This Season of . . .

Gratitude . . . I feel like my hormones are a bit out of whack. I walk around the house during half the week, feeling like I have this new found freedom with only one child at home for three hours of the day, but then, the other half I find myself smelling and nuzzling/nezzling (which is it?) my baby's neck. I find myself trying to count the endless number of freckles on my son's face and figure out exactly what it is that is entirely magical about looking into his sparkly blue eyes that makes my heart skip a beat. I find myself kissing my son's cheeks, indulging in the softness and then, going back again and again for another. I find myself looking at my husband, as if for the first time, completely taken back by his beauty, his handsome features, and overwhelming presence. I consider why he would even give me the time of day. I think back to how things just fell into place with us and our relationship. I think about where we are now. Before lying my sweet baby into his crib, I find myself struggling to put him down for even an hour, because I know that I cannot get that hour of time back. I don't want to miss anything.

Sometimes motherhood makes my heart feel so heavy, because there are so many things I don't know or comprehend and I don't necessarily know that I don't know or comprehend those things yet. I wonder about behavior issues. I wonder about how we will break a thumb-sucking habit. We will eventually have to potty train a third boy. We are in the process of introducing the birds and the bees to Matthew and prayerfully, hope to teach him in an age-appropriate way that will open the channels of communication for the future. There's the constant nag of budgeting and saving money and cutting back and medical bills and just stuff. Much suffering of the soul is silent. Do we stand in the middle of a room and scream? Do we tell everyone our woes? Do we document it only to have to read through it later? Do we take a pill? We have to deal with it. But sometimes there are so many wonderful, amazing, incredible things that it feels hard to breathe, because I realize life is so rich. I am blessed--and not just a little bit. I am blessed a lot. Even if I sat here all day I could not write all of the things Heavenly Father has given me.

However, there are a few that have really hit me hard recently.

The other morning, as I drove with Ethan downtown Houston to Texas Children's Hospital, I remember that I sort of held my breath. The weight of the surgery and the results, full of what-if's, hung about me, but I also worried about the present dilemmas of how I would calm a hungry baby, knowing that I could not feed him. I considered the effects of the anesthesia and how that would work out if he didn't do well like the previous surgery since he would have to stay with my mom on Friday while I took Matthew in for his procedure. Anyway, I drove the 45 minutes to an hour down there, and just blocks before the location, I passed a church.

At first, I thought people were waiting at a bus stop, but I noted bus stops else where. I saw back packs and sleeping backs and garbage sacks. I saw people of all ages walking around, rubbing hands together to stay warm and that's when it dawned on me. This church serves as a shelter to many local homeless people. Wow. Here, I sat in my heated, fueled (practically) new van, and I had just come from my heated/air conditioned home in which I took a hot shower and ate breakfast (and of which I had multiple choices).

After the team took Ethan back, I picked up my pager and headed to the food court to wait. I perused the gift shop and scoped out the colorful and vivid art that that occupies the spaces of the hospital. After sitting down to eat, I realized that I did not grab any napkins. I began to get up, when I turned around to hear a mother directing her daughter on what she needed from the condiments bar. This little girl, no older than 5 or 6 had a bald head with random strands here or there. My eyes shifted from her to her mother; then, back to her. Her mother, in support of her brave daughter, I assume, sported a shaved head. My first thought was not of pity. Clearly, this is life for this family and they are dealing with it and living still--probably most of their time is at the hospital. But I immediately said a silent prayer and thanked Heavenly Father for my children's health.

Upon my arrival back to the surgery waiting room, I walked by the elevators. There, I saw a boy in a wheel chair, bald with similar strands, no doubt from chemotherapy, getting off the elevator. He was smiling and talking to his dad or grandfather. He looked to be no more than 14.

Wednesday, I ran to the post office to mail a few parcels. Two positions in front of me stood a man with a portable chemo pack. Perhaps, it was something else, but it appeared to me that he received his medicine from that box, through that tubing, through some port in his body. He smiled and joked with the cashier. He didn't appear to even notice that he was hooked up to medicine. Yet, of all the patrons in that long line, heading out one door, running out the lobby, and almost to the other door, he appeared to be the most cheerful and happy.

While sitting with Matthew at the surgery center on Friday, we heard a little baby girl crying. She was probably around 15 months old and her and her twin brother both had procedures scheduled for the day. They had already taken him back and she felt a little apprehensive without him. Plus, she was hungry and in a strange place. Well, Matthew, who also felt those same things, decided to color a picture and write a note for this little one. Initially, he had hoped to give her a hug, but I told him that might make her nervous since she didn't know him and was already upset. He walked over to her and very graciously gave her the note and told her it would be okay. Then, after his procedure and once we were ready to leave, the nurse offered him a stuffed animal (They give one to each child who comes through there--we now have three.). Matthew selected which one he wanted and then, he asked for another one. I told him that there wouldn't be enough for the other children if he took more than one. He replied, "But Mom, what about David? My brother needs one too and besides, I can wrap it for a Christmas present."

Sunday proved to be another one of those moments where I think I will forever remember that mental photograph. Because of the surgeries, we kept Matthew and Ethan home from church. As a result, Ryan went to the first meeting, so that he could sing in the choir. Then, I attended second and third hour. During the hours of the early evening, I began dinner preparation. Ethan rested in his crib, trying to catch up on some much needed sleep and little boys played. I felt like we needed a little bit more togetherness. I asked Ryan if he would take the opportunity to teach our boys about dishes, while I cooked.

Quite eagerly, both boys pulled up chairs to stand next to their dad, whose tie was tucked into his shirt and sleeves were rolled up to his elbows. While I sauteed, boiled, simmered, and filled the air with yummy aromas of noodles, meat, spices, and delicious sauces, I heard the giggles of excited little boys, helping their dad. As I turned, I caught a glimpse of Ryan handing a plate down to Matthew to load into the dishwasher. David watched his big brother and waited anxiously for his turn with his soap-sudded hands in the air and a grin on his face. The Christmas tree, just on the other side of the kitchen ledge, sent silhouettes and cast different patterns of shadows of light throughout the room both on the ceiling and the hardwood floor. It was magical.

I've been thinking about exactly what makes Christmas so Christmasy. What do I want to teach my children about Christ? What can I do to make this a season to remember? How can I take them beyond the receiving?

Yet another gift to our family came in caroling at an elderly home. We didn't sing long--maybe 15 minutes or so, but we delivered oranges to the residents after. Have I written about this already? I saw my children's faces come alive. They were so happy and excited to give the oranges to the people who lived in these homes. They held some of their hands. They smiled at them. They brought them cheer and helped them remember the magic of Christmas through the eyes of a child. I had the opportunity to speak with some of them and it brought back such great memories from when I was younger and served in nursing homes. It rekindled my love for visiting the elderly and lonely. I so enjoyed hearing the boys talk about it and still hearing them talk about it, over a week later.

Jesus came quietly in humble circumstances. He spent His days with the poor, broken-hearted, and lonely. He taught the sinners and blessed the sick. He didn't have fancy things or fit in with the popular people. In fact, He was ridiculed, mocked, betrayed, and eventually crucified. He was the greatest Being to ever walk this earth. He provided us with a way to return to live with Heavenly Father again. We have all been given the gift of eternal life, because He overcame a physical death. But He did much more than just that. He overcame a spiritual death from sin as well. Because of Him we can be exalted to live in the presence of God some day with our loved ones, whom we are sealed to. One day soon, He will come again to rule in glory on high. I testify that He lives! I know that in the strength of Jesus Christ, we can do all things.