Six years ago today, we welcomed our fair-haired, blue-eyed little boy into our family.  He was an easy baby, cried little, and eventually, played peacefully on his own for long stretches of time.  He has always been his own person.  Rarely does he follow the crowd (the crowd, in most cases, being his older siblings).  He is the child who will turn down more dessert if he’s full, who asks to do extra math work, who volunteers to help Tim with projects.

He is very much a boy in his interests (at least, stereotypically).  He is happy to do anything physical.  He would rather weed a garden than read a book.  He can run farther and faster than his older brother and sister (and without once complaining about how tired he is).  He is fascinated by electrical and plumbing and tools and projects.  He is (sometimes impatiently) waiting for the day when he can play baseball, and has a general love for sports.  There is a bull-in-a-china-shop quality to him which, when combined with an insatiable I-wonder-what-will-happen-if… kind of curiosity, has resulted in a long string of broken or damaged objects and countless reminders about gentleness and not throwing in the house and just.don’t.touch.

On the flip side of all the masculinity, though, is an incredibly sensitive and thoughtful and attentive little boy.  From the very beginning, he has been our child who thinks long and speaks little; the one whose ability to notice details is remarkable; the one for whom every word or action sinks in deeply and is long-remembered…whether good or bad.

He is quick to put others before himself, even when it’s a struggle.  There are times when he is visibly wrestling with the choice to be selfish or giving, and he almost always chooses to sacrifice his wants to bless someone else.  It amazes me how consistently this is the case, and each time, I am reminded anew of the precious heart God has given this little boy of mine.  I am certain that this heart is integral to God’s plan for his life and we pray often for a refining and shaping and strengthening to take place – that the love of God would be poured out through him; that he would be a willing vessel, submitted to Christ in all things.

It is a joy to be Nathanael’s mom.  I love seeing and thinking on the things that make him unique and special and wonderful.  We are blessed to be celebrating his life today.  Happy Birthday, Bug!

At lunch today, one of the younger kids spilled a cup of milk.  Even while I was struggling to control my own response, Caedmon immediately began cleaning up the mess – calmly, thoroughly, cheerfully.  It wasn’t his mess and he wasn’t told to clean it up.

At that moment I found a renewed thankfulness for my husband well up in my heart.  Yes, I was thankful for Caedmon and his servant heart and willing hands…but he’s learned primarily through the example he sees in Tim.  While I regularly flip out over such messes  (I have never quite agreed with the old saying that there’s no use crying over spilled milk) Tim always – always – stops whatever he’s doing and begins to clean it up – calmly, thoroughly, cheerfully.  Even if I start to clean it up, he will often take over for me, simply because he knows that it is a more stressful thing for me than for him.

I’m learning to insist to him that I’m okay dealing with messes when they arise, but I know that it takes restraint for him to let me.  His heart is to serve me, and our children, and really, anyone and in any way that he sees a need.  Serving, for me, is an exercise in bringing my flesh into submission to Christ…I am selfish and lazy by nature, and all too often, that is what comes out when I should choose service.

So I am thankful that I am not the only example my kids get.  I’m thankful that my husband is so faithful to lay down his life for me.  I’m thankful that Caedmon has figured out the better response to emulate.

When life doesn’t go as I expect, I don’t often respond well.  I want explanations when there are none to be had.  I hold onto hurt and easily come up with all kinds of ways in which my circumstances prove that I am a failure and unloved and unlovable.  I’m scared to be hopeful…scared that I will only be more disappointed in the long run, scared that I will let myself be deceived by impossible expectations.  I have convinced myself that I would rather just believe the worst.

This week, though – as I found myself clinging to grief that was threatening to slip away – I felt the Lord challenging me to rejoice.  There was peace and joy and hope right there – so close that I felt it pressing me, so tangible that I was forced to make a conscious choice.  I tried to find rationale that would allow me to hurt just a little longer, but I found none.  What I found, instead, was an overarching belief in God’s goodness to me, and His sovereignty in all things.  I didn’t have answers, but I realized I didn’t need them.  Knowing that my life is in His hands is all I need.  It was sort of a revelation to me.  I have a hard time willingly abdicating control of my life.  I’ve never trusted enough.  Once again, God is proving Himself faithful to continue His work in me, though.  I am so thankful.

For you did not receive the spirit of bondage again to fear, but you received the Spirit of adoption by whom we cry out, “Abba, Father.” — Romans 8:15

I took the test.  Two pink lines appeared.  One was faint, but the instructions made it clear that even a faint line was a line and the test was positive.  I took a picture to commemorate the moment, and later looked back at the picture to really make sure both lines were there.  That was Tuesday.

At 3:00 this morning, I was up nursing Ava and I felt the bleeding start.  I laid Ava down, hoping I was wrong.  But I wasn’t wrong.

It was less than four days of knowing for sure.  But it was long enough for my heart to become attached.  It was long enough for a mindset shift and for endless thoughts of what the next eight months would bring.  It was long enough to add in another little one to my prayer times.  It was long enough to think about what life would be like with six.  It was long enough for my heart to break when I realized it wouldn’t be, after all.

Somehow, though, I wasn’t entirely surprised.  Maybe it’s just because it has happened twice before and I have a hard time expecting the best when I know there’s a very real possibility of the worst.  Maybe it’s because of how much this past week reminded me of how I felt the last time when it was going to end in the worst…how it seemed like my body was desperately trying to fix something that was going horribly wrong.  Or, maybe, God was gently preparing me so that I wouldn’t be completely blindsided.  I don’t know that half-expecting it makes it any easier, though.

…

When I woke up this morning, Caedmon was all ready for the day, and had gotten Elijah bathed and dressed, too.  They both hugged me, which was kind of unusual.  They had no idea; we hadn’t told them – or anyone – about the baby that was on the way.  It reminded me that God can make grace abound in the hardest moments.

…

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, And lean not on your own understanding;  In all your ways acknowledge Him, And He shall direct your paths. — Proverbs 3:5-6

Tomorrow, Ava will be 11 months old.  11 months.  It went so fast.  Yet, it is clear that she is well past her newborn days.  She’s walking.  She tries talking – mamamama, dadadada, gogogogo (when cheering for Daddy at softball), hi, gone, and lots of very animated babbling.  She loves food.  Her Daddy is her favorite playmate.  She puts everything in her mouth (much like her older sister did before her) but I think her foot finds its way there more than anything else.  She crawls up stairs and loves bathtime.  She wakes up many times a night (ironically, very unlike her newborn days) and naps little.  It is easy tell when she is tired because she [almost literally] starts bouncing off the walls.  She is mischievous and charming and loud and stubborn and beautiful.

I love her.