A Call After Dark

My telephone rang last night at 10:45. As I went in search of the handset, the mechanical voice announced, "Call from Kieffer, Steve." My dad. As a general rule, happy calls don't come after 9 pm. I braced myself. "Hello?" A slight pause on my dad's end, "Hey Maroon. What's doin?"

It was in the beat that he took before he spoke. It was the way my childhood nickname sounded gentle and fatherly. The dark cloud of tragedy has broken on our little family again. My beloved cousin has been issued her fate: Nothing more they can do. Cancer has spread. Go home.

Those words collected into little pools and then overflowed into the realities of loved ones near and far, each of us trying to stop the flooding. How can we bear this storm? How can we reach our arms to shield one another from the pounding force of eternity? There is nothing more we can do. We need to go home.

It seems that all too soon the drops of the storm and the oceans of our grieving will lift up our sister and deliver her to her rightful destination. She will see her own Father - the architect of the storms and the eternities and I hope we will have to courage to wave her on. Go home, dear one. Go home.

And we sure will miss you.

A Life in Pictures

Two weeks ago, I took my youngest daughter and spent a long weekend with my parents in California. There was a moment in a little sidewalk cafe in downtown Oakland where the light was streaming through the arches of the architecture in the most perfect way. I got sort of swept away by it all and had my parents pose for what appeared to be a very candid picture.

I even had my mom put on my sunglasses so that the look would be uniform. You can't tell by their closed mouths, but they were making fun of me as this picture was taken.  I loved the resulting photo and guess what, so does everyone else who's seen it, including them.

This weekend, the children had their annual piano recital. The dress code for the event is shirts and ties, minimum for boys, and dresses for girls. With all the traveling we've done over the past several weeks, our laundry pile looks like something off of that old Niecy Nash show Clean House. When we got up that morning, Ben couldn't find a button-up shirt to go with his tie. He could find a plaid shirt and his tie but they did not go together at all. We searched and stressed and sorted until finally he remembered the old Easter shirt that he didn't like, but would have to do for the day. We curled and primped and styled and ironed and at the very last minute as we were walking out the door, I snapped the following picture:

They are indeed the very picture of loveliness, aren't they?

But here is what I have learned about taking pictures: They never tell the whole story. My life is composed of so much more than the perfect little snaps that I have taught myself how to grab over the years. My life is filled with laundry piles from clothes dirtied in our front yard without grass. My life is filled with untidy kitchens from ignoring messes to go wipe runny little noses. My life is filled with children standing in corners, writing sentences, and refusing to write book reports. My life is filled with endless projects yet to be finished and endless projects yet to be started. We lead a big, bustling, messy life. Every once in a while, though, I like to take a lovely picture with everyone smiling neat and pressed to remind me of the beauty through the mayhem.

Perfection? Perfection in this life is subjective, I suppose.  Our only goal is to reach perfection in the eyes of our Maker. If in this life they learn to love and honor God in the Blessed Trinity; to love and respect one another; and to treat others with the dignity and respect that they would want for themselves, then I will call this life a success.

Photos only tell a fraction of the story. Please judge us only by our fruit.

Give me an EPIDURAL!!

Dumb chick alert: I read People magazine.

Ah.  That hurts to admit. But I do. And sometimes, when I am bored or sick (like I am today.. both) I click on the links at the bottom of the page to see what is happening on more salacious or scandalous tabloids. Today I stumbled across this bit of crap:

http://thestir.cafemom.com/pregnancy/139954/model_miranda_kerrs_judgy_comments

My dad says that 'interesting people do not talk about people.' My dad also spray painted the words "Reptilian Brain" on the wall of our garage, so what does he know?

Here's the deal folks - having been around the labor and delivery block a couple (plus 3) times I feel at liberty to comment on this story.  I have done it both ways.  I have delivered three big, healthy, alert babies without so much as a tylenol in my corner.  I felt powerful, ultimately feminine. When it came time to deliver my 5th precious child, I didn't have the stuff it took to fight that battle because here's the deal folks: 

Labor sucks.

It is stressful, it is scary (at times), and it hurts like hell.  So, knowing all the information, I chose the path of least resistance.  I opted for the epidural. Truth? The medication can pass from the spinal column and over the placenta and to the baby.  The baby can be a bit groggy. That did not make one eeensy weensy bit of difference to me at all. And so you ask, what was the experience like? Well, it was peaceful. I could listen to the doctor without the mask of mortal pain and process exactly what was happening. I loved it. Was it a selfish decision, Yes. But, Lucy's birthday was indeed one of the best days of my life. Should God decide to show his incredible sense of humor and bless us with another child, I will do it the exact same way.  Groggy baby or not.

I love Miranda Kerr.  I am proud of her for sticking by her principles and choosing the path that she felt best for her child and herself. I just wish the people on the other side of the argument would own their position, as well, risks, selfishness and all.