The day we met You.

At about 3:30 a.m. in the early dark of April 2, I knew that I would be seeing you that day. Sitting on a big rubber ball, leaning over the end of our bed, I felt tears prick my eyes in response to the thrill that accompanied that realization. You were coming! Contractions had been clenching and relaxing, quite uncomfortably, for over an hour. Several minutes apart, I wobbled through them astride my borrowed ball, while your Daddy tracked their times, and made sure all was prepared for our departure, and your arrival. All of our theoretical plans fell behind in the rush of reality, there was no time left for tidying up or cleaning out the bathroom, or changing the sheets, all things I had wanted to have done before we brought you home.

On the phone with your Grammy, I talked through the discomfort, and through my hesitancy to really accept that today was The Day. Your sister came slow, with pauses and halts, as my body learned how to do this miracle for the first time. You came steady and sure from the first moment. Without missing a beat, my body moved with a confidence I didn't feel so sturdily in my heart. I knew you would come, and I knew that the work ahead was something I was built for, but I still felt a quaver, and my prayers for strength and ability flew heavenward.

You see, I wanted to bring you forth myself. I wanted to feel it all. I wanted to truly know what my body did to bring you to our arms. I wanted to experience a strength that was not of myself, and to do something so powerful that one could only give God the glory. I wanted to do the work I was created for, and I wanted to do it holding your Daddy's hand, with no other assistance than that which came from my Creator. And I did. But that was several hours later.

At 4:00 a.m. we decided that we needed to get to the hospital. Discomfort had become pain, and I knew I would not be able to cope in the car as things became more intense. We called a sleeping neighbor to come up to be with your sister, and like a hero, she quickly came. Words and a prayer of encouragement were given, last minute items packed, and then Leilani called out from her room. Relieved, we were able to kiss her goodbye and excitedly whisper "Baby Brother is on his way! He will be here today!" I had not wanted her to wake up without us there to tell her where we had gone. Even in her sleepiness, her excitement was huge. She wanted you to come as much as we did!

Sitting in the front seat of the car, with a pillow clutched tightly to my chest, we sped off onto the empty, dark road. I felt every little bump on that ride, and every red light and stop sign felt like ages. Near the end, your Dada looked both ways, and charged through those empty intersections, as eager as I was to get to the end of the drive.

When we arrived at the hospital, walking felt like an impossible task. So I was wheeled, eyes shut, holding the big ball on my lap, up to Labor and Delivery. How surreal it all felt. Today! Right now! My excitement still lingered, but it was muffled under quite a lot of anxious anticipation. How hard would it be? I slid off the wheelchair and onto the ball at the counter, while your Daddy filled out the paper work. Aware only that I must look a sight and sound a bit frightful, I rode out those contractions, too tired and in too much pain to care much. A nurse came and wheeled me down? Over? Up? to telemetry while Daddy ran to park the car and bring up our things. That was a long hour. I was nervous while I waited for the nurse to tell me how far into labor I was. Worried that I had been fighting my muscles all that time, and anxious that I had not progressed, the announcement of 4cm! at 5:15 a.m. was both a relief and a concern. I had a lot of work left to do. We could hear your heart beating, strong and steady, the reassuring sound would only stop when the belt-monitor would slide down my belly during a contraction. I was riding them out, but they were taking their toll. I was tired, and the pain only increased.

At last Daddy came back and he took me up to the delivery room. As I was wheeled under the door way, I had another rush of excitement in the midst of the discomfort, "I will see my little boy for the first time in THIS room!" The dim quietness of the room was only disturbed every few moments by my attempts at coping with each contraction. The anesthesiologist came by twice, perhaps summoned by my painful exclamations. Daddy answered a firm "No, thank you. We are doing this naturally." when he offered an epidural, and to his inquiry of "any chance you will change your mind?" I was able to mutter a determined "No" despite the doubts in my mind. With your sister, I was heavily numbed by that point, I never got to find out how I would react under that level of pain. We discovered with you, that I am a very vocal birther. I could not seem to visualize anything helpful, or relax, or find a more comfortable position. The only thing that seemed to help was loud moans or yells. My thoughts during this time consisted of "I really hope a new mommy is not anywhere within hearing range of me. I am probably scaring her into an epidural before she has even tried." "There is no reason why I can not do this. Every contraction is one step closer. EVERY contraction? SO MANY. Focus. One. At. A. Time." and frequent "Oh Lord. This is so hard. No more please? I CAN NOT DO THIS." But your Daddy was strong and confident for me, and told me many times, "You ARE doing this. You are stronger than these contractions. You. Can. Do it." and by the grace of God, I did.

As I transitioned, I was left whimpering at the end of each surge. My body was doing powerful things, and I felt like I was being torn apart. Fully aware of every sensation, I began to feel a need to bear down in the midst of each contraction, and I wondered if we were close. Little did I know, you would be in my arms in only 45 more minutes. Perhaps it was the changed intensity in my hollering that brought a nurse quickly into the room, and somehow I managed to get onto the delivery bed. My gasping mind prayed that I would be almost done, and that I would be stretched enough to let you out. Too in pain to let relief register, I heard "Wow! You are a full 10! There is nothing but a big bubble in there. He is coming." and immediately felt struck by the realization that "Now. He is coming Now." Suddenly the room was full of motion. Nurses came in, and an on call doctor began to quickly suit up. I was positioned for the big moment, and everyone waited, expectantly. My doctor arrived and began to trade positions with the on call physician. She seemed to be moving very slowly and I felt as though the expectancy was broken. Not for me. I was bearing down with every yell, and I very strongly remember thinking while the others got things ready that "I do not care if they are ready or not. This baby needs to come out. NOW." and pushing well before they instructed me to. Thankfully, they were ready when you were, and you did not make it out before the doctor was ready to catch you.

I will never forget that half hour. The pain and pressure was incredible. I remember waiting for that feeling I had read about, that it would be a relief to be able to push, but it never came. I felt a building sense of almost panic, the power required to get you out was unbelievable. I have never physically worked harder for anything in my entire life. How could I keep it up and actually get you out? The pressure built to a point where I felt that something would explode, and startlingly, it did. An audible gush, and your warm bubble burst. Within minutes I was informed that "This next part will hurt, you might feel like you are tearing. Don't be afraid, you will be ok." Intentionally, I shoved that bit of unmotivating information to the back of my mind and pushed on towards my one focus, that YOU were coming. And I had to get you out. Right. Now. It hurt. Oh, how it hurt. But you came.

I do not remember what was said, I don't remember anyone else in the whole room, but I remember you. I remember feeling with absolute clarity as your little body came rushing out into the world. I felt you leave. And there you were. 6 hours, almost to the minute, start to finish, and you were here. It was physically the most incredibly difficult thing I have ever done. But oh so beautifully rewarding too.

I can see you clearly, in the hands of the doctor, a purple-pink slippery body covered in hair and varnix. I reached out for you with more than my arms, my whole heart reached out, in that one glimpse. The moments that it took for them to wipe you off and place you on my chest took hours to me. But then your warm, sticky body was pressed tightly to mine again, and this time, I could see your face. Round and puffy, with eyes determinedly shut, you found your way immediately into the deepest place in my heart. Oh how wet with life you were. I could feel your newness in an inexpressible way. It is hard to explain how empty, yet full of you I felt, and a month later still feel.

Every time I feel you sleepily wiggle beside me, I remember those same wiggles from the inside. Every time my shoulders feel sore from the precious weight of you in my arms, I remember the heaviness of what it was to carry you within my very core. You are so very, very dear Ezra. Your Daddy, big sister and I love you so much. Welcome, welcome, welcome.

Today

Spring has unseasonably delayed its Memphian arrival this year. We have had a sprinkling of sunny days and warm temperatures, but mostly, it has been several months of days painted with a little-varying pallete of grey, wet and cold.

Drip, drip, goes the sky, making mud of the fresh mulch and soothing the parched winter ground that still retains its brittle shroud. Drip, drip goes the sky, while impossible metal weights soar loudly, unseen behind mute cloudcover

Bubbles form on the tops of puddles and tiny sidewalk potholes fill with mirrors. Sodden and lackluster, leafless and brown. Yet. There is a whisper of new life in the damp air.

The air feels cool on bare arms, but not biting, and closer observation of leafless branches reveal blushing buds and a mist of greening fists push their way up from dirt and twig, soon to unfurl. Life is whispering to the deadened. Wet is quenching the dry. Warm is melting the gloomy chill.

Spring is coming.

Remember

Today's prompt (from Five Minute Friday) is Remember. When I think backwards, I find stacks of memory pictures. Still images, sound bytes and short movements, smells, flavors and sounds, more like scratch and sniff stickers than a live action film.

I started to remember, intending to stop in five minutes, but a paper cut required a band aid, a cousin called, and then a song came on and Ryan decided we needed to have a dance party. Needless to say, five minutes came and went. But I like looking back, much like I enjoy flipping through old photo albums. Some memories hold mere images, but others evoke more. So I will write today, for longer than five minutes, and attempt to capture some of these memories that waft through my musings. I invite you to look through them with me, this stack of Polaroid thought.


I look down. I see a belly button, bare toes and a diaper. I look up, I see a little wooden table, with big wooden blocks, heaped on top. Both handmade and gifted by Daddy. I am two.

A circle in a culdesac, with three tall trees. A pink bike that I ride in a loop, townhomes and parked cars enclosing my route. Stopping by my Dad, we begin to talk. There on the blacktop, in summer shorts, he asked "If you were to go to heaven today, and an angel stopped you at the gate and said 'Why should I let you in?' what would you say?" We talked about grace. We talked about salvation. Dad snagged a moment from the ordinary and left me with a memory. I am six.

A new house. A new backyard. A whole acre of fresh space, a widened horizon of imagination and excitement. A croquet game, a badmitton tourniment. Sword fights and manhunts, tree climbing and falling out of hammocks. A husband and horse, both made out of a tree, a baby made out of a sock, pies and salad made out of mud and leaves. Snow forts on a hill, a thorny trek to a creek in the woods. Scenes from my childhood flash by like crisp leaves falling to the earth. I am nine, and then I am ten.

A heart pang. Self aware and insecure for the first time. The first crush ends badly. Sitting in a closet, I cry quietly. With clothes hanging over my head and a door blocking all the light, I began to question myself, my value and my relationships. That year I entered new circle of peers and encountered "popularity" and "fashion." Tentatively, I began to wade through the unending query of "who am I?" It all started there, the slow, messy climb into maturity. I am in seventh grade.

A dark room, late at night, with hot tears rolling down my cheeks. This heart pang is much deeper, and it cuts me to the quick. This one changes my life. I stretch my hands up towards my Father and open them wide. "I give you my heart." I whisper. And I found that He was holding my hand, and I entwined my fingers with His. Together we stepped out, truly united for the first time. I am eighteen.

A small white box, glowing on my screen in the early morning. It was raining that day, but I didn't know it yet, down in my basement bedroom. Black text flicked in conversation between me and a long time acquaintance newly turned friend. Heart pounding and cheeks blooming, we found that we felt the same, and saw the Lord pointing in the same direction. Together we jumped, and our futures became linked. Nine months later, he got down on one knee, in the grass of my parent's lawn, and asked me a question. I hear crickets and the air is warm and smells of spring. He put a ring on my finger, I first see it glinting by candle light. I said through a drippy face, "Absolutely!" and the commitment was made, there under a canopy of branches. I am nineteen.

"What God has joined together, let no man separate." And then, in front of all our dearest friends, we kiss for the first time. Moist lips, we almost trip, causing a ripple of laughter. I am his and he is mine. I feel the warmth of the new summer sun, and hear the chirping of birds. A journey, begun months before, starting afresh. I am twenty.

She lay in my arms, nine months later, breathing her first breath into my sweaty chest. I remember a tiny face, blinking in bewilderment, and a wet wrinkly body, warm in my arms. A child was born, but so was a mother. I can still see those eyes, reflecting mine. The rest of that day is a blur, but that first minute, I will never forget. I am twenty one.

Summer sunlight, filters through leaves. I look down and see bright green pants, and on them lie a tiny black haired baby. She is round and quiet, looking intently at nothing a few inches above her head. She is waking up to the wide world all about us, and I am waking up to the world of her. She is two months old.

A year ago, I look back, and watch my dark, empty porch disappear around a corner. I have not seen it since. We followed the Lord as He led us, and found ourselves on a different porch, far away from that first one. I loved our porch there, and I have come to love our stoop here. The sunlight shifts differently on each. There, through leaves and branches, here bright, full and hot...

The past has melted into my present. Tomorrow has become today, and I watch a three year old walk past, tugging at the waistband of bright underwear that is to wide for her slim waist. I hear the trickle of rain outside, and feel the rumble of a manchild under my ribs. What will imprint itself as memory from these todays?

Sleep at Thirty Seven (Almost!) Weeks: An annoyingly whiny post about Pregnancy

I felt cranky this morning, standing up onto a swollen ankle, waddling off to the bathroom. Heavy, hungry and achy, and ready for The Big Day. This is who I am these mornings.

I climb into bed every night, ready and thankful. But 3 minutes in, the tossing begins. On my right, my bones and baby seem to settle a little more comfortably, but inevitably, an ache will form and then I must hoist my dense self over to the left. Why does rolling and shifting hurt so bad? Back and forth, readjusting pillows, untangling the blankets and trying to stretch without crushing either my vena cava or my infant. Sleep comes, however, and its solid. Until I am awoken by a sharp stab as my inhabitant shifts, and I realize, I must get out of bed and hobble to the bathroom. On the way, my abdomen tightens in a mild contraction, adding greater urgency to my plod down the short hall. Relieved, but stiff all over, I make my way blearily back to bed. I choose to lay back down on the side that is the least sweaty, and I fall back asleep for the next two hours. And repeat, all night, with the occasional grumpy "HONEY! can you roll over?" to my sleeping husband. (I know he appreciates this immensely.)

And then morning comes, and I sit up, ravenous. I feel my littlest one wake up with me and squirm into place, and I feel the bond of mutual general discomfort... Because really, warm and snug as he is, how comfortable can you get, floating upside down in a bubble, with your knees and feet in your face, with your head lodged solidly in a pelvis? I rub the back that pushes firmly from within and murmur to myself and him, "just a few more weeks little one." 

Thankful for a healthy little boy, and for this body that is doing amazing things. Thankful for his wiggly growing body, and my ever stretching, ever swelling, tired one. Thankful for no complications and months of exciting development. Thankful that the time to hold him in my arms has almost arrived.

Thankful too for the bubbly burst of chipper that climbs into my bed and pokes me in the face till I arise to make toast. Crank and grump have a hard time standing up against "Mama, I just love you. Thank you for this toast!" Oh how she woos.

The Yellow Front Door

It taunts me today, that yellow front door. It opens on a happy, bright house, full of pretty things. It opens into spaces full of life and living. Color. Creativity. Fresh and inviting. It speaks of new, but whispers of happy tradition and an established sense of itself. Sunny nature surrounds this little oasis of a house, safe and open, ready for unstable toddles and youthful dashes. Green things abound, health and homegrown goodness wait under leaves, tended by curious youngsters. It is a dream. A dream of cheery almost perfection. A dream of plenty and enough to share. A dream of convenient comfort and pretty. A dream of Yellow. And it taunts me with discontent today.

Yellow innocently suggests that I have needs. It whispers that I am not already in possession of "best" and "enough." It says " not today, possibly never, and until then, unsatisfactory." In its piousness, it even implies that a deeper spiritual content awaits only the arrival of more. And this morning I listened. I sighed and ached and shed a tear of impatient pining.

Then. Then the Lord said, "Not yellow, but Gold. I want you to be Gold. Yellow is pretty but pale. It speaks of happy, but not joy. It laughs with enough, but does not glow with Satisfaction. I want you to be Gold.

I want you to shimmer with My presence. I want your home to exude creativity and beauty, not because you live there but because I live there. I don't want your children to laugh and run and explore and grow because they have space and comfort, but because they are full of the Life that only I can give. I want your bodies to be filled with health, not because you have produced freshness and fatness from your soil, but because I have provided your daily bread, and because you have learned to live with simplicity and strengthening exertion. I want you to have Gold, Ruth, not yellow. And when you look in My eyes, you will find that it is already piled in lavish, lovely heaps all about you. When you look at Me, you will find more than Enough. When you look at Me, you will find Satisfaction."

And so I am walking out of that pretty, non existent house, and shutting that yellow front door. I will instead walk through another set of doors, my doors, and into my home. The one where the Lord has put me Today. Into the spaces He has filled with Himself. And in those rooms I will find Satisfaction, because in those rooms I will find Him.

Five Minute Friday: Ordinary

Linking up for Five Minute Friday today, with the word Ordinary. Click the link to find out what it is all about. Then I invite you to join me for five unedited minutes, and write.

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community. - See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/2013/03/five-minute-friday-ordinary-2/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+thegypsymama+%28thegypsymama%29#sthash.h3jcVAoZ.dpuf

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community. - See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/2013/03/five-minute-friday-ordinary-2/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+thegypsymama+%28thegypsymama%29#sthash.h3jcVAoZ.dp

1. Write for 5 minutes flat – no editing, no over thinking, no backtracking.
2. Link back here and invite others to join in.
3. And then absolutely, no ifs, ands or buts about it, you need to visit the person who linked up before you & encourage them in their comments. Seriously. That is, like, the rule. And the fun. And the heart of this community. - See more at: http://lisajobaker.com/2013/03/five-minute-friday-ordinary-2/?utm_source=feedburner&utm_medium=feed&utm_campaign=Feed%3A+thegypsymama+%28thegypsymama%29#sthash.h3jcVAoZ.dpuf

When I think about ordinary, I think about days like today, people like me. I think of grey skies and slow mornings that don't really seem to be heading towards anything important or specific. I think of changing diapers and washing dishes, and looking in the mirror and going "Oh, hello. You look tired and you should probably shower at some point today." I think about that late naptime moment where she is a little cranky and I am too, and I snap at her unlovingly, really not for any reason other than I forgot to have patience, and I feel confronted with the depth of my own ordinary. Dinners that involve frozen pizza and nothing else, unmade beds and a car that stalls on the way to the grocery store. Ordinary.

But when I reflect on my ordinary, I can't help but be overwhelmed by the incredible amount of extraordinary that fills those moments.

I am privileged to spend 100% of every day with my healthy, happy (usually) child. My Child. My Daughter. She is extraordinary.

I live in a house. By many estimations, it is small and un exciting, but it is walls, roof, indoor plumbing and climate control that most of the people in this world will never experience or imagine.

I have dishes to wash, because they got dirty when we ate food off of them. Food. Plenty. No longer hungry.

I look in the mirror and see such staggering ordinary, and yet somehow, that ordinary is Loved with an Everlasting Love. Somehow He looked at this pile of Not Much and said "Beautifully and wonderfully made. I will die for her."

Extraordinary.

To My Ezra

Darling Little Boy.

Do you know that your Mama is absolutely, head over heels in love with you? I have never seen your face, never kissed your cheeks, and I can only assume that you have all 10 toes, since I have never counted them to make sure. Even so. You thrill me, child. I am utterly captivated.

I suspected your presence, several weeks before I knew for sure that you were on your way. My heart was ready for you; the Lord had been pushing back its perimeters to make a you sized space for months. When that little fate-holding stick clearly beamed the word I was eager to see, I sat on the floor and wept tears of joy. You were not even the size of a tiny, green pea, and your Mama loved you.

Your big sister lit a fire in my heart that you have made burn even brighter. She made me a mother, and taught me about what true love really looks and feels like. God used her to begin the melting of my heart, and now He has given me you to help her. I am ready little one, so ready to love you.

You have made yourself quite comfortable, nestled in my middle, and every resulting ache and uncomfortable moment that I feel, is absolutely worth it. Your little body has stretched mine in unalterable ways. My skin bears the marks of your growth, forever streaked by every gained pound, every added inch, and I wouldn't have it any other way.

For 33 weeks, your Creator has been intently crafting your every detail. I am so in awe that He would choose to paint the masterpieces of you and your sister, in me. I can not wait to see you two, sitting side by side, learning from one another and growing in tandem.

You are so strong, my little son. I am amazed by the force of your movements, the determination with which you strain against the confines of my belly. You are already a force to be reckoned with. I pray that the Lord will be your strength, even now, and that from your first breath, He would fill your every molecule with His presence.

Your Dada and I chose your name with great intention and prayer. We asked that the Lord would name you, and we believe that He has. The man you were named after was a man of great bravery. His steadfast commitment to the word of the Lord, deep confidence in His power and unwillingness to back down, changed an entire generation of his people. Ezra called God's people to stand apart, to separate themselves from the surrounding cultures, people and practices that drew them away from the truth. He stood up and demanded that they live according to a higher standard, and to look different from everyone around them. They had begun to blend in, and he reminded them of who they were and of who their God was. And the people listened. They were deeply convicted, and they changed. Ezra was not a great man who effected great change because he was strong in and of himself. He was strong because his God was strong. He was brave because the Lord gave him courage. He spoke out against the complacency of his generation because he was looking heavenward, and saw a great disconnect. We pray that like the man we named you after, you too would be a man who stands with integrity and courage in a generation that is complacent and wayward. We pray that the Holy Spirit would fill you with the same fire that changed an entire generation. We pray that you would never speak and move in your own strength, but that with unshakable conviction, you would hold fast to the Rock that is Higher.

Our hearts are full of you, my son. We can not wait for you to make your way into our arms. You are already so loved and so cherished, both by us and by your Savior.

Adoringly,

Your Mama