Aching for Life

You are four months and one week old today, and I wish we had more time to stop and write in document your growth, the special moments you give us with your looks and smiles and kicks and eyebrow raises. I wish life could move along a little bit more slowly, so that I could soak it in more, in hopes that it would take root more deeply in my memory, so that in the pining days ahead, I could reach back and still taste and see and hear the bundle of joy you are today. We will start sleep training most likely this week, and I wonder how the time has passed by so quickly. In a lot of ways it's because you're more easy-going than your brother and so sleep has not seemed such a hurdle and trauma to you or to your parents. In other ways it's because we've done this once before, and, like a road well-traveled, it seems that the distance is shorter, the progression faster. And of course your brother is growing and changing in ways all his own, and as much as we

Tonight Zeke and Zane are sleeping in the same bed for the first time - and it is not an orchestrated event. We just happened to get back to the hotel late, and I was nursing Zane to keep him asleep while Zeke was getting ready for bed. Ryan had to run off to meet with another friend, so to keep things easy I let Zeke join us in the same bed.  So the boys fell asleep together. Later tonight, I heard Zeke yell out in his sleep - a common occurrence for this nightmare-prone boy. I crept into the room later and saw that both boys were sleeping soundly again, with Zeke's hand on Zane's arm. And my heart lurched. There will be many days when I can't be around to take away fears and hurts, as much as I want to encircle these two boys. But on at least some of these days, they will have each other, and I am comforted knowing that  they can hold each others' hands.

I often am moved or humbled or challenged by sermons at our church , but tonight's message especially spoke to me.  (When the sermon video gets posted online, I'll link it here!) John Ortberg spoke on letting go and trusting God - a message that sounds so cliche that it seems impossible to be touched by it. Yet I was caught by surprise by how it touched a very vulnerable part of me - my struggle with fear. You see, he recorded the sermon at a gym called "Circus Center," a place where people can take classes from trapeze artists. As John explained why he decided to present the sermon there, he quotes Henri Nouwen: "The Flying Rodleighs are trapeze artists who perform in the German circus Simoneit-Barum. When the circus came to Freiburg two years ago, my friends Franz and Reny invited me and my father to see the show. I will never forget how enraptured I became when I first saw the Rodleighs move through the air, flying and catching as elegant dancers.

Zane: While sleeping, nursing, or awake: **Snort, sniffle, snort, snort** Zeke: When Zane is crying: "Don't worry, baby! I'm there. I'm there." In the morning, jumping into our bed and smothering Zane with kisses: "Helllooo-y! Hellloooy! My peanut! My pizza! So little! So little!" Singing the ABC song: "A, B, C, D, E, F, G, H, I, J, K, Ello-enopy..." Another song: "Los pollitos dicen, pio pio pio, cuando tienen ham-bre, cuando tienen fwee-oh."

Zeke: "Me baby!" Nostalgia A few weeks ago, Ryan's mom was in town and we went to the Stanford pool to squeeze in a last swim while it was still summer hours and the afternoons were still hot. At one point I was swimming laps while Mom was watching Zeke, and as I approached the far end of the pool, Zeke's back was toward me. Something about the way he was standing - the slight angle, the relaxed stance, gave me a glimpse of what Zeke might look like in a teenage boy's body, and my heart clenched a little.  I was reminded of how fleeting his little-ness is, how unrelentingly quickly the days will fly by until he will be the one with the bigger and stronger body, until he will even more his own person than he is now. All of parenthood is nostalgia, I suppose.  How many evenings I spend now while absent-mindedly playing or reading with Zeke with half my head reminiscing over the yonder years when I had evenings and weekends open before me like blank sketch

It’s not a special occasion. Not a birthday, not an anniversary, not the beginning or end of a calendar year or school year. There is no imminent transition. Yet tonight, on the most ordinary of nights, I am taking stock the only way I know to take stock now – which is when the stars align and I have space in my head and time on my hands and – quite simply – I can. Tonight was one of the rare nights when I went to worship service alone. Ryan is in LA visiting his parents. And it’s not like we chat with each other normally during service, but somehow, by sitting alone, my head felt clear. (I guess that’s one of the clear signs that I’m an introvert.) The sermon tonight was the third in the series “The Truth About You,” and entitled “ You’re Never Really Ready .” Using Matthew 28:16-20 , our pastor talked about how Jesus called his disciples when they were incomplete (just a group of 11) and lacking in faith (“some doubted”) and gave them the Great Commission. He went on to talk