Messages of Peace

In the early afternoon, my house is bathed in light.  It is a singular time of day for me as the brightness floods in, bringing out the honey grain in the wood, the rich colors.  The brilliance of it seems to draw my attention, calling me at the same time to bask in it and reflect, commanding an immediate sense of quiet from somewhere inside.

Years ago, as a little girl, my family traveled to the cabin for a week in the summer.  The cabin wasn't plumbed and when we had to go to the bathroom in the night, we depended on having each other and a flashlight.  You could get to the outhouse just fine without the light, but who would want to face the dark woods alone?  We were young, the woods were deep and dark and quiet, and it felt good to hold something that could pierce that and give you a direct, clear line of view.

I've thought about that as a metaphor for the Holy Ghost.  We are, as it were, away from home for a time, in a world that while stunning and beautiful and full of remarkable blessings, is becoming increasingly darkened by unbelief, skepticism, injustice, and disregard for moral standards and behavior.  In a discussion on Sunday this talk was referenced, comparing light to revelation.  Sometimes it comes so pressingly, as though, in one step, you've walked from a dark room into a light one.  Other times, the light seems to distill gradually, like a morning sunrise.  Both are ways that the Holy Ghost communicates with us. 

One of the roles of the Holy Ghost is to bring peace, REAL peace, the kind that money cannot buy, the kind that success and prestige of any kind cannot replicate.

I was asked on Sunday if I would share an experience where I had felt the influence of the Holy Ghost, and after doing so, I challenged myself and the women I was with to start looking more earnestly and try to recognize the Holy Ghost in the day-to-day-ness of life.

  Last night I burrowed into my bed late, spooning up to Mr. C. to warm my body and my forever-and-always cold feet (thank you, I love this).  I found myself thinking about the messages of peace I've recognized and felt lately, even just over the weekend.

I remembered Saturday morning, lazy, lazy, waking up late.  Scott and the children were gone on their Saturday morning outing.  I ate a bowl of cereal in the quiet and started into a book.  Moving the couch into direct sunlight, I wrapped a cozy blanket around me and sat in that warmth, reading, for almost three hours.  Quiet, peaceful, time to think and process and engage.

Later that evening, Mr. C. and I knelt in prayer to begin fasting together, discussing beforehand the things we were pondering in our hearts and minds, things we desperately feel we need direction on.  As he was voice for our prayer, I felt the power of uniting in faith, trusting that this road is possible because we're on it together, and because God hears and answers prayers.

Sunday morning was beautiful and crisp out.  Blue sky, morning rays of sun kissing lawn and curtains and carpet.  Light like that is contagious.  

All the children came into our bed, and we began our new book, reading the first chapter of Summer of the Monkeys.  Peace, my friends.  It was there.

In church I sat listening to a young man in our ward talking about faith amid the questions of science and those questioning belief in something greater.  He finished and I was up on my feet, so touched and motivated by his remarks.  I kept thinking I was going to be able to hold it together but his words touched me so deeply, my emotions literally spilled out, too.  I was so proud of him for saying that choosing faith can be hard.  I wanted him to know that we continue to have to choose that.  Life, as I've contemplated so much in the past several months, is about choosing faith.  I feel as though I've had to surrender, in so many aspects of my life, to choosing faith and forging ahead in trust.  We are here to see if through all the battles, we will continue to choose what we chose before we came: the freedom to believe and exercise faith in Jesus Christ.  That is the answer, and it is a lesson I continue to learn again and again. 

Before going to bed on Sunday night I wrote love notes and tucked them into boxes, feeling love within my heart as I wrote to each of my children and my husband.  It was so real and so calming and filled me with gratitude.

And last evening, the kids and I listened to Scott's lesson for us in our family home evening.  He told the story of Enos, and had taken the time to draw pictures for the children.  Every once in a great while it seems like there is a lot of extra quiet in family home evening, and we're dialed in more than other nights.  That was last night.  He had told the kids that he wanted them to think about things they could learn from this story before he began.  

  (Enos goes into the forest to hunt.)

 (Scott realized, too late, that he should have drawn a bow and arrow instead of a rifle.  Love it.  He goes to hunt wild beasts, and while there, remembers the words his father often spoke about Jesus Christ.)

(Because of his reflections, he prays seeking a renewal of the Lord's spirit in his life and to receive forgiveness.  That forgiveness comes and he wonders how that can possibly have happened, and is answered that it was because of his faith.)

I found myself pondering implications of that story for me.  In the end, the Spirit whispered to me that choosing to exercise faith in Jesus Christ is also choosing to change, to repent, to want continual progress, not stagnant hope without any working on our part.  If you truly pick up one end of that stick, you automatically pick up the other end, too.  As Elder D. Todd Christofferson said, 

"Repentance means striving to change.  It would mock the Savior's suffering in the Garden of Gethsemane and on the cross for us to expect that He should transform us into angelic beings with no real effort on our part.  Rather, we seek His grace to complement and reward our most diligent efforts.  Perhaps as much as praying for mercy, we should pray for time and opportunity to work and strive and overcome.  Surely the Lord smiles upon one who desires to come to judgment worthily, who resolutely labors day by day to replace weakness with strength.  Real repentance, real change may require repeated attempts, but there is something refining and holy in such striving." 

(for full talk, go here)

 Sometimes it seems as though the version of myself that I hope to be and what I actually am are disparagingly far apart.  But I am grateful for a God who, through the Holy Ghost, helps me recognize His beauty and power working, even for one as simple as me.  I am grateful for the challenge and for the journey and for opportunities, great and small, to reflect and try to tune in.  The Holy Ghost fills me with hope and joy, urges me forward, and calms, at times, my troubled heart.  He helps me to see the holiness in striving, confirming the next step, that small flashlight beam penetrating the darkness and fear of the unknown, bringing clarity, insight, and peace in His wake.

(Go here for a video that touched me this weekend.)

Learning What It Means

I got fidgety.

Never loved the wintery mantle.

Still haven't figured something out for January that I totally love up there.

So I went on to love month, and decided that from here on out, I'll probably just celebrate the love directly after Christmas.  Why not?

As I got into it, I realized I wanted to celebrate the love we have for each other -- beginning as a couple, morphing into family.

And I wanted it simple.

 Family photos.
I chose the candid sepia photo we used for our wedding announcement.

My current most fave picture of Mimi with her dad.

The pic of me laughing as the boys were trying to smooch my cheeks.

The mantle became an expression of something I've been thinking about a lot lately.

The other night Scott and I were talking about the progress we can both see and feel
 that has been made in our relationship in the last year.

I've thought a lot lately about how the person you marry becomes such a significant choice.

You don't even realize how significant it is when you are doing it, even if you hear yourself saying, "This is a HUGE decision, a HUGE choice."

You don't know that yet.

But it's really starting to sink in for me.

When I come away from gatherings with folks that I love dearly, and feel that comfort in knowing that I don't have to explain myself to him.  He understands me in some ways where I don't have to say a whole lot.

That he loves my kids the same way that I do, because they are his, too.

That we have such a collective history, becoming more and more intertwined.

That he has seen, and accepted, a lot of my weaknesses and still is there for me anyway.

That he has forgiven a lot.

We've walked through several trials together, some pushing us apart, and then have had to fight to come back together.

Sometimes that feels like a crazy uphill climb.

But more and more, I just realize how much we share.

It doesn't mean that he always gets me or I get him.

It doesn't mean that we have 100% crossover of our interests and what we understand.

It doesn't mean we always like the same stuff or share the same opinion.

It doesn't mean we respond to everything the same way.

It doesn't mean we always understand each other and never ever get in a fight because of miscommunication (insert: hahahaha).

What I'm learning though?

It DOES mean it's about letting someone enrich your life, being willing to open up and not be scared of the differences or the beauty you find there.

It's about having a companion, and being a companion to someone else.

It's knowing you have someone to go home to, knowing someone will be there.

It's about recognizing the dual journey,and learning to count the steps together and not the differences.

It's about learning how to make better choices and grow up.

It's about humbling yourself and making it not about YOU, but about US.
It's about thinking about the other person, and how they feel.

This can be hard stuff, folks.

Lately for me it has been thinking a lot about being loving.

Choosing to love.

Not expect.

Not define.

Not put within a certain bracket.

Not compare.

Rather, I am trying to appreciate and respect more.

The more I honestly practice this and focus, the more I find to appreciate and respect.

The more I AM a companion, the more I notice how he is that back brace for me, too.

It's a continual give-give.

We have a lot of love to celebrate, a lot of learning and growing and stretching.

Not to mention the 3 little people we have now that just further us.

And being a family doesn't mean you have it all figured out or that things are always pretty.

It's about having someone to share the journey with, someone who helps you learn and discover a lot about yourself.

It means trying and loving and working at it the best you can, and noticing the miracles that happen along the way.

Small Snapshots

 Do you ever feel like you're in a spiral?

Or maybe a better analogy would be those crazy tracks they build for marbles, where the marble goes up and down and around and out at the bottom, or else in a circuitous loop?

I do.

Kind of tagging onto the post at the first of the week.

I had a cry via text with my husband this morning.

Telling him how I hate how I go up and down.

A couple weeks of feeling great, and then a couple weeks (or more) of kind of feeling like I am on and off PMSing.

Yuck.

I get in the track, caught trying to analyze what triggers it or if I can help it.

Is it just part of being female?

(Blast those hormones!)

I wonder where my focus needs tweeking.

Where my mothering definitely needs to improve.

How I can be a better wife.

If I am making any progress at all at times.

And sometimes, when I feel I'm out at sea, I just want to send up a white flag and call it a day.

But there are just lovely moments that I savor too.

This week, for example, I've had several feel-good moments.

I loved going on our outing earlier in the week.

To the art museum, and the fine arts building at the local university.

We looked at art and talked about it.  Viewed it from far away and up close and compared.

We played in the museum's book store with cool toys, and I wanted to spend a bucket on educational stuff for the children.

I love sharing such beautiful things with them, and my heart jumps that they respond!

We got a valentine treat in the bookstore and went downstairs to the children's nook and spent an hour reading, whatever books they had picked out, and some I had picked, too.

We walked and talked.

We stopped and looked at the stuffed cougar, behind the glass.

They wanted to know if he was real.

We had a simple conversation on taxidermy.

I _LOVE_ spending time with them.

And sometimes getting away from home and out doing something reminds me just how much I love our conversations.  These are charming children we have.  And I feel blessed.

We're reading Where the Red Fern Grows at night.

Last night after cleaning up dinner, I lit the candles on the mantle, and the valentine luminaries I made.

(Yes, I'm a fidget butt and already put valentines up instead. I'll post that next week.)

We sat there in the quiet, reading the story.

They loved it.

So did I.

I love that quiet time with them.

I love the quiet in the night, when the lights go out, and I snuggle up next to Scott and he puts his arm around me.

I love his texts saying I love you.

I love knowing that he's there.

I appreciate conversations with him: his perspective is often enlightening or challenging to me, inspiring me to be better.

Or like last night, before reading.

I was cleaning up after dinner.

I had on this cd of my father and another artist.

I watched Benji start dancing with Mia.

 It was so cute.

Then Isaiah came up, pink dress and all, and they were all twirling around.

 I pulled out the camera and started snapping away.

They inspire me so much.

I understand more why the Savior likens our inner changing to becoming as children.

So quick to forgive.

So honest in their emotions.

Heartfelt.

Beautiful and simple.

Unconcerned by the world's messages.

Quick to believe and trust and forge ahead with faith.

I am so grateful to be surrounded by these beautiful little people.

They challenge me to be better.

They forgive me for my imperfections.

They love me anyway.

They are the ones doing much of the teaching here.

I remember reading Graham Swift's Waterland in one of my senior English courses in college.

I was intrigued by it.

One of the things he says is that "...we are always stepping into the same river."

I think it's true.

All of these emotions and experiences.

Blessings, hard times, good times, understanding and depth.

We're in a collective pool, on a circuitous root, becoming what we are intended to become.

Following a path of those that have gone before.

We stop and breathe, take it in, look around, and try to make sense of it.

Trying to live up to the best in us, and continue to what lays ahead.

I hope you have a great weekend.

We're going on a family date tonight to see an exhibit put on by our friends at the museum.

Having a girls day all day with  my mom and sisters tomorrow.

Church.

Yummy dinner.

Time with my kids and Scott.

I love the weekend.

(And, p.s., I was talked about HERE today.
I beg to differ. It's really the other way around.
I'm the one that's inspired by her. ;)
She is one of my top blogs to read.
I love her so much, too.
I guess it's one of those mutual feel-good, inspiring relationships, and I want to meet her in real life!)

Focus #1

A few words have been floating around my head for the past couple of weeks.

I've decided they need to be one of my points of focus for the new year.

They come from this talk, given at the end of September last year.

The phrase is: Be happy NOW.

I had one of those weekends where everything seemed perfect,

mostly because I spent lots and lots of time with my husband.

We cooked together, watched a documentary together (we love documentaries),

talked til late, went out to dinner with some family, spent time with the kids,

did some spiritual reading/discussion, went to visit some elderly neighbors

across the street that we love, read in each of our respective books before sleep, legs all tangled up together -- just like every night when we read before turning off our lights.

Everything together.

It was so much fun.

One of those things that leaves you feeling re-charged, and anxious to be together again.

I thought about my blessings.

My husband.

His friendship.

His devotion to our family.

How good he is with the kids (much more patient than me half the time).

How invested he is with them.

His sensitivity to me.

Our warm house.

A community we feel so invested in.

Fantastic neighbors and friends.

Food to eat.

Family to share things with.

The hope of dreams and future plans we hope come to fruition.

The incredible, all-encompassing gift of faith, of a belief in a plan

for my life and for my family.

Knowing we have a loving Heavenly Father, that He's aware, and that He sent His Son for our sake.

The blessing of prophets, which I can't emphasize enough.

Exercise.

The beauties of nature (Benji looked up from his dinner last night and said, "Look at that pink sky...it is beautiful!")

Nuts and chews (from See's Candies -- these are under the "simply joys in life" category) and ice cream and, well, chocolate in general...

And three little people who continue to be the absolute joy of our lives.

I love sharing life with them, being taught by them, recognizing my strengths and weaknesses through their eyes, feeling the tug to be better, or the realization that I'm doing some things okay.

Be happy NOW.

It's pretty profound, don't you think?

Not wait for my life to look like the picture perfect image I had imagined for myself (which probably will never materialize in exactly that way anyway).

Not when finances are maybe what I wish they were.

Not when all my questions are figured out.

Or when this trial of faith or that one are explained to me.

Not when I look a certain way or only on the "perfect" days when everything goes right.

Or for any other golden ticket that holds me back, prevents me from recognizing and basking in the current joy.

Not waiting.

Not putting it off.

I don't want to miss what IS.

Some days it is so easy to do that.  Other days I falter and fall into the trap of comparing or wishing for something else or giving in to stress or any number of doubts.

But it comes down to choosing faith and optimism and gratitude.

This has been swirling in my head and won't be quiet, so I know it's a directive.

Our times define us.

Create us.

Give moments of clarity in our marriage,

in our family life,

in who we are, fundamentally,

as individuals and as

participants in something so much bigger than ourselves.

Be happy now.

Right now.

Trying Again

Last night we were at Scott's brother's house, playing Apples to Apples, eating dessert, hanging out and talking.  It was nice and cozy and warm.  The kids built forts, us girlsies chatted.

 (pic taken in June 2010)

The guys talked and were looking at stuff on the computer.  It was so fun to be together.  

Then we bundled up and went home into the dark.

Darkness is settling in on the valley.  Daylight savings time came and it's dark before 6 now.  It's cold out, moisture in the air.  We listened to The Cambridge Singers singing Christmas carols on the way home, looking at the lights from buildings, and, eventually, our quiet street.

Everyone was tired.  We got the kids in PJs, brushed teeth, read scriptures and said family prayer.  During the prayer, I felt Mia's little hands softly touching my eyelashes, still accented by mascara.  Then she was touching my earrings.  As this was happening, I had this distinct impression.  I'm still her everything.

She's watching me.

She's learning about womanhood from me.

What it means to mother.

How we talk to each other.

How I act under stress.

What I think is important.

How to be a wife.

How you show love and compassion.

That's a tall order.

One I most certainly have small successes with sometimes.

One where I also make lots of mistakes, and teach her things, by my own example, that even I don't believe are right.

I felt so aware, once again, of wanting to try harder.

To try to give my best.

Because I want so much for them, and I can't possibly be everything that I want them to learn.

Already this morning, waking up about 7 to fighting and slamming doors downstairs, I was very aware of having tired children (time change and all).  Already feeling frustrated because it just seemed like it was going to be one of those off days where folks get frustrated easily and there's lots of crying and fighting.

Already stubbing my toes at patience.

I remember this, before we had kids.  

 It was just the two of us.

Motherhood was the perfect dream in the distance.

When I thought I would never...you name it.

I wouldn't ever yell.

I would be endlessly patient.

I was going to be a perfect mom. 

That's the true tall order.

Too tall.

Too exhausting.

Inspires a lot of the ugly G word: GUILT. 

I've stopped saying never.

A while back, I remember having the distinct thought that instead of trying to be Supermom, I should just try hard to be a Super Mom.  To take my role seriously.

To try hard.

To love.

To teach. 

To apologize when I make mistakes. 

And also to be kind to myself, and not expect Supermom.

I remember this, when they were still so tiny.  Never contrary.  Always so cute.

 Never whining.

Never fighting with each other (oh, the fighting sometimes!). 

A time when I felt like the perfect mother, because I wasn't tested. I was oh so in love.

And now we have this.   

 There's a lot of laughter and a lot of love.

Lots of things I cherish about this stage.

I'm still so in love.

In fact, the bonds that I feel for them frighten me because of their strength, their powerful tugging.

But I'm tested.  

Daily. 

And this work that I love so much can be exhausting in so many ways. 

I think it's about balance: trying harder to consistently be what I want to be for them, but also not expecting Supermom from myself.

Motherhood has been my most lovely dream, and more than perfect ever could mean.

I love it beyond expression.

But it demands a lot.

And I'm trying to give it my best. 

And practice forgiveness and trust the Lord with the rest.

If you haven't done it yet, you can enter the free giveaway HERE.

This is My Life

Sunday night, when the lights were out and we were going to bed, I felt Scott snuggle up behind me. And then, just like that, I felt his big toe and second toe close in around my achilles tendon. And it made me think about the blessings in my simple life.

I lead an ordinary life.

I wake up to, "Mama! Mommy!" Or, at times, it has been, "Mommy...Elizabeth! Liz! Mommy!"
I wipe noses and change bums.

I make three meals a day.

I text Scott to vent and get support when I am feeling particularly out of patience with the kids.

I listen to my baby breathing, feel her chest to make sure it is rising and falling or I can feel her heart beating.

I sing bedtime lullabies to the boys with Scott and do fingerplays.
I wipe muddy footprints off the kitchen floor.

I clip dirty, long fingernails.

I listen to children giggling and watch them doing laps up and down the hall in their diapers.

I make conversation with two-year-olds.

I feel like super mom when I get a shower before noon.

I feed my children way too much candy.

I hear reflections of myself as I hear the boys say, "Mommy told you," to each other.

I read bedtime stories.

I watch my children sleep at night.

I help my children pray, smiling when they both say the words or alternate with each phrase.

I lose my temper.

I can't get enough of my baby's cheeks.

Going anywhere -- no, just getting ready and out the door to go anywhere, is a feat.

I clean fingerprints off the windows and vacuum bits of crackers or smarties or pretzels from carseats.

I've cleaned permanent black marker of the floor, kissed owies to make them better, cut hair, and cleaned up toilet water from the kitchen floor where the boys were dumping it with joy using measuring cups.

I ask, too often, for the boys to "Stop!" or "Leave it!" or "Please listen!" or "...if I ask you one more time..."

I listen to my boys' voices, singing with gusto, and smile as I recognize the songs or the phrases.

I was reminded tonight, while reading this post, how important it is to appreciate these lovely moments, and how important it is to treat everyone we meet with kindness and love. Writing about these things is I guess some small way that I try to immortalize the experience. Right now, my little family consumes my life. As tiring as that can be at times (in whatever form), the thought that they are growing, and one day won't need me, breaks my heart. I feel inadequate, every aware/worried that my failings and imperfections as a mother will rub off on my children. I wonder what Scott and I are teaching them -- what communication habits, life habits, dealing-with-things habits. But I know that we are doing the best we can, and I know that is all that is required.

Here's the thing, though. I find myself returning to this thought again and again: How can something already bring so much ache with it? The love and fierce devotion I feel for my children scares me. Sometimes I don't know how I am going to survive all the transitions of motherhood, the passing of time, and letting them grow up. I won't always get to hold their little hands or hear them giggle or call me mommy. It's amazing -- the dependence is partly what makes these small years exhausting. And yet, the thought of that changing -- of not having these big, beautiful, innocent eyes of two-year-olds to light my life -- is pretty devastating.

Loving this much and this deep is hard.

And even though I am mighty imperfect, I am grateful for the small successes, and for the many small, beautiful things that bring joy to my life. Like last week, when I texted Scott to say, "I love you too." And all he wrote back was:

"I like that."

Being "Put Together"

This is probably exaggerated by the fact that I recently had a baby and thus have been feeling quite self conscious as of late. The other day, while running at the track, I probably looked much as I usually do -- on or off the track: hair pulled up, no makeup on, glasses, three (now) kids in tow, about 11:00ish. The track treks of late feel like a juggling act, anyway, as the last two times I have gone with kids I have had to nurse upon arriving (Mia unhappy to be moved around so much in her sleep) and haven't been able to finish my mileage goal for the day (Mia being generally unhappy). And I feel a bit self conscious when I get there and she is crying in the otherwise typical-quiet-morning there.

So, as I was making my way around the west end and heading back east in the loop, I found myself thinking something to the effect of, "One of these days maybe I'll actually be a real woman -- or a real mom -- and I'll actually be one those women who is always put together. You know -- makeup in place, cute, everything in full swing without a hitch."

And immediately I stopped myself with a barrage of questions like these:

Is that really what it means to be a woman?

Is that what it means to be "put together?"

I think of other women I know, and particularly, right now I guess, other mothers -- who always seem to have that. They are put together. They are cute. They look unfailingly charming. And sometimes I just wonder how they do it.

Part of it, I suppose, is that I have never really been the type of girl that always has makeup on every day, or can't go out the door without being "put together." I probably don't wear makeup more days than I do.

But really, since when did anything with physical appearance dominate my thoughts of being "put together?"

(Insert: ARGH.)

(Now, lest you think that is what I ultimately really think being put together means, read on.

But still, it bothers me how much the world revolves around physical appearance -- and really all things superficial -- weighting so much on that scale. I think, inadvertently, it affects how we feel about ourselves. And I don't think that's a good thing. Really, ask Scott how long I can talk about this stuff if you get me started. Really.)

This morning, with my baby sleeping on my chest, I finished reading 1776 by David McCullough. Fabulous read. It was one of those moments where, upon closing the book, I lay there thinking about miracles, gratitude, sacrifice, awe and faith. In great causes. In real issues.

I got in the shower afterwards, and couldn't help but think about my whole physical-woman-questioning of the other day. And, once again, felt a great desire to care about and focus on what really matters.

It has nothing to do with what you look like (or don't), what size you are (or aren't), what clothes you wear (or don't), how much money you make (or don't).

It made me more determined for the year to focus on caring about what really matters.

Last night, reading Brooke's blog (go here to read the whole post), I got emotional by reading these lines she'd written about life and single moments:

You do it because you have to.
You help because you can.
You laugh because you need to.
You love because it's all that matters.

Check.

All these thoughts made my questions that really matter revolve more around the quality of my love to others, the relationships I hold most dear, how much laughter is around me.

In short, I want to enjoy and care and worry more about what really matters, and less about stuff that really has nothing to do with being "put together." I want to cut stress, slow down, ENJOY.

2009: JOY. True JOY.

Joy like this afternoon as I was laying in bed, enjoying the sunshine streaming in my bedroom,

where it really didn't get much better than this:

Choosing Family

Two thoughts.

One: Yesterday was an extremely hard day with my toddlers. And it wasn't just them. I was definitely having a hard day (one of those days where my patience seems to have left entirely), thus overreacting a lot of times to them and getting upset, even over things that I might normally be okay with.

End result equation looks something like this:

Bad day = feeling like a lousy mother

Send me in for a replacement!

Two: Over the past week I have thought of two friends of mine, now grown children to their parents, and the struggles they are going through -- and consequently, that their parents and family are also going through. I have felt sadness as I have reflected on this, but there is joy there, too.

Because of the love.

I have thought about a comment someone once said to my husband when he expressed the anxiousness he feels to have our boys grow up and be able to interact with them. This friend's comment to him had been something to the effect that no, you don't want them to grow up. He meant, of course, that at this age, as challenging as the toddler years can be in some ways, they are still innocent, sweet, and essentially unaware of all the potential struggles they can face later. (That's what I came away understanding, anyway.) I think he meant, in other words, that the potential for grief isn't yet a real possibility.

But I think it is -- in some small way, though I understand it isn't the same.

I have thought about these friends this week, and had my own inside tremors as I wonder what challenges will lie ahead for my now little ones. I know my family won't be immune to struggles, to mountains that are bigger than our own strength to climb. And I wonder what those struggles will be.

I know I can't pray them away, that I can only pray for the wisdom and courage and strength to bear them when they come, and to know what to do.

I'm convinced that the reason the pain is so great is because the love is also so dear.

And that is what I mean by the potential for grief already being in place -- even with little ones.

This all seems so brought to the surface for me, in a way, since having Mia. I took some time to write down her birth story in my journal, and was thinking again about how special and sacred that experience was.

I've marveled anew at the fierce attachment and love you feel for your newborn child. At the joy of having children. Of being a mother. A wife. Of choosing family. Choosing motherhood -- the way all women can, whether they have children or not.

My heart has felt swollen with joy at this role.

And I think, inherent in choosing family, you choose love and grief.

Just before Mia was born, Scott, the boys and I were out Christmas shopping for my dad. A lady stopped us in the mall, and in the course of conversation she said to me, jokingly, "So what do you do in your spare time?" I laughed and kind of commented that I don't really have any and she said, "[These are] the best days of your life." She talked about how just a few days before she'd been wishing she could bottle that time and open it up again, how having all of her children home for Thanksgiving made her sad when they left and the house was empty again.

I'll be honest. I get frustrated at my own limitations -- particularly when my patience wears out -- and frustrated and sad as I realize that each moment counts, that my life is full of breathtaking moments -- and they are happening right now, every day. I don't want this time to end. I want this family thing to go on forever.

I know that it does, and so that gives me a measure of comfort, but because that seems so far in the distance, so part of another future and another time -- and I have yet to walk and complete this life's cycle of aging -- it requires my faith to believe it is true and that all this beauty will continue to bloom.

Even amid whatever grief comes.

This is truly what life is all about.

And, for spiritual nourishment, I also wanted to link to this talk that has come to mind again and again in the past couple months. Seems to fit in nicely here.