Sometimes Miracles Happen

I have wanted something for years, and it just happened.

Sometimes miracles happen.

At the beginning of April, a friend (who is really my brother) and I tackled the last corner of my yard that has been an eyesore forever.

We turned over the ground (with Mia and Benji, too) so it could be the new home of the garden.

We (that's the royal we, cuz it was Brian) dug out the slate pavers that ran along the back side of the what-was-currently (then) the main section of lawn and replaced them as a border along the side of the new garden plot.

Then began the process of rebuilding the new lattice (Brian again), and we began leveling the old garden space to make way for sod.

Last week we spent three evenings doing prep work: getting out all the spring weeds, digging back a whole section of crabgrass and shaking as much of the dirt out as we could, and then raking.  We relocated the rhubarb plant, and my was that an experience.  I had never seen the underside of a well-established rhubarb plant before, and in a disturbing way it kind of reminded me of an octopus.  The root system that plant had was incredible, and in just six short seasons since I planted it, its rich roots were thick like huge, spongy, orangish-red carrots.  

It was a bit freakish.

Then, last Saturday, we finished the prep work of raking and leveling, and then put the new sod down.

And I haven't been able to stop staring at it whenever I've been in the yard since.

It seems surreal and somewhat miraculous that I no longer have a big, weedy patch of earth in my backyard that totally overwhelmed me.

And the real thing of things?

I've decided that miracles are the hands and hearts of those who love you.

They give, when there was no way it would have happened if you'd tried alone.

They offer without expecting a thing in return.

They ease the burden.

They make you laugh.

They help you create something beautiful.

They are the miracle.

The baffling, beautiful, surprising miracle.

And I feel completely undeserving, along with a whole heap of gratitude in my heart every time I look at that little piece of green out there.

And also, rhubarb makes a yummy pie.

Just sayin.

Cells and Wonder

I should be asleep, but it has been a great week with school. 

One of the things I think is so neat about being a parent is the opportunity to teach a child.  I feel woefully inadequate in many regards, but still really grateful and humbled at the gift I've been given to navigate life day-to-day with four other people.  They are teaching me a lot.

This week we were talking about cells for science.  We discussed a couple of basic characteristics and watched this video on YouTube.

After watching it a couple of times through, I looked over and saw that Benji's eyes were full.  And he said exactly what I was feeling.

"That's so inspiring."

And then, he followed that by saying, 

"It makes me feel really small."

I choked up, too, and told them that, for me, this is another instance where I see the wisdom of God and my own nothingness---that we are all miracles---that life, in so many beautiful, variegated forms, is miraculous.  I can't comprehend it and I don't understand it, but I am in awe of it.

It reminded me of a scriptural passage in the Book of Mormon where the speaker is admonishing his listeners to believe in God---that He is, that He created all things, that all things testify of Him.

A few minutes later, as we went back to other activities, I called down to Benji, wondering where he'd gone.  The answer?

He'd curled up on his bed, wrapped in a blanket, snuggling his favorite bear---because, as he said, he was "feeling small."

As a follow-up to yesterday, we made simple animal and plant cell models today.

But...my takeaway?

What I'm still thinking about?

I suppose I feel amazed at being continuously surrounded by miracles.

I may feel small.

But I also feel wonder.

Praise.

Reverence.

Life is such a beautiful thing.

And when I get to share it with my children and see that they feel something, I am particularly moved.

Claireberry Blue Eyes

Her daddy calls her 

Claireberry Blue Eyes,and oh my. 

Those eyes.

Yes.

This one.

I've had a lot of thoughts swirling as her birth day approached.

The other night, sitting at a Christmas concert, 

a memory came to me that I had forgotten from two years ago.

I had left everyone else at home and drove 10 minutes on a cold late-November night. 

Just me and this little one, my belly swollen and tight and expectant.

She was tucked in warm and I wanted her to come out.

I had gone home to help my dad decorate his Christmas tree.

He didn't know I was coming and I walked in the back door and called to let him know I was there. He was delighted I had come and we worked in the quiet together for a couple of hours.

We listened to carols---the comforting, familiar background soundtrack that accompanied all my childhood Christmases.  

(That house, that place, my people, my memories, my faith.)

In my mind's eye I can see my pregnant self, up on the stool, helping Dad string the lights around the tree.

Afterward, I sat stringing ornaments at the dining room table, 

the lights low in the house.

Just the two of us.

I had no idea, then, that it would be the last Christmas we would have---together, in the flesh.

It washes me in a beautiful, sad warmth as I think about it now.

And sitting there at the concert thinking, and in the days since, I have reflected on how I had no idea what was headed my way over the next couple of years that would be her first two on earth.  

The dam broke loose when this beautiful baby girl entered the world. 

One by one, struggle after struggle came, 

practically on top of each other.

But.

My goodness.

This little woman has been like a bright ray of sunshine

through so much pain and sorrow.

I know it's not on a global scale---but, like Mary, I feel like, at Christmas time two years ago, 

God sent me a beautiful baby that has lit up my world. 

She brought good cheer.

Because of her, I was pleading to God shortly after her birth, as we worried for her life.

Thinking about it now, it seems to foreshadow many 

tearful conversations He and I would have 

in the many difficult months ahead.

She was preparing the way and the pattern, and she has been our beautiful companion through it all -- for ALL of us, 

our entire family.

She is optimism and spunk and sass and joy.

She has been nothing but a bright, lovely light.

Amid the birthday streamers and presents and chocolate cake with buttercream Nutella frosting (Ummmmm...hello!!),

I'm overwhelmed -- and in awe -- at how the Savior performs miracles. 

They are personal and calculated to bless, for particular circumstances and specific people.

He ministers in ways you can't always understand or see.

He gives you more than you knew you needed -- like in the way He has let this beautiful soul grace ours.

I don't know how this happens; I just know that it does.

I'm humbled by it, and really grateful.

Tulips in the Sun

Why hello there, lovely!!

These days, I look out my front window and admire these beauties.

I can remember planting them and what I wrote about that here.

And I can feel swelling gratitude in my heart because I know, 

now more than ever,

that God is indeed awake.

Springtime reminds me of that.

If nothing else, life is renewed again and again.

Life goes on.

We can start over and over, and what was dead can be beautiful and vibrant again.  Not only will the grave give up her dead, 
but what is dead in my life, 
my habits, 
my thoughts, 
my hurtful actions, 
my mistakes...

all these can be changed and put to rest and beautiful things can come in their place with change and growth.

It's a miracle.

Heaven Meeting Earth

The beginning of last month was a whirl of expectancy.  

It's amazing how those last days of pregnancy can feel like a few months.

My irritation was rising.

I didn't want to be pregnant anymore.

On a Friday morning, when my frustration with the whole situation was rising, I decided we needed to get out for the afternoon.

We went to a canyon nearby, escaping into the rocks and seclusion of the mountain and its secrets. 

I photographed the children in the dry riverbed, took a snapshot of our shadows standing together.  It felt like a hinge-point, the moment before you step into a new definition of existence.  I knew this moment of me and the children as a foursome was waning.  In the photo, you see the hint of our fourth child, almost ready to emerge.  I can see my belly, round around the edges.

As we left the canyon and headed home to eat ice cream cones, the contractions began in the car.  And when they didn't stop, I knew the time had come.

She was on her way.

Up above, I wonder what that is like.

Are there tearful goodbyes?  
Are there promises of angels to attend?  
Do they try to take a mental picture in their minds of things they don't want to forget, but know they will?

Is there anxious joy?

I had been thinking, in the days just coming to that moment, how precise that moment of birth is.  How there are so few moments like it in my life.  If I live to reach 100, I know that looking back on my life will bring with it a handful of truly pivotal, pristine, life-changing moments.

The births of my children are among them.

I had talked with my girlfriend Erin shortly before I went into the crazy intense part of my labor, and she told me that through that painful process, she would focus on remembering that it was a process of joy -- each pain-filled intensity leading her to that moment of meeting her child for the first time in the flesh.

The beautiful paradox of pain and joy, played out even from the beginning -- as if to teach that as an archetype, a life truth, a legacy and inheritance.

It was my favorite birth yet.

A water birth in a birthing center.

It was lovely.

And tho it may sound funny, it was somehow peaceful.

 So dramatically intense (see this picture I love that Mr. C. snapped of me in the birthing tub, obviously mid-contraction and hurting!), but equally quiet.

And in the intensity and pain, I remember trying to focus and telling myself:

She is coming. 

I can feel her.

She is almost here.

And then, like this beautiful, pristine gorgeous light outside in our backyard some mornings later, she was here.

Heaven had met earth and was in my arms.

(In this picture she looks so blue, but she didn't look that funky in real life!)

It's funny how it is hard to imagine how it will be exactly -- once they arrive.

And yet, once they are here, you can't imagine life had it stayed how it was before.

It simply couldn't be any other way.

And you fall head over heels in love.

 Your heart stretches and makes more room.

And it feels amazing and wondrous to hold just such a beautiful miracle.

Planting Hope

Yesterday was a quintessential Fall day.

It was overcast and blustery, but warm, foretelling the cooler temps and stormy weather to come.

Leaves, carpeting the streets, were making that classic blow-down-the-street sound in the wind.

The kids and I went out to plant tulips and daffodils.

87 bulbs.

Papa let each of the children choose 20 tulip bulbs, the really big beautiful kind, from a large variety at the garden center.

I spent time one on one with each of them.

I dug the holes.

They put the bulbs into the ground, tip up, and then covered them with soil.

I felt like we were planting hope, tucking it away into the earth, hoping we were doing the right thing, that the sun really will catch them in Spring and bring them pushing up through the earth.  I imagined us watching them through the window every day then, a bright carpet of color.

Sitting there, I was reminded of this quote:

"No ray of sunlight is ever lost, but the green which it awakens into existence needs time to sprout.  And it is not always granted to the sower to see the harvest.

All work that is worth anything is done in faith."

--Albert Schweitzer

This guy and I were bent over the flowerbed, when we heard that familiar honking sound in the sky and Benji said, "I want to watch the geese, Mom."

(Watching the geese and hearing that sound are another thing I love about this time of year.)

We could hear them before we could see them, and here they are, disappearing beyond our view as they blend in with the treetops.

I've been thinking.

Sometimes I feel like there is almost a false sense that we control so much of our life, or that what surrounds us daily is mundane.

While I believe that agency is at play and we manipulate certain factors, I am convinced of being surrounded by grace, and that God is the great Keeper of Life.

He gives Himself away all over the place, in a multitude of miracles.

Flowers blooming.

Seeds put into the ground that grow beautiful, healthy, delicious food.

The joy of sound and smell and touch and sight.

Amazing creations in music and art and technology and science that had to have happened with enlightenment from a higher source.  To me, the impact these things have on my spirit is enough to witness of greater inspiration and involvement beyond the mortal realm.

Listening to my boys reading to me and witnessing the miracle of the brain, doing what it does (somehow) and astonishing me in the same breath.

The color of the sky and the enormity of a vast universe out there.

Spirit-to-spirit connections with others.

I'm stuck here, feeling gratitude.

Next March, as I look out the window and see lots of happy tulips, I want to remember this:

God is awake.

Remembering Miracles

Last week at lunchtime we were eating waffles.

Benji said something about how he was going to do one of Jesus' miracles.

And then proceeded to break up his waffle into pieces.

 When I asked him which one, he made reference to the loaves and fishes.

But I think he may have had it slightly confused, because I think he also referred to Christ's miracle at Cana.

It has all been up for discussion the past couple weeks as we've been reading about the Savior's life.

I felt gratitude that these stories about Jesus are sticking.

Glad that it's coming up in his mind doing every-day things.

And grateful that he may be on the road to the symbolic.

My mind went there.

How Jesus multiplies for us.

How He can make something meager into something astonishing, beautiful, staggering.

How He feeds and nourishes, particularly emotionally, spiritually, and mentally.

His endless compassion.

How He can always make something more.

I think of one of my favorite scriptures where he said, "I am come that they might have life, and that they might have it more abundantly." 

(!!!!)

I hope Benji will someday grasp all of this and more.

And not just grasp it, but believe.