The Difference a Year--or Three--Makes

Every now and then over the last few years I recalled...yes, I had a blog, once. The thoughts were fleeting, just enough to feel a pinch of sentimental regret without being nearly present enough to inspire any lasting motivation--and easily suppressed. But finally, yesterday, I decided I should write something, again. I have, in large part, shied away from it because I honestly felt I had nothing of consequence to say. But that cannot be the whole truth. So much happens in the course of a day, let alone a year. Or three. Why not mull it over in the way I like best, if for no one's sake but my own? So here I am. Writing. A full paragraph where one sentence might have sufficed. (I suppose not EVERYTHING changes...though much does.)

The exteriors are the most obvious place to start. Our home alone has undergone a delightful transformation, awash in new color. I am not sad to see all vestiges of the old, dull brown removed. Though it became familiar and, for that reason, welcoming enough, I do not miss it at all. The house already feels like the cozy retreat it should always have been, though only recently made over. Even my eldest son, who strongly objects to change of all sorts, is quite content with the calming green of the Simply Sage with the warm Spice, cool Elephant Skin, and fresh Vintage Linen accents.

Venture inside and the attuned eye will make note of other alterations. Larger shoes piled in the entry way and laundry room, a pile of journals on the hall table, more notches recording the inches of bare-footed, growing children, a piano for developing musical interests, and the lack of baby things...toys, cribs, high chairs. These were long ago passed on, replaced by big beds with fire-truck sheets, brothers' hand-me-downs, and a mish-mash of adult-sized chairs that nonetheless makes a complete set at the long dining table.

Now let us revisit those notches.

My firstborn has grown half a foot. He reaches to my nose. When we hug I no longer feel I am holding a child. He fits in a way that is other, and I know it is just the beginning of this transition. Soon he will grow in spurts, not inches. It will be no surprise if he has surpassed the top of my head by this time next year. I wonder what those hugs will feel like. Will it still feel like a mother's hug when he towers over my 5 foot 2 and envelopes me with his long arms? He is so astute. He amazes me. We have conversations, and I forget he is 11 because we discuss mature things in a mature way. And this is good. We discuss faith and doctrine, principles and politics! And then, because he is 11, hard, pressing things, too. Peer pressure. Purity. Pimples. Perseverance and hard work. I pray for his discernment and for the strength to continue in what is right.

The next is 10 and not far behind. I pray tear-filled prayers for them all, but most often for this one. There is so much of his Daddy in him, and this is a wonderful thing. I treasure seeing it, reveling in the sweet glimpses of what my dearest might have been like as a young man. But all those similarities, the great passion, the great potential, and the great need, lend to many difficulties. We, especially his Daddy, so want to spare him the harshest of the struggle. And yet I know, too, that we cannot spare him all of it--and shouldn't. Trial is very often God's sovereign tool for shaping and refining our character, a truth I encounter in practice more and more myself. And I want this for my child more than I want ease. Wisdom is essential, here. And I know my need of it daily.

My dear first daughter, she is a beauty. I do not know where she gets it, though her Daddy would chide me for saying so. She is lovely inside and out, and selfless. Selfless in a way I doubt I was at that age. She is always looking to help, anticipating the needs of others before they can think to ask for it. I worry over the way she pours so much of herself into pleasing others, hoping that I can gently direct her in the difference between loving and serving well and hanging your self-worth upon the approval and affirmation of others. She is insecure in this way. I see echoes of myself there and am sad for it. I want to encourage her as she grows that she might be far less burdened than I was and have been, that she might know, now, that we have all that we need in Christ and there is so much freedom there.

The third son brings adventure to my life every single day. In three years he has made the fewest strides in terms of height and continues to be my littler man. He seems completely and mercifully unaware of where he stands, literally, in comparison to others, which is a relief to my anxious Mother's heart. But he has a personality that far outshines his stature. He is confident and daring and full of energy. In three years his speech, once a worrisome concern, has improved greatly, and his love for books is finally translating into the ability to actually read them! These are the strides I boast in. He is without a doubt his own person, remarkably independent and content in it, both silly and serious, conscientious but also creative. I am by turns delighted and exasperated with his behavior, having to remind myself of all the challenges unique to raising a 7-year-old boy--and without comparing him to his brothers. He is a mystery I am still discovering.

My second daughter--here the changes become even more evident.

(Side note: We refer to the pronounced effects of canine age over time as "dog years," and it seems to me some similar concept should apply to small children.)

These "child years," as I have decided to call them, flew by with successions of milestones, none of which I chronicled here. Three years ago this precious babe was a toddler with tiny pigtails. Now she sports a cute bob because she will not let me arrange, let alone brush, her hair. She combs it herself and leaves it at that. She has her own sense of style, too, and I have decided, against all my inner Type-A protestations, to let her run with it. Her attire never matches or coordinates, though I have no doubt it is, in her mind, entirely purposeful. If she had been born decades ago, she could have been a bohemian "flower child," almost unfailingly happy, constantly flashing a sincere, brilliant smile, and always ready to give the best of hugs. She is brave, and she is tall. As tall as her older brother, in fact. My prayers for her are not as clearly defined as the others yet. The changes in her have been many, but I am still learning her strengths and weaknesses, as she is. And so I pray mostly for God's protection and care and that He would grow in her a deep understanding of the hope to which she know clings with a child's faith.

For in the last three years the middle four have all, like their eldest brother before them, made that profession of faith and prayed that simple prayer to their God, placing their trust in Jesus, His Son, their Savior. Every prayer I offer up on their behalf ends with my petition that they would love and know Him more, maturing in this faith, not remembering a day when they have not walked closely with Him. I pray this, too, for my "baby," though he is my baby no longer. He has not yet made that step for himself. But he prays. And I love to hear him pray, to hear the whisperings of his soft heart.

If you have kept up, that means he is speaking now! Gloriously-full sentences. Never-ending questions! He is four, after all. How is that possible, this baby? He runs and jumps and climbs and dances and just made himself lunch. And he laughs with an infectious, joy-filled laugh. He is alone with me, now, all his older siblings at "big" school, and I am enjoying it in ways I did not anticipate, shoving off the guilt of it in an effort to savor every precious moment. Guilt threatens often, though, as the bittersweet recognition comes that I did not have this time, "real," singular time, with any of the other children. I hope that lack will not hinder them in unforeseen ways, just as I hope it will not hinder and spoil this one. But what fun we have! And the places we go!

Soon, very soon, we hope to visit a dear friend for a day trip. She has had big changes in these three years as well. A chapter in her memoir could be aptly titled, "There And Back Again," though neither of us would be so bold as to steal outright from Tolkein. (Blogging doesn't count, somehow.) And we miss her. This is a hard change.

Other changes have been hard, too. In these three years my grandfather suffered from Alzheimer's disease and died. It was a difficult, painful death, and I cannot forget the anguish he was in at my last visit. The memory is tempered only by the sure knowledge that he now knows heavenly peace and rest. I wish that I had been able to see him more than I did. In his confusion, he did not know me, but I would like to think it was a comfort--to my father, at the very least. Six years in Virginia and I have fallen in love with this place. But I miss my family, supporting them and loving on them. That is a hard thing, more so with the birth of a nephew and two nieces in this three years of time. And, soon, a new brother-in-law.

I, on the other hand, will have no more babies, which, for me, has been a new normal. It took at least a year for my mind and body to begin accepting this fact, and I was, in many ways, thoroughly ravaged from mid-2012 until mid-2013. It was a reality that I did not emotionally grab hold of readily, and my body did not make the task easier. After years and years of pregnancy and nursing, I did not seem to know that hormonal equilibrium existed apart from that. I cannot describe that year as anything other than frustratingly manic, filled with mood swings that felt more like tidal waves. High days filled with overwhelming panic and anxiety. Low days filled with dark, despairing feelings and pervasive disinterest. Eventually, slowly, gradually, things seem to have evened out--for the most part. I cannot pinpoint when that occurred but, in three years, I am finally adjusting to this normal.

This normal where my children are growing up, and I am finding my place--and my peace--in the midst of that. I have run two half marathons and a mud race. I have coached soccer teams. I have spontaneously painted my kitchen cabinets. I have written fan fiction! I have attended the Women's Bible Study at our church. I have joined the music team. I have agreed to co-lead a mentoring group. I have discovered wines that I enjoy and butterscotch in baking! I have gotten two thoughtfully-designed tattoos. I have made new friends and deepened relationships with "old" ones. I have turned the pages of excellent books--as well as a few I will never reread. I have taken my first girls' weekend away in years. I have prayed a lot. I have fallen more deeply in love with my husband.

I have walked through hard with him, too. We went through another shoulder surgery, followed by months of intense physical therapy, some of which I still do for him regularly. This I do willingly now and, I hope, graciously.

You see, I accepted his chronic pain years ago. He was thus limited when I married him, and we did make vows to be faithful in sickness and in health, after all. But for a good length of time my prevailing attitude was that this was "his" thorn, the ongoing trial God had allowed for the perfecting of his character and the deepening of his faith through humble perseverance. I did not see how I fit in, other than to patiently put up with it. I did not see. And I was not very patient, though he has always been more patient and understanding with me than I deserved.

But God has shown me in these three years that it was never just my darling's thorn. It was ours. We are one. Why did I not understand the fundamental significance of this before? It has been for my good, as much as his. To teach me to be more selfless, more caring, more compassionate, more empathetic, more gentle, more thankful. To give me opportunity to love and serve well. What better gift can I give him? What better example can I model for my children?

It has been a good journey, these three years. And this has been a long entry, one I hope you will forgive should you actually make it to the end. Perhaps I will write more often, now, and, perhaps, be less wordy in the future. But this is just a shadow of what could have been shared. All that we experience colors us in ways both unmistakable and imperceptible, and it will all bleed into my future musings. Hopefully, if you read, you will read hues that were not there before. Hopefully, the changes I, too, have undergone in these three years will be more evident--and all for the better.