysteries, and A Revolution of Real

I remember when I realized my Mom was one of a kind.  I had always loved her, with her soft hands and voice, the tender way she held me in the crook of her small arm, and the way she could make my birthday seem like it was only the one she’d ever celebrated.  But I think it was when I was about nine and we were fooling around in the kitchen that I realized that she was a mother made just for me.  I was getting ready to go to a friends house and we were running late as usual.  But for some reason we had an impromptu song fest, laughing so hard we leaned on each other.  My other Dad John took pictures and froze the images from that day in my memory; my Moms arms tightly around me, me in a fluffy pink jacket with a pink barrette, our smiles taking up most of the pictures.  In those moments I hoped that someday I’d be that kind of mom.

I was thirteen when I decided I wasn’t going to have any children.  My Mom and John had given birth to my sister Hannah that fall.  She was a gorgeous little baby with dark eyelashes and big beautiful eyes.  She also had a voice.  A very loud, high pitched scream that resonated from the house from about 6 to 10 pm.  Her very very tired parents tried everything to calm her; placing her on the dryer in her car seat and singing to her, driving with her around the neighborhood, running the vacuum on our hardwood floors for hours.  There is nothing like having a colicky baby in the house when you’re a teenager from keeping you from becoming a teenage parent.  Nothing.

When I was Fifteen my Mom gave birth to my sister Kaitlin.  By that time Hannah was a sweet toddler, and as much as Hannah had screamed Kaitlin would smile with bright blue eyes.  They were so different, but so unique and loved by me.  I distinctly remember the day my mom said that choices I made would eventually affect them.  They looked up to me.  That was around the time I had really started embracing my faith, and I started making better decisions.  I still was very adamant to my siblings, that there was no way I’d ever have kids.  I’d be the best big sister to Hannah and Kaitlin ever.  I’d be one of those super cool Aunts. And that was enough for me.

Then I met Chris.

It’s amazing how meeting the rest of your life, makes you think about how you want to live it.  He was everything I’d ever wanted and I wanted to live our life together to the fullest extent.  I never saw myself having children before because I didn’t see the other half.  But when I saw him it all came together.  I could be a Mom, as long as he was the Dad.

And then my sister Melissa lost two children.  My heart broke for her.  One Sunday I watched her sob next to me in mass as a baby was baptized.  I pled to God for her, kneeling on a hard wooden pew. In the most desperate and helpless prayer I told God that I would give up my right to have children if she could.  Within the next month she was pregnant, I assumed that was the answer to my prayer.  I could never have children, and I was okay with that.  I saw how happy she was, and I wanted her to be happy.  When I told Chris, he was not okay.  In fact, he was livid. But I’d said the prayer, my sister was pregnant, and I thought that’s how God worked.

Naive, right?

And then four months into our marriage we conceived our Jonah.  That was when I realized that God doesn’t make deals.  And since the day he was born I have loved being a mother.  Each day with Jonah, Daniel, and Micah is filled with teeny miracles.  Sure there are days when I feel unappreciated, smell like remnants of yogurt that Micah has wiped on my pants, or I don’t know if I can take one more time finding little yellow spots on the back of the toilet.  But those are the things that don’t matter down the road.  What matters are the hugs, the smiles, the I love you Mommy I hear a hundred times a day.  What really matters is how they hold hands during prayer.  The way they all have to raise their hands first at the dinner table to say their favorite part of the day, even when they haven’t even thought about what it is yet.

I don’t think many people were surprised when that Chris and I decided to do this again.  As I end my 11th week of pregnancy I am a whole mess of tired nauseous hormones.  I am excited for whoever this little person is.  I can’t wait to meet them.  But there is a lot of fear too, fear that radiates through my head and makes my heart hurt.  I have been really sick again, so sick I am now on the last resort medication.  Everyday I wake up and pray that everything will be okay. Please God, make everything okay.

I’m not naive as I used to be.  I’ve lost a child, and much later than 11 weeks. I have to trust that this eensy weensy miracle will thrive, and be healthy.  I think of my children, all of them…Jonah with his gentle and generous spirit. Daniel with his vivid imagination and sweet spunk.  Micah with his precious demeanor, brown curls, and zest for life.  My daughter, Mary, who will forever be my girl. And this little jelly bean, such a blessing, so loved already.

I wish I could be carefree as the little girl with the pink barrettes in the picture, safe in my mothers arms. But now my job is to wrap my arms around my own.  Maybe someday they will have memories of me, where I ran late for them.  Where we laughed so hard that our stomachs hurt.  Today Jonah told me I was the best best mom he’d ever had.  Today Daniel made me a card with pictures.  Today Micah cuddled with me after my nap, running his chubby hands along my cheek, whispering, “Gentle Mama.”  Today my girl’s pink roses bloomed bright and bold.  Today I threw up once, almost fainted, and prayed for all the miracles big and small.

I may never be that kind of Mom. Or maybe that’s all I ever been.  But I do know I carry that kind of love. The love from a Mother made just for them.

About 4 weeks ago we returned home from vacation.   I started this blog from a motel in Thermopolis Wyoming. 

What I wrote: I am tired.  I have a huge pile of laundry that is going to be spinning right round at the laundry mat tomorrow.  The boys shoes are covered with dark red clay and deer poo.  But with all that said I am having a great time. A much needed reprieve from having to be someplace, having to clean my house, and having to say goodbye to Chris and the kids as life insists…Less than two weeks ago Chris had to go into work on his days off.  A week went by and he only had one day off.  We needed time away from E.  Of course we could’ve done things.  I could have painted my bedroom.  I could’ve set up numerous playdates for the boys during spring break.  Chris could’ve worked the Barack Obama rally.  But we didn’t.  We packed up Mini-Van Mega Fun and we headed down the road. 

Today:  Being on this trip was so needed, and I can’t even put into sentences all of the things we did.  But I’ll give you a condensed version through all the colorful emotions I felt…there are quite a few.

Relief on a Holy Thursday.  Chris wanted to leave at 4am. I wanted to leave a 6.  We left at 6:30, and the kids still did fine.  There was a Starbucks in Bend. Yahoo.

Blessed was how I felt spending two days with some of our close friends in Jerome Idaho. I enjoyed fabulous conversation, good wine, and since we only had two days together not enough sleep.  Our friends Katie Jo and Eric are the most hospitable people I’ve ever known. I also got to see my other very good friend Lish who was back from the East coast.  Lish and Katie time and time again love me, even when I show my ugly side. 

It was a thin line for me between happy to near hysterical standing in the barn at the Crozier’s farm in Jerome Idaho.  I was a bit transfixed watching Jonah ride his first horse and hearing his laugh, clear and loud echoing in the wind.  I could understand why Daniel wanted nothing to do with the big horse, even though he almost got trampled by it from not watching where he was walking.  And I almost peed my pants when Micah was placed up on the horse, but I didn’t show my fears…too much*. 

Forgiven was all I felt while standing in a church on Good Friday, and praying with my Husband, and three boys. 

I felt regretful in a moment of pettiness, while making a big deal out of a pants that my husband was wearing. They are his favorite jeans, and happen to be the bane of wardrobe existence.  I hurt him, and embarrassed myself.  I will never make an issue of his jeans again.  I love him, regardless of what stinkin’ jeans he wears.  

I felt scared driving through four big icy passes.  Praying the rosary and kicking myself because we didn’t have chains.  The boys kept asking if it was icy, and Chris and I just kept praying. 

I felt fancy driving through Jackson Hole Wyoming where all the movie stars go to ski.  Watching out the window, pretending that I wasn’t in a dirty white mini-van, surrounded by very cute, but very stinky boys.  Putting on my movie star sunglasses, just in case anyone recognized me. 

Driving through the Grand Teetons…One of the Most Majestic places I’ve ever seen, I felt Small.

I was just elated arriving at my Dad’s grocery store and seeing him and my brother Jer.  I felt my heart swell up, I have really missed them so much. 

It was pure joy spending time with Uncle’s, Aunt’s, Cousin’s, and going to Karaoke with My Dad, Jer, Messina, Vicki, and Jamie.  We were the loudest ones there. We all gave fake names in case the paparazzi was around, and I laughed harder than I had in a long time.  Before I left three guys offered to buy me drinks**. 

It was all awe going to a church on Easter where I didn’t know any of the faces, but pleased to know all the songs, and seeing the boys recognize that even in Wyoming you have to be quiet at church. That in it self was a small Easter Miracle.  

I felt more educated going to the Dinosaur Museum with the family, watching my boys read about all kinds of amazing stuff.  As usual I am grateful for such a good God, bigger and mightier than anything we can conjure up.  I felt the same when we stood close to Buffalo, Deer, Elk. 

I watched my Daniel throw a little fit with his brothers because, “They aren’t playing it right,” at one of the many local parks in Thermopolis.  My Dad, always with the most impeccable timing turned to me and said, “When you were growing up, you were the most ornery kid I’d ever met.” So how did I feel right then?  Just a bit Ornery. 

It felt fantastic to see my Grandparents in Butte Montana.  My Grandma brought out some toys I used to play with my I was little and the boys buzzed around them happily.  Micah was enamored with their little dog Guinness. My Grandma Nor and I are very close and we talked until we were both out of breath.  

Hope was what I was left with after seeing my very brave Uncle’s Pat and Lee, both fighting cancer.  They, along with my Aunt’s Karen and Vicki, are some of the most brave people I know.  Faith filled, brave, hopeful, and tough as nails.  Cancer’s got nothing on them! 

It was with great disappointment after I left a full plate of beautiful Mexican food and my barely sipped margarita Chris and I were sharing with my Grandparents when Micah choked on a chip and threw up his entire meal. My Gram Nor and Boldy informed me after they joined me and the sticky stinky Micah in the car, that there were no worries, they had finished our pitcher and my drink too…

There was nothing harder than saying goodbye to my Dad and my Brother, driving away from them, as Chris held my hand.  I held my breath until we reached the end of the respective blocks we were on, and exhaled as I dissolved in grief filled tears.  I love them so much and I was heartbroken to leave them. 

We arrived home safe and sound.  Our car smelled of four boys and a mom, and we put more miles on our van than either of us want to admit.  We spent more money than we anticipated, thank you gas companies, but we arrived home together.  I couldn’t have conjured up a better trip.  The kids were great.  Chris was great.  And it left me with a great appreciation for the family I was brought up knowing and the family I’m raising.  I couldn’t ask for anything more.  Oh wait I did…but I’ll tell you about that later. 

A few extras if you noticed the *:

*On the farm in Jerome whenever I’d try to tell Reed I was a bit nervous about the horse, especially when mini Micah was on it, he’d say, “You’re on the Farm now Kristin. No worries, get used to it.” Definitely a quote to share after I finished almost peeing my pants.

**At the bar where I sang duets with my cousins Jamie and Messina, like I wrote above I was offered drinks by three guys. This was noteworthy because for starters, I have never been offered drinks in my whole life except by family and Chris being that I have been with Chris since before I was at a drinking age.  But the real significance is that one of them was sporting a real sweet mullet.  Yep, business on top, party in the back.  When I returned after turning the “Mullet” down, my brother instead of coming to my aid as the valiant overprotective brother said, “Okay the next time someone offers to buy you a drink, you say yes, make it a white russian, and bring it to the guy with the goatee.”

So I haven’t written in a while.  At least in this. But I have been writing.  A lot.

For the past two years I have been working on a manuscript.  I have spent hours upon hours, typing, erasing, and putting my heart into a chick-lit project. I am a huge fan of literature that leaves you feeling good, compiled with smart writing, that might make you cry but never makes you consider a slow painful death.  One night I got an idea and just started writing.  Later, when I read over what I’d written I liked the content and it’s characters.  I have written three drafts of the first half. I am starting to see an end, as my story is spinning toward a conclusion, almost faster than I can type it.  I had hoped to have it finished by December. I’ll be lucky if it’s finished by summer.  Still I sit, typing away something that means a whole lot more to me than I could have ever imagined. 

When I first started writing it I would tell people I was writing a book.  Some people would act surprised.  Others would say a few encouraging words. But most would give me a patronizing look.  Even people I loved.  Mostly people I loved.  I heard about how hard it was to get published.  I heard about how a friend of a friend, tried to get something published, to no avail.  What most didn’t know is that I’d written something a while before that.  A children’s story that I just loved.  A story that I sent to every Tom, Dick, and Sherry that I knew accepted Unsolicited Materials.   I got one rejection letter after another.  I know it will be hard to be published.  But I am hopeful.  As soon as I’m done, edited, and polished I will hopefully get an agent.  Right now my only job is to finish the thing…

When I wrote my first very rough draft I was so eager.  Too eager I think.  I gave some out to people who I thought might be interested.  I wasn’t really prepared.  First of all it was a really roughdraft.  The response came with some constructive criticism(expected), and some thing I didn’t expect: No reaction. Because the recipients didn’t read it, didn’t have time.  It wasn’t the end of the world, but I felt hurt.  Here I was putting all this time into something and I felt poof, unimportant, set aside.  Usually when that happens I fold.  I don’t try because I already feel defeated.  But I believe in this project, and so I’ve kept going.  But I’ve been more guarded about who I share it with, and more guarded about who I tell I’m writing a manuscript to. 

Most people that know me on the surface see my theatrical side.  And it’s definitely there.  From a young age I was the only character my sister could count on in her countless plays.  I showed up eagerly for all the practices, even when she always secured the starring role.  Growing up I loved to be on stage, and followed that path into college.  I knew I wasn’t destined to be famous, I didn’t have the talent for that.  But I had the heart to try.  I also enjoyed to be behind the scenes;  directing Mothers Day plays in our neighborhoods, being a props person at a local theatre in College. When you’re a theatre major you get used to the criticism, because only half of it is constructive, and during that time I learned that I was much stronger than I’d ever given myself credit for.  I started teaching drama for Youth Ministry in 1998 and have continued since.  I love showing people how to shine, giving direction on where to stand, how to make a character come together, and only once in a while standing center stage. 

But very few know the other side.  The side that sat with my Mom in Montana writing my first book at four, about our yellow and brown house.  Who sat for hours telling stories to my dolls and my little sisters, legs tucked under me.  Who lay on my bed writing countless poems in elementary school with lines like, Love is like the Sparrow or the Boy who shoots the Arrow.  In high school I had a brilliant teacher who changed the way I thought about writing.  Most people thought he was mean, too hard, but because of him I began to really study words, look beyond, deeper.  In college I continued to write, focusing heavily on writing for theatre, for ministries, with an occasional spurt of dark poetry.

When I got married, had kids, I didn’t write a whole lot.  I would write dramas, but they became labored.  It was one more thing.  One of my main solaces was being able to read a good book at night, after prayers, and fall asleep with it open in my hands. 

But three years ago when my world changed, I had to grasp something that I could do for myself.  I didn’t want to learn anything new, so I sat down and started to write.  And I still could do it.   I wanted to shout to the whole world that I was writing again.  I hadn’t changed so much that I’d lost myself. Much about my writing is the same. I still use too many words.  I still exaggerate.  But I love it.  And I have the heart for it. 

Maybe that’s what scares me so much as I begin to see the end in sight.  I have put my heart into this.  But this year I’ve been dealt a handful of heart aches.  I’ve had to come to the realization that we won’t be living closer to family anytime soon.  I’ve had to deal with months of nonstop runny noses, pukey kids, and tiredness.  I’ve continued to deal with the fact that I’m not always as close to people as I thought, and we are usually the odd family out.  I’ve been told I’m too strict, too liberal, too conservative, too sensitive, too much.  I still fight grief and my own petty insecurities daily.  What if when this is done, that will be it?  Done.   Maybe I’m not ready for that.

But I guess I’m just going to chance it.  Until it’s done, blogging may be shorter, more sporadic, but I’m going to finish my manuscript.  I’ve got someone set to edit the first half, and I’ve set up some new readers as soon as that’s done.  I’ve got my couple of faithful readers that continue to read each chapter, and tell me what they think.  And even with my tentativeness I feel a sense of hope bubbling up, a reassurance that using my gifts will not go unnoticed.

That once again, God’s faithfulness is bigger than my faithlessness.

When I do feel my confidence shaking I think of something beautiful Adela said to me at our ten year reunion.  We hadn’t seen each other in ten years, but fell right into casual conversation as if no time had passed. “You’re still writing, right?” She asked, but it sounded more like a statement.  I felt so proud to tell her I was, that I continued to do what I loved.  That who I was, wasn’t just defined by wife, mother, mini-van owner.  That I can be and do all of those things, and still have time to do something for me. 

And maybe a few years from now, some new mom will be so tired she can barely keep her eyes open.  She’ll say her prayers and open up a book, a book I wrote… Words scribbled in a pick up line at school, late night sentences typed as piles of laundry go unfolded…reading it until her lids are too heavy, and falling asleep with it open in her hands. 

A week ago I was all set to post a finished blog.  I try(being the operative word) to get a new post out every couple of weeks, and amazingly enough I was running on time.  And then I got a phone call.  In light of that conversation with someone I love very much, I am going to post that blog much later on.  It touched, unknowingly, on things that would hit too close to home for someone else.  But as always, God provides, and here I am.

Last Sunday a rarity occurred.  I actually attended Church by myself, sat by myself, and thought to myself.  I am usually holding a sleeping Micah, keeping Daniel from picking his nose, or swaying back and forth whether there is someone in my arms or not.  Since Jonah is in Sunday school this year, he isn’t in Mass with us every week.  When he is there, he reads the readings, closes his eyes tightly during prayers, and only occasionally pretends he is light-saber battling an imaginary nemesis.  Daniel is in Sunday School as well, but decides to drop out bi-weekly, and likes to read the books upside down, pretend to sleep, and always has to go to the bathroom.  And Micah overall, goes with the flow. 

Some weeks are easy.  Other weeks I exchange dark looks with Chris and I pray that I will not have to take away another privilege or shush a whine.   Unless our kids are sick, we are there as a family, keeping with a decision we made long ago to attend church together.  I consider it a gift if we can go together, especially because of Chris’s job.  In light of that there are times I am there by myself with all the kids. I’m pretty sure I’m known as the crazy one with the gaggle of boys.  But in my heart I feel that someday my gaggle of boys will have their own gaggle of little ones accompanying them to church, rain or shine, and that makes it worth every squeal and squirm.  But I digress.   I was at church by myself, in the back row my family usually occupies, and it was heavenly. 

For the gospel they did the beatitudes.  As much as I love Matthew 5: 1-11, I don’t think I’ve every really reflected on them.   Reading over them again on Sunday though,  I thought of the people that embody this in my life.  Do you see them in yours?

 When Jesus saw the crowds, he went up the mountain; and after he sat down, his disciples came to him.  Then he began to speak, and taught them, saying:

Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.   Blessed are the people that pray…even when life happens. When they don’t understand God, yet trust that someday they’ll be okay.  Someday it’ll be okay.

Blessed are those who mourn, for they will be comforted.   Blessed are those who have loved enough to know what they’ve lost.  Who stare at an empty wedding band in a jewelry box, who sob into a quilted blanket.  Blessed are little boys who let a balloon go, watching it fly high in the sky, giving it to their sister in heaven.

Blessed are the meek, for they will inherit the earth.  Blessed are little feet, that pad down the hall in the night and say, “Mommy I had a bad dream, will you pray with me?  Oh, and I also had an accident…” 

Blessed are those who hunger and thirst for righteousness, for they will be filled.  Blessed are the ones who go to work daily, in a city that is so unappreciative, and come home to be embraced by a family who doesn’t see another negative editorial, but a real-life super hero. 

Blessed are the merciful, for they will receive mercy.  Blessed are the people that forgive, even in circumstances that seem unforgivable.  Blessed is realizing that saying I forgive you is one of the most powerful things that can ever be said.

Blessed are the pure in heart, for they will see God.  Blessed are the ones that love us as we wear the same old sweatshirt year after year, which doubles as a large tissue for a small child.  Blessed is the one that kisses chapped lips at 7:00 in the morning, before coffee, before sleep has left mascara rimmed eyes and says,”I love you so much.”

Blessed are the peacemakers, for they will be called children of God.  Blessed is the person, who can listen to both sides, and still choose not to gossip.  Blessed are those who choose to say sorry first.

Blessed are those who are persecuted for righteousness’ sake, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven. Blessed are the ones that advocate for others, especially children, regardless of the cost.

Blessed are you when people revile you and persecute you and utter all kinds of evil against you falsely on my account.  Blessed is knowing you have to speak the truth, even when that means you might be offensive…Blessed is believing that God will provide.

Rejoice and be glad, for your reward is great in heaven, for in the same way they persecuted the prophets who were before you.  Blessed is knowing this is only temporary.

When I came home on Sunday I had my usual welcoming committee; Micah suctioned himself to my leg and I got a large boyish whoop of “Mommy,” which is comparable to shout-outs for Norm on Cheers.  I pulled Micah up into my arms and curled myself onto the couch with Chris, who looked at me sleepily after getting less than four hours of sleep. 

“We are so blessed…”I said to him watching our boys play together.  Even with two of them sporting fevers and runny noses they were covered in smiles, precious as ever.   “I know,” He agreed.  We sat there, leaning into each other,  his eyes closed tightly as the choir of little voices rose all around us.  It was heavenly.

A little over two weeks ago I celebrated my birthday.  It was extra special being that I was turning 29 on the 29th of December.  My good friend Lish suggested that I should have a Forever 29 Birthday Party, and I ran with it.  I invited anyone that called about my birthday.  There was no rhyme or reason to my invitations other than pure laziness, and that whole awkward part of inviting people to a birthday party you are planning for yourself.  The Yakima’s came as did a bunch of friends and their kids.  Since having my own children I’ve found myself downplaying December 29.  But since this year was so Golden, I went big.  It was perfect.  My kids were there.  We had a fiesta style taco bar. Amy made these beautiful cupcakes.  Angel and Bryce made me a shirt that said Forever 29.   And…there was Karaoke.  Really, have you heard of anything better?  

29.  I’ve never been 29 before.

When we lived in Salem, most of Chris and my friends were our age. We were one of the first to have kids, but blessedly we were surrounded by kid-friendly couples who loved us even more as diaper bag wheeling, baby packing people.  Of course we felt the changes that come with being the “only couple plus one”.  We couldn’t be a part of certain bible studies, Jonah went to bed at 8pm.  We couldn’t go and share a one room cabin, Jonah would freak out.  But all in all, becoming parents was fairly easy.  Around Jonah’s first birthday I started craving the companionship that comes from other mothers.  I started calling my sister Melissa everyday, sometimes twice, to talk parenthood.  I was jealous of her, because she was in a mom’s group, a play group, a library group.  I’d went to the library a few times, but for some reason Jonah always seemed to think that was the time he should leave a gift of smells for all to enjoy.  And besides a parenting class, I hadn’t met many other moms. 

So one of my first goals when moving to Eugene was to meet some other moms.  Within the first month to what did my wandering eyes appear, but a blurb in the church bulletin for a group starting for mother’s with young children.  I signed up that very day.  When I left my first meeting I felt a bit deflated.  There were two things I took from that meeting. The first was that apparently my legs were not long enough.  The second being that I was young. 

 For the next few years I heard these phrases a lot, and in no particular order:  “Well it’s because she’s so young…Oh, you’re just young…When I was your age…The young one.”

Really, there was nothing I could say. I was young.  And while, I knew they loved me and respected me, I also knew that some of them thought that the reason I was such a natural with my own kids, was because I was one myself.  

Don’t get me wrong…I saw the differences too.  Most of them had years of living before they had kids.  They knew how to throw dinner parties, I knew how to throw a BBQ.    They knew what a Coach Bag was, I still don’t know where people buy Coach Bags.  Most of it came down to monetary things.  Until then, Chris and I had been content living with our mismatched couches and hand-me-down furniture,  they had had time to put down roots.  I spent much longer than I needed to wishing I had more, because I thought maybe that would make me fit in better.  Before Eugene I had never had to put up with the keeping Up With The Whose-its…but suddenly I was swept up this world of if only’s…

And you know what I missed out on?  My Life.  The Joys of My Family.  When swept up with the if only’s what lacked was my acknowledgement that maybe the reason I seemed so many steps behind was because I was young.  Because Chris and I had chosen to forgo extras so I could  be a stay at home drama queen mom.  And one day my beautiful friend Jocelyn put it all in perspective for me.  Well actually she gave me that well earned kick in the can I needed.  I was blessed.  Tremendously blessed.  She also said some things that were very hard for me to hear.  About my own faults. The stuff that only your best friend can tell you, because they love you enough to tell you the truth .

It wasn’t about the women from this group. It was about me.  And who I am has very little to with the year my car was made, and or whether or not we go on fancy vacations.   One day I stopped apologizing for having less.  That was around the time when they stopped referring to me as so young.

It’s been a couple of years since the conversation with  Jocelyn.  In those years I’ve started to enjoy a bit of my growing up self, embracing a world of spiky heeled boots and fitted button downs.  I of course want to emulate my youngness with a collection of cool tshirts and that quinnessential under-wire bra. But since no one has mistaken me as the older sister of my three boys, I was elated when I was the only person carded at our table at a recent party.  And I wasn’t the youngest!

And I am thankful I joined that group when I moved here.  Because a couple of those leggy girls have become my good friends.  As the years have past and I’ve gotten past my own stuff I’ve met more amazing women along the way.  They have seen me shed tears of loss and held my hair when I’ve been sick.  I’ve been blessed to strengthen the friendships with the friends I’ve had since before I wore a bra and knew about good tweezers. These women who run the gamut from single, to married, to mothers.    And while no one holds a candle to my beloved Mom and Sisters who I still speak to daily– I’ve found sisters in the common bond that comes with a love for diet soda and shallow TV, uh, I mean, deep conversations. 

I am tremendously blessed. My husband is my greatest love.  My children, my sweetest somethings.  And I have faith in a God that pulls me back, no matter how many times I’ve let the whose it’s and my own if only’s get in the way of the time of my life.

I’ve got almost a year left of being 29…If you think about it, that can seem like forever.

There are a few things I learned after Jonah started what I like to call the cold cruel world of public schools: 1) That Volunteering is a must.  2) That it’s probably not the best idea to walk fast in a rainy parking lot juggling three kids, a backpack, a four year old’s stuffed animal, and a very full cup of coffee.  3)And that being on time is kind of important.  Pretty much mandatory actually.

So by mid-October I thought I was getting it down pretty good.  I was volunteering weekly in the library or classroom. When walking across the parking lot Jonah was wearing his backpack, Daniel was packing his lion to his side, and Micah was placed strategically on one hip as I held my half filled cup of coffee.  Jonah was always in the classroom before his teacher started teaching, so I thought I was pretty much up for mom of the year.

And then I got the call.

When I heard the principals voice over the phone I immediately thought, “Is Jonah in trouble?” Logic immediately squelched that and my second thought was, “Am I in trouble?” After a few brief pleasantry’s she told me that Jonah had been tardy seventeen times.  Yeah, I’ll repeat it, because you’re not mistaken.  SEVENTEEN TIMES! Five would have been bad.  Ten, pretty much unforgivable.  Outrageously embarrassed, once again I was reminded of another one of these flaw-filled facets that make me.

Growing up, one of my biggest pet peeves about my mom was that she always seemed to be running late.  She was still trying to get her curlers out, changing out of a spit-up covered shirt, and could never seem to find her keys.  I would stand there stomping my converses.  I’d flip my blond locks never offering to help, annoyed that once again we were late. It wasn’t until I was raking up my own tardies in high school that I realized as I was giving her loud selfish sighs, I was rarely ready either.  Of course I never admitted it.   You can’t be holier-than-thou teenage girl if you’re accountable.

So when I got called from the Principal’s office, the only blond locks I could flip at were my own.  I thought I was ahead of the game.  I thought I had prepared for this new phase in our lives.  I met with the staff and researched the school.  I thought I had prepared for the transitional and emotional changes this would have on our lives.  I just hadn’t prepared on the biggest setback being my own.

This setback that seems to be a running theme in my life recently.  As I prepared for Christmas and the days seemed to fly by, I kept grappling for one more minute, asking God to please help things to slow down.  I seemed constantly rushing between drop offs/ bath times/bed times, lucky if my hair was clean and I’d washed off yesterday’s mascara.  But time didn’t slow.  Chris and I’ve never been into the consumer driven Christmas, but we really relish the time preparing with the kids for Christ’s birth.  As we lit the candle for the final week of Advent, I watched the flames dance in the boys excited eyes and wondered; had I held myself back from enjoying this time?  Was I prepared to cherish every moment?

There are things in life we can prepare for: Birthdays, holiday’s,  and anniversary’s.  The things to look forward to during the day to day.  These things that make Mondays easier, so we aren’t consumed in a world of endless piles of laundry and credit scores.

And there are the things we can’t possibly prepare for…The Good: The great love for a spouse that continues to grow and develop through each passing year.  The all encompassing joy that comes from open mouth baby kisses and a small hand placed tightly in ours.  A friendship forged as adults with siblings and parents, and friends that become our family.

The Bad: The days when loving our spouse has never been harder.  When the plumbing’s broke again, and everyone really has to go…at the same time.  When you’ve been gossiped about, and only have ten dollars to your name.

And The Ugly: When a family member grows ill.  The end to a friendship.  The agony of an ultrasound without a heartbeat.  The grief that rises up at the most inopportune time when you think of how her eyelashes curled, and how she fit perfectly in your arms.  Like stretch marks fading from purple to pink, perhaps forgotten by the rest of the world, but like all our children, an intricate part of our lives.

These moments where time stops, seconds pass, and all we can do is pray.

I remembered this on Christmas Eve.  I caught Jonah staring earnestly out our big front window.  I had thought that he would only be too eager to go to bed that night, awaiting Santa.  But he continued to stall, squinting his eyes, looking at the sky.  I asked him if he was looking for Santa.  He shook his head no.  I asked if he was waiting for Daddy(who was still at work).  He shook his head no.  “Well, what are you looking for Jonah?” I asked running behind as usual, impatient with myself.

“I’m looking for the Christmas Star.” He replied.  Instantly I remembered being a six year old, staring out the window in Havre Montana looking for the brightest star in the sky, just like my Mom said. The star that shone over where Jesus was born.  A star filled with wonder, signaling the Light of the world.

A Light that came to a Mother, so young, holding her new son born in a cave to house animals.  A mother that took the words of an Angel, the gift of life from the Holy Spirit, and held her son…the Son of God. Did she think about the good her Son would do?  The bad people that would put him in danger?  The ugly that would come on a Friday, as the world turned black and our sins lay etched on a wooden cross?

Or did she just let time stop?  Did she stare at his small chest as it moved up and down with each breath?  Did she close her eyes and nestle him in the nape of her neck as Joseph’s lips brushed them both on the foreheads?  This night when both their worlds changed as they became parents to this baby boy.

A baby who lay under a star, signaling to the world it would never be the same.

A star, I knelt next to my Jonah looking for.  My Jonah, who has only been late to school once since that call from the Principal.  My Jonah, who went to bed a little too late that night.  My Jonah, whose eyes are as blue as his grandmothers, whether she can find her keys or not.  My Jonah, who gave me an unexpected gift this Christmas.

A reminder to let time stop.  To look at the sky searching for what God wants, in awe of what God has done.   In a place where what I’ve prepared for pales in comparison to how much was prepared for me on a Christmas Eve long ago.   Where every good, bad, and ugly thing in my life reminds me to be grateful, have hope, and find grace.  Where on my knees, once again, I realize that in His eyes it doesn’t matter if I’m late.  All that matters is that I came.

Just so you know, I am rocking on my blue chair that Chris bought me for Christmas during our first years of marriage.  It was our first furniture that we owned, that wasn’t a hand-me-down.  Just so you know, I am wearing my cupcake pajama pants that Amy gave me for my last birthday and am bundled in a red sweatshirt.  I have a fever, and am  a little surprised at myself for even attempting to write.  But then again since this is my outlet this was the first thing I thought to attempt tonight.  Just so you know, our family was supposed to be here tonight, to spend Thanksgiving with us.  It would’ve been the first time we’ve had my side of the family visit since last spring.  I have spent my day crying about this, and am prepared to have a pity party later, maybe tomorrow if you’re interested in coming.  But I’m not going to write about how sad, mad, absolutely positively down in the dumps disappointed I am about it.  Instead, I am going to take you back a week and a half to when this all started and how some brave people from far away, gave me up close comfort.  But again, I am not feeling all that great, and I may ramble a bit… just so you know.  

Last Week: At about 3 a.m. Daniel’s fever hiked up.   He’d went to bed early with a low grade one and woke me up shivering with the chills only a temperature can give.  My mind began to race as I gave him Motrin and laid down in my bed with him.  As his teeth shattered and his little body burned my fingertips, I began to pray.  It had been a long few days.  Jonah was battling fevers and a sore throat, Micah’s nose a constant faucet and his mouth a teething machine.  I was tired.  I wanted to cry.  And Chris was out of town.  Alone, my mind started to race to the place I have went my entire life whenever things reach a breaking point.  It’s one of the darkest places a person can go.  It rises slowly like bath water threatening to drown you.  You can’t breathe, you start to panic.  It’s a little nightmare called anxiety. 

 Anxiety kept me up many a nights as a little girl.  I would become so frightened someone was going to hurt my family that I would crawl in with my sister Erin.  She always seemed to fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow, while I would lie awake counting the wood panel on my walls listening for the intruder I just knew was going to break in that night.  As I got older I learned ways to ignore the anxiety, with my own little coping methods.  Rubbing my feet together, falling asleep praying the Rosary, anything to hold it at bay.  Then in college someone tried to break into my apartment when I was home.  I won’t go into it now, but it threw me back to all those fears. If I didn’t keep watch, then they’ll get in.  So, I went home that summer and slept on the base of my youngest sisters beds.  I didn’t want anyone to hurt them either.  Chris married me knowing this.  He would check the doors every night for me if I asked, and all the closets too.  He prayed with me, and made sure I knew I was safe.  And then he decided what he wanted to be when he grew up…And that’s a whole new ball game.  As was having kids.  I had all these new things to be anxious about, but I also knew I had to get a hold of it.  I talked to people, I took medicine for a while, but mostly I learned ways to avoid having an anxiety attack.  I take the focus off me, and say a prayer for someone else.  Someone more deserving.

So the day Jonah’s fever spiked I started to pray.   I wasn’t feeling so brave, so I prayed for people that were brave.  They’re the bravest people I know actually.  So I think you should know them too.

Sunday November 11:  Veterans Day, I know that we celebrated it on Monday, but Sunday was the actual day.  I prayed for all our servicemen and women.  I prayed for my childhood friends Joseph and Tim, both in different sects of the military.  One who will soon leave the desert, the other who left when hit with the shrapnel of a bomb.  They are both amazing, special men who’ve protected our country over there.  I pray for all the other people in my life who are veterans, my father in law, cousins, friends who have fought for our freedom.  I prayed for my other Amy’s Kevin, far away, as she keeps it together in Colorado.  And I pray for my brother in law Chris, who spent a year in the desert and could get a mobilization order again anytime.    As I struggled that Chris would be gone for four days, I realized Melissa has gone months before with out seeing her Chris.  As I pray for them, I thank God for the families as well, and not in just an Old Navy shirt sort of way.  In a true tangible, patriotic way, an everyday appreciation for those who are really giving so we can freely take.

 Monday:  I prayed for Amy, who celebrated 6 years of sobriety.  We celebrated it with cupcakes, and Cranberry Sierra Mist after a grueling ab workout.  Amy and I have been friends since we were 16 and she makes everything seem special.  I know she sometimes overcompensates so other people can be happy.   Her own worst critic, she is one of the most beautiful people I know.  I make a point to never forget this day, and how important it is.  She is brave.  She is kind.  And I am grateful to be her friend.

Tuesday: Chris left, and that was when Daniel’s fever spiked.  I missed Chris so much that my eyes watered.  I started to hear my heartbeat pounding in my ears, and frantically began to pray.  I’m past the phase where I think Chris helps old women across the street, and saves stray cats from trees.  I know what he does is dangerous.  But this is what else I know.  My husband does push-ups everyday before he hits the streets, and prays that God reveals the people he needs to be in contact with that day.  I know he is good at his job, and I know he is safe.  And he promises he will come home every night to me, and I believe that with every fiber of my being.  With love I pray for my sons Hero and all his amazing co-workers, wishing with all my heart at that moment his hand was holding mine.

Wednesday: Today was the day that John Paul officially became a Mainard.  Our best friends Ryan and Jocelyn had prayed for a child, and after years of trying, were picked by a teenager that just knew they were the right people.  For the past year they have loved and cherished their son, and on this day they had the legal ceremony that officially put their names on his birth certificate.  I prayed from Eugene for all the people I know who have suffered through the pain of infertility.  And I cried for my brave friends who fought through it for their son, who was molded by God just for them.

Thursday:   I prayed a lot for Jonahs godfather Dom that day.  The previous week he had spent 72 hours straight fighting the fires in Southern California.   He knew his pregnant wife and two kids had been evacuated from their home, and still had to keep doing his job.  Whenever I think of Dom I think of when I met him, barefoot with a smile that spread to his eyes.  His faith is steady, his passion unmatched.  Chris and I never thought twice about choosing him for our Jonah, we knew he’d take this role seriously.  He will always pray for our son, and he is the kind of man I hope Jonah to be when he grows up.  

Friday:  Jonah went to school and to Emily’s.  Daniel was still coughing, but Micah was now in full swing of what the Doctor’s call para-influenza.  When he had trouble breathing, I rushed him in.  As I watched him get a steroid shot, and struggled with the nurse to give him a breathing treatment I lifted up all the brave people who deal with illness everyday.  My Dad with his heart disease. My Uncles and my other Dad with cancer. My brother in law Robert who has defeated it. My grandfather with parkinson’s.   All my friends and family who have fought and lost someone to any terminal disease.  I prayed for strength because by Friday I was even too tired for anxiety.  I wept openly with the pediatrician and I prayed that I would have the strength to get through that day.  That for one day I could be braver, stronger, a woman of faith.

Chris came home and Micah started to improve.  I slept on Daniels toddler bed next to his crib just in case he started wheezing.     He woke the next day, our healthy Micah again.  We had survived this flu.  I survived a few nights with out Chris.  And I knew I hadn’t done it alone. 

Saturday:  I said “Thanks” a lot.  I was grateful for God’s Grace. I thanked God for all the other brave people in my life: my parents, my siblings, and anyone who has taken a chance even if that meant they were counting wood panels and waiting for the grace to come.  Because on this day for me, it did. 

 Just so you know, a week and a half later I am in full force with the para-influenza my kids had.  Things have been hard.  Tears have been shed. Just so you know, this blog has taken me five days to write.  My pajamas have changed but I am still sitting in my blue rocking chair.  But as much as I want to mope I keep thinking about the people who fight through it all, living their lives until they overflow and affect ours.  I say the joy of the Lord is strength, because I need to be reminded.  I have to try to defeat anxiety, they overcome it just by being.  I have to try to be brave, but they just are.  And that leaves me in awe…just so you know.

Four years ago I gave Chris the best birthday gift ever.  It was better than the surprise 30th birthday party, and way better than the little army men and walkie talkie I got him for his 23 birthday. FYI: Just because they liked it when they were 7, doesn’t mean they’ll get nostalgic in adulthood.  Instead I gave him a beautiful little baby boy named Daniel,  who was born in less than two hours looking like a little old man,  yet brand spankin’ new.   And I know he was the best gift, because his Dad said so.

It wasn’t a hard decision to decide to have him.  We were having one of those deep conversations as Jonah sat bundled in the stroller as we took a walk.  It was Christmas day. We hadn’t had many of those since he was born.  We seemed so busy trying to learn about being grown ups, while getting so little sleep.  But that day we talked about what mattered.  How we loved being together, and loved being parents.   It wasn’t a complicated choice, we’re not the kind of people to over analyze parenthood.  It was a big decision.  We didn’t have the money.  But looking at our Jonah we knew it was a risk worth taking.

I took the test in early February.  Chris was working nights and my dear friend Amy was over.  She was the second person that saw the positive test.  We screamed, and scared Jonah to tears.   And then the pregnancy ensued.  Like with my first I got big fast.  I am not one of those super-cute pregnant people.   I carry right in front, with a ginormous round stomach  But I also grow everywhere else.  Roly poly, shiny, and expanding I thanked God everyday that I was pregnant.  I am one of the few people I know that hasn’t suffered from infertility.  Stretch marks and all, I was gracious for my blessings.  This pregnancy was so similar to my first I just knew I was having another boy.  In my minds eye I kept seeing Daniel being just like Jonah.  Everything was so similar, that I expected their cries, looks, personalities would be one in the same.

The night before he was born I asked our babysitter Christina to spend the night.  I’d been having sporadic contractions and was nervous.  Jonah’s labor was only 8 hours, two of those pushing, so I was afraid I’d go fast.  It was Halloween.  We had a couple of trick-or-treaters, and watched America’s Funniest Home Videos.  Right at bedtime I told Christina she could go home.  She and Chris exchanged a look.  She said, “Nah, I think I’ll stay.  Just in case.” My mom decided to drive to Eugene too, “Just in case.”  I went to bed, and crashed my eyes shut.

Wide eyed seconds later remembering, “Oh crap, I forgot to get Chris a present!”

Labor went from zero to ow Ow OW!  We made it to the hospital.  My friend, and Danny’s godmother,  Angel showed up with in the hour. I made her sing, “The greatest Love”, because women in labor can make those kinds of requests.   The anesthesiologist showed up.  I went too fast for the epidural to take.  My Mom came in minutes before he was born.  The doctor was trying to get dressed, when he started to crown.  “Stop pushing Kristin,” Everyone started yelling.  But I couldn’t stop. He was ready. And suddenly he was there.  He came out with the amniotic sac over his face.  They said it was rare, calling it ‘under the veil’.  They said he’d have a six sense.  I was just so glad to have him, lying on my chest.  My Daniel. Our Danny.

At first my thoughts were echoed.  He was a lot like Jonah, even a little easier.  He was never a big crier, always smiling.  He loved to be cuddled.  But with time subtle changes emerged and then flourished.  Unlike Jonah he could not be distracted, he had a fierce determination.  As he grew and became mobile, we had to baby proof to an even higher degree.  He climbed on everything.  Ate anything. It wasn’t uncommon to find dog food in his mouth, and newspaper in his diaper.

And he grew and grew and grew.  He became his own little person.  He looked like his brother but his hair was softer, his body more compact.  A couple of years past…We began to say his motto was: It seemed like a good idea at a time.  Nights I would rack my brain and think, he went to time out 12 times, he has possession of no toys and he is still testing me–Lord what should I do?

And in the stillness of my heart I heard it:  He’s just like you.

And it all became clear.  I saw my child, determined, passionate…just like me.  I remembered lying when I was young because of my fear of rejection, wanting so badly to have friends, to be noticed.  I accidentally hit him because he won’t play with me. My own bluntness as I got older, trying to overcompensate from years of bending the truth.  Mommy I really think it’s time to put Micah back in your tummy.  The little things about me that come with regret, growing up, those dark places that I don’t like to acknowledge look at me with his fathers eyes.

And the big things.  My being loyal to a fault.  Expecting family, friends to act with the same unbending faithfulness I give them.  Then my fear of being an inconvenience, left out when it’s not returned.  My passion that left me looking needy when I was younger, and over-aggressive.   I see these things in my Daniel.  The ways he lives and breathes for his brothers, desperately needing to be hugged by Chris and Me.   Impulsive, thinking after the fact. He’s also inherited my love for all things that are Bon Jovi, memorizing every song, saying he wants to be Tico Torres the drummer when he grows up.

You’re going to fail sometimes.  Your heart will be broken, I long to tell him, but I won’t.  Because in the past few years with faith and family I’ve began to see my own things a little more clearly.  I still have regrets, but they’ve made me a better person.  Though still covered in faults and insecure at times, I’ve learned sensitivity and compassion.  And I don’t question a few things.  I love my family. I am a good friend.  And I am grateful for these gifts God has given me. These gifts that have led me here. My passion, that 11 years ago led me to tell someone I loved them, and would wait for them as they prayed about a vocation to the priesthood.  It was risky,  impulsive and changed the course of Chris and my lives.  My loyalty, that went from a leap of faith, to a vow for as long as we both should live.

Four years ago I gave Chris a birthday present forever unmatched.  He lay sheltered in me until it was time, created with the love of people who wanted him so much, and with a six sense couldn’t wait to be unwrapped.  Four years I gave Chris, our Daniel.  Determined, loyal, passionate, and strong.  Simply, the very best of me.

There are certain things a person just doesn’t forget.  Your first friend: Mine’s name was Tina. She was invisible and spent her days living in a mansion with her mother and then visiting her blind father in a shack by a large water-tank.(Even at five I was just a tad dramatic) I remember sobbing in my grandparents pop-tent admitting to my sister Miss, that she was in fact, gasp, make-believe.  Then there is your first haircut/perm what have you: Mine was a perm twisted and pinned together by my mom.  I remember it stunk and pulled and I looked very much like the lead singer from Twisted Sister when it was done.   And of course the first time being left out:  I was in first grade and was the only girl in my class who was not invited to a birthday party where they were going to see “Girls just want to have Fun.”  And I really want to! That was my first experience with that raw shaky feeling of rejection. 

So maybe I shouldn’t have been  so surprised when my Jonah on the second week of school got in the car, his big blue eyes all welled up as he said, “I’m just so sad.  I can’t even tell you about my day.”  After a bit of prodding(okay, a lot)he said as tears escaped down his cheeks, “___ said he doesn’t want to be my friend anymore!”  As I kissed his salty cheeks and hugged him tight, I fought back my own tears.  I knew this wasn’t the last time he’d feel this quake in his heart, but I’d wished it could have been later. Like maybe when I was older and could be a wiser mom, and he would be older and wiser than me.  But since I’m not older, I did the wisest thing I knew how.  I talked to him about feeling sad, and told him that maybe his friend was tired and just meant he didn’t want to play anymore today.  I said that sometimes friends say things even when they don’t mean it, and that I bet that tomorrow he’d probably want to play again.(This of course after I called a few experts — His Dad, my Mom, Em, and Christina)  And then after another few allowed kisses I did the next best thing I knew, distraction in the form of Strawberry Frappacino’s and video games at Em’s.  I told myself all the things I’d heard:  this is normal, this is part of socialization, this is life.  But that little girl with the 80’s mullet in me couldn’t help but think, “It isn’t fair!”  But maybe that’s half the battle of parenting.  Figuring out that when our kids hurt it affects us, and learning how to help them   And sometimes that means calling for help and swallowing the lump in our own throats. 

It’s been a month since Jonah’s just-so-sad day at school, and he and ___ have played almost every day.  But it seems like weekly I’m seeing changes in him, and watching him experience all the pains that come with growing up.       And I feel a little quake in my heart getting ready to celebrate his sixth birthday tomorrow,  knowing these firsts will become seconds then thirds, and someday my little boy won’t be so little anymore.

So, when he’s big there are some things I want him to remember… that when we found out we were pregnant his Dad swung me around and around.  And even though we had planned on waiting a few years to get pregnant(we made it a whole four months) that it was the best surprise of our lives.  I want him to remember how being open to God’s will and making it our own made us better people.  I want him to remember that the day he was born changed our lives forever, and how he was perfect looking with curly blond hair and bright blue eyes.  I probably won’t share for a loooong time that he came out sunny-side up which gave him that perfect look, but I will share how his eyes were wide open when he entered the world.  I want him to remember he’s been that way since day one, eye’s wide open, observing the whole world, a sponge learning and memorizing everything.  I want him to remember that I thank God everyday that he is my oldest son.   That I think he is an amazing big brother.   And anyone would be blessed to be his friend. 

And of course there are the things he won’t forget, because I won’t let him.  His first friend: Cathy, they’ve been friends since they were two and he has since called her “my girlfriend”.  His fierce loyalty towards her has been tested through different schools, schedules, and her pronounced love for Jesse McCarthy.  His first haircut:  The one and only time his dad was allowed to cut his hair he came out looking like he was a prisoner of war.  And maybe he’ll remember that first feeling of rejection, and then again maybe not.  But that’s okay, because what I want him to remember is that he is a beloved Child of God, and with his birth our hearts shook wide open and have been brimming ever since.  After all there certain things you never forget.  And I could never forget him.  After all… he’s my first.    

So this summer we almost did it.  We almost moved.  The conversation had been coming up over and over again, and the realization of moving seemed inevitable.  After college in Eugene we’d moved to Salem and loved it.  But then Dyp began working as a “street cleaner” and got a job here.  So we moved from our little conservative community back to Eugene. I felt like Dorothy in “The Wizard of Oz”, my house swirling up in the air and landing in a strange place.  A very strange, quirky place.  But the quirky things we’d loved about Eugene in college, were less than quirky now that we were parents…they were annoying.  And though we had a handful of friends, we had no family.  But Dyp had a job here, so we were going to make it work.  We bought a house, got pregnant again, and grew from a family of three to four.  And four years later, after we’d had our third son we started talking about things.  Things being moving…because though we’d made good friends, there was still no family.  And so Dyp applied in Yakima, where some of my family is, and got an interview.  It all happened really fast and everything seemed to be coming together. Good pay, cheaper housing market, family.  It all seemed so clear.  Right?

And through all this we prayed for God’s Will.  We wanted to follow his path,  much like the yellow brick road.  As much as living close to family was a motivating factor, what was more important was what God wanted for our little family.  We prayed for peace of mind.

We told our friends.  All of them were supportive.  All of them said they’d miss us.  One cried.  And I started to say goodbye to Eugene in my mind.  Some of it was easy.  There were things I wouldn’t miss… the-too-liberal-for-anyone city council, the people that ride bicycles without helmets and still cut me off in traffic, the we heart education but we won’t pay taxes residents, and of course the protesters who protest everything from education to paper clips — forming drum circles and of course more protests.  Reading this I think all of these people make up a handful of Eugene and they are probably all friends.  But they are loud. After all, they have drums.

But I also thought about the things I’d miss.  I’d miss the fact that I am surrounded by green year around.  I’d miss the rain and it’s smell, and mossy grass.  I’d miss how much I love my kids in their rain coats, day after day, as we count snails on the sidewalk.  I’d miss my neighbors and the fact that I can get to Church, the Grocery Store, Old Navy, and Starbucks, and work in five minutes. I’d miss my co-workers and all the members at W W I am blessed to work with. I’d miss driving for only 15 minutes and being at a great fishing spot with the kids. I’d miss knowing my husbands co-worker’s and knowing they really look out for each other.   I’d miss this little hill in South Eugene that I go to and cry at, and bring flowers to.  And I’d miss my friends…I’d miss how Amy and Steve dance as we leave their house, and Emily and I planning road trips, and actually taking them.  I’d miss watching Christina read to my boys, and hearing Dyp and James talk like a bunch of girls.  I’d miss telling Shannon everything, and knowing she feels the same way.  I’d miss praying with and for Lark, Denise, Teresa, and some other blessed moms I know. I’d miss going to Value Village with Tayah.   And I’d miss laughing with Liz, TyAnn, Kara, and Alicia whether we are in a hospital or at a kitchen table. I’d miss stopping at Angel’s and Jocelyn’s on the way to Yakima, making every road trip a memory.  Dyp would miss Marko so much, and we’d miss Fr. Steve.  These things that got me through those years with out family, now seemed just a little bit like one.

But I said goodbye.  And continued to pray. Dyp got a letter.  He was #1 on the hiring list.  We jumped up and down.  I called a Realtor.  And suddenly without warning things got shaky.  Though my family was welcoming, the soon-to-be workplace was not.  Our friend Jeremy was in a horrible accident.  We prayed harder and felt peace slipping away.  I felt like I didn’t know what was right, and felt scared, and finally took heart.(note the clever Wizard of Oz reference)

After much prayer it was clear.  We realized that the grass wasn’t greener…they just all had in-ground sprinkler’s.  Together we stepped back and looked around, and “this” didn’t seem so bad.  A few more BIG things smacked us around, and we had our answer.  For some reason God wanted us here, and for our family…Chris, Me, and our boys, this was home.

I didn’t want to believe it.  I wanted to be close to my parents, my sisters, and nieces.  I wanted to be able to call for help when I had the flu, and know that someone could help me.  Friends call to sympathize.  Family brings you chicken soup. As much as I didn’t understand it and hated to admit it,  I never felt peace about Yakima either.  The idea seemed great, but it seemed more like a dream, and not reality.  I prayed and called my family and told them.  They understood.  They were supportive.  I cried.  And I decided I’d start this blog, a place where they could check in, and I could check out when I really missed them.  And I knew that Chris and I’d visit often and hope that they’d do the same, if not, I’m holding out for one of my sister’s to come to  U of O in College. (please…)  You do know it’s the Emerald City?  Really it is.

And so there we were.  In two months, we went from being ready to pack up to being right where we started.  Or maybe for the first time in over five years, we were ready to start making Eugene our home.   A few weeks later we returned home from dinner in Salem with the Herrmann’s when I saw a flash of purple in front of our house.  As we parked in our driveway there was a flurry of drums and flowing long red hair as our friends Emily, Stephen, Christina, and baby Lucy held large protest signs in our front yard with things that said, “Drums of Peace”, and “Keep the White’s in Eugene”.  Soon our next door neighbors were in on  it and we were surrounded by the most beautiful hilarious protest I’ve ever witnessed.  As I laughed, and peed my pants a little, I thanked God for the amazing gift of the family He gave me that I never acknowledged.  We all continued to dance and laugh as our friends turned the things I wouldn’t miss into one of the best memories of my life.

In the past month I’ve thought a lot about that and have had further confirmation that we made the right decision, or that God did anyway.  I see it in the way Amy, Liz, and Ty call to check in, and the way all of us try to have dinner at least once a week.  I saw it in Kara’s earnest face as she dropped off bags of Gatorade, and yes, chicken soup as the entire family threw up last weekend.  And I can’t help but go back to the night of “The Protest” as we call it…the night when I looked at my Eugene Family and felt more sure of Christ’s will than ever.  The night when how loved we were showed up in fake-hippies with signs protesting our move.  The night when I watched my sons dance around the yard as my husband laughed so hard I thought he’d cry.  The night I looked from the pop tent-to my friends-to my neighbors- to my family, and shook off the urge to click my red vans together.  But you know it’s true right?

There really, truly, is no place like home.