No, Alone I Cannot

As a new mom, now 10 weeks postpartum, I've been craving friendship. Only not the sort you find yourself needing on a whim out of vacant affirmation. I'm desiring women of all stages and phases of life to be deeply present in mine. I need my married friends with and without children as well as those who have adopted, fostered and sacrificed in ways I never have. I need to know how it is even remotely possible to manage the constant hunger, need for affection, and hygienic-demands of more than one child. This is an unresolved mystery to me now that I am racing (and often tripping) through each day to meet the needs of ONE. I need my single friends; need to remember what it is like to ache for someone else's name to attach itself to mine -- the desire to feel as though I belong within a unit out from under my parents' roof. I need the wisdom of the old and the young, the new and used hearts. How often I wish I could take back the fleeting comments I've made to women in different stages of life, of which I was utterly naive. I can recall saying to friends of mine with young children, "So what else are you doing these days?" How  ridiculous I must have sounded to them. A single friend of mine in her 30's recently told me about a conversation in which she invited another married friend of hers to a local, late night happy hour. The married friend responded with "oh how I wish I could be single again, without the responsibilities of a husband and children...Happy Hour sounds like so much fun." My single friend retorted (on the inside, of course), "Really?! Because I would trade a cheap cosmopolitan and bar fries for a husband who loved me, any day of the week." Now, as someone who married rather young and has endured her fair share of heartache, I can honestly say that there have been many happy-hours mourned. Still, the assumption on both parties (one being that marriage is the ultimate attainment for life-long satisfaction, and the other, wishing it were so and longing for women without the "chains" of that commitment to recognize their freedom) is foolishness. I think it is too easy for us to assume that the depth of our current stage is the ultimate and final plummet. Truly, do we ever "arrive" at such a maturity as to leverage us unable to accept the wisdom of those on another side - whether that be single, married, celibate, dating, parenting, adopting, laboring or attempting to conceive? I have heard the most profound wisdom from the mouths of children. Why is it that so often we conclude others (though they be a few years ahead or behind us) incapable of the same? I'm craving friendship…and wisdom; wisdom I do not have, though I am a daughter of 27 years, wife of 5 1/2, and mother of 1. I will continuously lack the wisdom God has generously (and I do think purposefully) endowed to those outside of myself. Could it be that we were created for not only relationship but discipleship?…I simply do not have what it takes. I never will. The sooner I recognize this and hold tight to the hands outstretched in my direction, the sooner I will climb the mountain before me. I have never been so aware of the fact that my portrait, my design, was not meant to stand alone.

Heartbeat like a little train, forging on, through the fray

Sometimes in the quiet I can hear it

You send me up into the night, a mother's hopeless, endless flight

of worry I can't be a better fit

And oh how little I've become for you, certain there is more to do

before I introduce you to the air

But in my dreams I see your face, your honey eyes and chubby waist 

and overcome, I linger and I stare…

Sweet Afton

I am feeling exceptionally honored today -- honored that the king of heaven would entrust such a helpless, fragile, and beautiful thing to my care. You fold into my arms like your indentation has always been there; like a puzzle piece suddenly found between the couch cushions, changing the entire canvass into something meaningful and distinct. Your face is quite decidedly the most beautiful thing I have ever seen. Marriage has always demanded a sort of heroic love -- one that requires a great amount (and frequency) of choice. In this way, no love will ever truly compare to what I have with and for your daddy. But this love…you…you ignite an entirely different sort of flame within me, the fuel for which I will never cease to carry in abundance. It is as if I was given no choice but to love you. My very bones ache when you cry. My feet scurry faster -- faster than they've ever moved to your side to dry every tear and wrap you in an embrace of affirmation … a hundred times a day I will do this with my conscience awake, yet scarcely noticing I've done so. The pronominal reflex now within me is utterly unavoidable. I need to be with you, and you with me. To have it any other way would be a reconstruction of my very purpose, design. I wonder if this is a "limitation" God placed on Himself when He chose to create. I wonder if He decided to long for us with the same (yet infinitely more perfected) passion, unquenchable and inexhaustibly deep. I look at you, baby boy, looking back at me, and I see Him like I've never seen Him before. Lost in a sea of love I wonder, how could He have ever given His son over to torment and death? There is so much more to this life, this world than I can see. How certain I am of it now. There is so much more to this story -- His story. Oh that I could be a hand raised for love! Oh that I would raise you, a boy, into a man, fixed on His love … That I would stand ready to do for Him what He, the King of Glory, has done for me. 

Author of Love, make me one such hero in the faith. And give my son a double portion -- that he would never wonder at his purpose or worth as Your own. Allow him to see that there is so much more…so much more than this. 

15 Things to Avoid saying to your Pregnant Wife; Credited to Joshua Michael Andrews

1. 1/12/12 – “If it’s a boy, we should name him Carl Winslow Andrews. That or Frodo-Samwise-Baggins Andrews.”
2. 1/16/12 – “Babe, seriously, you have NO idea how tired I am.”
3. 1/28/12 – (during first ultrasound) “Ok, is it really that uncomfortable, or just cold? We probably need to ‘up’ your pain-tolerance for what’s to come…”
4. 2/5/12 – (behind the camera lens) “I think I see a belly! Oh, wait…we did just eat lunch.”
5. 2/10/12 – “I want a baby girl. Yes, I’m saying it; a baby girl. But only if nothing bad happens to her…ever. And she becomes a nun. Ok, I want a boy.”
6. 2/16/12 – “How soon can I start tossing the baby in the air?”
7. 2/18/12 – “So, you don’t really want to just be home with a baby all day, right? I mean, there’s only so much sleep a person can get before life gets boring…”
8. 2/20/12 – (After watching me struggle into a favorite pair of jeans) “That’s ok baby. I’ll just lose all the weight you gain!”
9. 3/15/12 – “Listen, I found our stroller. Its $1500 … hear me out … the wheels convert into skis.”
10. 4/7/12 – “You ready to go, Chubbs?”
11. 4/18/12 – “I think I’d like to skip the baby-phase and just go straight to the play-with-me-all-day-dressed-like-batman-and-robin-phase.”
12. 5/28/12 – “Hey, you actually look normal from the back!”
13. 6/4/12 – (after being hospitalized for preterm-contractions) “Ok, I’m not saying you’re a woos, I’m just telling you now, you’re gonna get even fatter and hurt even more soon…just so you know.”
14. 7/2/12 – "Ok, what if we did open a bottle of anniversary wine and I just drank your portion...?"
15. 8/13/12 – (After I exclaim that "my legs are officially elephant-trunks" in utter exasperation) "Well that isn't so bad. An elephant's trunk is the smallest of their appendages..."

…I decided to start writing these down…more to come, I’m sure of it.

The Belly Button

I've recently been enlightened about the belly-button. One of many irrational fears I've held since I was young, is that if someone were to poke me slightly too hard in the center, chances are, their finger would go straight through.  I believe it was my sister who first positioned the anxiety for me.  After telling me that my “outtie” was strange, I began to push it in, working it slowly into an “innie” over the course of several weeks. After all, calling something a “button” only seems to invite the habit. I was successful in my endeavor and one day, proudly displayed my new “normal-looking” belly button to my sister.  She was a mastermind and simply replied, “Well, be careful or you’ll poke a hole right through your belly!” From then on, I formed the opinion that should this occur, my "button" would be much like the tab on a pop can, broken-off and lost in a sea of carbonation; likely to never resurface. It’s a scenario many of the leading villains in my nightmares have used against me. For this reason, I’ve steered clear of conversations on or anywhere around the belly button. 

With my newly protruding mid-section, on many nights I’ll find Josh drawing invisible pictures on my belly with his finger, talking and reading to our baby. As he was doing this a few nights ago he asked where the baby gets its nutrients. For some reason, my answer was “the belly button, obviously.”

“Oh”, he said, cocking his head to the left slightly and continuing with his canvass.

                At this point, if you are even slightly educated, you’re probably terrified by the thought of Josh and I parenting the future generation in t-minus-zero-months. In Josh’s defense, he may not have been paying attention to what I was saying, but I certainly was, and naturally began to question my logic. I suppose I assumed that my belly button had developed into a long cord (the umbilical cord) on the inside of me over the first few weeks of pregnancy and connected itself to the baby’s belly button.  He/she was drawing nutrients from a thin layer of tissue (which I deemed to be the placenta) lining my stomach around the cord. Perfectly sensible. Completely inaccurate. This idea planted fresh anxiety into my already wandering mind – How on Earth will they disconnect the cord on the inside of my belly button once the baby is born?? Does it simply tear off at the stub naturally, or will the OB need to bury an arm up to their bicep inside of me to make sure it’s a clean cut?! I’ve seen the umbilical cord of babies cut before. Wouldn’t the very same sever be necessary on the inside of me?! Again, if you’re thinking this is a practical hypothesis, we should probably be friends. If not … we should probably be friends.

Around the table at Josh’s mini-birthday party last week, a few gracious women I know opened my eyes to the obvious. I’m still confused of course…(my bloodstream providing all essentials this little one needs isn’t any more sound of an explanation in my opinion), but I am less afraid and feeling much more positive about the ordeal, not to mention, my belly-button. :)  Speaking of bellies, here is one with a 6.5lb baby inside...

Latest Song: Terebinth Seed [Isaiah 6]

Speak now
I am listening to you
Hoping you still recognize my face
Look deep
I've been known by many other things lately

Like tongues of fire lick up straw
And dry grass in the flames will sink
My roots will all decay before you
Like puddles in the Summer's heat
And it will all blow away

I cry, "I am ruined. My hands are unclean."
Then you speak
And I can't remember what it is you said
But you knew me by name

Like tongues of fire lick up straw
And dry grass in the flames will sink
My roots will all decay before you
Like puddles in the Summer's heat
And it will all blow away

Sweet Seraphim fly
Pressing coals to these lips
Then my guilt will escape me
My failings, acquit
Oh atonement is such a lovely retreat
But I fear I'll be left
With a terebinth seed

And like puddles in the Summer's heat
I will just blow away
 

Michael Anthony O'Connor

Father’s day is around the corner, so I will start with this; My Dad is amazing. It’s true -- He is faster, stronger, more handsome and entirely more capable than any other on the planet…or at least, that is my opinion on the matter.:)  He has shown me the meaning of manhood, what it is to support a woman from start to finish, in sickness and in health, and how forgiving the follies of others should be like breathing air – consistent, necessitated, and more frequent than you expect on hills. He taught me to always trust in God's ability to speak to me, over my ability to hear Him, and is the kind of man you feel the presence of God around, reminding you of His love with only the sound of his voice across the phone. Pondering my “trials” as a child (as we all have them), I can say with confidence that I never once felt betrayal from my Dad. I never felt his contempt on my face or carried it in my heart. I never thought for one moment that he would stand me up, miss a game or concert, and never wished in vain for his arms to hold me. The ferocity of his love and the gentleness with which he was able to convey that is a rare amalgamation. In high school my choices in dating were well below par, and on a particular night at the age of 17, I arrived home from a date far beyond my appointed curfew. I feared my Mom’s reaction the most as the all-too-familiar shadow of her form would be waiting for me at the top of the staircase, unable to sleep and sick with worry. Finding my Dad awake in his room at the foot of their bed however, was a new scene; entirely unanticipated. I made excuses, denied accusations of unreliability, and threw out the repeated allegation that they were indeed “simply trying to destroy my life”.  My Dad, who’s calm demeanor has always made him a comfort to be around, suddenly and firmly launched a fist into the pillow beside me. I don’t believe I had ever seen my Dad’s fist clenched until that moment. He said “Shannon, until you have children, you will never know the pain of a parent watching their child head down the same road and into the same mistakes you have made. Your Mom and I would ‘destroy' ourselves a thousand times over before watching you do it to yourself.” I can't thank you enough Dad, for being willing to say what was difficult yet honest -- for refusing to "sin in your anger", but rather, communicating righteously, with stern conviction, and out of a deep love.
I think of Proverbs 27 as I look back on this moment, “Better is open rebuke than hidden love.”

My wedding day is obviously something I’ll never forget. This is not only due to the man exceeding my dreams at the end of the isle, the tapestry, floral arrangements, loving community of friends and family, but also because of my Dad. As nerves ricocheted off of my heart, streaming through my bones and touching every part of me previously held together, my Dad’s arm at the entrance to the sanctuary kept their steady hold. I remember breathlessly whispering, “I might fall over”. Without hesitation he replied “I won’t let you fall.” And though I’ve heard a similar line in countless movies scenes – promises of un-ending love and support from men to women, I think for one to truly believe such a promise is extraordinary. I believed him then and still do today.

Though he isn’t a man of rapid and fluctuating emotion (nothing of course in comparison to my Mom and I) there is one, solitary moment in which I witnessed his tears. About two years into marriage, Josh and I encountered a slew of unanticipated trials.  Anger, addictions, and a severe distrust surfaced between us, nearly destroying not only our marriage but the relationships we had with our first love.  At its height, I spent weeks writhing in the agony of heartache and bracing myself against an army of hopelessness, beating down the door of my soul. Time away from work and school to be with family in Salem was a retreat I found necessary in order to gain my bearings and feel a sense of security once more. After taking similar time away for himself, Josh made a trip down to where I was. Head on the steering wheel and hands unsteady, I waited until he drew up the strength to pull away and walk inside my parent’s home.  My Mom was waiting on the stairs just as she had so many nights when I was a young girl; my Dad of course, in the next room as we entered together.  The grace of God in positioning His confidence and humility in Josh that morning is something I will admire deeply in my husband until the day I die. In brief and choked-back sentences he re-iterated the vows we had made years earlier, repented of those which were broken, and directed his plea for forgiveness specifically toward my Dad – the man who had “handed me over” to him on the basis of these promises-kept. But before Josh could finish the speech he had prepared, my Dad’s tears broke into the room; the same fist I had seen long ago, pressed now to his forehead, straining to contain a flood of tears. He suddenly stood from his seat across the room and ran at my still-shaking husband.  Taking him into his arms, Josh beseeched his forgiveness over and over again. My Dad's repeated cry in response has set its seal on my heart forever; “I forgive you….I forgive you….I forgive you...”. These fractured words between them were all that could be heard amidst their sobs as the very heart of Christ radiated from every corner of the room. As the weeping continued, my Mom and I (for perhaps the first time) sat in silence, stunned and unable to gather ourselves in response. A song from “Cinderella”, one I had heard a thousand times as a little girl played back in my heart, “So this is love…”.

My Dad has been a father to the fatherless, a fearless and gentle commander, and a lover of the unlovable. His unwavering commitment to the Lord and ambition to not only know the depths of that love, but communicate it to others has been an inspiration to me. He has taught patient endurance to a family with a stark inclination for the opposite. On the way home today, Josh and I  verbally wrestled with the ever-approaching titles of “Mother”/"Father" we were both to receive, and all that its meaning would demand. Josh closed our discussion by saying, “If I can be anything at all like your Dad, I will die a very successful man.”

Happy Father’s Day to my incredible Dad. 

May we raise up more men in this generation like you.