Under 30 Hours

Saturday night at 10:30 – after 29 hours away -- a disheveled-looking half of my family arrived home. They’d been to St. George and back. They’d left late (six people piled in Mike’s dad’s truck – which he’d suggested they borrow), stopped for pizza (where Jesse made the mistake of asking for Mike to help him “cut the cheese” on his slice), slept in sleeping bags on the floor of a cousin of their grandpa’s, woken early to get to Abe’s final high school bike meet – state championships (where he chatted at the starting line – unbeknownst to him – with the son of my old elementary-school best friend), climbed a tall . . . thing (???), visited with Mike’s sister and her family (whose son bikes on the Vernal team), climbed boulders in Pioneer Park (a photo opportunity I am loathe to have missed), returned to “Uncle Ed”’s to bid farewell, stopped to do a little shopping (where Anders became the lucky owner of a sweater with a fiercely-growling bear on it and where some winter-themed pajama bottoms were thoughtfully purchased for me), ate all they could possibly manage at Chuck-A-Rama, and . . . drove the five hours back home.

It was a fast and full adventure and, while all that went claimed it was worth it, I’ve rarely seen such a bedraggled and exhausted-looking crew. They looked ready to collapse, but . . . were in desperate need of showers so bed had to be slightly delayed. When I went to their rooms to tuck them in shortly after prayers, not a one of them was still awake to be tucked. Goldie’s leg wasn’t even on her mattress. They’d all simply collapsed as their bodies began to fall towards their beds.

(Meanwhile, Daisy and I ate Chinese food and Kneaders raspberry cream-cheese pie, and spent every chance we could – getting the three little ones down for bed or naps so that we could watch Dickens’ Our Mutual Friend and read in a quiet house.)

Pumpkin Picking (By that I meant picking them out, not actually picking them off the stem. It just sounded better than ‘Pumpkin Choosing’.)

It’s a rare thing these days to have everyone home and somewhat available (not bombarded by too much homework or some such), so when Abe announced that his Thursday bike practice was cancelled, I hollered for everyone to grab shoes and jackets, we loaded in the van, called Maddox to order takeout fried chicken and rolls with raspberry butter, and headed off to choose our Halloween pumpkins (and collect our Maddox food on the drive home).

(Who wouldn’t want to hug their pumpkin tight after choosing such a cute, little-sized one!)

(I wisely thought to grab the stroller before leaving, but then someone [I won’t say who . . . only that Abe was on Hans duty] somehow allowed the boy to be set free; and he spent most of the remaining time trying to drag the wagon full of pumpkins out onto Highway 89.)

(Goldie, bless her heart, took the longest time of all choosing her pumpkin. She had a whole line set up and slowly eliminated one after another until she was left with two. And I encouraged this one – as it had a much cooler stem than its competitor.)

And in the end, everyone gathered willingly and posed perfectly for a family photo. (Ha!) And then we drove home, let everyone choose where their pumpkin looked best on the porch, and ate fried chicken. (I feel like there should have been donuts in there. And cider. Hm. Well. Perhaps for carving night.)

(Penny took this rather excellent picture of Anders while I was paying for pumpkins and they were waiting in the van. Bravo, Pen!)

Worth Everything

Mike joked awhile ago that, after I am gone, he is going to publish all of my unpublished blog posts -- kind of like when they find unpublished work from some famous author and send it off to the press.

Unfortunately those posts would not likely be in high demand (as they primarily include the dregs of my writing), and Mike’s plans to get rich off of my untimely demise would, unfortunately, fall far short.

But! Occasionally I sift back through the pages of unshared material and find some small forgotten gem. Like this little beginning of a post I started about three years ago:

I called my parents' the other day to ask about some trivial thing, but after our initial hellos, my dad said, “Your mother and I were just looking at a picture of you three little girls in the hallway here. I said to her, 'Wouldn't you give up anything in the world! Wouldn't you give up your whole life just to watch those little girls and protect them and keep them safe?'”

And then I wrote a bit about how I got a little choked up and forgot why I’d called to begin with because . . . that is exactly what my dad did do! He gave his whole life to us. And also because, I suppose, it feels rather marvelous to know someone in the universe found YOU – simply getting to raise you – worth everything they could ever give.

But coming across it at this particular time was especially touching for me as I am in the very thick of wrestling with the sacrifices demanded by this big family – the talents I can’t develop, the time I don’t have, and most of all, the things I fear I am not doing for or giving to my children because I am spread so thin. Something about my own dad’s voice calling to me from the other side – assuring me that while surely he had these same fears as his family grew, in the end, he pronounced us – bringing us here and raising us – worth giving up everything -- even his whole life – for.

It reminds me of the words that kept floating through my mind after Hans was born – almost as it they were being said to me with reassuring promise by someone who could see all: Worth everything. Worth every possible inconvenience.

There is something powerful, and spiritual, in thinking those thoughts – in feeling that way – about, not just my family at large, but each one individually. There is a scripture I love that talks about how Christ’s works and miracles wouldn’t cease so long as there was one man on the face of the earth for him to save. To be able to feel that – how that could be true and how one soul is worth everything and worth every sacrifice – in my own small sphere, is a really amazing thing.

Number 10

We are expecting a tenth child.

And just like that, here I am — in the baby announcing business again.

Not that I ever really left it I suppose, but I thought I had. And while it is true that I thought I had in the past as well(!), I suppose, if God is going to get you to do any truly big thing, it’s understandable that He might have to push you beyond your own “best-laid plans” . . . on more than one occasion.

And these experiences of being pushed beyond my own logic, plans and vision have, I will tell you, been incredibly overwhelming. The guidance has come unexpectedly. It has showed me powerful and beautiful things about myself, these babies, and my individual plans in God’s eternal scheme. But it has never come in such a way as to save me from having to work through fears and uncertainty or to allow me to skirt around some rather tremendous leaps of faith. Opposition has accompanied each one of these experiences (shocking in its intensity) and the business of deciphering God’s will and determining to change course has occasionally felt like wading through waste-deep sludge . . . up a mountain . . . through nearly impenetrable fog. But! These experiences have also been among my most spiritually profound. And, as I’ve learned that God cares less about me being comfortable, following the path of least resistance, or being at constant ease; and more about me accomplishing His designs for me, as I’ve learned that he actually has designs for me; I have learned better myself to care less about what is easy or simple, or even about what makes the most sense to me, and more about doing whatever it is He wants me to do.

And the result of it all? In this instance? Well, it’s an entire human soul! One who I had never, in my mortal life, imagined connecting to myself! But who will now be tied to me (and Mike and our kids) and figure significantly in all that is ahead for us throughout eternity! Forever! What could be bigger or more amazing than that? As overwhelming as this has been, as much as I may have spent three weeks crying and fasting and praying when the inspiration first came – telling God I did not have the courage to choose this – I am in complete awe really that not only did He give me the courage to choose it, but that what I just said is truly the end result of it all. This person! Eternally my child. Eternally mattering to me. I can’t get over it. Never mind that it’s a tenth child. It makes the marvel of it all the bigger to me! I’m in awe. That is the best word I can think to describe what I feel when I look down and place my hands on my expanding belly and think of the little body I am currently growing for a tenth child. Awe. Awe that this is happening. Awe that God was able to get through to me and encourage me to let this happen. Awe that I dared against what seemed walls of logic and opposition. But mostly awe that this is a real live individual. A real person. Coming to me! And in the same exact way that I came to my parents and to this earth – as a tenth child!

I have tried for weeks to type this one’s story here – the guidance and struggle and peace that lead to my determination to bring them here at a time when I am far too old, my plate is far too full, and my babies – far too demanding; but each time the words don’t fall correctly and fail to do the experience justice. I haven’t given it up yet. I hope to write it here at some point. But for now, since I am struggling to determine how, I will, instead, share one very unexpected and lovely thing:

Every baby deserves the same exclamations of joy and excitement upon the announcement of their arrival. Unfortunately, the unusualness of announcing babies coming as numbers seven, eight, nine or TEN, means that, instead, many of the comments are impolite, rude, or made with raised eyebrows and unfair assumptions. While I know that those don’t actually matter, sometimes gearing up to politely handle the inevitable is exhausting enough that I half-jokingly told Mike I was never going to announce this pregnancy at all. People could just uncomfortably wonder. Nevertheless, several weeks ago, I felt it was time to share our news. And then . . . the most marvelous thing happened.

The whole world seemed to shout for joy!

I have always been blessed with supportive family. I knew, though some of them might privately question the reasonableness of it all, that they would be accepting and full of congratulations. But this extended much further than that. In fact I don’t know that I have ever had so few slighting comments. (None. Not one so far.) And so many exclamations of pure joy, excitement and support. It’s been so forthcoming that I’ve even joked that I don’t know what on earth is going on here and wondered if I have entered the Twilight Zone. Even people I hardly know have been expressing such happiness. There have been hugs and cheers and exclamations of, “This is the BEST news ever!” and just . . . so much JOY and happiness rained on me from everyone around me – as if all within my sphere are celebrating the impending arrival of this tenth baby. It has been the most wonderful gift. And it has felt like a gift! Like God knew this was a difficult choice for me and gave me an unexpected and generous gift of . . . I don’t know . . . thinning the veil a little in the hearts of everyone around me to feel the beauty and rightness of this – and by their sensing it, further assure me of it.

On the night I was finally determining that this was the right course, How Firm a Foundation came on my playlist. The words, “I’ll strengthen thee, help thee, and cause thee to stand upheld by my righteous, omnipotent hand,” leapt into my heart. And I think this showing of love and support was one small evidence of that strengthening.

Thank you so much to all of you who have been a small part of such a beautiful and kind gift of support, encouragement, and love! I will never forget the genuine love and happiness showered on me with this announcement. 

Side note (for those curious): I will be 17 weeks on Friday. I’m due March 22nd. And . . . we won’t be finding out the gender this time! We’ve only managed to wait until birth one time before (with Jesse). Curiosity has gotten the best of us each of the other eight times; but both Mike and I felt, from the moment we found out this baby was coming, that we wanted to experience the excitement of waiting for that news right at delivery again. So . . . toss in your bets! Our kids are divided on which gender they think. I am trying hard NOT to lean towards thinking any one gender with certainty (though that’s a struggle). And Mette is adamant that it be a girl . . . and that we name it Mette (her reasoning is sound – what could be better than . . . another one of her after all?).

Hansie. Mette. Biking.

My little Hansie boy hasn’t been in any particular hurry to master the English language. But that has only served to make the things he does say charm me all the more. For example, when something goes amiss he is fond of saying, “Ah man!” (Which he first learned from Swiper the Fox, but has taken for his own.) He also will occasionally laugh about something or other and then, shaking his head, say to himself, “So funny.” And the way he says pumpkin (which he does quite regularly now that several are sitting on our front porch) is never the same. And adorable every time. “Punkneen” was what I heard last.

He is just as pleasant of a little fella as I’ve ever met.

Almost as pleasant is his sister Mette. . . .

The other day she was screaming wildly when it was time to be napping. I told her that I would have to shut her door if she couldn’t stop yelling (she likes to have her door left partially ajar). “Well,” she moaned woefully, “can I yell when I wake up?”

Yes. Of course dear. Then you can go right back to screaming and yelling.

But she also tells me she loves me “SO MUCH” all of the time – rubbing her chubby, little hand along my cheek and jaw adoringly as she does.

And the other day she came and stood in front of me with one arm draped across her eyes. “Mom,” she said. “Guess where I am.”

I was a bit confused for a minute. Surely she knew that I knew she was right in front of me?

But no. She didn’t seem to. (She couldn’t see me. How could I possibly see her?)

“Are you in the kitchen?” I asked.

“Haaahaa!” she squeeled. “No!”

“Are you on my bed?”

“No!” (More delight at how fooled I was.)

“Are you . . . standing right in front of me?”

“Yes!” She flung her arm away in sheer glee.

And there she was.

Little trouble-making girl.

I love her.

In other news:

After some debating, we opted to take the entire family to one of Abe’s recent mountain bike races.

I love his races. Up in the mountains. Fall. Excitement. And this one was no exception, but it was incredibly dusty, and very windy, and that combined with sunblock and kids missing naps meant everyone was quite exhausted by the end.

Summer’s face sums it up perfectly.

It’s weird to me how quickly we have moved from Abe’s first year on the team – when we had to drive him to every practice and race, and we worried about him getting lost on the trails, and about leaving him with these confident senior boys who were driving their own selves to practices and skillfully removing bikes from racks, etc. . . . to . . . Abe being one of those boys. It’s his final season! It’s rewarding and exciting to see how he’s grown. But I will miss this being part of our life when he finishes up in a few weeks!

Somewhat related perhaps is this small snippet I jotted down late the other night when Mike was out of town for work, and the house was all quiet and sleeping, except for one thing:

It’s nearly midnight. Abe wakes at 6:30. I know he’s exhausted. His schedule is packed. He rarely gets eight hours of sleep. And yet, I hear him up there — in his room, a staircase away — playing his harmonica. I should call up to him -- tell him to get to bed, remind him he needs more sleep; but he’s playing God Be with You Till We Meet Again. And somehow it’s slipping and pushing me along forward in time. And I feel a little teary and don’t really want him to stop.

The end.

Except for a few last pictures. (Penny when she helped me scout out the spot for taking Abe’s dance pictures. And Anders and Summer . . . in a box.)