So by now you've probably noticed a few changes around here. I've been a longtime admirer of Carrie Loves and somehow managed to win one of five blog templates she was giving away. Carrie let us choose our own template and then graciously worked with me on the colour scheme and any technical difficulties. You'll also find some new buttons and links to the side, showing you around the place a bit more. I hope you like the new look as much as I do... I find it calming, yet spirited and inspiring.

I also wanted to thank you for all the visits, comments and encouragement for my #31days series: at home in Ireland. It was such a treat to share more about our newish life here, show you around our home and hear some of your own stories. I had no idea I had such strong feelings on laundry, heated water and European fashion!

Now that October is over, this area of my life feels a bit spent. I'm tired of writing about moving, transitional struggles or being done with childbearing (I'm sure you're tired of reading about it, too!). And I'm looking forward to writing about other things, though they may not end up here. I'll still be around, posting a couple of times a week; I'm just not sure about what yet, and I have no idea the direction it will take. It'll still be a river into words, it'll still be a poem to the King, there will still be some occasional yelling. But I may be trying something new...

Do you like how non-commital and non-specific I'm being? Yeah, that's how my brain feels, too: an unruly tide of ideas, unable to focus on anything particular, falling quickly on one notion before flitting off in the opposite direction.

If these banks of my heart are going to burst, I want to spill beauty. I'm hoping November will give these things room to swim, and I'll be able to share the process here with you.

But now I must jet as I'm off to a final creative writing class celebration. We're a great gang of mums and grand-dads and storytellers and friends. Yes, I think we're all friends, now. And writers, too.

On how God's way is a brilliant mystery, revealed to me on my birthday

I have a laundry list of things I need to do today and a short window in which to do them. But I feel like I can't charge forward without laying down some words first.

Yesterday was my birthday, and I never know quite what to do with it. We've always had a complicated relationship, my birthday and I, and I'm sure you'd say, "Who doesn't?" I know this is true, as there's always some invisible line where birthdays cross from best day ever to again, another year older? My issues are a bit more complex and maybe one day I'll open up the birthday book wide.

Until then, I say (think, feel) this:

I am supremely loved, I know it every day. And for the hard days, or the complicated days, or the days where hurt lingers, I want to embrace and revel in the fact my parents once fell in love and got married and had me and my sister. And that fact is awesome and beautiful and belies nothing else but how God's way is a mystery. A brilliant mystery. And I will rejoice in the mystery, no matter the day. 

And my birthday? It was lazy and fun and chaotic and frustrating and all the things that make every day a part of that same mystery. I love being alive. I love my children and the handmade cards and how beautiful birthdays are to them. I love that Asher's birthday is tomorrow and we will celebrate him turning four with friends, an oreo cake, and a new-to-him playhouse (playbarn, really). I love facebook and how I feel like I spent the whole of the day with my family and friends, even if only virtually. I love how Matt goes over the top - not with gifts, but with love and forced-cuddling.

And I love how my dad is the first. Always the first, with a video or a text or a song. My birthday always begins with him. And it always ends with my mother, recounting the memory of the day she became a mother, and how she wouldn't change a thing.

Time can heal. Well, I'd say God and hard work and love, too. But time, another year gone past, brings me - I think, I hope - one step closer to wisdom, to the mystery of Jesus, to grace.

It gets better, every year. I hope I get better, too.

I hope we are all better.

It's a strange thing

The sun wants in, but I won't let it.

For a second there, a brief moment, when it was still 6-something-AM and the baby came screeching through the living room, I caught a glimpse of clouds. But they didn't last, and now the sun wants in, and I am enclosed behind shades.

It's a strange thing to long for darkness, to wish for storms, to lay awake listening for thunder only to fall asleep until the heat stirs you back into day again. I think this is how I've always lived my life, this Kansas girl, waiting for storms. Even on a cloudless day, I search for them, turning my head towards the wind.

***

When we first landed back in the States, we were surprised by the heat and the sun. We were tired and achey and hid from the outside world, putting ourselves back together again. Then one day - late afternoon - a clap of thunder, and the downpour came. Hail and wind and thick green skies. When the hail died down and long sheets of rain kept coming, we five ran for the street, dancing and laughing.

Broken edges rounded by a whetstone.

***

Some say I expect the worst, never hope for the best, always wait for the other shoe to drop. But this isn't true. The truth is I'm always hoping for the best, expecting a miracle, waiting for a surprise. I want brooding, dark thunderheads to drop rays of glory around us. I want to shout, "Yes, I knew it! I believed, and look, here it is!" I want to drink, to fill ourselves up with it. Cover the children in it, dance in it, throw it back up to the heavens in praise.

But this stale sun scorches my feet. My head hurts, temples throbbing. We keep indoors, curtains pulled closed, waiting.

It's 10-something-AM and I'm just now taking my coffee in bed.

Epilogue: It rained, today, at approximately 3-something-PM. Beautiful, warm, steam-inducing rain. I sat on the balcony with the baby, his knees scraped badly from a morning fall, kicking my feet under raindrops. I felt heavenly water dimple my face, and I cried.

What a surprise.

We eat the fruit

So it does happen in threes. But it's so much more than threes.

Matt's grandmother. A friend of my mother's. A family friend who was grandmother, mother, and sister to all. Within a week we found ourselves surrounded by it: death.

It happens, right? This is the deal. We eat the fruit, we die. As much as everyone enters the world through mother's womb, everyone eventually leaves it.

[I struggle to understand this beautiful dichotomy: death for us leaves the hole of absence, but death for them brings the glory of wholeness.]

But still, it's shock stings. It always leaves a mark of regret and sadness. There is wondering and forgetting ("When did we last hug? What were my last words to him?"). It causes one to sit still and think and acknowledge that life and death are two faces on the same coin. We will all say goodbye - to a matriarch in her 80s or a missionary and mentor in her 70s or a passionate man in his 60s - with the squeezing of a hand or the touch of a casket.

And after death, in between funerals and memories, a birth. My friend's son arrives a wee bit early and I smile and remember, "Oh yeah... not just death. Life is happening, too." My emotions teeter-totter as I bump off the ground and float higher towards the sky. I have flipped the coin. 

This is life, and we celebrate.

Good for a giggle

Fun to see who read what this year, at least on this here humble blog:

Top read : 31 Days of Living in Transition {day 1}
Runner up : My Beef with Stuff Christians Like (special thanks to Jon Acuff for all the traffic)
Honorable mentions : 31 Days of Living in Transition : Love the one you're with {day 9} (and other 31 days posts)
Honorable mentions :  Quick, before you miss it!
Honorable mentions : Must-have Easter playlist

Thanks for joining me here friends. It's not much, but it's enabled me to think, grow, create, write and mother better throughout the year. Maybe it's done a tiny bit of the same for you...

Here's to 2012.

31 days of LIVING in transition :: i know it's there {day 26}

truth be told, these 31 days of living in transition have been more like days of dragging myself and barely surviving in transition. these 31 days started out rough and haven't quite yet made it out of the ditch. because the thing is, some people see a light at the end of the tunnel, an end to the transition, a start of something else, something new. and some don't, not right now.

i know it's there, but i don't yet see it.



{this post brought to you by no caps and the number 26}

I'm sorry, did I say too much?

I'm running a little behind this week, what with the conference going on and all of my super important, elite speaking engagements. :) But seeing as how I'm now home, golf is on, and the crying baby in the other room is the hubby's problem for the moment, I'm going to attempt Five Minute Friday on a Sunday.

Wait, is that another child crying? No? Ok.

If you met me...

If you met me, you would notice my hair first. Not super curly, definitely not straight, but a weird frizzy variety of uncontrolled brown chaos that starts at my roots and ends at the racing feet of my excited-to-meet-you,-too children.

If you met me, I would probably overwhelm you at first. I would touch your arm too much, laugh too loudly at your jokes (which up until that moment you probably thought only you found funny, and then you met me...), ask too many questions, or give too many long answers to the questions you give me.

If you met me, you would think I'm outspoken, outgoing, and out of breath. I am some of these things, some of the time. But the outspoken thing ends up with a foot in the mouth more often that not, the outgoing thing is merely a clever ruse to make you think I'm fun and popular, and the out of breath thing is just the state of life I'm in at the moment, both by and not by choice. Depending on the day.

If you met me, you'd meet the man. Maybe not in person, but through stories and smiles and glances across the room. You'd see the children run dashes between the two of us in the shape of squiggly hearts and you would see in my eyes that there's more to our love story than just the two of us.

If you met me, you'd see that I'm searching for something. A new friend, a comrade, another mother-fighter to help me keep going. You'd see that I've got some things going on the inside, things I may or may not tell you straight away (depending on the function and if there's a glass of wine nearby and a table for two we could sit and rest at awhile), about our journey and my heart and the ways we're learning and struggling and aching to know God better.

If you met me, you may not get me at first. But that would be OK, because right now, I've got just a wee bit of time on my hands.



Whew, that was a frenzied little exercise. So, now it's your turn. I really encourage you to give this thing a try, even if it's not particularly your thing. It's actually starting to become the highlight of my week.

Fact: I *did* write today!

Dear Diary,

Long story short: giving up Facebook for Lent, taking up more writing for Lent. Will write more later.

XxOooX
(Big Kiss, Little Kiss, Big Hug, Little Hug, Little Hug, Big Kiss)
Karen

To write about something...

I spend a good portion of every day, looking at this rectangular little blogger post space, trying to fill it with words. There's a lot going on in my head right now, probably even more going on in my heart, and I'm having an extraordinarily difficult time trying to get it out, write it down, let it go. I try to think of a word to start with, or a thought to express... and thinking takes exceptionally long, with nothing appearing or no thought allowing expression. Then, just when I think I'm on the verge of something, just when the jumbled words start coming into focus and I think I almost might be able to form a phrase or a sentence - BOOM - a baby wakes up. Or a kettle is whistling. The phone rings, or a child needs to be fed. And the words turn fuzzy again, and disappear.

It's been awhile since my writing has been so plagued by chaos. Eight years ago now, after the boy was born. Overwhelmed was the feeling of the day/week/month, but there was a story brewing... a story that had a good chance of being published. Published not just online, but in print and with a paycheck to boot. I had had other stories published in print before then - college newspaper, internship at missions magazine - but nothing in a magazine of this caliber, nothing this relevant, (so to speak). The ideas were there, the layout, the outline... there was a purpose behind the article and I knew it and felt it and was so excited to get started. I thought my career might be about to take off, and then...

Nothing. Just nothing.

I sat down at the computer with one word: "He". Nothing came after. Only a pronoun. And that pronoun sat alone for hours, then days, then weeks, followed only by a blinking cursor taunting me. I emailed my editor and said, "I can't do it. Nothing is coming out. I'm sorry. I think it's the baby..." And that was it. The end of my short writing career. I never wrote anything else for that particular publication, online or otherwise.

The boy had invaded every part of me. Not in a terribly bad way, but in the way that babies do, and I literally had no room for anything else. My mind was invaded by ideas and words and fears and doubts, and there they stayed. I could not get them out, on paper or with voice. My mind was trapped by thoughts as much as my body was trapped by a growing, hungry baby who wanted - needed - only me.

This era of postpartum depression laster another nine months or so, till the fuzzy thoughts began to clear and my voice was able to articulate bits and pieces, till the joy of motherhood found me and I stood on two feet again. The writing, too, came back in a way, albeit as a minor player and no longer a viable career option. Slowly, patiently, the cursor began to move.

So I guess today, it's easier to write about the past, about what happened before, as opposed to what's happening now. I'm not sure I really know what's happening now. I think I've actually written about it before, here, but this is different. I'm not sure how, but it feels different this time. Or as the girl says, "super, super strange." Until the strangeness passes... I'm not sure when anything of value will appear.

Thoughts on the definition of home...

I've found myself a bit homesick lately, which has come as a quite a surprise. Not that I didn't expect these feelings to come and go at irregular intervals, but because when I was back "home" I didn't really love it the way I thought I would. And I really wasn't that upset about leaving it and coming back to the new "home". And I've been wondering about the nature of "home" and if it's really the place/people I'm missing (though there are places and people that I do definitely miss), or if it's more the feelings that being "at home" bring about. 

Being known by people who've known you for years and still love you anyway. Feeling normal or at least not out of place. Walking into a shop or cafe where friends are waiting for you. Knowing exactly what you want to order/buy and exactly how much it'll cost you. Living under the same light as everyone else - no spotlight, no magnifying glass that burns your skin when pointed right at you. Feeling the freedom to make slight mistakes without the resulting feeling of complete failure.

Whatever it is, there's a feeling in my chest that's growing sore. I can't put an exact finger on it, determine the cause, or prescribe an effective antidote, but it's there and leaving me weary.

So my new rule with a sobering post is to also reflect on a praiseworthy thing (see below). My praiseworthy thing this week: over this past year, the definite recognition of one new friend, who came over for tea last night. It may seem small to you, but it is a huge, praiseworthy thing for me. 

 

Year 1 and transition observations

Having recently returned from a holiday with family in the States, we now find ourselves celebrating a milestone: us and Ireland one-year-old together. Part of me feels like this is more of a birthday than an anniversary, since last May 5th was the start of a brand new life for us. But either way you slice it, celebrations are in order.

We actually flew back to Ireland just days short of the anniversary of us moving to Ireland, however, the feelings that accompanied this most recent transition were so different. Last year when we left home, my heart nearly literally felt like it was breaking. That pain left me raw for weeks and months, but like some other types of grief, the shock and awe of it eventually began to fade, paving the way for new normalcy. When we flew out of Chicago this past Friday, that pain was nowhere to be found. Sure, we were definitely sad to say goodbye to our parents again and wished, of course, that our time together was longer. But upon boarding that plane, we knew we were going home. It was weird, really weird. But weird things can be good, too.

Another odd thing about our short trip back to the US: we, as people, felt different. It was hard to find comfort in the same old things, and sometimes, on occasion, even hard to find comfort in the same people from our old life. Not that we weren't overjoyed at seeing those same things and people again. Quite, the contrary, we had some very sweet (albeit short) reunions. Target welcomed me with open doors, while my mentor welcomed me with open arms. It was wonderful spending some times with our parents and siblings and the few friends we got to see. However, the food didn't taste as good as I remembered it. Shopping at Target confused me more than pleased me.  And there were some quiet patches, lapses in the conversation I didn't know how to fill. Maybe it was culture shock, or exhaustion, or the mental recognition that time was too short to share anything of real depth. Again, it was weird, really weird. But weird things can be sad, too.

So now we begin year 2. I still feel like I'm in a pregnancy funk, but the funk isn't as deep as it was before our little vacay. Maybe all I needed was just a little perspective. The grass isn't always greener on the other side. Unless the other side is Ireland. Then it is always greener. Literally. However, if it's the upper-midwest in the middle of April, then it's always a bit browner.

Good times with cousins.

 

One Moment in Time (cue Whitney Houston)

So I've been super busy lately, so busy that I've not had much time to write, rest, reflect or clean. Well, I try not to find the time to clean, but that's neither here nor there.

Anyway, after missing my last book club meeting due to some wicked morning sickness, and having only read 50 pages of the current book club read (Netherland, by Joseph O'Neill), I somewhat hesitatingly drove to our local library for our monthly meeting. Now when I say local, I mean that technically it's about 8 km away, driving down 3 narrow country roads, a not-as-narrow two-lane highway (dual carriageway), to a nearby village with construction (road works) up and down it's narrow main street. I have been known to take out a side-view mirror or two. So anyway, as I drove to book club last night at dusk, I was suddenly struck with an obvious though completely awe-inspiring thought:

I live in Ireland!

I live here. In Ireland. By the sea. In the country. With people I'm growing to love. Raising my kids here.

We have a life in Ireland. Wow.

 

A year ago

Ella says "dance" and "thanks".
She signs "more" only if absolutely necessary.
She puckers her lips when happy and tears at her clothes and hair when mad.
She cuddles more than before, especially after exposing bare bellies - hers and mine.

Jackson writes his name - all the time - every day.
He draws, too - LarryBoy and pumpkins.
He quotes lines from commercials and points with his middle finger: "Your world, delivered."
He prays and talks to God and he says God talks to him, too.

Matt is in Ireland, pursuing a dream, answering a call.
I think he will find Christ there, leading him.
I pray for his heart to endure the waiting.
Strength to overcome the fear.
Wisdom to replace all questions.
More like Christ now, to serve Him better later.
To introduce who He is to the doubtful and proud, we must be more like Him -
chase His holiness.

I am in Kansas. Finally learning a thing or two.



written 11 November 2007