Blessing From That Side of It

Have you ever heard the word “blessing” more than when you are having and/or have had a baby?  I’m telling you, no.  (But I am open to a challenge).    So, lets mix it up.

I am “blessed” regularly in a certain way that I am just finding words for. A space and place that is often overlooked, and certainly not honored in a public or systematic way.  Friends without babies staying close. And even more, friends longing for babies but are still committed to staying close.  Close enough that I get to hear that side of it and be called back to the Beatitude blessing that we humans resist with all our might.

And close enough that I get to see these friends hold Maisey with joy. 

I remember the work, the holy and hard work, on that side of it.

I spent many powerful moments on that side of it.  That side of wanting a child, of holding a child, of losing a child.  Strangely, on this side of it, I miss something of that side.  And it is not the sad addiction to darkness that can often creep in after many years of trouble. 

Especially now, on this side of it, I see my friends on that side of it know something intimately I do not.  At a minimum they know how precious it is to hold this little life in my arms and heart.  And at its deepest ends they know what it is to long, desire, and to not be ashamed of it.  And so I am not ashamed to admit that sometimes on this side of it, I forget the many years and moments on that side of it. 

They bless by not living in spite of the want, but more fully because of the want.  Is it possible, to live more fully because of an honored, unmet desire?  But you, brave beauties, keep me honest.  And whole. You keep me centered and mentor me in the ways of longing and meaning.  You testify to me of the goodness that is in my life and the answer to prayer that Maisey is.  You keep me hoping, dreaming, and believing for more of God and less of that.  Even when that is so very good.  (And adorable, in fact). 

Which, quite honestly, is quite a bit more valuable than mom-to-mom’s about which diapers to buy.   

"Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven."

PS:  Not all my friends that don’t have kids want kids.  Lets go ahead and state the obvious that that is not just okay – that that is a blessing too.  

Last Year at This Time

I keep a daily one sentence journal that circles back to the same page each year.  On this October 1st, I have a little breathing room and am inhaling the present, (a baby from our bodies sleeping in just other room, Dan working on a little painting project, me organizing files for a baby from the Dominican Republic), and exhaling all that last Fall held (a third first trimester in 2013, my husband and I working as much as we can to fund our hopes and dreams, and a home study finally complete and sent off to Homeland Security).

Today I write: Baby sleeping and sitting with the hope of another one on the way.  Yes - another one is on the way...soon...in a Biblical sense...which means, any day... in the next two to three years.  And so I wonder, what will I be writing next Fall?

What a year it has been; and all our little world rejoices.   See?  (photo credit: Taylor Casey)

Glorious: A Woman's Body

I have grown up in a culture that markets almost exclusively to women's bodies.  Advertising to women targets women's bodies.  Advertising to men targets women's bodies.  White culture, Christian culture, middle class culture, targets women's bodies.  Hide your body, ignore your body, flaunt your body, work your body, "hot wife" your body: body, body, body.

Being a women with a body, my journey to peace in my own skin has been bombarded with these messages.  A journey that faith in my not-teeny teen years, massive health issues in my 20s, and being pregnant multiple times in my 30s has graciously shaped and softened.  A shift in focus from form to function has ironically made me feel, and dare I say even look, more beautiful as I move through life.  

(With that I will say, that obviously God puts a lot of detail into our appearance.  Just look at us - each so uniquely designed; we could have been clones on the outside at least.  And there in is the lie: that sameness - looking like the other - is better than unity that celebrates diversity).  

So it crushes me, breaks my heart, to hear again and again, comments about weight, appearance, and blah, blah, blah during pregnancy from so many of my dear friends.  What horse shit!  (I say again, horse shit!  Henceforth to be [HS], so as to let the offense die down).   I mean, its not HS to listen to your midwives, doctors, stay active, keep moving, eat healthy.  Its not HS that your body feels the burden of extra weight and has to loosen and strengthen in different places.  I am committed to my prenatal pilates, yoga, and walking.  I just swung by Whole Foods to pick up my daily allotment of fruits and vegetables during my very full work day.  

But the truth is!, it is glorious to experience the design of carrying a baby.  Double-dog dare I say more glorious than my body keeping its pre-pregnancy form.  My seminary friend's can help me out, but isn't there a mixed-meaning with "kabod" in the Old Testament: "glory" and "weight" and "heaviness."  I mean, our words mean something.  And our women-speak around the glory of our bodies is skewed: "…but it's all worth it though…I mean, you lose your body but you get a baby…you can always get it back…I was awesome until I had a baby"  And let's not even go there with adoptive mamas, "The best part is you get a baby and your body!"  Lord have mercy.  

A woman's body is glorious - in all shapes and sizes, doing all the things it was designed to do.  Attractive, alluring, inviting, curvy, and changing.  Active, moving, working, feeding, and caring. Weighty, and heavy, and glorious.

PS:  I narrowly said something terribly culturally-bound at four months pregnant, when I was bloated and belly-banding it, and fortunately my very dearest friend caught me, "OH NO you don't!  Don't you even go there.  Not you."  What grace.  I hadn't even gotten three words into my sentence, but she felt the pull and knew I needed that "gentle reminder" too.  Bless it.  Lets all help each other.

Is This Your First?

The Wagner’s have some announcements to make, …, in no particular order.  Because, after all, who could chose which to pick to announce first.  So,…, I just flipped a coin.  Like, really, I just flipped a quarter:

#1 – HEADS – Our Dossier is complete and on its way to the Dominican.  I blame the home study process for sucking all my blogging-ness out of me.  Alas!, it is off.  We are celebrating and thankful.

#2 – TAILS – I am pregnant!  And not just a little bit, (she says ironically).  Truly, my body holds a little girl that will waken to this big, beautiful, and terrifying world in early May.  Imagine our joy.

I am six months bodily pregnant, (oh baby yes), and just started really showing this week.  And so, with the new found freedom I feel with a healthy ultrasound, I have been slowly telling people that don’t know our sweet, long, desirous tale of entering parenthood.  And they innocently they ask: is this your first? 

Oh the answers I could give and the ones I have tried on.  The most simple and honest one I can muster is: kind of.  I say with all grace; I do feel deep grace for the question.  Because who would guess that we have had many firsts, and all deserve celebration, and all ask for patience, and all have brought me here: expectant in more ways than one.  And most fully open to all of it. 

Disclaimer: It is so common for a pregnant mother in the adoption process to hear about an aunt’s friends sister who “had the same thing happen! “  And all the reasons why this may be.  Dear friends, at best it is an urban legend and at worst it speaking for God where we cannot.  Trust me, we have all heard these stories.  And trust me, they are not true of everyone.  Lastly, trust me, it is all good.   

Summer Screens: A Fundraiser

Dan and I count ourselves among the lucky.  The lucky middle-classers of the United States of America that have just enough discretionary income to make some decisions about how much to give away and where to invest in what.  We are, indeed, blessed.  For no apparent reason.

And yet, we are faced with a $30,000 bill to build our family in this way.  Which, to even the most stable of middle class American family, will give pause.  Should we really get that mini-van?  Send our kid to that school?  Or, in reality, entertain ourselves that much? We fully own that this is in fact, a decision; financial or otherwise.  And yet, we also have this powerful current in our lives that we honor in words like “calling,” “obedience,” “open doors,” “Spirit-led.”   Those two things combined with the fact that we CAN receive tax-deductible donations for this venture, lead us to fundraising. 

We are, to steal the idea from Bob Goff, raising our own funds; (using our own money); and raising outside funds; (receiving others money).  And, to me, this can be such a drag on both fronts.  (You mean, no more home improvements and trips to TJ Maxx?  What am I supposed to do with my inner foodie?  Not to mention that I am fiercely independent and an extreme “J,” for you MBTI nuts).  And yet, I am encouraged that this CAN be connecting, creative, carefree, and, yes, even entertaining.

Enter Stage Left: nostalgic movies, snacks, drinks, and Colorado evenings outside.  See below…Sha-bam!  Please come if you can and bring your friends.  XO! 

My Last Best Year: Silenced

I have felt like Zachariah, in Luke 1, these days.  Silenced, although so much has been going on: inside me and all around me.  I relate to him: devout but doubtful, faithful and fearful. Dear man, left with no words and buckets full of emotion.  I can only imagine his soul-laden prayers.

When he opened his mouth and spoke, everyone was amazed.  He was praising God, he named his child, and then he prophesied.  Okay, so maybe I don’t relate to him all that much…yet.  (Watch out).

I don’t have much insight into all the happenings of life for me and my Dan, but there is much to report.  Namely, we have entered in to the international adoption world, with one whopping check and mounds of paperwork.  And mounds of paperwork.  And mounds of paperwork.  If you were ever curious about every nook and cranny of your life, there is a process for that: it’s called a home study.  It will only cost you a few grand-ish, plus fees to people like the fingerprinter and the psychologist and the local Office of Vital Records personnel. 

I am not complaining about the process; I see the point of it all.  Really.  I am just wondering what the HELL we were thinking.  But then again, I am not prophesying yet, so don’t quote me on matters of heaven and hell.   We are just busy with the biz and I am a bit bewildered by it all.  Here we go little one; cheers to the pregnant years ahead. 

Heaven's Mothers

When I was 25 and suddenly so sick I could barely move, I had my first and only vision.  It revived parts of my soul that were dying, it gave vision for what I feared was lost, and it keeps giving life to me, especially on this Mother’s Day.

What I see is from the vantage point of a rocking chair on a porch.  I am aware of sitting outside a place I call home, although we are abroad. The shade from the wooden-beamed awning is cool and of course there is a gentle breeze.  I see down the dirt road a cloud of dust moving closer and bigger.  To give me a glimpse of why my heart feels such joy and stillness, the vision freezes for a still shot, capturing the giggling brood the dust holds.  Little faces; blurred, like I had forgotten to put on my 80 proof glasses; all different ages, all different shapes, all different colors.  A toe-headed one and a brown one lead the pack.  I don’t know how many; there are many.  And I know they are mine.

Recently I realize there is one more presence in this scene, having been there all along.  A woman rocking next to me.  In her own chair, content, and at rest as I am.  Her soul sings to me about womanhood; what hips bring.  And motherhood; joy of life tucked in you and fear of life birthed out of you.  I know two things about her: she is black and she is the mother of these babies too.

Today I celebrate the hereafter moment of sheer contentment, when she and I will rock, side by side, and watch our children run to us, happy from their play.  We are rocking, mothering hearts intertwined; knowing but unconcerned, in this heaven, who is hers and who is mine.