The last few posts have had me digging through old photo albums. Given that we've moved ten times in 14 years, old photographs and albums and picture frames are scattered to the nether reaches of family attics and basements. We've only got a smattering here with us, consisting mainly of our wedding albums, the first few years of our marriage, and a few painfully created Easter poses of the elder two wearing coordinating pastels (yes, that happened, and it was adorable).

Today's photo is brought to you from the year 2003, when we first became a family of three.



I love remembering Jack at 9 months, all 30 chunky pounds of him. I particularly like his dazed and confused look here. But today, this photo makes me remember us more. Me and Matt. Young and exhausted and fragile, but content and peaceful and proud.

That's it, not much else to say. I just wanted to share it with you, to remember. And to admit: I'm still this. Content and proud and exhausted and fragile. We never really grow out of it, do we?

I'm sure there's more to come...

How to be called (on your birthday)

So, we call you Jack, now.

I mean, we've always called you Jack. Your grandparents, aunts, uncles and sister call you Jack, and it has bounced between our tongues in our home from the moment we carried you into that first apartment. But to others, to the outsiders, to those whom we love but are still somewhat separate from our tight crew, you have always been Jackson. Until now.

You love the story we tell, of how we chose your name. We wanted something strong; fun but formal; something that wouldn't hem you in, confine or define you. Your dad loved CS Lewis before I did, so that when he told me he'd like to call you Jack after him, I hadn't a clue. He gave me Surprised by Joy to read, in which Lewis offers up the proof: when he was four he named himself Jacksie after the dead dog. He would answer to nothing else, till after awhile he was somehow convinced to go by Jack, and there you have it.

I thought Jack was fine, though short. Being a Karen, I'd always wanted a classic name for formality, but a nickname for familiarity, so we compromised. You became a Jackson.

Just two weeks ago, on your first day of your new school in a new country, the principal was trying to squeeze you into a class. He checked with the teachers and the classes, and all the while you sat there with a big smile on your face, unafraid to be new. We're living an adventure, that's what we tell you. And, thank God, you're starting to believe it.

He came back to the office, successful in finding your place, barely looked up from your enrollment sheet and said, "So your name's Jackson, is that right?"

"Yep," you replied, smile still in place.

"Do you mind if we call you Jack? How 'bout we just call you Jack."

Not a question, but a statement. Here you are called Jack. You sign your name Jack. On the papers and the backpack and the tracksuit your name reads Jack. You have become new again. Your identity is coming into view.

I worried that you'd miss Jackson. Apart from family, you've always ever been Jackson to everyone else. But you said no. You said you liked being Jack here. You said it reminded you of family, that you were going back to your roots. "After all, you named me after CS Lewis, and he was a Jack. So I'm a Jack, too."

So, we call you Jack, now. On the eve of your 10th birthday, when I remember all those years ago practicing the full length of your name in cursive, then shortened, then in print, then typed in different fonts, I wondered what you'd end up being. I had it in my silly little mind that we were somehow creating you.

The truth is, we only chose the name, but you have chosen everything else. 

You chose how to trust, how to make do, how to look on the bright side, how to create, how to imagine, how to be kind, how to get along, how to organize your clothes in your dresser, how to wear your hair, how to sign your name, how to be brave and now... how to be called.

I was afraid I'd mess you up somehow, I was afraid to hold you for a long time, I was afraid to cut your hair, and then I was afraid at each passing birthday. "Oh time," I thought, "you move too fast! Soon he will be gone!"

But I'm beginning to take my cue from you. When I pray courage for you, when you choose courage, I pray it and choose it for myself. You go forward with joy and excitement, you pass time with ease, and every day is an adventure in the story you are writing.

Like the author we named you after - Jack - you are chasing after Aslan.

And I am following close behind you.



A love letter to the eldest on his 10th birthday, who is choosing what - and how - to be called. What do you want to be called? 

A gentle reproof over white coffee

We went on a date, the eldest and I. He's been curious about coffee for some time, and I can only assume this is a result of the frequent "Dad's Meeting Someone For Coffee"-and-"Mommy's Working From the Coffeeshop"-convos we have with the little people. He wasn't so sure on actually trying any of the black stuff, but was curious about this White Coffee his sister talks so much about (she who was known to finish our homemade lattes at the ripe old age of 2).

So we set a time: Sunday, dusk. Cold snap and rain clouds. Tall steamed milk with peppermint (him) and tall nonfat pumpkin spiced chai (me). In mugs, for maximum foaminess, please. We chat over the Sunday paper.

"So, how was your week?" he asks in his very best Man Tone.

"Oh, it was ok. Some good days and some not to good days," I reply.

"Yeah, I know... because of the little ones..." he says out of the side of his mouth, whispering behind his hand. This is our secret: how crazy they are and how mature he is. 



He wants to know about church and Operation Christmas Child and if my coffee is good and how I feel about moving.

"Are you excited to go back to Ireland?" he asks.

We are close now, so close. Really just days away from buying plane tickets, though I've been saying that for a month now. But the end is near, the lease is unsigned, the date to vacate is set...

"Yeah, I am... but I wish we had tickets. Once we buy plane tickets, then I know it's really happening." We can talk like this, I think. He's seen it all. This is his life, this waiting and going and coming back.

He looks me in the eyes, smiles, nods his head, "It IS happening, Mom. It is."

Dead serious, that lad. He knows a thing or two about patience, about calling, about God.

"I know," I say, sighing at the gentle reproof. Faith staring me in the eye.

I know.


Has a kiddo laid a faith-bomb on you recently?

Mom, can I start a blog? :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 26}

"Mom, can I start a blog?"

The eldest came at me with this request last week, not altogether out-of-the-blue. He is the super imaginative one, artistic and book-wormy and writer of notes and short stories. Still, I huffed a little bit.

"A blog? Why do you want to start a blog?" I asked him, probably not even looking at him, probably while I myself was on the computer.

"I want to write my own stories and then publish them... you know, like you!"

Oh, sweet boy. But my blog is nothing. I write about laundry and cheerios, I play more with my fonts than I do with my words, it's totally unprofessional looking and you should see my hit count. I mean, it's all very amateur and sad, really.

I say nothing of this to him, of course; but I think it when he speaks up, asks me to pay attention, and tells me what's important to him. I was embarrassed and confused, wondering why on earth he would want to write a blog.

Then, you know, I actually thought about it, thought about him. I see myself through his eyes. He sees that I'm writing down our life, sharing our stories, asking for prayer. He sees that I love the way he looks in that one picture, so tall and bright, nearly reaching my shoulder. He sees that there is something worth documenting, something unique we have, something small to offer. And he sees that others - you - join me here, comment and respond, know our faces and our hearts even if you don't know our last name.

He sees the gift he has, for words and reading and imagination, and with big brown eyes and crooked teeth, says, "You know, like you."

Oh, sweet boy. You have so much to say, so much to offer the world (or maybe just your grandparents and aunts and uncles, for now). Yes, let's start you a blog.

What strange requests have your children offered up? 

The baptism :: 31 days of messy parenting {day 2}

And this is how it happened.



No fanfare. No video cameras. No real cameras, even. Only a few camera phones in our midst, and only one photo.

But there was food. And friends. People who have loved him and taught him, want to know about his day and share their food and drink with him. His little friends, too: four boys he loves, wanting to be their leader.

It was long in coming, but quickly decided. He'd been thinking about it, weighing it. His need to fly under the radar - to not get too noticed - kept him from walking up, from saying yes, from wading into muddy lakes with near strangers. But still, always, he kept his heart and mind open to it. And when it was time, it was time.

Our friends - a dear new sister walking with us these last two years here - giving testimony and laying down their heads in cool water. He came up to us both and said, "I'm ready now," and just like that: baptized.

I admit I felt my heart in my throat. My first response: "Not right now, honey." This was not my plan, not how I envisioned it, not what I expected. But it was His plan, and I had to let go. 

I had to let him go.

So it happened, not in the Irish Sea with cold crashing waves. There wasn't time to plan a verse, a speech, a new name we were to choose for him. Instead, it happened in the cool of a summer pool, our pastor here stepping aside so Matt, father to our boy, could baptize his son.

Unplanned and clumsy. Beautiful abstraction. A boy saying yes to God. 

Hard to fit all that on a Certificate of Baptism.



What moments have left you undone, events you have planned that didn't turn out? 

Dear Woman, It's Celebration Day

Dear Woman,

Yeah, you in the back row, crying your eyes out like it's a rescreening of Titanic. This is celebration day! Last day of school! Pull it together!

Cuz your kid? That's a sweet, happy smile on his face, standing alongside his friends. He can multiply, read 300-page books (much thanks to Ms. Rowling), create businesses and play kickball. He knows the planets and sings the presidents. Every year he experiences, learns and grows more, and today you get to cheer him on as he advances to the next round. He is alive and becoming a better human being every day. Rejoice!

Sure, there will be tears eventually (or in an hour), when he realizes not all teachers are adorable 20-or-30-somethings. He will sigh at the exasperation enrollment and doctor's forms and learning names will cause. There will be gritting of teeth and forgotten homework, and eventually, yes, puberty. You can cry then.

But today? Smile for your boy... because he is on a fantastic adventure and he knows it. And so are you... because you gave birth to him and God said, "Show him the world."

So what are you waiting for? Dry your eyes. Let's do this thing.

Yours,
You

The heart of him

He brings home the prayer journal he's kept at church. Sweet, short prayers ending in Jesus' name with cryptic y's and g's dotting the pages (I'm afraid to ask, don't want him to know I've been peeking).  I flip through it anyway because what mother doesn't want to know what her child talks to God about?

He writes about friends with injuries, family travels, and brother with split lip. He thanks God for mom and dad, for home and school. And he writes about death and Ireland.

I hesitate to photograph or expose this holy moment. I cry at the heart of him.

Because I don't want him to think it's more about money than people, don't want him to worry about the future, don't want to burden him with uncertainty. But also because he loves, he believes God is good, and he knows we ultimately belong where Jesus is.

Which brings me to the second thing he brought home.

If You'd Been There / Jesus Appears to Jackson

His response? OMG. 

I cry again at the heart of him, laughing through tears.

With every bowl of cereal

He's counting down the days and I'm trying not to mourn the 8-years-past-baby, now 9-in-three-days boy who sleeps on Clone Wars sheets two doors down the hall. I look at him in wonder, and yet still try to avert my eyes to the obvious fact he is aging, growing, living days faster and faster.



He is proof of clocks and calendars. He is the second-hand of time. His face changes by the minute, his heart is bigger and wider. His legs are fuzzier than they used to be. His mouth quickly turns from smile to smirk to puckered lips. He knows and spells words that used to be gibberish. He reads faster than we can keep up, and we find ourselves debating and discerning, wanting to keep him naive and fresh indefinitely before his brain discovers and his heart struggles with the mysteries of evil, trouble, and heartache.

Every morning he comes to me with hugs, asks for cereal, smiles with sleep still in his eyes, and I miss him so much my insides sigh. For with every moment, every word, every book and every secret he debates to share (for big boys aren't as quick as small boys with the thoughts they quickly and happily give their mother), he is less and less mine. More and more Yours.

And I give him up to You with every bowl of cereal.

wordless wednesday

Is it bad that the majority of my posts from the last three weeks are wordless wednesdays? No? Ok.

Hard, but good

This has been my motto as of late. Life, love, ministry, kids... all hard, but good. Yesterday was a hard, but good day. And really, it was more good than hard.

The hard part: proof of my baby boy growing up, letting go, continuously giving him up to God and saying "He's Yours".

The good part: a new beginning for Jackson, learning and growing and watching him learn something new every day, Matt saying, "He's becoming Irish!", trusting God more...

Photogenic

J sure is photogenic these days.

Declarations of a 5-year-old

I originally started writing this post on the history of J's spiritual growth.  Then I remembered a crucial point: he is 5!  I don't have to dramatize the effects of this story to receive a higher grade in Personal Evangelism (Moody reference).  So I will lay the facts bare:

Saturday evening my boy asked Jesus to live in his heart.

He also asked Jesus to throw his sins away.

He also asked Jesus how big the universe is.

Three big questions for one little guy.  Now I know he's only 5, and who knows what spiritual decisions actually "take" at such a young age, but I have come to the understanding that that's God's problem.  He knows what a little boy is capable of understanding, and if a little boy wants Jesus to save him from his sins and wants to live in heaven with Jesus, then God will say, "Yes".

The best thing about this episode in our family life is this: Jackson heard God speak to him.  First, regarding the universe, he gasped and said, "God answered me! He said it's WIDE OPEN!" Second, regarding his sins.  "He answered me again! He said YES! I heard Him!"

Thinking back on it now, I have to ask myself: when was the last time I heard God's voice so clearly, and believed and obeyed Him instantly?  Not only that, but when was the last time I asked God a question, and waited for the answer?   My boy, who has been a "Christian" for three days now, taught me an invaluable lesson.  Not only does God hear us when we pray, but He will answer us.  Maybe not as quick as he answered Jackson... but there is an answer.