Thankfulness
There are few things as ruthless and refreshing as Montana air in the winter. Here, somewhere between Butte and nowhere, time and space lose their traditional definitions. Today is thanksgiving and I am thankful.
Loren. My best friend. The one who I wanted to play cards with and go on hikes with and sing loudly in the car with seven years ago, when you were the quirky guy who somehow seemed to see me as I saw me. Not an object, not a conquest, but the goofy girl from Seven Mile who grew up making mud slides and riding horses. I love that we can still play dumb made up games and fall asleep holding hands. When I read to the girls of prince charmings and happily ever afters, it's you who have made me believe in them.
Jaime. My unexpected firstborn. You taught me how to love someone more than I thought possible as the days stretched into weeks in a sticky hospital bed. You taught me how to make a three pound infant breathe again. You made me appreciate the smallest of blessings, as I held you days after you entered the world, carefully maneuvering your wires and tubes and holding my breath as I prayed for your breathing to continue. Each year you are with us is a little victory. Every cartwheel at gymnastics, report card, and conversation late at night in the stillness of the sleeping house is a gift that, after nearly eleven years, I still dare not expect. Your very presence in my life is evidence of God's grace.
Emily. I was speechless when you entered the world, and nothing has changed in nine years. You fulfilled every girlhood dream of motherhood. The day you entered my life remains my perfect day. From the sweet pain of your birth, to the feel of your moist warmth in my arms seconds later, to taking you home the very next day, you gave me everything I grieved for the first time I gave birth. My sweetest memory of you remains the minutes when everyone left our bedside, and the two of us were alone for the first time. I lay there and marveled at your impossibly small fingernails, your scarlet lips, and fell deeper in love than I thought possible. You teach me to expect the unexpected, to dream dreams and hope hopes. You are quickly becoming not just a daughter, but a friend. I love singing off key to worship songs on the long drives to and from school and talking about Jesus with you.
Abigail. When I became pregnant with you, everything was new again. You were a great adventure undertaken by two people dumb and in love. I ran screaming down the stairs when I first learned of the life growing inside me, and everything with you has continued to be exciting. You entered this world and clung to us. Your first night home, you slept on your daddy's chest, nestled in the comfort of his arms. Five years with you have taught me tenderness, of the joy of burned toast and lukewarm tea and limp flowers. I love being able to say "Remember when..." and knowing your daddy will remember, from day one. I hold you tightly, in my arms and in my heart, loving that I don't have to let you go.
Tirzah. Our longed for fourth daughter. Before church one Sunday, we found out of your life inside me, and we wept and thanked God and first prayed for you. I clung tightly to your little life, with ultrasound pictures on the refrigerator and the sound of your heartbeat on the doppler sweeter than the most gifted orchestra. When we chose your name, it was a beautiful marriage of a girl blessed with a second chance in the Bible, as well as a girl given a second chance in my favorite novel. You were to be our Christmas gift, born only two days before we celebrated the birth of our Savior. The morning I did not feel you move, my "worst" was a preterm birth like your big sister. God used the agony of bringing you into the world, holding your still form, of playing with toes and stroking your hair and saying goodbye, to show me that even my darkest, scariest imaginings are not beyond the scope of His love and comfort. There will always be an empty place at our table. I will always pause when someone asks how many children I have. And heaven will forever be sweeter with the hope of the reunion that awaits one day.
Lily Elianah. Our answered prayer. Every day, every minute of your pregnancy, I worked to give you back to God. I held you loosely and chose to be thankful for each day your heart quickened inside of me. I cried when the test results were bad. I cried harder when they were good. Week after week I fought for you with nonstress tests and ultrasounds, closing my eyes and taking comfort in soft movements and God's sovereignty. When you came into the world, blue and silent, I once again gave you over to your Heavenly Father. Those first cries, so hard fought, were bells. Every day with you is an adventure. I hope I never get used to your little pink pajamas, the way you call me "mommy." After nearly three years, we still call you our baby, and even as you grow, I still see you as the baby I never thought I'd get to hold, the one to complete our family. You remind me that even in the pain of this life, there are ribbons and butterflies and little girl kisses.
The past. Thanksgivings spent at Hill's Resort with the Currer family, skiing out our cabin door and falling into a deep sleep beside Stacy, thinking we would all live forever. The bittersweet holiday, years later, when we knew that it would be our last as a nuclear family as my dad's brain was slowly overcome by the cancer that ravaged it. Staying at Loren's apartment our first Thanksgiving, talking nonstop across the miles that separated us as he spent Thanksgiving in Montana with his family. Bringing Jaime and Emily there to meet them weeks later as he prepared to ask me to spend the rest of our lives together. Hours spent in my childhood kitchen, working alongside my mom to prepare food, learning about cooking and service and Biblical womanhood from the woman that remains who I aspire to be as a mother.
The present. God's provision. The amazing kids and volunteers at Youth For Christ that make us laugh and cry and ultimately look more like Jesus. Carpooling five kids to and from school and watching two two-year-olds besides and reminding myself of the years I yearned to do just that. Tim and Summer and Sara and Travis and Karen and Steve and Ben and Brenda and Doug and Heather and Steve and Wayne and Jaymie and Bianca and Brian and Holly and Trish and Carey and Jim and Sara and all of the other beautiful friends God has brought into my life. My stepdad Larry and Cheryl and Irene and Mark and Mason, and the cord that somehow seemed to draw us together as a family again. My EMT certification, a second chance and a balm to the wounds left from cancer and stillbirth and the inability to save.
And finally, to my Maker, who has given me more than this page could ever contain. To Him belongs the praise for the family laughing inside, for the family gathering without us in Havre and Spokane, for the 29 years blood has coursed through my veins and He has worked in my life. Looking out at the snow capped mountains in the distance, my heart is full in my chest. I am thankful.
Loren. My best friend. The one who I wanted to play cards with and go on hikes with and sing loudly in the car with seven years ago, when you were the quirky guy who somehow seemed to see me as I saw me. Not an object, not a conquest, but the goofy girl from Seven Mile who grew up making mud slides and riding horses. I love that we can still play dumb made up games and fall asleep holding hands. When I read to the girls of prince charmings and happily ever afters, it's you who have made me believe in them.
Jaime. My unexpected firstborn. You taught me how to love someone more than I thought possible as the days stretched into weeks in a sticky hospital bed. You taught me how to make a three pound infant breathe again. You made me appreciate the smallest of blessings, as I held you days after you entered the world, carefully maneuvering your wires and tubes and holding my breath as I prayed for your breathing to continue. Each year you are with us is a little victory. Every cartwheel at gymnastics, report card, and conversation late at night in the stillness of the sleeping house is a gift that, after nearly eleven years, I still dare not expect. Your very presence in my life is evidence of God's grace.
Emily. I was speechless when you entered the world, and nothing has changed in nine years. You fulfilled every girlhood dream of motherhood. The day you entered my life remains my perfect day. From the sweet pain of your birth, to the feel of your moist warmth in my arms seconds later, to taking you home the very next day, you gave me everything I grieved for the first time I gave birth. My sweetest memory of you remains the minutes when everyone left our bedside, and the two of us were alone for the first time. I lay there and marveled at your impossibly small fingernails, your scarlet lips, and fell deeper in love than I thought possible. You teach me to expect the unexpected, to dream dreams and hope hopes. You are quickly becoming not just a daughter, but a friend. I love singing off key to worship songs on the long drives to and from school and talking about Jesus with you.
Abigail. When I became pregnant with you, everything was new again. You were a great adventure undertaken by two people dumb and in love. I ran screaming down the stairs when I first learned of the life growing inside me, and everything with you has continued to be exciting. You entered this world and clung to us. Your first night home, you slept on your daddy's chest, nestled in the comfort of his arms. Five years with you have taught me tenderness, of the joy of burned toast and lukewarm tea and limp flowers. I love being able to say "Remember when..." and knowing your daddy will remember, from day one. I hold you tightly, in my arms and in my heart, loving that I don't have to let you go.
Tirzah. Our longed for fourth daughter. Before church one Sunday, we found out of your life inside me, and we wept and thanked God and first prayed for you. I clung tightly to your little life, with ultrasound pictures on the refrigerator and the sound of your heartbeat on the doppler sweeter than the most gifted orchestra. When we chose your name, it was a beautiful marriage of a girl blessed with a second chance in the Bible, as well as a girl given a second chance in my favorite novel. You were to be our Christmas gift, born only two days before we celebrated the birth of our Savior. The morning I did not feel you move, my "worst" was a preterm birth like your big sister. God used the agony of bringing you into the world, holding your still form, of playing with toes and stroking your hair and saying goodbye, to show me that even my darkest, scariest imaginings are not beyond the scope of His love and comfort. There will always be an empty place at our table. I will always pause when someone asks how many children I have. And heaven will forever be sweeter with the hope of the reunion that awaits one day.
Lily Elianah. Our answered prayer. Every day, every minute of your pregnancy, I worked to give you back to God. I held you loosely and chose to be thankful for each day your heart quickened inside of me. I cried when the test results were bad. I cried harder when they were good. Week after week I fought for you with nonstress tests and ultrasounds, closing my eyes and taking comfort in soft movements and God's sovereignty. When you came into the world, blue and silent, I once again gave you over to your Heavenly Father. Those first cries, so hard fought, were bells. Every day with you is an adventure. I hope I never get used to your little pink pajamas, the way you call me "mommy." After nearly three years, we still call you our baby, and even as you grow, I still see you as the baby I never thought I'd get to hold, the one to complete our family. You remind me that even in the pain of this life, there are ribbons and butterflies and little girl kisses.
The past. Thanksgivings spent at Hill's Resort with the Currer family, skiing out our cabin door and falling into a deep sleep beside Stacy, thinking we would all live forever. The bittersweet holiday, years later, when we knew that it would be our last as a nuclear family as my dad's brain was slowly overcome by the cancer that ravaged it. Staying at Loren's apartment our first Thanksgiving, talking nonstop across the miles that separated us as he spent Thanksgiving in Montana with his family. Bringing Jaime and Emily there to meet them weeks later as he prepared to ask me to spend the rest of our lives together. Hours spent in my childhood kitchen, working alongside my mom to prepare food, learning about cooking and service and Biblical womanhood from the woman that remains who I aspire to be as a mother.
The present. God's provision. The amazing kids and volunteers at Youth For Christ that make us laugh and cry and ultimately look more like Jesus. Carpooling five kids to and from school and watching two two-year-olds besides and reminding myself of the years I yearned to do just that. Tim and Summer and Sara and Travis and Karen and Steve and Ben and Brenda and Doug and Heather and Steve and Wayne and Jaymie and Bianca and Brian and Holly and Trish and Carey and Jim and Sara and all of the other beautiful friends God has brought into my life. My stepdad Larry and Cheryl and Irene and Mark and Mason, and the cord that somehow seemed to draw us together as a family again. My EMT certification, a second chance and a balm to the wounds left from cancer and stillbirth and the inability to save.
And finally, to my Maker, who has given me more than this page could ever contain. To Him belongs the praise for the family laughing inside, for the family gathering without us in Havre and Spokane, for the 29 years blood has coursed through my veins and He has worked in my life. Looking out at the snow capped mountains in the distance, my heart is full in my chest. I am thankful.
posted by The Bakers at 8:54 PM
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