T.O.T.E.

There’s a reason we keep coming back to this place, year after year after year after year after year.

Wow! That was a little bit of time travel…

We’ve been there in the rain and sun and shade and every PNW Spring weather you can imagine, and this place never disappoints.

However, the more kids we add, the harder it is to get a nice group shot.

Speaking of adding kids! Here’s a shot that Mo took with my fancy camera.

That right there is a 17 week old baby bump! The next Baby Elder will be joining us at the end of September of this year.

I’ve gone back and forth on how to announce this baby. Because he or she is actually Baby #5. But from outside observation, this one (God willing) will be our fourth visible kiddo. This is hard for me to explain to people.

Strangers, it doesn’t matter. Since I have more than two the only comment I hear is, “Wow! You’ve got your hands full!” To which I try to respond, “Yes, but you should see my heart.” That seems to be the perfect mix of off-putting and sweet, usually eliciting a smile or two. So whether a stranger knows that I actually have 5 kids matters little.

It’s in conversation with you people that I have the hardest time articulating the role of this baby. It is the people who love me the very most, who draw me into the biggest state of confusion. Because, for me, for our family, Baby #4 will forever be Lucas.

This was made so very apparent to me a couple weeks ago when I said, “Mo! Wouldn’t it be neat if this baby was a boy? Then we could have 2 girls and 2 boys!” (The scientist in me craves that kind of symmetry).

“Mama,” she replied very seriously, “You already have 2 boys. Remember? Lucas?”

Of course I remember. Of course.

And so does she.

And maybe that’s what I’m most worried about. That in the excitement and rush and energy that surrounds this baby, my fourth Little One will be forgotten. I immediately feel silly even writing that, because how? How could that happen? How could a mother forget her child?

I can’t. And I won’t. One of my most sacred Mom jobs is preserving the his memory, and one of my greatest Mom privileges is seeking his intercession.

Then, I guess this is the bottom line and the peace I’ve found: it’s ok if you do forgot. It’s ok if you refer to this pregnancy as my 4th baby. It’s ok once s/he is born if you do a head count and make a joke about 4 kids. I know you love me, love us…love Lucas.

But if you see a flicker in my smile, know it’s because I’m thinking of my fourth Baby, my Lucas. And in that way, because of his little sibling, he will be often remembered and never forgotten.

…

Whoa, that went a direction I wasn’t expecting, but that I apparently needed. Back to adorable pictures of the tulip fields.

And pictures that show my Monica suddenly seeming very grown up…

Four years difference. She’s a completely different person, and still so very much the same…

He is risen, He is risen indeed!

I have hunted many an egg in this yard, the yard belonging to my grandparents. This year, it was my own kids searching for Easter treasure.

I swear there were as many eggs hidden this year (just for these five littles) as the years my countless cousins and I battled. And battle it was. Corey remembers being shoved to the ground by someone (cough cough Jessie! cough) on the way out the door, only to have her hands land squarely on top of the $50 egg.

Yeah, you read that right. A $50 egg.

You understand now why we take hunts very seriously!

And look who found it this year!

That’s my man! Bringing home the bacon!

Or, at least, the egg salad…

My mom spends an inordinate amount of time hiding eggs. It’s an art, really. Blending shell color with the varied pallet of the yard. You have to look up, down, reach in and under and sometimes throw an elbow or two…

Well, that part starts once the grown ups can join.

More important than the eggs or the food (or the money!) is, of course, the family. The smiles. The connection.

In his  Easter homily, the priest extolled the community, “Experience the risen Christ! Find Him in our world! He did not die as Lazarus did, to die again, but to live forever.”

This family, this community, these memories, are as close to forever as I can touch right now.

And it is so good.* Alleluia, Alleluia.

*Not pictured: simultaneous chocolate-induced melt downs, 6 million group shot outtakes, all the whining because SHE HAS A BLUE PEEP!, and the excellent lessons in greed and gluttony: “Mommy, look at ALL THE MONEY I GOT! It’s MY MONEY! and ALL THE CHOCOLATE! It’s MY CHOCOLATE!”

It’s time to get outside.

Still soggy from the recent rain, and looking at more in the forecast, we soaked up as many rays as we could.

Also, it is really nice to have a DSLR again. Unlike a little rain, the sea destroys even your favorite electronics. How rude.

In light of the fact that Dominic is alive (!!) here’s a post I started several weeks ago, celebrating everything that is this boy:

“Oh Dominic, you are so goofy.”

“Oh! Dominic, don’t bite your sisters.”

“Oh Dominic! You know so many letters!”

His second birthday is coming quickly and he is everything an almost two-year-old should be: funny, inquisitive, loving, snuggly, trying, fight-y, attention seeking, and full of personality.

Somehow (don’t look at me!) he learned the majority of his capital letters several months ago. I say again, don’t look at me! I remember diligently going over lessons with two year old Mo, working desperately on her stubborn non-verbal-ness. Dominic, on the other hand, was walking through a mall with me at 20 months and (much to my surprise) pointed out letters in the giant store signs.

I know, I know, Mom brag. But please believe me when I say (again) this had nothing to do with me, and everything to do with 1. His sisters and 2. Our pretend Leappad laptop where he sits for minutes at a time pushing each button over and over and over and over and over and over… “A….A….A is for…A…A…A…A is for…A…A…”

I don’t think I actually even know what A is for…

In other updates about him, he is ridiculously sweet. There’s a lot of hugging, baby holding, and running around with his sisters. A lot of fake “CHEESE!” grins in the direction of the camera.

He is also the younger brother of two head-strong sisters. So, there’s a lot of fighting, some hair-pulling, tower-knocking, pencil-stealing, and sometimes some biting.

He has access to all the girl toys he could possibly want, and still prefers his brmm brmms (cars), nnnnnnrrrrrmmmm (airplanes) and ball! (balls) to anything else in the house. He might sometimes walk around in little high heals, and the girls think it’s great when he wants to play dress-up in princess gowns, but for the most part he is all about the boy toys.

He uses a lot of words, and some that are his own invention are starting to disappear. For this Mama’s nostalgic heart, I’ll list them so that later I can say, “Aww…remember when Dom used to say ‘brrm brrrm’ instead of car?”

Better!—– Sweater
Better—— Spider (as in Itsy-Bitsy)
Bap——– Lap
Tee!——-  Thank you
Tee!——-  Please
Doh——-  Dom
MopeeseMopeeseMopeese!—– More Please!

He also has some of the best exclamations:
Oh-tay!
Oooh Maaan!
Aay-men!

We mostly call him Dom, or Dom-Dom. He calls his sisters MoMo! and Oooooh! I’m Mama! Andy is Da-dee!

He’s an early riser. We’re talking between 5 and 5:30am, bright and chipper and ready to start the day!! Which, I know is a common wake up time for any of you out there in the working world. But it wasn’t the norm for us. Andy and I finally adjusted our own bedtime, cause there’s just no keeping this boy asleep past the butt-crack of dawn… Good thing he’s so cute and snuggly.

We still rock him to sleep for nap and bed time. He offers cuddles and hugs of his own accord and is concerned when someone is sad, patting backs and getting blankies. In general, he listens well when I ask him to share or trade, and runs to find his “BOOTS!” and “BETTER!” when it’s time to pick up the girls from school. He spends a lot of time in the van. Probably because I spend a lot of tim in the van… but he (usually) loves looking around at the sky and traffic and whatever else he can see.

Both the girls are in school Thursday and Friday mornings, and I’ve enjoyed the time I have with just him. Sometimes we head to one store, and I let him walk. We hold hands and I shuffle through Freddies at his pace, not mine. Other times we just hang out at home. I’ll beep-boop on the computer or put away the dishes. He’ll play with the toys (all alone!! no one to bother him!) or “read” books, popping into my space now and again to hug me or ask for a snack. He’s excellent company. Which is weird to say about an almost-two-year-old. But true, none the less.

Oh Dominic…

We love you.

Karissa held Lulu tightly. They splashed and chased the waves. All was fun and sunshine and laughter.

Until it wasn’t.

The ocean is a fickle thing.

At first, I couldn’t tell if they were in trouble, but then the water just kept coming. Lulu already on her hip, Karissa reached out to catch an unknown toddler from being tumbled by the wave.

And then they all went down.

I started jogging from the shore towards them. Lulu is not going to like getting wet like that, I thought. Then, there were screams from behind me. I turned, too late to realize that the water had kept coming. As I looked, the same wave took Dom out mid-thigh, knocking him flat on his back.

Two angry wet kits, great. This trip is over, and we just barely got here.

I went to scoop him up, but, again, failed to realize that the water just kept coming. I fell. Water filled my boots, sand filled my pockets. I looked up just in time to see Dom surge past me, rolling north, up the shore.

The sand pulled my arms and legs, dragging me down, weighing me down. But as I watched the water continue to rise and Dom continue to roll, the panic started, replacing my blood with adrenaline.

I ran. Boots sodden. Leaden. And Dom kept rolling, just beyond my reach.

“Oh God! Dominic! Oh God, Oh God, Oh God!” I said. Screamed? Whispered? I couldn’t tell. I was just running. All I could do was watch for his tiny face as he tumbled through the shin-deep water. Sometimes floating face up, eyes blinking quickly in surprise. Sometimes floating face down.

“Oh God! Dominic! Dominic!” I ran. I ran as fast as I could. The water kept pulling him away. I watched as a stump about his size rolled next to him, over him, floated past him. OhGodOhGodOhGodOhGod.

And I ran. I tripped. My boots slogged through the water, lead weights sinking my body into the sand while my racing Mama-heart tried to fly ahead of me. Tried to will the water to stop. Tried to control the entirety of the sea.

Still I ran.

But I could not run fast enough.

I was never going to reach him. He was going to roll and tumble for eternity. And I was never going to catch him.

I know, now, how babies are ripped from their mothers in a tornado, or drown crossing the sea… Subconsciously, naively, I believed I would just hold tighter, swim harder…run faster.

But I could not run fast enough.

“Oh my God!” came from behind. And then someone ran past me. Ran faster than me. Bare feet, long legs, breaking free of the sucking tide. Simultaneously jealous of his stride and encouraging it, I watched him run towards Dominic.

And I kept running.

He dove, planting himself around Dominic, scooping him out of the tumbling wet, clutching Dom’s small body to his big chest.

And I was there.

Finally, my traitorous legs delivered me to my son. And he was in my arms. And he was crying. And it was the most beautiful sound I’ve ever heard. More beautiful than his laughter, more beautiful than his daily “Mama!”. More beautiful, even, than his very first cry.

…

They’re called sneaker waves. The waves that come out of nowhere, and just keep coming. But… Sneaky seems too innocent. Dominic and Lulu are sneaky. The waves that beat them down, tumbled them around, seemed more sinister. Or maybe more indifferent. They need a different word: striker or tumbler or drowner.

Only later did I hear from Karissa that the waves just kept tumbling she and Lulu. At some point, as she clutched my daughter, she didn’t know what was up or down and feared she wouldn’t be able to figure it out before they both drowned.

But her knees felt sand and she dug in. Holding fast, holding solid, knees battering against the ripping tide. She looked up in time to see a hand, a hand that pulled them out of the water, and then she ran to the shore.

Lulu was screaming, Dom was screaming, and we rushed up the steps to escape the sea. Our dripping bodies were greeted by curious stares and a genuine, “Are you alright?” from a few. Apparently, when the screaming started, someone had vaulted the 10 foot cement view point to help the people below. Karissa’s saving hand, perhaps? Collapsing in the sunshine, we caught our breath and flooded the sidewalk with salty water and salty tears.

Our blankets, laid intentionally on dry sand, were washed away. Our phones, once tucked in our pockets, are buried in the bottom of the ocean. Useless bricks for some future treasure hunter. Camera? Ruined.

But my people? All safe. All healthy. All whole. Because, there were many, many angels with us in those terrifying minutes and in the hours after… ethereal and corporeal. They held my daughter tight. They caught my son when my arms weren’t long enough, and my legs not fast enough. They covered us in blankets. Found my keys. Found Dom’s favorite car (brrm brrm). They listened to Dom’s lungs, and offered us free showers to wash the sand from his big blue eyes.

There are lessons to be learned: Don’t trust the ocean. Teach my kids to be brave people of action like those who helped us. Hold tightly to the Little Ones. etc etc

But I’m not in the lesson-learning phase yet.

I’m still in the trauma phase.

Regardless of miracles I saw and felt, I find myself stuck, playing the loop of Dom being pulled by the current over and over and over. He was in the water for 30 second? 45 seconds? A minute? I have no idea. Those seconds passed as an eternity for me. An eternity is plenty enough time to scar a heart. I can’t even get started on the “what ifs” without the panic rising: What if Mo had been there too? What if I had gone alone, like I originally planned? What if Dom’s savior hadn’t been on the beach? Would I have watched him float face down until the water receded? What if, what if, what if?

And I have to stop.

Because those thoughts are just like that surging tide. They will sweep me away to a dark, drowning place where it is impossible to take a breath.

And so I look at my kids. My kids who are still breathing. My kids who seem remarkably unscarred by the whole thing. And I try to pause the terrifying loop. I try to hold my scared and scarred Mama-heart tenderly, and tell myself to let go of guilt and shame and all those unforgiving Mama-feelings.

I hold Dom on my lap. The tears come, and I work on catching my breath. In and out. In and out. Hold him tight. Pause the loop. In and out. In and out.

And once I can come up for air again, I exhale a battered thank you into the top of his head.

January 2015

December 2015

I’ll reiterate what I wrote in our Christmas card, that it’s hard to describe 2015 in words.

Pictures do a much better job:

Thank you for being here. For reading this. For observing and loving and being community.

Merry (6th day of) Christmas, and a Very Blessed 2016!

And he didn’t stutter.

In the face of crisis, of hatred and of rhetoric. In the face of suffering and pain, He told us exactly what to do:

Feed the hungry. Clothe the naked. Don’t turn a blind eye. Because that is me. I am they. They are Me.

And people are responding to that declaration. There are people ministering to refugees in a very physical, real way. They are the healthy hands and feet of Christ, ministering to the suffering hands and feet of Christ.

“Look for the helpers. You will always find people who are helping…” said Mr. Rogers’ own mother. And there’s nothing quite like childhood nostalgia to stir a deeper, better part of ourselves.

I’ve found some helpers, and I want to share them with you.

Please read this by Glennon at Momastery. See the update here. Her visceral, truth-telling, truth-seeking style should move you in unexpected ways. Her charity, The Compassion Collective, is bringing hope and love in the way of baby carriers for tired arms, flood lights to save drowning children in the night, and strollers to keep children’s feet from rotting.

Or look here, to Medical Teams International, consider assembling a refugee kit (or 5), especially if you live close to me. There’s a drop-off site in Tigard, OR. A team is in Syria dropping off donations as we speak so that babies can be diapered, hair can be washed, and hands can be sanitized.

This is the time we celebrate the birth of our Savior, our Redeemer, to a small Middle Eastern family. A small family who, shortly after the birth of a son, became refugees themselves… fleeing for their lives at the urging of a dream-angel.

How many refugees today imagine freedom from terror and violence in their dreams? How many feared for their lives, so fled for the lives of their families? Meet the refugees in these photos, from the photographer at Humans of New York. Scroll down to meet 12 refugee families who have been approved to resettle in the United States.

They were all fearful; they are all fleeing. They are women and children and men and grandfathers. They are Mary and Joseph and Baby Jesus. They are people with names. Human beings. Each a body and a soul, deserving of all the dignity, respect and love due anyone with a spark of Jesus incarnate. Any of us.

Once you meet them, you can never not meet them. You can never not know their stories. My prayer, in this season of the greatest story ever told, is that their stories cause us to declare without stuttering, even in the face of hatred and rhetoric, I see you, I love you and I’m going to help you.

Lord, Let us be bold as You were bold. Amen

On November 1st, All Saints Day, we held a memorial for Lucas Emeth.

It was a beautiful, moving, healing time. We were so blessed to be surrounded by the love of our friends and family. I know many of you prayed for us that day, and some of you wished to be there in person. Thank you.

Here are some photos of that time (taken by our dear friend Samantha).

I prepared an Altar, of sorts, containing special items that reminded us of Lucas, and photos taken during the time he was with us.

We opened in Prayer (Dan Graves lead our service),

Amanda read from scripture (Lamentations 3:17-18, 21-24)

Karissa was cantor for the responsorial psalm: The Lord hears the cry of the poor

After some intercessions, Andy, the girls and I packed up the items on the Altar, placed the jar in a couple bags and then wrapped it up with the Altar cloth.

Andy and I buried the Memorial Box and then planted a rose above it (thank you Nikki, who also brought all the Marigolds).

After some time in silence around the Memorial, we re-joined everyone inside for our closing song: You are Mine

And then we served lunch, and were surrounded by love and laughter. Just as we desired.

…

A couple notes:

See? See all those people? See all the love? It was there, and it was felt. What a beautiful celebration for even the smallest among them!

The music was, by far, the most moving part of the ceremony for me. I had even considered cantoring the Psalm myself, but I’m so glad I didn’t. As everyone joined in the first response, I was overwhelmed by a sense of one-ness and togetherness. There’s something about a group of people singing together heart-felt prayer that gave (and still gives) me goosebumps.

Those songs, often sung in Mass, will forever remind me of Lucas. And for that I am grateful.

I very much liked the physical-ness of burying something. I know we didn’t bury him, but it is a beautiful thing to see a physical space that reminds me of him out my kitchen window. That, coupled with the life-giving symbolism of planting something in the same space…it’s just very meaningful to me.

Plus the kids love to play in that space.

“I love it when you’re over there kiddos. It feels like Lucas is playing with you.”-Me
“He is Mama! He’s climbing the tree with me!”- Mo

We asked people to bring toys, to help celebrate Lucas’ Life, to celebrate the Joy he brought into the world. And we were overwhelmed by the response. Friends and family, near and far, mailed toys, donated toys, and brought toys. Thank you.

Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

We are still searching for just the right place to donate them, but we know they will bring joy.

It was supposed to rain cats and dogs that day. And the day before it poured. Like set records in Portland kind of pouring.

My favorite.

(not)

But instead, the sun shined. It shined and shined and shined. And I very much consider that a gift from my Son.

He knows me so well.

…

Emeth. That’s his middle name. It’s the Hebrew word for truth, but its meaning is closer to fidelitas than veritas. It speaks to the faithfulness of God, which is a truth that will set you free. It is a heart truth; not a head truth.

That seems to be a theme with our Lucas.

St. Lucas, pray for us. Especially for us.