I'm Still Watching the Clock

Dear Nathaniel,
Today was your second day of Kindergarten. You didn't want to go. You had fun yesterday, but "it was too long" you said. "Tell me about it" I wanted to reply. You see, when we kissed you goodbye and you walked out the door your brother pointed and begged to go with you, and when I said you were going to school and he had to stay home, his eyes told his story of devastation and he cried his biggest, saddest sobs. I cried right along with him. Because we both knew it would be too long before you were back. He missed his hero and best buddy and I missed a piece of my own heart.
I watched the clock all day. I prayed through the time you were getting to the school and into your classroom. I prayed when playing blocks with your brother and sister because your absence was so noticeable. I prayed when I knew you would be going to lunch because I know new places with a lot of people are very scary for you.  I prayed a lot in the early afternoon hours because I knew the day would start getting long for you. I watched the clock often as the day was getting long for me without you too. I prayed unceasingly when the dismissal time came and I knew you were getting on the school bus for the very first time. I prayed your whole hour bus ride home. I watched the clock all day waiting for you to come back to me. And when you stepped off the bus with a smile I prayed a prayer of thanksgiving.
The truth is, I really don't want to send you to school. I really want you to stay home with me every day. So when you look at me and tell me you don't want to go, trust me, I don't want you to either. Your entire 5 years of life I've been battling to keep you with me, watching the clock whenever you were gone until you would come back home, when all would be right in my world again.


We were bringing you home from Pierre in an April icestorm navigating slushy roads when you were one month old. I road in the back with you because I was sure if I couldn't see you you would stop breathing. I watched the minutes tick by on the digital clock on the dash, praying you would stay sleeping another half hour before we could stop. I desperately wished time would go faster so we could be safely home. You were a great traveler (first and ONLY time) , you woke up to eat and be changed and went back to sleep as soon as we got on the road and slept all the way home. When we got home, Dan held you in his recliner and you slept a very long time. I kept watching the clock, telling him to let you wake up so you would sleep at night, but he just couldn't put you down.


It was 3 am. We hadn't really slept all night because you hated your crib and woke up every time we put you in it. We both looked desperately at the clock and then decided to let you sleep in the swing if that would do the trick. We finally all drifted off to sleep at 4.


5 pm never came soon enough so I could pick you up from daycare. When someone walked in at 4:55 with a problem I tried not to let my sadness show. A year ago I would have been thrilled to solve it and enjoyed the challenge. Now I just wanted to pick you up, the day had been too long to be apart.

It was 2 am, you were 5 months old, the date quickly approaching when you were supposed to leave us to go live with your birth-mom. I was so glad you woke up, so that I could hold you and spend more time with you. There were a lot of nights I wished for sleep, but lately I treasured this sacred nighttime hour with you, with a bottle and rocking chair. I soaked in every breath, every sound. I remembered how quiet the house, our life, used to be before you. I never hated sleeping all night more. I watched the minutes tick by knowing they were going too fast. Knowing the day was coming when you wouldn't wake me at 2 am anymore, when I wouldn't be there to answer your cries.


24 hours. That's the time we got to say goodbye to you. Six months you had lived with us, but you weren't just a roommate. You were a part of us. How do you say goodbye in 24 hours? We played all day. We left the room to cry. We tried to memorize every tiny touch, every hug, every movement. We watched the hours tick by, each one bringing us closer to our worst nightmare. The time came, we had to put you in the car. The car had always been a safe place and always brought you somewhere safe and then back home, but this time was different. It felt like a lie buckling you in. This time I couldn't promise you'd be safe. I couldn't promise you'd come back home.


5 days you were gone before you could come back and visit. I watched the clock all week, wondering what you were doing at that moment, wondering if you were ok, wondering if you were missing us. I prayed you wouldn't be sad and that you were being taken care of. I prayed I would figure out how to live without you, without the constant worry tearing me apart.


When the call came to come pick you up, time stood still. I left work and rushed down to get you, the hour drive an agony knowing once I get there I could hold you in my arms and bring you HOME.


We watched the clock as your months turn into years and we treasured every one individually as a gift of one more day, one more month, one more year with you. We had no promise of the next year.


This May, when you were five years old, we were at the courthouse with all of our family and friends, and I watched seconds pass as time slowed and we waited for our turn. Five years of anticipation builds up a lot of anxiety. But our turn came and then it went quickly and before I knew it, the judge was announcing your adoption official. Five years of worry slipped off my shoulders and fell to the floor like I tossed off a heavy winter coat.


Today, you went back to school for the second LONG day. I still watched the clock all day. I still counted the hours and then minutes that you would come back home. I still breathed easier knowing you were ok when you got off that yellow bus.


I know I'm the crazy mom who can't let go of her child and I know I worry too much. Maybe the difference is that I HAD to let go of you once, and it was horrible. Maybe the difference is that I treasure every moment because I had to find out what the moments were like without you. Maybe I don't trust that anyone else loves you the way that I do. And maybe most of all I know that even a court document can't guarantee me another day with you. So I want all of this day, not just the last few hours.


The good news, is that Jesus doesn't promise us tomorrow, but He does promise us eternity. Eternity with you sounds so incredible. This is why we have nothing to fear. Because being separated is really our ultimate fear. The thing that causes us the most pain. But because of Jesus we will never be separated forever. So until then, I'll keep watching the clock while you're away from me. And I'll keep watching the clock while we both wait for heaven, anxiously awaiting the day when I'm not watching the clock anymore.
And I'm sorry buddy, Daddy says you have to go to school tomorrow.

Sorry I Didn't See You

I was honored to speak with some wonderful ladies yesterday at the diocesan Council of Catholic Women about Modesty and Theology of the Body. It's hard to summarize a teaching in just an hour that Pope John Paul II devoted much of his life to sharing with us, but the main message I shared is that the secret to understanding modesty is to realize the value and dignity of ourselves and EACH and EVERY other person in the world. When we can see ourselves and in turn others as the gifts they are, we easily value and appreciate our bodies. I know I still struggle as I let sin get in the way of seeing each person as God intended. But I'm expanding today on the reality that sometimes it's not the sin of judgment or envy or comparison but busyness that I struggle with.
It's our culture's favorite word to use lately: How's your summer going? ....Busy! How's work? ....Busy!  How's life at home? ...Busy!
We seem to feel being "busy" is what we should be else we be considered "lazy". When we had three one-year-olds all we ever heard was "you must be busy!" We still hear it often with our family of 5. And I know people are affirming our sacrifice, which is a really beautiful thing. Sometimes "busyness" is inevitable, especially when it comes to the demands of a family. But sometimes we create "busyness" because we feel a need to. We run everywhere and sign up for everything and everywhere we go we tell people we are "busy" when they ask.
The problem with "busy" is that when I'm too busy I don't "see" you. I don't encounter people the way I'm intended to. When I'm taking 3 or 4 children out in public, I don't see anyone except them, because I'm completely focused on keeping them safe, getting our tasks done with the fewest amount of meltdowns and making it home with the same amount of children I left with. I often go in and out of a store without making eye contact with a single person. I MIGHT have noticed you were there, but I didn't really SEE you.
When we run from activity to activity on such tight time lines, thinking about work or a million other things on our to-do lists, we visually see a lot of people but we rarely ACTUALLY see them. To see the dignity of a person is to look in their eyes and encounter their story.
Yesterday I spent an hour telling a group of women the beautiful gift they are, and even though I wasn't accompanied by my usual baby gang, I failed to truly "see" them and learn their stories. I've become so used to "busy" that I couldn't snap out of it. And that is NOT ok with me.
A few years ago when I was interviewing someone she told me when asked about a struggle in a previous job where she cared for people: "this is going to sound bad, but when you care for people every day, you can sometimes forget that they are human." She had an incredible heart for the work that she did, and it was refreshing to hear her honesty in seeing the challenge and committing to make sure that she DID see the person she was caring for.
But the conversation came to mind as I was reflecting on dignity and the way we must be sure our children know their own value. I wonder how many times this week did I really SEE my children? How often do I answer their questions while I'm doing dishes or folding laundry without ever looking up? How often do I sit right on the floor playing with them while I'm thinking of work? How many times do I not notice the boys' missing their sister while I am busy missing her? How many times did I look in their eyes today? It should have been hundreds, it was probably only a few. And that is NOT ok with me.
I have been given this incredible gift of these beautiful eyes that show me an unconditional love like I can't even fathom. They have see my ugliest moments and they still gaze upon me like I'm holy. I feel like the most loved person on the planet when I can see their sparkle and fun and intense love all wrapped into a look. They see only the good, only the most beautiful parts of me, the way I want but don't deserve to be seen. Isn't it funny, that I wanted to look into their eyes so that they would know their value and dignity, but it is in their eyes that I have found mine? Not funny I suppose but exactly the way God intended: for it is in giving that we receive. I know that same gift is waiting for me as I slow down and encounter others that God is placing on my journey.
Praying I SEE you soon!

It's Going to be OK

Two months ago, I was driving to my son's preschool conferences towards the end of his school year when something caught my eye. There on the side of the road was a picture of Jesus, put out on the curb for the city-wide clean up, or "junk days" as we call it. City residents can "spring clean" and set large amounts of garbage on the curb for the city to haul away. You can imagine this didn't sit well with me that someone had put a picture of Jesus to be thrown away. I made a mental note of it's location and planned to "rescue" it on the way home from the conference. I wasn't in need of another picture of Jesus, but I couldn't allow it to be treated disrespectfully.


After the conference, Nathaniel and I got in the van and I told him we'd be pulling over to pick up a picture because "Jesus isn't junk". I was in a hurry, needing to get home in time for my babysitter to leave on time. I grabbed the photo not thinking anything of it, but the second my hand touched the   photo I was overwhelmed by the smell of lilacs, stronger than I had ever smelled them. I looked around and there were no lilac bushes close by, the smell seemed to be coming from the photo, and I knew in that instant that St. Therese had sent the heavenly smell. I carried the photo to the car and set it next to me and I knew God was saying "everything is going to be ok."


You see, we had gotten news recently that our girls were going to be transitioning to live with their bio-parents. I was worried about them. I was worried about the effect on our family of losing them. I was wondering what God's plan was and if He really was in control or if the evil in the world was winning this round. And I had been reading the story of St. Therese the Little Flower and knew of her habit of sending flowers or the smell of flowers to people in answer to their prayers. Except I never expected to be one of those recipients. I never imagined that a small insignificant person like me could matter in heaven. I know it sounds silly to say that but even though I believe it about others, its hard to feel that important myself.


So here's the thing, I totally understand if I've lost you because you rarely believe in "stuff like this" because honestly, I'm one of those people. I'm not quick to believe the stories of others "feelings" or miracles they believe happened. I tend to need to experience things for myself and rarely rely on the experiences of others. Except that, while we are usually skeptical of those types of stories, deep down we really WANT to believe them. We want to believe that the Holy Spirit is still alive and working in the world. We want to believe that each of us tiny ants and what's happening in our lives really do matter to God.  But if we believe that some people have had these encounters, miracles, etc, then it also puts our faith to the test as we immediately question "why has God reached out to this person and not to me?"


I have been in that position a hundred times, wondering why God saved someone's baby, but not mine. Wondering why he spoke so clearly to someone else, but left my question unanswered for years. Wondering why some are blessed so greatly and others suffer so much.


As I've become a parent I have learned the answer to these questions.  God is the greatest parent of all, and he knows what all parents come to know: we stop trying to be "fair" to our children by giving to them all equally, and instead we give them what they need. I heard a parent say this long before I had children and I disagreed. We have this desire in us for everything to be fair. Except our parents, and our amazing God know that what is good for one child will not help another. This is hard to understand for our children and for us "big kids" who are still keeping score of who got what. But when we remember how much our God loves us, how can we doubt that he knows what is best for us? And when we remember that we were made for eternity and not this earth, we can appreciate the work He is doing here to mold us and change our hearts, especially when it comes in the form of sacrifice.


I was reading "The Story of a Soul" by St. Therese shortly after we had gotten the news of our girls leaving, wondering where God was in all of it. And I came across " Do you believe that though your prayers are really not heard on earth, though Jesus separates the child from its mother for a few days, that these prayers will be answered in heaven?"


When we lose sight of heaven, something as terrible as losing a child seems unbearable. But when we have faith like St. Therese to know that truly it is only a "few days" in the realm of eternity that we will be separated then we can do it for Him if He asks it of us. We can have hope in the confidence of knowing that someday we will all be together in heaven and nothing will ever separate us.
St. Therese goes on to say in writing to her mother superior "your desire, I know is that I carry out at your side a very sweet and easy mission; but shall I not be able to finish it from the heights of heaven?" If you are interested, go read more about St. Therese and the many miracles accredited to her as she continues to bring souls to Jesus, a work she began at the young age of 15 and continues to carry out long after her time on this earth was done.

So, to finish the story: I got home with the picture and brought it inside. On closer look, the painting is a depiction of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I've heard of it, but wasn't very familiar with the history of the devotion. I started to read a little about it and then got pulled away from the article. I needed to schedule an appointment for B, the last one she would have with me and her bio-parents before leaving me. As was on the phone rescheduling, the only date they were able to get us in was the girl's very last day with us. So I began writing the appointment on the calendar right underneath where I had written "girls return home". But then I saw it, right below where I was writing the appointment there was bold lettering on my Catholic Calendar that said that day of June 3rd was the Feast of the Sacred Heart of Jesus. I knew in that moment He was reminding me that He sees me, that He is in control. I know He knows exactly what He is doing and that "it's all going to be ok."


I started praying the Novena to the Sacred Heart leading up to the feast day, praying for God's will for the girls and our family. A week later, we got news that B won't be returning home and that we may get to adopt her. This is difficult news to process and share because it's incredibly joyful, and the news that her sister is still leaving us is incredibly hard. Yesterday it rained off and on quite a bit of the day and at one point it was sprinkling while the sun was shining. Nathaniel said "it can't be raining while the sun is out!" And I quickly corrected him and said "It can! Then we can see rainbows!" And I knew I was being reminded as I struggle with this odd place of sadness and happiness that its possible to be both at the same time.


We visited M with her birth parents at a park last weekend, and my heart wrestled with the joy of being with her and the hurt of not being able to take her home and seeing her with another mom. But as I wrestled with this place, I knew heaven was just a few days away, where we will all be together, we can all love M and each other and not from separate homes.  Until then I can learn to love more like the Sacred Heart of Jesus, who experiences great joys and great sorrows, always at the same time.

It's not exactly how I would have envisioned my prayers being answered. But He didn't say "I'll give you everything you want" but that "everything would be ok." And that's all I really NEED.


Thank you God that you love me enough to give me what I need. Help me trust you, especially on days when I let worry creep in and steal my joy. It's all going to be ok, it's just a few days anyway.

Where Joy and Sorrow Meet

"Eye of the Storm" by Ryan Stevenson has been playing on my phone all weekend, because that's kind of where I feel we are. We are losing our daughter. After being in our family for almost an entire year, she is leaving. She was only a baby when she came, just learning to walk, starting to use words. Now she's grown into a talkative toddler who charms everyone she meets. She loves swinging and racing her brothers through the house. She sings "let it go" every time I wrap her Frozen towel around her after her bath. She goes to show my husband when she gets her hair done or a dress on and says "pretty!" with a proud smile. She plays hide and seek by covering her eyes and making the voice inflections of counting without knowing the actual numbers and then says "here come!" and goes to find her giggling brothers. She says "bye daddy, I love you" when he leaves for work and chants "mom...mom....mom...mom" until I answer back her name in the same tone. There are a thousand other things I could tell you about her, but all you really need to know is the incredible way that I love her.
And now, I'm being asked to say goodbye to her. It's a horrible, impossible thing to ask a mother to do. How can I possibly look into her precious eyes and say goodbye? How can I, the one person who is supposed to be dependable, let her down by never coming back to get her? How do I explain to her siblings that she's leaving and comfort their tender hearts? How can I be a good mother to my children as I am consumed with grief of losing another? These are the questions I've been pondering.
On Saturday she left for her longest visit, not returning until Wednesday, and then transitioning permanently next Saturday. After she left Nathaniel came over and laid his head on my shoulder and cried. Dan came and wrapped us both in a long hug.
Here is the place where my heart is: I trust God. I know He is good and faithful and I know that if He isn't intervening then He is using this as a part of His plan, for her and for all of us. But even though I trust him, I'm still so sad. It's been a while since we have experienced loss, and I had forgotten just how much it hurts. And its easy to want to close in to that sorrow and let it cover me up. It's easy to isolate and let grief consume me. But God is working to teach me once again that I can't separate life into separate boxes that are convenient for me, and that there's beauty in the place that sorrow and joy crash into each other.
Thursday morning when I found out a final date for her leaving, I was about to walk out the door to a "Girls Day Getaway" planned by my dear friends. I struggled to fathom leaving after receiving news like that, but I knew I would end up trying to hide my tears from the kids all day otherwise so I opted to share them with my friends instead. I was blessed to be allowed a safe place to cry and talk. And by the end of the day, floating on the lake, I was able to laugh harder than I had in a long time while my heart was still heavy.
Saturday morning we said goodbye for the long visit, and then left for a college friends wedding. I had been so looking forward to getting to see so many of my good friends who I rarely see anymore, but after the news it was hard to imagine celebrating. But good friends truly have healing powers and their joy was infectious. By the end of the night, we were dancing with the kids on the dance floor. Nathaniel running and spinning around, Samuel shaking his butt and laying on the floor trying to do the worm, and B kicking and waving her hands to the music and lights. It was so much fun to watch the kids dance and enjoy it so much. And in the exact heartbeat that was flooded with joy of watching them I felt the pain that our family wasn't whole, wasn't all there. Neither emotion drown out the other, they just existed simultaneously.
The song that I've been playing "Eye of the Storm" has been pointing me to the reality that joy and sorrow, chaos and calm, can exist together. Not only can they, but maybe they are meant to.
The refrain says: "In the eye of the storm, you remain in control. In the middle of the war, you guard my soul. You alone are the anchor, when my sails are torn, your love surrounds me, in the eye of the storm."
In my limited knowledge of storms, I know there is a calm in the middle, while the storm is raging and creating havoc all around, right in the eye there is usually a calm. I believe that's where God is calling me to go. I can try to tough out the storm on my own, I can take cover and protect myself, or I can seek God who is always at the center, always in control. The closer and closer I can get to Him, the more peace I will find in this storm, because the two can exist together. But in order to get to the eye I have to head straight into the storm, not try to hide.


I was blessed to be able to read one of my favorite verses at my friends wedding:
Phil 4: 4-9
"Rejoice in the Lord always. I shall say it again: rejoice! Your kindness should be known to all. The Lord is near. Have no anxiety at all, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, make your requests known to God. Then the peace of God that surpasses all understanding will guard your hearts and minds in Christ Jesus.
Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is gracious, if there is any excellence and if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things.Keep on doing what you have learned and received and heard and seen in me. Then the God of peace will be with you"
In the midst of my grief I am constantly reminded of my blessings. "Think about such things". Today I watched Dan playing with the kids, they were all laughing so hard they were almost tipping over. But there were only 3, again someone was missing. The joy and sorrow found their place together and I felt I was being given the opportunity to learn more about the heart of Jesus. As I studied their beautiful smiles and took in the sound of their laughter, I realized that each one of them had come out of a storm. And I remembered why it is so easy to trust Him in the storm, because He's always met me there and always seen me through. It looks so scary and impossibly hard and honestly I really don't want to do it, but I'll trust Him, and I know He'll be here in the boat with me the whole time, always in control.

To the Women who Made me Mom

To my children's birth mothers on Mother's Day:
I thought of you all day today. The country celebrated mother's day, they celebrated me. Except I've always felt a little bit of an imposter on this day. Its a day that has brought so many tears and hurt for so many years as I waited to be a mom and as I mourned the loss of the children I did have but never got to hold.
You changed all that. You saw me and thought I should be a mom. Not just any mom, but a mama to your baby.  Your precious child that you loved for 9 months as he grew inside of you. That you had hopes and dreams for. That you marveled about what he would look like and what his laugh might sound like. You held him when he was born and touched his beautiful skin, felt the miracle of his heart beat and heard the incredible sound of his cry. And you gave the greatest gift you've ever been given...to me. I still can't wrap my head around it. I can't even take in the way that you love him. I think I will spend my entire life marveling at your love and selflessness.
Today, all the moms stood at church to receive a blessing and be honored, but I sat. I sat not because I am an imposter. I know I'm a "real" mom too. But I sat because I thought all around the country there were women "sitting" in pews holding back tears because they want so desperately to be standing. I sat because I knew seeing me standing and juggling my 15 month old in a strapped on infant carrier while I hold my 20 month old on my hip and try to keep my 2 year old from falling off the pew would be like flaunting my blessings in front of someone who still prays to be blessed. I sat most of all because somewhere out there I wondered if maybe you were sitting, not sure if you deserved to stand because your child doesn't live with you. I sat because I realized this day has probably become harder for you now than it used to be for me.  And I prayed that you would know, that you deserve to stand more than anyone else I know. Because you understand what it means to be a mom more than many. Putting their best interest before your own with the absolute greatest cost of giving your child.
I sat and prayed for the other mothers standing, and I prayed that God would bless you greater than you have blessed me. I prayed that you would know His peace and that your sacrifice would not go unrewarded.
I will send photos and letters and visit from time to time and each time I will tell you that I love you, but I don't know if you will ever understand how much. And I will say "thank you" and give little gifts but it won't ever come close to expressing what my soul can't put into words. You made me a mom. Right along side my job as wife, it's the greatest (and hardest) but seriously, GREATEST job I will ever have. To be the one they want to snuggle with in the morning, to kiss a scraped knee, to cut their sandwich just right, to tell their secrets to and give all their best kisses too, just to be the one that they call mom, that is the greatest blessing.
You are, and forever will be, my hero. Happy Mothers Day, to one of the greatest mom's I know!

There Is a Resurrection

Here is the truth that I know: there is a Resurrection. The truth is that from the complete darkness God created light. The truth is that on the darkest day of the world when we killed our own God and it appeared that evil had triumphed, our awesome Father created life from death. The truth that I know is that God doesn't want death or evil or hurt in our world. He never created us for any of it. But He uses it. When it happens, He uses it to for something incredible.  I have seen this played out in my life a hundred times. I have faced difficult, impossible hurts. I have watched him turn them into beauty in ways I could have never imagined. In the darkness of the hardest moments of our lives, it's so difficult to see what He is doing. That is where I am today. Today looks more like Good Friday than Easter. Today it feels like evil is winning and pain and sadness will reign. But there is a truth I will hold on to on days like today: there will be a resurrection. God will bring greatness from this too. He used the death of one man to make it so all men would never die. He spoke light into darkness in the beginning and He still does it every day. He will grow a huge tree from this tiny mustard seed. This is the truth I know because it's written on my heart and because I have lived it over and over again. It's ok that it doesn't feel like it today. I have cried too many tears today. I am watching-my-world-fall-apart sad today. But I'm writing this because I need the reminder, and I think we all do, that God still reigns. When the news is full of stories that rip at our hearts, when every time we turn around someone new has cancer, when kindness and honesty seem like they've become rare traits, we have to remember God still reigns and He is using it, we just can't see it yet. I will proclaim it daily. I will whisper it every hour or every minute on days like today. There Is A Resurrection.

Finding the Moments

I would have classified it as a "bad day". You know the kind... when the people around you are crabby, you are crabby and everything seems to go wrong? Those days I remember I would often tell my husband when he got home to see a completely exhausted shell of the woman he married trying against all odds to just make it through the next few hours until I could crash into bed that "it was just a bad day, tomorrow will be better." Until I started to realize, I seemed to have more bad days than good lately. And if I have more bad days than good am I doing something wrong?
Yes, I was missing it. The most important parts lost in the "bad days."  I want life to be so black and white. Easy to figure out and easy to control.  But what if God knows the real blessings live in the gray? That's when I started noticing MOMENTS. I started realizing that I couldn't classify my life in terms of good days and bad days, but instead in moments. Moments of beauty in the midst of complete chaos. Do a lot of days have more bad moments than good ones? Maybe. Are there some good moments that make up for a hundred bad ones? Yes.

Like when M was giving B kisses in church on Easter. Yes, the whole entire service was a disaster of kids crying and making noise and throwing things and pretty much ruining church for the entire area around us, BUT there was a moment when M so gently leaned across me to give her baby sister the sweetest of toddler kisses and both of their faces were almost touching mine and I just soaked it in. What a beautiful thing to be so close to this precious tiny love between sisters that is so pure. All the chaos was worth it for that moment.

Or last week when 6 inches of snow melted and then it rained for two days making our yard a muddy mess but the kids were desperate to go outside. It was a scramble of running around picking kids up out of the mud, trying to get boots back on in the middle of puddles and wiping off muddy toddler hands without dropping the baby. It was a complete disaster, and yet, at one point Nathaniel was helping Samuel and I asked him to hold his hand to help him walk. He does this so gently and lovingly like only my Nathaniel can. I was holding M's hand and the baby but I managed to get a picture to capture the special moment. This is one I don’t want to forget. Watching them walk hand in hand, Nathaniel helping Samuel along, it’s another moment in the chaos that makes it all worth while.

Later that day, after dragging screaming kids in the house, covered head to toe in mud and freezing but screaming because they still wanted to be outside, I found a bunch of other beautiful moments in the mess of cranky kids before supper. Samuel's proud smile as I cheered for him as he "raced" his brother through the house. Samuel and M's eyes lighting up at the sweet taste of their hot chocolate. M's pride at completing a puzzle. And in between those moments they were taking turns crying, clinging to my legs and fighting. I couldn't wait another minute for supper so we ate early so they would settle down. If this day had been a few weeks ago, when Dan got home I would have given him "the look" and he would have asked if everything was ok and I would have said "it was just a bad day" in my most defeated voice. Instead, I greeted him with a shrug and a laugh about what our life looks like right now, and he gave me a big squeeze and reminded me how much he loves me and just how lucky we are. Right on cue, M walked by proudly wearing her brothers coat backwards, smiling ever so proudly. "I love our family" Dan said, smiling just as proudly, soaking up the moment.

There are so many moments I know that I miss because I’m thinking of something else or I'm worried about something or I'm in a bad mood because something has gone wrong. But I’m reminded today that I can’t judge a day as bad or good, there is no day that’s bad or good, but days with moments that are bad and moments that are good. And it's most likely the contrast of the two that makes life so wonderful. And it's even more likely that the bad moments mixed with the good ones can make something even more beautiful than they can on their own. Like the way the sun and rain create a rainbow. The really magical stuff happens not in the black and white, but in the gray. In between the happiest days of our lives and the hardest is the real beauty. The days that are exactly the same as the one before. The days when the kids fight and the supper burns and the laundry pile is taller than our oldest child. These are the beautiful days when we stop to notice the moments. Like M saying "watch" and showing me how she can walk down the stairs by herself, beaming the whole way. Like B learning how to clap and then laughing so hard about it she almost tips over. The way Nathaniel lays his head on my shoulder when I carry him to bed in the middle of the night or watching Samuel drive his tractors on the window sill and hearing him making the engine noise with his lips for the first time.

It's a good thing we aren't in control. Because if we were, we'd schedule a full life of sunshine and "good days". And we'd never get to see a rainbow. There is beauty in the place that you are now, if only for a moment. Find the moments and you will find joy, not just for a moment but enough for a whole lifetime.