From 1st grade to 4th grade I lived in a farmhouse, and nearly every day after school I hopped out of the bus, ran up the long lane, dashed inside for a quick sandwich, then ran back outside as quickly as I could. I crossed the church parking lot that ran alongside the cemetery, slid down the muddy hill through the trees, walked through the pasture with its massive cows mooing their displeasure at me, and set up shop with my fishing pole and tackle box on the banks of the Pequea Creek.
I sat there and sometimes I took a Sugar Creek Gang book with me and sometimes I just stared at my bobber and waited for it to dance. I sat there in the shadows, and when the Amish school next door let out my best friend Daniel joined me. He always came racing down the same path, tumbling through the undergrowth, breathless, hoping he hadn’t missed anything.
“Fish biting?” he asked, grinning. We waited and we fished and when we got bored we skipped stones or waded into the water. We didn’t have watches or cell phones but in those fall days we could tell by the sun when it was dinner time, and we reluctantly pulled ourselves away from the slow-moving water, dragged ourselves up the bank, walked home.
My dad came down with me from time to time, usually after dinner, after work. It was even cooler then, and the fall air smelled of cut hay and sleepy evenings.
On one of those nights my bobber vanished down into the water and my pole bent almost to snapping. I yanked up on the reel and tried to pull that monster in. Eventually I did – it was a massive carp, not much good for eating, but boy that thing was huge. I’d never seen anything like it in that creek before. My dad and I stared at the fish and then we whooped and hollered and danced around.
I guess we had carried our stuff down there in one of those large, white, five-gallon buckets. Well, dad emptied out that bucket, filled it with muddy creek water, and dropped that huge fish into it.
“C’mon,” he said. “We’re showing this one to Grandma.”
So we packed up our stuff and he carried the heavy five-gallon bucket and we walked the quarter of a mile to Grandma’s house, along the road with the narrow shoulder. We got up to her house and showed her the fish. Dad poked it and it writhed around in the bucket like the Loch Ness monster. From there we stopped by the neighbor’s house, because they were outside, too, and we showed them the fish. Finally we walked back by our farmhouse and showed the fish to mom.
Dad was so excited about it, and I was, too. Eventually, when it was almost dark, we walked the long lane and crossed the parking lot and slid down the tree-covered bank, let the fish slip back into the water for some other boy to wrestle with.
* * * * *
I was thinking back on this story tonight and I realized what was special about that whole thing wasn’t the fact that I caught a huge fish. I mean, that was fun, but what made that whole experience different was how excited my dad was for me. He didn’t act upset that I had caught the biggest fish. He didn’t downplay it, tell me he’d seen bigger.
No, he celebrated with me, and then he went to great effort to show off my accomplishment.
And that’s what I was thinking about. I want to do that more. I want to point out my friends’ wonderful achievements and brag on them. I want to celebrate and laugh and dance around when people I know do something special. I want to put my own schedule on hold and carry the weight of their glory.
That’s what I’ve learned from that autumn night, sometime around 1983.
Hi, there. I know you’re out there because after I sent out my newsletter yesterday confessing to my struggle with wanting to be famous, some of you emailed me. You wanted to let me know I wasn’t alone. You wondered what the right way forward might be.
I can’t tell you exactly what to do. After all, some of you might BECOME famous soon – how much fun would that be, right? I can’t tell you the perfect proportion of time to spend promoting versus creating. But one thing I want to say is this:
Keep creating. Keep trying. Keep having fun.
I’m talking to you, writer of a small or medium-sized blog, rolling out posts every week that don’t get a ton of comments, likes, or shares. You may not realize it, but your words are rippling out into the world, and they’re affecting people.
I’m talking to you, Pastor of that Tiny Church in the Middle of Nowhere. You’re not worth less than the megachurch pastor in his shiny suit and sparkling smile. You’re exactly where you’re supposed to be. Bigger church doesn’t equal better church. Keep going.
I’m talking to you, Self-Published Author, Mom of Five, Small Business Woman, Painter, Actor, and every other person who’s doing what they were created to do but might never be famous, might never be publicly adored. I’m talking to all of us. We need to revel in the enjoyment of the simple act of creation. Play. Live our beautiful, hidden lives. We need to go about our days and recognize how fortunate we are, those of us who have the means and the desire and the wherewithal to create.
Keep creating. Keep doing. Keep trying.
Now, there is a bit of difficult news, at least for those of us who have strong desire to be known, to contribute in measurable ways, to leave some kind of exceptional mark. The tough news is this: the world needs most of us to create our creations and focus on our calling even without receiving the adoration of the masses, without ever feeling the thunderous applause of a large crowd.
We’re no less needed, mind you. Even though our calling might be to fewer people, those people will be affected, hearts and minds changed for the better. We need to be okay with that. As Anne Lamott says, we need to be the kind of people who believe that “if we build our castles well enough, somehow the ocean won’t wash them away.”
I shared the following words by Henri Nouwen in my newsletter, but I want to make sure you read them, because sometimes these are the words that keep me going. These words adjust my heart in all the right ways:
“There is much emphasis on notoriety and fame in our society. Our newspapers and television keep giving us the message: What counts is to be known, praised, and admired, whether you are a writer, an actor, a musician, or a politician.”
“Still, real greatness is often hidden, humble, simple, and unobtrusive. It is not easy to trust ourselves and our actions without public affirmation. We must have strong self-confidence combined with deep humility. Some of the greatest works of art and the most important works of peace were created by people who had no need for the limelight. They knew that what they were doing was their call, and they did it with great patience, perseverance, and love.”
Henri Nouwen, Bread for the Journey
I don’t think wanting to be famous is always a negative thing, but I have found the pitfalls. Believe me. The main dangers I see, when my desire to become famous turns towards obsession, are these: it leads to strong feelings of jealousy; it leads me to scrap and claw for my own piece of the pie, completely disregarding others; it leads to discouragement when I’m not the one speaking at the conference, when I’m not the one giving the interview, when my books are not the ones flying off the shelves.
So today, let’s you and me, in our relative anonymity, follow our calling “with great patience, perseverance, and love.” Let’s be okay with our current platform, no matter how simple. Let’s encourage each other, help each other. Let’s keep creating.
Remember, whether or not you’re known, praised, or admired, your work is important.
We live in time and in process; we constantly change…The danger comes in our failing to see and embrace the seasons, in believing that all times of our lives must be the same. We cannot claw and scramble our way back to summer or quickly leave a harsh winter season…we must embrace the place where God has brought us, find the meaning and lessons to be learned in that place, and then be willing to move on…
– Wayne Martindale, The Soul of C.S. Lewis
It’s 5:29am and I’m sitting in my living room. It’s a glorious feeling, especially after spending ten hours on I-81 yesterday during our drive home from eastern Tennessee. Outside the large windows I can hear morning cars creep through the dark streets of this city, one at a time, intermittent, like moths in and out of the light. Patty Griffin plays on the stereo in the next room. She’s making pies. Scattered through the two floors above me, a wife and five children sleep.
I’ve been thinking a lot lately about what a difficult year 2015 has been. For about nine months, I didn’t have a lot of writing work. Things were slow. We had to take on some debt just to get by.
I’ve been writing full time now for six years, and these slow seasons seem to come every once in a while. They’re not easy – it’s never easy to not be making any money. You begin to doubt your calling, your ability. It’s easy to wonder if you’re on the right track.
But over the last six weeks, as is always the case, work has picked up. 2016 will be a busy year, I think.
Which brings me around to what I’ve been thinking about lately – this idea of seasons. Each time Maile and I go through a slow season, a season that feels, well, meager, I’ve become happier with how I deal with it. The first two times we had a slow year, I panicked. I ran around in circles screaming, “The sky is falling!” I thought I should find work in a factory or melt down my laptop and use it as a doorstop. My moods and my emotions came and went in tidal waves.
This time was a bit better. I tried to recognize the season for what it was, focus on the positives. Here are some things I’ve learned about slow seasons of life, times when work is scarce, times when things are difficult:
Enjoy the change of pace. It goes against our grain to attempt to enjoy anything that’s difficult, I know. But there’s no use in being financially tight AND anxious (change out financially tight with whatever best describes your current difficult season, if you’re in one). Might as well enjoy the leisure. I try to spend more time with Maile, more time with the kids. I sit in silence more often, write more letters, catch up on all the little things I’ve been meaning to do. The slow season (or whatever difficult season you’re in) won’t last forever. Which leads me to something very important:
Keep believing things will turn. This is crucial when you’re in a season of life that’s difficult or uncomfortable. These difficult times will pass. I promise. Hang in there. When we were going months without a paycheck, I clung to that belief. It’s going to change. It’s going to get better. Easier. More fun. Less depressing. Whatever difficult season you’re in, I promise, it will end.
You know who you are. A change in seasons doesn’t require a change in identity. This is something I still struggle with. When works slows to a trickle, I am still quick to look for something else. I am too ready to give away this wonderful life that’s taken six years to build in exchange for predictability or (perceived) stability. Don’t let a difficult season lead you to hit the panic button. Stay calm. Make solid decisions. But difficult seasons make that a tough thing to do, so…
Rely on people around you, people who aren’t in the middle of your mess, to help you keep perspective. I have certain people I know I need to have a coffee with when things get tough because these people help me stay the course. Locate these people in the good seasons of your life and then lean on them in the tough seasons. (And be there for them when they need you.)
Every season, no matter how difficult, has gifts to offer. During this last slow time, I reached out to some writer friends, which in turn led to me landing a literary agent. Who knows what that will lead to? I never would have gotten this agent had life continued on, steady and predictable. It was the instability of that slow season that led me to try something different.Keep your eyes open for the unlikely gifts that difficult seasons have to offer.
Be willing to move on. I’m always willing to move on from difficult seasons. But am I willing to do the same when a good season, an abundant season, is coming to an end? How hard do I cling to seasons when it is simply time to let go?
“Aren’t you moving to Iraq or something?” they ask.
“No, not yet,” I say.
It’s much easier for me to commit to doing big, radical things than it is to commit to the simple, daily things. I’m not sure what that says about me or my personality.
But as I get older, I’m learning important lessons about waiting. I care less about “impact and more about the crucial nature of little things. Maybe I’m not on this earth to write for millions of people. Maybe I’m here to make an important difference in the lives of a few.
I’m slowly, slowly becoming okay with this notion of a beautiful, hidden life.
* * * * *
A few weeks ago I read an article in the local paper about a few Syrian refugee families being relocated here, to the city of Lancaster where I live. This idea of being a refugee struck me more clearly than ever when I imaged people from halfway around the world trying to acclimate to life in Lancaster County. Seriously. My wife had trouble feeling like this place is home, and she’s from Ohio.
Maybe I would have read that article and went on with my day, but I made the crucial mistake of reading the comments under the article. Within moments I was ashamed of my fellow Lancastrians.
“Send them back,” one person wrote. “They’re probably with ISIS.”
“You know how those Muslims are,” someone else wrote. “They’ll take jobs but they won’t contribute to the community.”
It was embarrassing, this lack of regard for other humans beings who just want a safe place to live, a safe place for their kids to go to school, a safe place to work and eat and make new friends. But instead of just being embarrassed, I thought, you know what? I’m going to help welcome them. That racist, insular voice can’t be the only voice they hear when they arrive in Lancaster, our city.
So I contacted a few local organizations who are helping with their relocation. One of them sort of brushed me off, and that’s okay. When you offer to help, you can’t be offended when people say no. That’s something I’ve learned. But another organization wrote me back. We exchanged emails. I offered to write about the refugee families. I thought that maybe, just maybe, if my neighbors read about what these refugees have gone through, their hopes and dreams, their history, their stories, then maybe we would welcome them.
Next week I’m meeting with one of these organization, and I hope to share some of these refugee stories right here on my blog. That’s my dream anyway.
It’s not a big thing, you know? I don’t have a million dollars to donate. I don’t have a huge platform. I’m not writing a book about it. I don’t even know if anything will come of it, or if I’ll get to meet the families, or if they’ll want to share their stories.
But I think this is the crucial nature of little things. No one else was going to do this thing, this simple thing, not until I stepped forward. And who knows what might come of it?
The whole point of this post isn’t about me stepping up and doing something – it’s about you. What little things are you not doing because they seem too, well…too little? We all have to start somewhere. You know that sense that you should call that certain person or volunteer at that non-profit or take the lead on that project or mail that thank you note? You’re getting that sense for a reason. Follow through. Take that first, little step.
Do you believe in the power of our beautiful, hidden lives?
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I find myself recommending this book to everyone these days.
“Have you read Erika Morrison’s book Bandersnatch yet?” I ask, but of you course you haven’t, BECAUSE IT COMES OUT TODAY!!! Here’s an excerpt from one of the best books of 2015. Read it. Love it. Go buy it. Tell all your friends about it.
But first let me say this: She asks dangerous questions, friends, questions about the nature of who we are. Proceed with caution.
———–
“In July of 2000, when my husband and I got married, I was the ripe old age of nineteen and he was a seasoned twenty-four. Six months later I found out there was a baby in my belly, not on purpose. Then shortly after, another baby got in my belly not on purpose; then even less shortly after another baby got in my belly not on purpose.
Now, I know what you’re probably thinking: somebody needs to check the date on her birth control! But I promise you that nothing short of a medieval chastity belt with a rusted-shut lock could keep this Fertile Myrtle from getting pregnant. I don’t even trust the vasectomy my . . . never mind, I digress.
When our last boy was born in the left leg of my husband’s pajama pants (I should probably mention I was wearing them) while we rode the elevator up to the labor and delivery floor of Yale-New Haven Hospital, I had just birthed my third baby in three years. I’ll go ahead and do the math for you. I was twenty- three years young with a three-year-old wrapped around my thighs, a sixteen-month-old in one arm, a newborn in the other, and a godforsaken look of “Help!” writ across my face.
It was about this time that, as mentioned in the previous chapter, our marriage dove headlong into mess, we lost our income for too long to hang onto our home, and we experienced religious restlessness and a whole heap of other life challenges. Those early years redefined my own terms for what it meant to be drowning in the lifeblood leaking from every pore on my body. My internal equipment just wasn’t mature and qualified enough for my external reality, a reality that was demanding more of me than I could bear
What happened to me is what some psychologists call an identity crisis, a term coined in the early 1950s by Erik Erikson to refer to a state of confusion and unhappiness over one’s sense of self. If anyone had thought to ask me “Who are you?” in my good and lucid moments—which were few and far between—I could’ve answered with just about nothing.
I don’t know if you’ve ever felt the pain of not knowing who you are or if you feel that pain right now, but what can easily happen in that place of ache is that you start looking at other people, extracting the qualities you like about them, and injecting those qualities into your person as a substitute for what you don’t understand about yourself.
This is no bueno and that was what I did. In my naivete, I saw the people around me as more inherently gifted than I was, so I decided that self-fulfillment meant adopting their God-given gifts as my own. I looked at this person’s way of socializing and that person’s version of hospitality and another person’s artistic expression and began mimicking their nuances. Before I knew any better, I had squeezed my shape into several different ill-fitting molds at once, while cramming my own personhood into a tiny, overlooked corner in the nether regions of my body.
What I didn’t realize at the time was how devastated my spirit would become under the influence of everyone else’s borrowed qualities. Other people’s gifts and character traits are designed to enhance, enrich, and complement our own, but never act as substitute for them.
A healthy sense of self-identity seemed to be a luxury I didn’t have the currency for . . .”
The cardinals make it look so easy. The honeybees make it look so easy. The catfish and the black crow, the dairy cow and the cactus plant, all make being created appear effortless. They arise from the earth, do their beautiful, exclusive thing and die having fulfilled their fate.
None of nature seems to struggle to know who they are or what to do with themselves.
But humanity is the exception to nature’s rule because we’re individualized within our breed. We’re told by our mamas and mentors that–like snowflakes–no two of us are the same and that we each have a special purpose and part to play within the great Body of God.
(If your mama never told you this, consider yourself informed: YOU–your original cells and skin-print, guts and ingenuity–will never ever incarnate again. Do you believe it?)
So we struggle and seek and bald our knees asking variations of discovery-type questions (Who am I? Why am I here?) and if we’re semi-smart and moderately equipped we pay attention just enough to wake up piecemeal over years to the knowledge of our vital, indigenous selves.
And yet . . . even for all our wrestling and wondering, there are certain, abundant factors stacked against our waking up. We feel and fight the low ceiling of man made definitions, systems and institutions; we fight status quo, culture conformity, herd mentalities and more often than not, “The original shimmering self gets buried so deep that most of us end up hardly living out of it at all. Instead we live out of all our other selves, which we are constantly putting on and taking off like coats and hats against the world’s weather.” ~Frederick Buechner
So, let me ask you. Do you know something–anything–of your true, original, shimmering self?
I don’t mean: Coffee Drinker, Jesus Lover, Crossfitter, Writer, Wife, Mama.
Those are your interests and investments.
I do mean: Who are you undressed and naked of the things that tell you who you are?
Who are you before you became a Jesus lover or mother or husband?
Who are you without your church, your hobbies, your performances and projects?
I’m not talking about your confidence in saying, “I am a child of God”, either. What I am asking a quarter-dozen different ways is this: within the framework of being a child of God, what part of God do you represent? Do you know where you begin and where you end? Do you know the here-to-here of your uniqueness? Do you know, as John Duns Scotus puts it, your unusual, individual “thisness”?
I can’t resolve this question for you, I can only ask you if you’re interested.
(Are you interested . . . ?)
Without being formulaic and without offering one-size-fits-all “how-to” steps, Bandersnatch: An Invitation to Explore Your Unconventional Soul is support material for your soul odyssey; a kind of field guide designed to come alongside the moment of your unfurling.
Come with me? And I will go with you and who will care and who will lecture if you wander around a little bit every day to look for your own and only God-given glow
If you’re interested, you can order wherever books and ebooks are sold.
Or, if you’d like to read the first three chapters and just see if Bandersnatch is something for such a time as the hour you’re in, click HERE.
Leo was born fifteen months ago, but there’s something I didn’t tell you about his birth. Right after he made his grand entrance, a stranger came into the room. Okay, not exactly a stranger, but someone you might not consider inviting into that personal space of partial nudity, first feedings, and bodily functions.
She was a photographer.
Our friend Kim said she would be honored to come and take some photos of Leo right after he was born, so we called her when he was close, and she arrived. She eased her way into the room, and to be honest I basically forgot she was there. And the images she captured when we all first came face to face with this little guy?
Wow. Unbelievable.
This weekend Kim and another friend Joyous officially launched their new business, Imprint Birth Photography. They are so talented, and passionate about capturing those first moments, and fun.
To celebrate their business’s birth, I’m reposting the story of Leo’s birth and in the mean time would you go like their Facebook page or check out their amazing website? Because even if you’re not expecting, these photos are worth taking in.
Now, here’s the story of Leo’s birth, with photos by Imprint Photography’s Kim Sanderson:
On Goddesses, Midwives, and the Baby Without a Name
Maile kneels in the large tub, sitting back on her ankles, her knees spread apart. The water is still. She leans forward against the side of the tub, facing the corner of the room. She doesn’t make a sound, at least not until the next contraction comes. Then her voice starts in a quiet hum, growing louder and only slightly higher as the contraction peaks.
“ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhHHHHHHHHHHHHH…”
She takes a deep breath and exhales, and the world has come back. For a moment there was nothing but the contraction, nothing but finding a path to the other side of that growing pain. But she is through. For now.
I kneel beside the tub and wait, my knees on a foam mat, my head in my hands. Waiting is like prayer. Kneeling there in the dim light, a summer thunderstorm gathering outside, my wife in the tub humming through each contraction, I have this revelation: it’s no wonder older traditions worshiped the female form, this vessel of beauty and power that brought forth life, seemingly on its own.
It’s no wonder older traditions worshiped the goddess. But perhaps those ancient goddesses needed priests in order to hide their humanity. Because we are, all of us, human.
“I need to go to the bathroom,” Maile says quietly, urgently, and I help this goddess from the (holy?) water and into the adjoining bathroom. At some point her determination turns to uncertainty.
“I remember this,” she says. “I remember this point where you suddenly think, ‘I have decided I don’t actually want to do this anymore.’” She looks up at me with her big blue eyes. “I’m at that point.”
“You can do it,” I say, because what else is a husband supposed to say at that point?
She nods and bites her lip in pain, then the breathing.
“ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
* * * * *
Earlier that same day, about ten hours earlier, Maile woke me up. She stood at the foot of the bed, a visiting angel.
Do not be afraid.
“I’m having contractions,” she said, smiling. “They’re about ten minutes apart.”
I was suddenly awake.
“And I think we have to change the baby’s name,” she blurted out, cringing. “It just doesn’t feel right. I don’t think I can do it.”
What’s a husband supposed to say at that point? She’s having my baby, she’s having contractions, and she wants to change the name. Of course. You can do whatever you want. You can buy whatever you want. You can leap tall buildings in a single bound.
So we had to come up with another name. And he was on the way.
* * * * *
“You’re doing great,” the midwife says to Maile after four and a half hours.
“But I’m not,” Maile whimpers. “I want to push but I don’t think it’s time yet.”
“Would you like me to check you?” the midwife asks.
Maile nods, and the midwife pushes her fingers up inside, up into the source of life, the center of the pain. How often that is the case, that the center of our pain will also become the source of life. Maile grimaces, then groans, then cries out.
“Okay,” the midwife says, adjusting her reach, feeling around. “You still have two small pieces of your uterus covering baby’s head. If you push, that might start to get inflamed and then you won’t dilate fully. Can you breathe through the contractions for just a little while, give that uterus a chance to fully dilate?”
Maile nods, then closes her eyes.
“Here comes another one,” she whispers.
“ahhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh…”
* * * * *
There is life in all of us, things that need to be birthed. Dreams. Desires. There is something that has been forming over time, something crucial to us, and it wants to come into being. It cannot stay hidden forever.
But let me tell you – I’ve seen babies being born, and I’ve tried to live out a dream, and none of them come into being without labor. There are contractions, and there is what seems an impossibility, and there is blood. Just when the birth is closest, the fear is greatest. Just when you think it will never happen, the midwife says those words.
“Okay, you can go ahead and push.”
* * * * *
But we hadn’t reached that point yet.
“Ask her to check me again,” Maile whispered, now on all fours, now on her side, now clinging to the headboard of the bed. Now back on her side again.
The midwife checked.
“The uterus is still in the way. If you want me to, and only if you want me to, I can reach in during your next contraction and try to slip it out of the way.”
Maile nods. Anything. She grits her teeth.
“Here’s another one.”
The midwife reaches in while Maile contracts. Maile makes a sound that’s somewhere between a shriek and a shout. The contraction seems to last forever, and the midwife works her hand around. The contraction ends. Maile gasps for breath, while the midwife examines her.
“There’s just one more small part of your uterus on baby’s head,” she says. Her voice is so calm, like still water. “After that, you’ll be good to push. Just breathe through this next contraction. One more. You can do it.”
Maile’s eyes are closed and it looks like she’s fallen asleep. Completely still. Then her eyes press tight and she bites her lip. It’s coming. She cries out again as the midwife works, more urgently this time. The contraction fades and Maile closes her eyes. The midwife smiles.
“You’re all clear. You can push. Go ahead and give us a push.”
Maile’s tank is empty, but there is a goddess in her still, and she bears down. I stand beside the bed and hold her leg up so that she can push on her side. This is it. This is the moment. She pushes and I can see the baby’s crown coming into the light. Then the baby’s hair, lots of it, and the head is nearly clear. The midwife reaches down and without a word gently pulls out the cord and unwraps it from around the baby’s neck. We have five children, and that is always the strangest moment of all, the time before the last push, when baby’s head is there, eyes open, waiting.
“Give us another good push,” she says, and I wonder where that calm voice is coming from – another world, perhaps. Another universe. Maile responds, and out slips a bundle of bones and displaced joints and skin and then it’s coming together into the form of a child. The cord is purple and red and the consistency of rubber. They are attached, the mother and the baby. They always will be.
For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother’s womb.
He lay there for a moment, the boy without a name, and he didn’t even cry. He just stared up at me, his dark eyes wide open. It was as if he was saying, Go ahead, have a good look. I’m here. It was surreal, that moment, when he should have been crying but he wasn’t, when he looked at me as if he knew me, as if he was a new part of me being born into existence for the first time.
I wondered what I saw when I was first born, what my eyes took in, what my skin felt, so fresh to the world.
The goddess lay on the bed, bleeding, smiling as if nothing had happened. The naked baby boy was on her naked body, already rooting around for food, and all was right with the world.
* * * * *
We asked everyone to leave the room and we talked about the name in hushed tones. All of our children have been named after characters in books, but this boy would be named after two authors.
Leo. As in Tolstoy.
Henri. As in Nouwen.
No pressure, buddy.
I’ve always seen Henri Nouwen as a fellow pilgrim. More than almost any other person, his words have shaped my view of a God who loves. I always remember his words about birthdays:
(Birthdays) remind us that what is important is not what we do or accomplish, not what we have or who we know, but that we are, here and now. On birthdays let us be grateful for the gift of life.
* * * * *
The boy lay there and Maile was smiling and I was overwhelmed. I had my phone out and was texting family and friends and then I was on Facebook and oh the ache I felt when I remembered my dear friend Alise and how she recently lost a baby at birth, her little Elliott. I opened up the picture she had sent me of her little boy just after he was born. He was so beautiful, even though he was already gone. I showed the picture to Maile as she sat there holding Leo.
Maile asked me a question with tears in her eyes, a question that I don’t have an answer for.
“Why do some mommies get to go home with their babies while others do not?”
There is life, and there is death, and the two are so entangled here, so interwoven and twisted together that sometimes you can’t see the end for the beginning. I sent Alise a message, telling her that Leo and Elliott will always be connected in my mind. She wrote me a kind, honest message in return.
I thought also of another friend, whose rejection post I am going to share later this week about getting married, wanting to have children, but not yet being able to conceive. Her words are beautiful and deep and wise. She was among the first to congratulate me on the arrival of Leo, and she is always among the first to “like” photos we share of him.
This is life. What can we do but laugh with one another? What can we do but weep each other’s tears? Sometimes both at once?
The day after Leo was born, Elliott’s mother Alise wrote this beautiful letter to Leo, and she quoted Frederick Buechner:
“Here is the world. Beautiful and terrible things will happen. Don’t be afraid.”
* * * * *
I woke up this morning with this boy on my chest. This little lion. His arms reach down each side of me, as if he is trying to hug the world. His breath is so gentle it is barely visible, the way a falling leaf stirs the air around it. I try to count the hairs on his head. I note the tiny formations that make up his lips, his earlobes, and they are a swirl of cells that will grow and change for as long as he is alive.
