Five years

Less than 12 hours after my mom's first stroke, as the entire family stood nervously around her hospital bed, Daddy asked us to pray before we left. I don't remember the entirety of his prayer. I remember holding my brother's hand and wondering how long it had been since I had done that. A decade? More? I remember wondering why the room was so dark though the halls were buzzing and we were all talking at a normal level. Did the lights bother her? Was she sleeping? Could she feel us there? I remember repeating "Please, God, please" in my head after each word Daddy said. And then I remember him ending the prayer asking for mercy. Not healing or miracles or to go back to 24 hours in time - just simply mercy.

Over the next few days, he would expand on what mercy meant to him. That mercy would be in God's timing. That it would either be full healing or little suffering.

So, I, too, prayed for mercy. Of course, it was mostly one prayer of mercy for every ten prayers of complete healing, but I prayed for mercy, too.

I thought mercy came on Dec. 9, 2013. It wasn't the healing answer we wanted, but she was no longer suffering. Though our hearts were broken and lives shattered, her's was fully restored. She was with her own momma, grandparents, friends, and family long lost - dancing in Heaven with God. Mercy had come to her.

And I thought that was the end of mercy. Asked and we had received. But now, on the fifth anniversary, though my heart is still broken and my days still full of mourning, I see His mercies renewed day after day.

There is mercy in my relationship with my own children - where my patience is restored and my attention focused because I understand now, truly, how quickly things can change and moments for love and kind words never returned.

There is mercy in empathy, where those who tread this motherless road before me reached out tenderly and patiently, always seeming to know the stage of grief I stumbled through blindly. There is mercy in allowing me to be empathetic to those who have gone after me. Though I may not have been the balm to them as others were me, I found purpose in being able to be there for them. To let them know that though the loss may never fully heal, life could be joyful and light again. That joy does come in the morning.

There is mercy in friendships and role models. As Momma's friends have sent my babies' cards every holiday so they felt her love or called on my birthday because they understand the significance of the day, I have felt the mercy of their love. I have felt inspired to build those kind of relationships for myself and model them for my children. I have been lucky to be surrounded by those who love me fiercely and allow me to love them back. There is mercy in our relationships and the joy they bring, day in and day out, and that great loss has shown me what great love can mean as it is passed down from one generation to the next.

There is mercy in community, as our small hometown rallied around us and loved on us. I felt a sense of security I thought had long been lost since the days of my childhood. When mothers of childhood friends who I hadn't seen in a decade embraced me and held me and prayed over me - even just running into them in the grocery store years later - there was mercy in their kindness. They stood in the gap that my momma left behind and filled a role I so desperately craved.

There is mercy in the memories she left behind - the hundreds of notes and gifts and photographs from her that always seem to pop up just as I need them. Her words in her own hand are a reminder to me that I was loved and believed in only as a mother can love and believe in a daughter.

And through each passing year and every stage of grief that I float back and forth between, I am reminded of God's unfailing mercy and that His promises are always kept. And maybe that is the greatest mercy of all. That her death and my sorrow have only drawn me closer to Him - brought me to my knees in prayer and desperate grief, but allowed me to stand with thankfulness and renewed strength.

Five years has passed more quickly than I could ever imagine. My heart breaks routinely for all that she has missed and for all that my babies do and will miss. Stronger, though, than any pain felt here on Earth, His mercies lift up my soul and my heart sings His praises.

The steadfast love of the Lord never ceases; His mercies never comes to an end; they are new every morning, great is your faithfulness. Lamentations 3:22-23

That time Baby K had the stomach bug

Fair warning: This post is about vomit. Lots and lots and lots of vomit. I never thought I would be the kind of mom who openly posted about my child's bodily fluids. I also never thought I'd be the kind of mom to want a mini van, either. But something about having three just changes all your plans. Now I stop at an intersection next to a shiny Chrysler Pacifica and can hear her siren's song calling to me. The cargo room. The automatic doors. The captain chairs to separate the siblings. The potential to have a car that doesn't smell like a weird mix of chlorine and cheese.

But back to the vomit. This baby right here, we call her our angel baby:

She has her moments of sass and spunk, but mostly she is all light and joy. An angel wrapped up in little curls and a love of snuggling.

Sunday, though, Sunday was not her best day. It was a weekend full of birthday parties, little brother's cake, and anything she could hoard from the pinata. She was that kind of crazy only a 2 year old jacked up on social interaction  and tootsie rolls can be.

So when we finally got her - and her siblings - down on Sunday night we breathed a sigh of relief. We had survived another birthday party weekend and were now on complete autopilot. Not an hour later, ten minutes into the episode of The Office we were watching for the 95th time because we have no brain power to focus on new shows, we heard her door open. We both yelled "not it"  for putting her back to bed - as grown ups do - and waited to hear the excuse of why she was up.

Usually, we are immediately accosted with a litany of reasons she can't be asleep. She needs water. The temperature isn't perfect. She decided she actually wants the first pair of pjs I showed her five hours ago. She doesn't want to. Instead, we were greeted with silence. Eerie, terrifying, "why is my never-silent two year old quiet" kind of silence. The last time she was this quiet she had painted her hands red and then stamped our guest bathroom in some sort of macabre toddler art sure to terrify any visitors.

So we stared at her - a little bit hoping she was sleepwalking,  silently willing her to return to her bedroom - and she stared back. Silently she stared back while the only noise in the house was Michael Scott explaining about rabies and bat birth control.

And then she made that face - that face that every parent knows is about to mean a minimum 24 hour family quarantine and trips to the grocery store solely for Lysol and saltines. In an instant, we were both up and sprinting for the stairs as she peered over from the upstairs walkway. While I screamed "go to the bathroom" and RB screamed "cover your mouth," she meekly let out "Kay Kay tummy hurt."

Those were her final words before - instead of turning around and walking three feet to the bathroom - she took two steps forward and threw up over the balcony. Over. The. Balcony. We were halfway to the stairs when it happened and both of us just stopped dead in our tracks, watching it happen, powerless to do anything except shudder and question every life choice we had made up to this point. Her little curls bouncing between the banisters. The floor in front of the stairs now a hazard zone. Both of us too stunned to react as our heads bobbed between the now soaked second floor walkway and the floor below it. My sugar and sweet, always wanting everything organized and cleaned, dainty child had just ensured she made two separate floors complete toxic messes.

She finished up while RB and I stood numbly waiting for the splash zone to be cleared - unable to get up the stairs without an umbrella. And she wrapped up and stepped back and said sweetly "Kay Kay wash hands then watch a movie." Proving that 1 - she has this sick drill down and 2 - she clearly does actually know where her bathroom is.

RB looked around, sighed, and muttered "forever unclean," because he handles stress with cultural references. I sprinted up the stairs to check temperatures and snuggle her, leaving him with the mop and bucket because I handle stress with outsourcing.

After a while she was back asleep, snuggled into our bed, while the movie she requested played quietly in the background. RB came upstairs, whispered "you owe me," and fell asleep. I texted my sister and she wrote back immediately summing up both this particular incident and parenthood in general: "I don't know if I should laugh or be horrified."

"Probably both" I said. "Probably both."

Growing up

Last night at the pool, you spotted a little girl in the deep end who looked roughly your age. You walked over, excitedly, introduced yourself, and you two began playing in earnest. At least, I assumed you introduced yourself. I wasn't there. I was in the shallow end, watching this change in you - this venturing into the world by yourself - unable to hear your words but watching your body language with anticipation. I saw you two clasp hands and jump into the deep end. Your laugh echoed as you came up for air and swam to the ladder. We have worked on this all summer - the diving and deep end adventures without fear. There have been tears and prayers and stomping feet but now, here you were, jumping with all the joy that summer in childhood brings. You were carefree and brave, not once looking around to make sure I was close.

Several months ago, you hosted your first sleepover. One of your oldest friends - as old as they can be when you are only six - showing up with her sleeping bag in hand and dreams of the night as large as your own. There were crafts and snacks and two pairs of feet running from your bedroom to the basement over and over, only pausing long enough to ask where something was before you continued on your way. I sat downstairs after your sister and brother had gone to bed - and long after you should have gone to bed - listening to the two of you in your room. Quiet voices interrupted by belly laughs every few minutes - the kind that cause tears to roll down your faces and your whole body to bend over with each new spurt of laughter. I longed to hear what you were saying. To know what tickled your heart so. To be a part of it. But I knew, too, that this is what you needed. Time to be a little girl with your own friends. To navigate relationships and independence and start to build this beautiful life that lies ahead for you.

This is what your daddy and I are working for every day - that you would grow up to be strong and brave, a lover of life and Jesus, ready to set out into the world when it is your time. We talk about the years being short and the 18 summers we are allotted and so often it feels like that focus is on us soaking up as much of you as possible. Smelling your baby head, memorizing your toddler turns of phrase, relishing in your pre-k imagination. But really these 18 years are less about us soaking you up and more about us pouring into you. These years are our time to help shape you and guide you, install in you the values and traditions and love we hope you carry with you for the rest of your life.

So when we see you jump into the deep end, our hearts soar with pride. When we hear you laugh unabashedly with your bestest of friends, our hearts are full with your happiness. But I stand in the shallow end and my arms feel empty without you in them, the one I have held first and for six summers. And I sit in the den and realize this is one of the first times I haven't been in on the joke with you, the one who it feels like I have shared every secret and laugh and detail of life with up until now.

And I know this is how it is supposed to be. I know deep down this means on some level we are getting things right. We are making mistakes daily and constantly seeking more guidance and praying for discernment, but somewhere something is going right. So we watch you grow with pride and excitement. And we feel each step you take away from us with nostalgia and longing. And we love you, baby girl, each step of the way.

Train up a child in the way he should go; and when he is old, he will not depart from it. - Proverbs 22:6

Thanks to Carrie Gantt photography for the beautiful pictures!

Bon's Sixth Birthday

My Darling Bon,

My Bee Bee Girl, Bonzo Bean, Bon Bon - today you woke up bright eyed, full of life, and all of six years old.

You have been talking about this weekend for months and months and months. Not only planning your birthday party down to the tiniest detail but also telling us everything you will do and will be when you are six. You are looking forward to this year with enthusiasm and limitless optimism... which shouldn't be a surprise as that is how you approach most things in your life. You plan on riding all the big rides at Disney World, convincing us you can use your booster seat whenever you want (nice try), and conquering first grade. You tell me that you are six now so you are just going to do "all the things that six year olds do!"

I look back at five with so much fondness in my heart. Of course, I see your baby pictures and my chest clinches with the amazement of how fast these years are going and my arms ache to hold your little baby body, but five was such a joy. Just like every year before it, I liked it more than the last. Maybe it is because with each passing year you have become more uniquely Bonnie.

You have always been perfectly and wonderfully Bonnie, but as you grow so does your personality. This year, you found a passion and love for science. Almost every other sentence out of your mouth started with "MOMMA. I have to tell you something you won't believe." All the fruit in our house was routinely sacrificed in the name of science, our fridge filling up with bottles of floating berries in different liquids just to see what would happen. (Spoiler alert: Baby K will pour them on the floor. Every. Time.) You described volcanoes and stars and rain forests with your precious green eyes the size of saucers. Your passion and excitement was even enough to pull this science-phobic English major into the mix (sometimes).

Your reading is flourishing and you take pride in reading to your brother and sister now - even if K drives you crazy by repeating every word you say and Buddy's main focus is to eat the book. You loved kindergarten and left each day with such joy - ready to learn and play with friends. You learned knock knock jokes and created your own, sometimes laughing so hard before you even got to the punch line that the punch line was never even told.

You took on your role as big sister x 2 with such grace. Consistently this year you were told to please wait or please be quiet or please grab a diaper or we just can't do that with the new baby and each time you smiled that radiant smile of yours and told me "That's okay, Mommy - we can think of something else fun to do!" You shared with your brother and sister - even your birthday gifts today - always ensuring everyone feels included and valued. You brag about the littles whenever you can to anyone who will listen - the Kroger baggers are especially well versed in the "is Buddy walking or not" saga.

You had your sweet little heart broken a few times this year and bounced back each time - ready to keep on being you by loving and encouraging those around you. You worked on conquering fears and expressing your needs and speaking up for yourself when sometimes it seemed hard.

You grew before our eyes - each day more fun and full of adventure with your spirit and imagination leading the way. From moment to moment, I never know if we are going to be police detectives, puppy dogs, or mermaids. Though sometimes you love to play family  - like "Pretend you are a momma cooking us breakfast and we are your three kids" - while that is literally what is happening and I feel like I am entering some sort of trap.

You learned the "Good Ole Song," served as a flower girl, sold Girl Scout cookies, had sleepovers, and performed in a school play representing Virginia. You spoke with such pose and maturity sometimes that I thought I was looking at 15 year old Bonnie. Then, in the next moment, you would tell me you needed to hold my hand or "snuggle-bug" and the little girl in you would come rushing back.

Yes, five was a beautiful, hilarious, magical year. So much of this past year I want to bottle up and keep close to me always - especially your kind heart and zeal for life. And I look at you and think of your great-grandmother for whom you are named - and I see you living up to her legacy of family first and how fun she was said to be. And each day you look a little bit more like your grandmother - enough so that no visit home is complete without at least five people staring at you in awe and telling you that you are her spitting image. Your facial expressions have even begun to mimic her's, though you most take after her with your love of hosting a good party.

So we hit six with such anticipation and excitement for who you are and who you still will grow to be. And I pray that you always keep that deep belly laugh, endless love of life, compassionate heart, and strong belief that anything is possible. Love you my Bonnie girl. Here is to more Hamilton singalongs, impromptu experiments, crafts, snuggles, fashion shows, and days just lucky to be your momma.

xoxoxo