Family

Pride and My Eyes

Be Thou My Vision

Last Wednesday, I woke up feeling rough. My last days of pregnancy have never been characterized as fun and refreshing. I’d say “trying and exhausting” would be a more accurate depiction, and maybe some other colorful descriptives I probably shouldn’t share here.

I don’t sleep well at all in my “terminal stages of pregnancy”, as Michael Scott would refer to it. I’m actually leaps and bounds more okay with this reality than I was 4 1/2 years ago, during my last trimester with Abe. I used to worship sleep well above pretty much everything else, and not being able to get enough of it seriously and literally would ruin my life. It’s still embarrassing to admit that. And what I find so absurd about that time, looking back, is that I didn’t have a young child to care for while I was pregnant. And by the end of my third trimester, I was on partial bed rest and had absolutely no responsibilities but to simply lay around and do nothing. What did I have to be so bent out of shape about? Nothing. However, I digress.

As my eyes barely opened that morning, I became immediately aware of the soreness imparted by the breath taking contractions from the evening before paired with a restless night in bed. I looked at my phone for a few moments to adjust my eyes to being open, and slowly forced myself to sit up. Our bed doesn’t currently have a frame, so it sits on the floor. This is fine, for a normal-bodied human. But for me, physically getting up out bed makes me feel as though my eye balls are for-realsies going to pop out of my face as I push myself in an upward motion. It’s making me giggle thinking about it, but it’s never funny when the ordeal is taking place.

I walked into the living room to get a glance at my tiny man, exchanged morning greetings, and then waddled my way into the kitchen for my usual glass of lemon water. I turned around and Daniel came up to hug me, and I told him I needed Abe to go to daycare for the day because I was just not going to be able to care for him. It frazzled him a bit, as getting Abe ready would put him a few minutes behind for work. Abe wasn’t happy about the sudden change in his routine, as he doesn’t go to daycare anymore, except for maybe once a month when I really need him to (our daycare is wonderful and always has a spot open for him). We managed to get him dressed through the groans and the objections, and off they went out the door, leaving me sitting on the couch wondering what to do.

Normally, I’d start making myself breakfast, but I’ve not been very hungry the past few days. Just nauseated, really. When I do get hungry, I just want to eat extremely sharp cheddar cheese and drink soda. I don’t know why, but that’s just what my body is craving during these final days. I would imagine the desire for soda has to do with my unsettled stomach, and the cheese for the fats and proteins. I don’t know.

I wasn’t going to drink coca cola at 8:50 in the morning, so I just sauntered back into my room and plopped down on the bed. As I huddled under the sheets and grabbed every pillow in arms reach to cushion myself, I could feel my body and my heart urging me to do the thing that always brings me rest: fall apart and spill into the hands of God.

The truth is, I really, REALLY hate giving in to “weakness”. Ha. As if being pregnant is a weak condition. What I mean is, I don’t like having to tell Abe that he’s got to go hang with some other people for a while so I can rest. I want to be able to watch him and rest, I want to do both. I want to be super woman. The night before, I was crying and venting over feeling so awful about laying in bed while Abe watched tv that day, as I just did not have the energy to get up and play with him.  Daniel had a put-down-his-foot moment and said he was going to take Abe to daycare in the morning, because I needed a break. I got more upset and came up with all kinds of excuses why he didn’t need to go, but I knew in my heart Daniel was right.

Sometimes, I need help. I thought I’d cleared that prideful wall, but I haven’t. There’s still so much left of it for me to climb.

I knew it when I woke up that morning, which is why I gave in. Wrapped up in my nest of sheets and pillows, I began to thank God for the day. I didn’t have much fluff to say, and got right into what I really needed to tell Him:

“Help me rest in your hands. I’m experiencing fear, anxiety and the feelings of failure. I want to hand those over to you so that I can find peace in You being in control. I’m afraid that the end of this pregnancy will be like the last one, and I’ll go in and out of labor for what seems like an eternity and be so incredibly miserable. If my body is meant to do that again, help me to see it with different eyes. Help me to see what You see.”

After I prayed that, the words “Be Thou my vision, oh Lord of my heart” flooded my mind. Just that first line and nothing else. I thought about it for a moment and was astounded by the lyric.

Replace my eyes with your eyes so that I can see everything the way you see everything.

As I let that simmer, I cried and released all of that tension. And then I felt the rest that I’d been needing. I found a piano/violin version of Be Thou My Vision on youtube and just listened to that for a few minutes as I closed my eyes and allowed my body to unwind.


There’s still a lot of pride left in these bones. God removes things from me in layers, and I suspect He won’t be done with the layers of pride anytime soon. If you’re reading this, and I’ve refused your helping hand, I’m sorry. I’m still learning that receiving is just as important as giving. Giving can become a foul thing, as it is easy to allow the act to be about one’s self and how good one can be. Receiving requires the terrifying choice to be vulnerable. Jesus received over and over in the new testament with gladness and joy; I don’t know why we ever try to believe we’re somehow different.

Be Thou my vision, oh Lord of my heart…

Bloodline

Bloodline

The popular belief these days is to simply embrace your true self. To stop denying who you really are, whatever that looks like- and in the process, only surround yourself with people who affirm it.

Well, I don’t think anyone would want to be around me if I did that.

In sifting through my Evernote folders, I came across a poem I wrote sometime earlier this year. From the looks of it, I was having a really rough day. It must have been the day I saw Sia’s music video for her song Elastic Heart, which would explain the reference in the first part of the poem. I feel somewhat embarrassed for saying this, especially in light of Shia Labeouf’s latest viral explosion (you know, the one where he yells “JUST DO IT” a bunch of times?)… but that music video ripped me open. I remember feeling overwhelmed when it was done, as it left me with tears spilled down my face and bewildered by my reaction. Abram wasn’t home for whatever reason, which thankfully allowed me to deal slowly with whatever was trying to come out over the course of the afternoon. Not that I can’t deal with stuff in front of my son- I often do, for both of our sakes. But sometimes, children don’t afford you the courtesy for long, afternoon bouts of self analyzation.

It all came out in this poem called Bloodline. I’m a little scared to let you see this, as I usually am when I share this side of my writing. But as I came across it, I felt compelled to share, perhaps in thinking on the world and culture we live in. I know I’ve kept it pretty light over the last several weeks, so I’m sorry for jumping from silly pictures of college cafeteria life to this. I only wrote half of it that day, and the other half a few days ago when I decided that it wasn’t finished. The second half is in bold.

BLOODLINE

 

I know I’ve come out a bit different

But I’ve still got the same blood running through my veins
Which is why I know most of my bad thoughts aren’t whispers from the devil
But darkness inside of my own DNA
Maybe the reason that caged dance
Bothered me
Is because I’ve been at war with myself since
The day I was made
And try as I might to allow the clean blood to take over
Some days I can’t help but be stuck in the reign.
 _________
The reign of family history. 
History flowing deep inside of me.
I can feel it trying to slowly blot me out
Like the moon eclipses the sun.
 _________
Curses aren’t just incantations in fables
But as real as unmarked tombstones
They are forever like the lines on the palms of my hand
Sins that are buried with bones.
 _________
I feel the serpent creep slowly, subtly inching towards my brain
Wanting to sink into the right lobe and then the left
Start wars that are only fought in vain…
 _________
Not. Me.
My answer is no, even though parts of me want to give in.
 _________
It fights to take over, it wants every inch of my inside
But curses can end, for so long they can only try
To consume a child, and sometimes they win
But if I fight back…
If I fight back against what was started within…
 _________
Then maybe. Maybe the Reign of Family History will finally, and with great anticipation and with triumphant celebration and with blood-marked justification…
 _________
Come. To an end.
 _________
Jesus, Jesus, Jesus
Sweetest name I know…
 _________
I do know You
But You’ve known me far before the star stuff exploded
You’ve known about my bloodline
You were inside of my history
 _________
You wept when our children wept
Because of the things that were stolen
Your righteousness burned with white flames
As you watched father’s sins birth more sin
 _________
There are things you’ve allowed to happen
And my heart still asks the why questions
But You…
 _________
You knew me. 
You knew I was coming.
And you decided to put a fight in me.
 _________
I’m not special.
The divide created from the moment Eve decided to try and take your place
was in my heart when it started beating.
 _________
So this fight, this freedom uprising
I cannot take credit.
I know in my blood the foul potential
And all I’ve got as weapons are truth and grace.
 _________
Grace… greater than ALL of my sin
You knew me, You know me, You know where I’m headed…
 _________
You win. 
Flying Abe // JATW

Fly, My Son.

Flying Abe // JATWFly, my son. Fly as high as you can into those soft blankets.

Today, you are filled with joy. Waking up isn’t hard for you.

If anything, sleep is a hindrance to your precious, wild soul.

There’s so much to learn, and I see it happening on your face.

Both good and bad, scary and incredible, you will learn it all.

In time, my little love. In slow and gentle time.

It’s hard not to protect you from the world. “Why?” You ask.

Because I’ve seen the world. I’ve seen it’s monsters.

And yes, there is so much beauty to celebrate, but the monsters…

They do more than go bump in the night.

And sometimes, the beauty seems lost.

One day you will be a man, we will have taught you how to fight.

To slay the monsters, like you do now, with your costumes and toy swords.

But one day, it won’t be a game.

“Why don’t you want me to grow up, mommy?” You ask.

Because I’m selfish. And I’m scared.

And somehow I love you at the same time.

Today, though.

Today, let’s play.

Let’s pretend you can soar o’er the roof tops like Peter Pan.

Today, you will take pictures.

And we will see the world from your perspective.

You will dance in the living room, and watch cartoons.

Keep flying, Abe. Fly as high as you can.

Today, you are filled with joy.