Seeing the Miraculous

I'm always worried what's in my head won't translate well to writing. But I also really want to write a lot right now. Recording what's happening to our family is the best way I know how to process this and to sort through some of the harder days. Harder weeks? Probably weeks. 

Maybe just last week. Probably just last week...

I wish I could proclaim that my Faith never wavers, that I'm always on, that I can stay positive. That the long days of the hospital and the long drives home and back don't bother me. I wish I could tell you I don't get jealous of other peoples lives and the way everyone else seems to be moving forward while I feel absolutely stuck in limbo. 

But all of that would be a lie. 

I was so angry last week. I was sad and frustrated and exhausted and grouchy. Dean got way more tech time than normal because I wanted to escape through reading and I wanted to tune out the world. And the problem with that is I can only do it briefly before the next doctor/nurse/tech/social worker/child life/ nurse manager walks into his room...

The hospital feels both extremely busy and extremely slow. 
What a weird place to live your life...

Having one child in the hospital and three at home feels like slowly being worn down, like a dull knife. I'm not sharp, I cut nothing, I'm barely functioning. Dean gets 75% of me because he needs me, my girls get the other 20% and 5% of me is lost in LA LA Land...the brain cells don't cell very well. 

Which is why, typically, on a Saturday night, I turn into an absolute nut case and I stop being able to function. Which is great when I have three little girls who want snuggles and attentions and kisses. The panic attacks came back. Its the worst when I think about having to organize and pack up my things and the girls things...and have dishes to do...and gifts to pack for Dean...I didn't even attempt laundry this weekend (shout out to my Mother in Law who told me not to worry about it and bring it to her, do you know you're an angel?!). This Saturday I called in the troops, aka Crystal Hill Book Club, who cuddled, swept, did dishes, discussed books and made me laugh and stayed until I could breathe properly. Until the weight that was sitting on my chest lessens...and I can cuddle my girls. 

On my drive into DC today, after my friends husband had our van checked because the check engine light came on after Church (are we laughing? We should laugh right? I mean, if I don't laugh, I'll cry again, and I think I'm dried up) I was thinking...

Here's my miracle. 

I prayed for miracles when Dean was a baby. I begged God to heal his heart, to make this easier, to not give this to us. I begged Him to pass us up...and He didn't. Those first three years with Dean were so special and so brutal and so faith building. I was challenged in ways I never imagined. And then we had Ana and Daisy and Dean was so healthy and we have those beautiful seven years of peace and home and stability. 

And here we are, in a month and will be longer. Waiting for the next steps to make sure our boy is safe to come home. And stay home. 

And here is the miracle...

That I got out of bed and showered and looked nice for church. 
That my Pastor hugged me this Am and it felt like being hugged by my Daddy. 
That my friends drop their lives to support us, watch our girls, and be in our house with me. 
The miracle is that I walk back into the Hospital, down this hallway, into this room and that I smile at my son. 
The miracle is Dean dedicating his life to the Lord all of his own in the dark one night while we were here. 
The miracle is that I haven't walked away from a God who I full well believe could heal my son, and that I choose to believe that it's for our good and His Glory. 
The miracle is a Faith that shouts and sobs and cries and yells and still says, "Yes Lord, You are good."
The miracle is that my marriage is still strong despite seeing my husband like two hours tops a week right now. 
The miracle is the envelopes that keep getting slipped to me and the emails that say "For whatever you need."
The miracle is the many people who deeply love our kids and have sent things to them just for fun. The people who don't just see my son but our daughters who are always hurting. 

My faith isn't perfect, and I'm crawling in the mud right now, but I'm keeping my eyes fixed on Jesus and not the hard. I'm crying the whole time, mad about it, and boy does it look ugly...but I came back to the hospital, I'm here. 

I'm ready for the next week. 
And that's the miracle. 

Hello 2026-Let's Chat

 Fun fact: my blog still exists. Isn't that just precious? 

Time and life and mundane has kept things blissfully chill, or as chill as they can be with four kids who we're raising. I've written here or there but not at all like I did when Dean was a baby and we were dealing with a very heavy medical diagnosis. 

Well here we are again. In patient for almost four weeks and...it looks like it will be longer. March 26, days before my Grandmothers funeral, I was concerned enough about our son that I called Cardiology. They were concerned enough that they told me to take him into the hospital. We tried INOVA first and very quickly were told that we were going to go to DC Children's National. 

From there we have started dealing with a disease we knew very little about, Plastic Bronchitis. 

And I am still completely floored. 

My nervous system goes back and forth from being semi ok to stressed out to crying to we totally got this to why is he coughing again to my dude you're not sick enough not to do math. Have you ever had a child in the hospital? I pray you haven't. This time around is much different from when he was a baby and I struggle to know where I can talk about what he's going through while protecting his autonomy and his privacy. He's ten now. Dean is ten now. We haven't had an extended hospital stay in seven years and believe me, I know what a blessing that is. I truly do. Ten is old enough to remember. Ten is old enough to have opinions. Ten is old enough to have his own meltdowns because he realizes how this is very very much not our norm. 

I still want to write about all of this. I have been. I've been journaling and recording what I can when I can, and I've never been shy about sharing where we are. I want this to be about what I have seen however, my experiences as a mother, not so much about Dean. He gets to tell his stories when and if he is ever ready. 

We were not ready for this, and yet we were. This year alone Blair and I have has a lot of date nights where we really dived into some harder conversations Of course we talked about our son. What we went through and how its not over. Little did we know those dates and that conversation would be the glue that held us together during all of this...

Right now I spend the week days at the hospital with our son while Blair works and does his best to see our girls in the evening. We have friends who go to feed and pet the cat and who magically wave wands make sure my house stays clean and doesn't smell gross. On the weekends I drive back home and spend some time with our girls and, if I'm being honest, I cry. I cry a lot. I usually end up asking a friend to sit next to me to baby sit me because when I'm home trying to make choices feels impossible. Our girls are so out of sorts and want us to all be home together and this just gets longer and longer and longer...

Today we found out it will be longer yet. 

We want Dean home. We want him home safely. And we want a life at home. I don't want to be tethered to a nebulizer and as it stands that's what it would be. It's not good for him. Its not good for any of us. I want my kids, all of my kids, to really truly LIVE their lives. Including our son. We are seeking the best possible way to make that happen for him. Unfortunately that takes time. 

Time for doctors to confer with other experts. 
Time for us to be apart from one another. 
Time for Dean to be bored out of his skull in the hospital. 
Time for Blair and I to have virtually no time with one another. 
Time for his body to get the help it needs. 
Time for another heart cath lab. 
Time for another lymphatic procedure. 
Time to be still and heal. 
And one, time to go home. 

I am asking my ten year old son to do something that feels impossible. To trust us and wait. When all that little boy wants is his own bed and his sisters and his living room and the food he likes. 

I question myself nearly daily. I ask my friends, you trust me, right? You know I would come home if I could, right? You know we're doing our best to confer with the doctors, right? I want to be home, together so bad I now dream about it, when I can sleep...

Despite all of this, despite how "good" my son looks I know his body needs more help than I can give it at home. And I will continue to fight and advocate for him the best that I can. And I see the Goodness of God in all of this. 

In the waiting and the unknown, I see God's goodness. 
In the hospital rooms and hallways, I see God's goodness. 
In our Community and Church, I see and feel God's goodness. 
In the drive to and from the city, I see God's goodness. 

All the prayers, the gifts, the support, the generosity, the people who have gone out of their way to help us or our girls, my in-laws who have completely rearranged their lives to love on our girls, the money that gets slipped into my hands for gas or whatever else we need...I'm overwhelmed and humbled by it all. I'm shocked that we are here again...I'm amazed at our community. 

I'm trying to remember all of it. The people who clean my house so I can just let my system relax and be with my girls. The texts and videos from friends reminding us that life does, indeed, still happen in the out, the friends who show up anyway when I say I don't need them to. The way plans have been altered or changed because they want to include me...

Someone once told me, "It's just as humbling to realize how deeply you're actually loved" and I feel every single part of that sentence right now. Every time I start to think, "I should be able to handle such and such a thing" I'm reminded I am handling it...and that asking for help and support help me handle it. Like Aaron holding up Moses hands, I'm being propped up right now so I can be present for our son. Our bills are being paid, our girls are not just being taken care of, but enjoyed and loved and wanted. They aren't a burden, they're a blessing. You all have no idea how much that HELPS me during the week. To know people are being GENTLE with them while their lives are in absolute upheaval...that people see past the attitudes or whining to the little girls who miss their brother and Mama...

We are not done here. It could be one to three more weeks of being in patient here, maybe even more, plastic bronchitis is no joke, its hard to treat. I am still processing that information and working on the best way to help our son handle that information. I am deeply thankful Blair was here today to help me hear that information...and to process it. I'm thankful Blair got to take him down and do something fun because Dean needs to do that with his Daddy and I very much needed a moment of quiet. 

If nothing else, please know, our Faith is strong. I know it will carry us through this, just like it did seven or ten years ago. The same God who saw us through Deans first three surgeries will see us through this stay and this procedure and all Glory to Him honestly. 

We get to decide how we respond to this.
I am choosing to respond with turning to the Lord and not away from Him. 
I am encouraging my children to do the same...I am asking such big things from them right now...and I am in awe of the way they have risen up and are meeting this challenge head on...

I'm amazed by them, all of them, honestly, they make me brave. 

One day at a time. 

God is good. 
All the time. 
All the time. 
God is good. 

Kitchen Cleaning Thoughts

 It's been a very long time since I put my thoughts here. A lot has been happening and a lot will continue to happen because that's how life works, right? 

I was cleaning up the kitchen tonight and wiping down counters while bopping along to my music. I have two little girls who are waiting for snuggles and a happy boy who picked Mary Poppins to watch for our family movie time. The new to us $15 dishwasher is running, the dishes are all done, the living tidied. Its quiet. I have happy tired kiddos. Our bills are paid. We are loved. 

While puttering about in my kitchen tonight I was wiping down the kitchen island we have. And thinking about the amazing couple who gifted it to us. There are already scratched on the top where I have cut things when I shouldn't have. The handle at the end in missing as well, too many kids hung off it before it finally broke. We've made pasta at that island, served dinner to others, its seen a lot of pizza there as well. Every time I wipe it down, I think of our Tyler's. I smile. I pray over them. I thank the Lord for them. 

I put up some important tax papers I found today. I forgot I stashed them somewhere and I knew I needed to put them away or I would be mad I lost them later. I have a cool way to store important documents now, because my biggest brother said to me once, "It doesn't matter HOW you stay organized so long as it makes sense to you and Blair." He was right. We've gotten much better about that because of him. When I put things away now, I always think of him now. I did today. I smiled. I prayed over him and his family. I thank the Lord for them. 

There are drying flowers in my kitchen. I moved some down to my desk, and put some of the roses I got Blair for Valentines Day up to dry. I love seeing those bundles and remembering why they were given and when. The bundle from when we were all sick and friends brought soup and flowers. The flowers sent to my mom this December for her and my Dads anniversary. I dry my flowers because Blairs younger sister does. She has these bundles all over her room. When I see these bundles, I smile. I pray over her. I thank the Lord that I love my sister in law. 

I look around my kitchen and I see and feel the influence of so many lovely people. People who have shaped and changed me for the better. Wanting a stand mixer because of Chelsea, loading my dishwasher the way Carly does, the supplements I take because of Megan, the magnetic picture frames on my fridge from Michelle. The sign Danielle sent in the thick of Deans treatment, the utensil holder from Katharine, the magnets from Mimi, not to mention that post cards! So many wonderful post cards from so many wonderful people! There's so many people I could name. Each one so special to me. Each one making me stop and smile. Each thing reminding me to pray for these people I love so deeply. 

I love seeing it all. Tonight it made cleaning the kitchen feel like being with friends, hearing their conversation and laughter in our little house. Marveling at where we were and where we are now. How perfection has taken a backseat to life, how messy it can be, but how fulfilling and loving. 

We are made up of all the people we love. 

I don't think I will ever be over the community that has become family that I have worked so hard for. All the ways I have absorbed their influences, and how deeply I feel humbled by that kind of love. 

Shields and Warriors

 I'm not at all sure when Anxiety became part of my every day life. I would love to say it was when Dean was little and we faced such big struggles with him. I would love to pin point and say "this was the moment it all changed for me." 

I can't though. It drives me nuts if I can be honest. 

Today, friends asked if we wanted to meet up at the Library, about 25 minutes away, a place we have been so many times, a place I used to work at. I could tell you how to get there. I love that Library. Today is also Monday and for the month of May you can get free coffee from Dunkin on Mondays (you're welcome for that one). It took forever, but we finally loaded up and got everyone in the car and I headed to get my free coffee before taking everyone to the Library. While on the way there, the temperature gauge on the van steadily crept higher and higher. 

All of a sudden it felt hard to breathe and I was having a hard time focusing. My leg started to do that leg jiggle thing it does when I get anxious. And all I could think was "I know I said I would meet friends at the Library, but I want to go home. I want to go home I want to go home." 

So we did. 

I pulled into the driveway with the kids and explained I wanted Daddy to look at the van before we did anything, that I just felt anxious. That sometimes we do hard things (even if seems simple to others) but sometimes we don't have to push ourselves and do hard things. We talked about how my body was scared and I didn't want to spend our time at the Library feeling that way. My wonderful kids climbed out of the van and act snacks on the front lawn in the sun while I texted my friends. I texted Blair. Any time the van acts off in any way, even if I know what to do, it makes my whole body feel off. It makes me panic. 

There are some things that struck me about this whole thing today though. 

One, I love my people. I love my friends, so much. I love that while I struggle with these every day simple things they have never once made me feel bad about it. They have all been amazing and supportive and honestly, I don't know how other people do their lives alone. I also appreciate that my friends, while they respect what happens in my head and what it looks like for my life, they challenge it. Sometimes it IS time to do the hard things and suck it up. I love that they can tell when those times are and when its ok to let me have those moments. "Come anyways, you need to", or "Well fine then, I'm showing up at your house" or "Hey friend, we understand, it's ok"...I can't believe these are my friends...

Two, I get frustrated with myself. I am simultaneously so happy we are home and so disappointed in myself...I don't want my life or my kids lives ruled by Anxiety. My own or their own. It doesn't get to win. And today it feels like it won. I have worked very hard for over a year to get a handle on some of these bigger feelings. I have been in therapy and I am unashamedly on anti-anxiety medications. I am openly talking about it when I can. And I am not glossing over the fact that this a war waged with the ruler of this world. Between me, Jesus, and the medicines and knowledge we have been given, I am fighting this. So the days when it feels like I'm not winning? I just want to sit and cry for a little while. 

Three, one of the best things about homeschooling my kids is that we have a lot of freedom. Field trips and day trips and whatever else we want, we can do it. I want to have adventures with my kids. I want to feel brave again. I don't though. I don't feel brave. I feel like the only reason I do take my kids places is because of those aforementioned friends. Driving any where over an hour from my house feels...impossible. The people who pay the price of this more often than not, are my own kids. This seems very unfair to them...

On these bad days I try to think about when this really started. This Anxiety that I held to my chest and begged God to take. I remember the summer when Dean was a baby and how scared I was that one mistake would kill him. I remember the injections and medication schedules. The immense pressure I felt as a mother to a small baby with a heart condition. Not to mention a not even two yet toddler. I remember those long days and the friends even then who showed up. For play dates, for support, to help me. I remember calling a friend for help during a panic attack, she showed up and gave me Rescue Remedies and helped me calm down so I could take care of my kids. I remember calling my mother...multiple times asking for her help. I remember the first family vacation we took and having a panic attack from one place to another because I was overwhelmed by how many people we were around. 

I wish I had gotten help then. I wish I had started therapy then. I should have. 

The course of my life has shifted and moved. We learn and adapt, we try new things and handle the next thing. This is just another part of my story. Just one more thing I am working through. Even if I have a hard time accepting that its ok. It's ok to need space, ok to need a moment, ok that some days I don't push myself to do the hard things. It's never been an excuse to me though, and I am more thankful for the people who don't let it become an excuse. 

I never in my wildest dreams as a teen thought that I would label myself as an anxious person. I never thought I would have panic attacks and I find it ironic that in my twenties I was put in places where I walked other people through theirs. I hate how out of control it makes me feel. How off my entire body feels during and after one. I hate the...triggers. I am starting to be able to pin point them and work to combat them, but some days they still get to me. 

It will not always be this way in my head. It will NOT. 

Above my sink, every day while I'm doing dishes, I see the verse 2 Chronicles 20:15 on a tin sign that my best friend sent to me when Dean was a baby. "The Battle is not yours, but God's."

I am, beyond grateful, for God who is in my corner, helping me battle this, and the friends He sends along as shields and warriors on the days I feel beaten by it. 

Anxiety can feel so stupidly isolating. 

But here is the truth, I am not alone in the war I'm waging on my own thought processes. 

And I find immense comfort in that...

The Gift of Authenticity

 I came down to my desk today while Daisy was napping to get some work done on some commission pieces. But I remembered I needed to send an email and then I remembered I had a blog in my head and now I want to write. 

Lately I have felt a stirring in my heart and soul. Something coming up, something mixing around in there. A call to be more involved, to be studying, to be reading. A shift in what I'm doing and how I'm doing it. Not only to disciple myself, but my children. I am not satisfied with Sunday Morning mediocrity right now. If my Bible isn't open in the days between Church, I just don't feel like I'm doing it right. 

I want more. For me, and for our kids. 

As I think more and more about what I want for my kids and for us as a family, I can't help but think about my own parents, my mom and my dad. 

Both would admit to not having all the answers, both would admit to being sinners in need of Jesus, just like me. Recently some conversations about authenticity have come up in my life. What does it look like? Who are the authentic people in your life and what characteristics do they have? What makes you want to be around those people? Would you consider yourself to be an authentic person? Would you consider me to be authentic? 

When I think about my parents and the faith that they each showed me, I would consider both of them to be authentic people. I'm not sure I appreciated it as much as I should have when I was younger. In my skewed sense and own misperceptions I'm sure I felt they were "hypocritical" at times. But then, I think I threw that term around like confetti at a party without really taking to heart what I was saying. My parents were the same person at church on Sunday as they were on a Thursday night. If you came to our house and Mama was mad? She was still mad. She didn't stop being mad because someone else was there and might see her be mad. My Dad was still the grouchy looking guy on Sunday morning that he was on a Friday night. I saw them be mad, I saw them cry with people who held grief, I saw them fight for people who needed someone to fight for them. I saw them pray. Deep heartfelt prayers to an audience of one. It didn't matter if we were praying before dinner or together in the living room, they were talking to Jesus, and I knew that. 

I don't know if my siblings feel the same way I do. They all have their own perceptions, opinions, and life experiences that I may not have. The parents that had my oldest brother are vastly different than the parents who had me or my youngest sister. Their ideas changed and they grew with each of us. Of that, I think all of my siblings can agree. 

Now I have kids of my own. And this has changed so much about me...but in all the best ways. I have benefitted so much from the way motherhood has shaped me. The mom I was when I had Ellie is different than the mom I am now with older kids who are able to do things on their own, but who still has two little toddler girls who require much of me, still. 

As Ellie gets older I am starting to think about who I want to be when she is  32 years old and thinking about her own childhood and her own memories. 

I want my kids to see me as the same person Sunday morning as the person I am on a Wednesday afternoon, or a Thursday night when I'm exhausted. I never want my kids to feel like I put on an act in Church on a Sunday morning. I long for and seek out authenticity. 

I want to pray over and out loud with my kids as much as I do my friends. I want to talk about the Bible with them, share what I've been reading and the way it shapes me. I want to make sure they know the deep truths of the Word, the way Jesus loves them. I can teach them math, and history, science and geography, how to read and write, but if I'm not teaching them about theology, and Jesus...am I really doing my job? Am I really being authentic? 

I am not perfect, nor do I want to be, the last guy who was, know what they did to Him? No thanks man. But I do want to be as like Him as I can get. He is good and kind and patient and gentle and had so much self-control. I want to be so rooted into Jesus that the fruits of that spill out of my life in the most beautiful ways, starting here in my home, with my kids. I won't do it right. That's not self-deprecating, its just the truth. 

I feel like there are all these things we try to do to give our kids a good future as well as a good childhood. There are plenty of things I do differently than my parents. I am not my mother, nor am I my father, but. I am thankful for the people that they were and are. For the way they taught me to be part of a community, to love, to feed, to welcome people in my house. For being the same person on a Sunday morning when they were annoyed with us all for making them late, to a Tuesday night when my Dad called us all into the living room to pray out loud with one another. For my moms tenderness, for my Dads strength of conviction. For both of them admitting when they were wrong and trying to learn better ways. For the laughter and the worship. 

I am thankful for the authenticity my parents gave us, gave me. And my prayer is that I can give that same authenticity to my children. In all my sin and mistakes and issues, I know that I can admit, ask forgiveness and move forward.    

My mom was here with us in March and something has stuck with my since she's gone back home. She came to our co-op one day, helped watch the babies, was there when we sang our songs, read our devotional, corralled children. She pulled me aside and told me "Your Daddy would have loved this, he'd be so proud." I felt disorganized and loud and silly and she'd seen me holler at my kids, and here was, telling me how proud she was, how proud he would be. That day, there didn't feel like there was anything for her or for him to be proud of. I was simply living my life...

Yet there is something precious about letting people get a glimpse into your life in a beautiful and real way. No changing. No pretending. No acting like I have it together when I for sure do not. 

So come on over, any day of the week. If there are crumbs from cracker packets on the floor so be it. If there are dishes in the sink, so be it. The person I am on a Sunday morning is the person I am here in my home, loud and joyful and silly and compassionate. When I raise my hands in worship on Sunday, I raise them in my kitchen too. When I pull you into a hug to pray for you at Church, I do the same for my kids in our living room. 

I decided I want my kids to see me live a life of authenticity, I have to be willing to be vulnerable enough to be that way. It's not easy. The desire to hide the messy is always there. Heaven forbid you know I'm grumpy at my husband (which happens y'all, I love him, but he's a man. And men are sometimes....well. They're just men!), or that I haven't folded the laundry, or I left dishes in the sink, or that I narrowly avoided a panic attack right before you showed up (that actually happened this weekend when a friend asked if she could come by!), or there is cracker crumbs literally all over my living room. It all gets cleaned, I promise. This is not me advocating a house that is falling apart on you, but for allowing the small bits that don't matter, to be that: small things, that don't matter. 

People won't remember the laundry or the messes. They'll remember being welcomed. They'll remember being fed. They'll remember being loved. The same way everyday, no matter where I am, or what I'm doing. 

I don't remember all the times my parents messed up. I know they did. I know sometimes they yelled and it was loud and people got upset. But I remember that there was never any pretense. We didn't actually have to pretend. 

That's what I want for our kids. A life of authenticity, where they don't have to hide how they feel, not even from me. Because when they learn to be authentic with me, they will learn to be authentic with their Savior. 

And I can think of no sweeter gift to give them. 

                                 

Grace Valley

 It's pretty amazing to me how long this blog has lasted. It's also interesting to see the way my life has ebbed and flowed, the years when I wrote all the time and the years that it was slower. 

Every now and again I go back and re-read some of these. That can be both good and bad. Memories are so incredibly powerful, our stories and our lives are shaped by the way they are carved into our hearts. 

Right now I wonder what I should even be writing about. What do I even have to offer?                 

My days are filled with mothering. There are still diapers to wipe, toilets to clean, there is always dishes and I don't understand why or how there is so much laundry. We still have a strict nap time, I'm still convincing my kids we have to bathe every now and again, and don't even get me started on the dinner time struggles I encounter. 

Nothing about being a mother is what I thought it would be like. The daily struggles, the worries, the issues and behaviors I am up against. Seeing too frequently an older generation that glorifies and romanticizes a time  that is past. Feeling so inadequate in the face of technology, emotional needs, and the constant unrelenting feeling that I am not measuring up. 

Also, I'm homeschooling, so if my kids are dumb, that's on me now too. 

As I talk with more and more friends, as we build our community I am in awe of how much I need real life friendships and face to face connections. The internet is not and never has been, enough. 

There is a comfort in Friday night pizza nights. With kids running everywhere, a hot stove, extra salad, and finding ways to love one another in hard seasons. The routines keep me looking forward, not just to the next week, but the next few years. I know that the friendships my kids make will be good and helpful, the same goes for me. When I am connected to these friendships I tap into the parts of Maddie who was Maddie before she was a mother. That part of me still exists, these friendships solidify that one day, when my kids move on from me, I will still know how to make and keep, friends.

Every week we meet on Thursdays for a co-op full of women and families that only God could bring together. There is joy and discipline. There is teaching and learning and stretching. Grace Valley is not just a place, it is a mindset, a comfort, a blanket of security and joy in a world that is shoving information down my throat. I find so much peace there amongst my friends. They help me to be a better mother in all aspects. I bake more, play outside more, pray more, and get down on my kids levels because of these women. Because of the strength and community I find there. 

There is a comfort in knowing that any of them are a phone call away. In knowing they showed up to an art show for me, in knowing I would do my best to show up for them. They make these hard days of mothering less lonely. Five women with such different parenting styles, homeschooling styles, and even life styles and we still make time to hang out together. 

This is not something I stumbled into either. I worked for it. I think I worked hard for it. As often as I have asked for help I try to extend a hand to any of them. As often as I have asked for prayer from them, I have been willing to offer up my prayers for them. 

People like to bring up how "it takes a village" and its true, I believe that. I also think we don't acknowledge how hard it is to find and make that community. How many tries it takes. How vulnerable you have to be. How you have to be willing to show up, on both sides, the giving and taking part of things. No one knows you need help unless you ask. No one will ask unless you show a willingness to help.  

As I went back today and looked at some old blog posts, I found a comment on one of them from my Dad. He said something he said a lot to us kids during his life...that Relationships are what are truly important. 

He was a smart man my Daddy. Because the relationships with my Grace Valley moms? Those are ones I'm taking to Heaven with me. And I couldn't imagine my life without them...

The One and Only JLC

When Mawmaw was here she wondered about Heaven. She always wondered if those who were with Jesus could see us here on Earth. Some questions we will never know the answers to, and I just always said “I think the people in Heaven are to excited about being with Jesus.”

Then you died John Lee Cunningham, and I changed my mind. 

I changed my mind because it was abrupt and awful and shattered us and the community and it shattered your wife. I have watched the things you’ve missed this year and I find myself wondering, often, is there a window from Heaven where you get to see? 

Do you get to see your wife? Do you know the depth of her strength and vulnerability? Have you watched her endure day in and day out as she learns to navigate this life without you? I remember a year ago the phone calls, multiple, vividly. I remembering screaming in my van and telling the person who told me that it was a sick joke and I was mad as hell she would joke like that. I remember the look on my two oldest kids faces. 

I remember the Cicadas all over everyone outside of your house John as we stood in stunned silence. Your widow looked at me and “I’m so sorry your kids have to go through this again.” 

Did you watch those things, or was Heaven just too glorious and blinding? 

Did you know that the next month was a blur and my life was, once again, put on pause? All the times I was at your house unsure of what to say or do, knowing my words were empty when put up against the pain and grief my friend felt. 

Do you know I gave part of your name to Daisy? Daisy Lee. Daisy Rebekah Lee. She’s a comfort to us, and you would have LOVED her, like you loved all my kids. God gave us her sweet smile and personality after the tremendous grief that shook through our lives as we learned to move forward, just a little, each day. 

In your life I knew you loved your wife deeply, and I knew how immensely proud you were of her. I wonder if that continues over in Heaven. I imagine you talking with Jesus after a day of watching her and how the two of you high five at her victories and hurt when she hurts. Maybe you can’t hurt in Heaven…maybe you don’t know. 

All of me wants to think that you know John. 

Did you watch your godson struggle with his grief? Did you see the way he insisted on being rough and punching all the men in his life in the belly, because that’s what he did with you? He clings to that memory of the day you and Kackie took him to ice cream and the thrift store. He says he wants to name his son John. He can think of no higher calling than to be someone’s Dad, and to “play like Uncle John.” 

Your death ripped through us all like the worst Earthquake any of us have ever endured and the entire community suffered aftershocks. 

Yet still…I know Heaven is better.  I know you’re  whole and complete and spending every day of eternity with the Savior you love. We all somehow managed to survive the year without even though every single one of us woke up remembering you were gone. 

I’m thankful John Lee Cunningham, for the time I had you in my life. For the memories you gave my kids, for the way you encouraged my husband, for the way you teased and made fun of me. I’m thankful for your story about Tuesdays, and how you broke into our room to save the stupid cat when Dean locked the door. I’m thankful for you unwavering determination to make sure my van didn’t blow up. 

I don’t know what you can see from Heaven, but I hope sometimes you see the strength and resilience we’ve used to navigate this life without you…

I hope you can see your wife sometimes…because John…she’s the most amazing person I know. She didn’t have to forgive that man who made that choice that led to your death. But she did. She didn’t have to wake up every day and still chose to love the Lord and carry your legacy. But she does. 

We miss you a ton John.  We really do.  But I know Heaven is better.  I really do. 

See ya there one day Buddy….

31 Year Old Me

 Today it is snowing and wet and gray. It is also Monday. Monday are my best school days with the kids, we seem to get the most done on Mondays. We woke up today, made my bed, all had an easy light breakfast, and I put Daisy down for her morning nap, all the regular things. Dean and Ellie did their school work on my bed with me while I hollered at Ana to leave them alone for five seconds. 

Thankfully today the kids gave me a moment of quiet time, it doesn’t always happen, so I was extra thankful for it today. This afternoon I looked down and realized I’m wearing my most comfy black sweatpants. On the right leg there are, as with most of my clothing, some paint stains. 

Man people have given me a hard time for the paint on my clothes since…since before I can truly remember. There always seems to be something on me somewhere. It’s just a Maddie Fact. 

Here is something that many people do not know though: I remember many of those paint stains. 

The black pants and the paint there, a lot of that was from the night my Dad died. My mom called me, I told Blair, I wept bitterly while also rejoicing his pain was gone. I couldn’t go back to sleep though. I went down to my art desk in the same black pants I’m wearing today. The white circle of paint on my pants is from that night. I painted and painted and wrote and prayed and cried the night my Daddy died. 

The purple shirt I’m wearing, towards the top, there’s some white paint. It’s from only two weekends ago when I painted the cabinets and yelled at John for not being here to see how awesome it looks. I have a shirt that says Addystrong. There’s red paint on it from when I painted beautiful red tulips for my friends mom. She supports my art in crazy wonderful ways which include asking me to make art for her family. She is one of my favorite patrons. I think of her every time I see that red mark on that shirt, which is often, because I love that shirt. 

I have a maroon sweatshirt that is baggy and worn and pre-loved. A gift from my best friend. There are turquoise splatters on it now from nights spent with another good friend at my desk doing art and life together. Their memories and faces are a blue now in my mind when I see those turquoise spots. 

The older I get the more secure I become in who I am as a person. I will never love wearing high heels and I don’t do my make up often. I go through periods where I like making my bed, but to be honest, most of the time I don’t bother. I don’t care if my kids never make their beds and I don’t fight them on it. I don’t match socks. I just don’t care if socks match. 

I have paint on my clothes. Often. Usually. It’s more rare to see me without paint on my clothes. You can tell too which clothes I like the most, they will have the most paint on them. I love my flip flops, my water bottle has a bajillion stickers on it. I get really loud and really animated when I am passionate about something. My heart and emotions are worn on my sleeve and sometimes I make people uncomfortable with how much about my life I am willing to share. I can’t decorate well at all and my house will always look eclectic. I hate driving in the snow and I am in therapy consistently for the first time in my life. Worship songs bring me to tears and I cry when we sing of how Christ has conquered the grave. 

Hello. My name is Maddie and the paint on my clothes tell stories. 

I am settling into this part of my life. The 30 something’s where I have kids and a house and my bones are settling into a routine. Where I am not only not ashamed of the paint clothes, but finally feel I can embrace them wholeheartedly. I can embrace my loud emotions, my vulnerability, my need for space and unashamedly stepping back when I need to, or saying no when I need to. 

31 year old Maddie is a vastly different person than 21 year old Maddie. 

And I like this version and stage of my life very much, even with the heartache I’ve endured. 

My Grief Has No Eloquence

About a year ago, when I was decently pregnant with Daisy, I begged Blair to help me make better shelves in our pantry. The house had all these awful wire shelves that didn’t feel sturdy and didn’t hold enough for my liking. They annoyed me. In my pregnant induced condition I demanded something be done. Blair took out the wire shelves and gave me wonderful sturdy wooden shelves that could hold all the canned things ever. 

The wire shelves left some bigger holes in the walls inside the cabinet though and I knew they needed to be fixed. So, because I couldn’t text my Dad, I shot a text real quick to my best friends husband and The Godfather to my three and a half kids. 

I asked John if he had an drywall repair, when he said he didn’t, he told me what I should buy and also asked if I wanted him to pick me up some from the hardware store. I told him no, I’d grab some. A little while later when I finally did get some and work on the holes in the walls, I sent him another text that I had worked on the pantry and I was pleased with myself. In true John fashion he said “Pics or it didn’t happen”. I told him I didn’t want to send pictures until I had sanded down and painted the spots I had fixed. 

He told me he would be waiting. 

And I pushed back sanding and painting. 

And then John died., 

That morning on my way to Church I remember thinking about the way Daddy died…and how I remember every single detail about that night and the following day. At church I remember seeing John walk past us in the back and how Dean wanted to go say hello. I didn’t let him, I told him he would be able to after church. 

I regret that nearly every day. 

It has felt…hard to write about John. His widow and my best friend and godmother to my children does an excellent job sharing her grief journey and she’s so much articulate than I am. I have a hard time formulating my thoughts and ideas into something that makes sense. And I have had a hard time owning up to the grief I have felt about Johns death. 

John was larger than life. He had the biggest heart and the biggest laugh and he was hysterical. And he loved my kids. He deeply and wonderfully loved my kids. He spent TIME with my kids. He MADE time for my kids. He helped raise Ellie while we tended to Dean in the hospital. John showed up to see Dean in the CICU and he came with Katharine the day that my Dad had the tumor removed from his brain. 

John showed up. 

And I feel the hole he left in my life, my kids lives, and in my husbands life. 

Today I was able to stop at the Dollar Store and buy some cheap bins for my pantry. When I got home I started to take everything out of the pantry. Then I realized I should really take the time to sand, paint, and organize this pantry. Finally. 

The kitchen looks like a bomb blew up in there. The entire contents of my pantry are strewn about the kitchen, the baby cried, I frustrated Blair, and I ended up asking for pizza tonight because I want to see this project get finished and I am determined. 

But the whole time I was sanding, painting, and working I was just…mad. 

Mad that I can’t text John to tell him I’m finally getting things done. Mad that I can’t send him this picture of the little girl he didn’t get to meet who shares a middle name with him. 

I was mad that I was painting again too. After we moved in with my parents and we helped them fix their house to sell, I never wanted to touch a paint roller ever again. I would never trade that time with them, and I knew helping them was the right thing to do, however, it was a lot. It was a lot for my kids, a lot for my mom, a lot for my dad, a lot for my siblings. It. Was. A lot. We painted all the walls, fixed all the things, and my parents house looked beautiful. But by the end of it, I was sick of painting walls. 

When we moved into our house here in Strasburg, I had no desire to paint any of the walls. I just didn’t think I had it in me anymore. So today while I painted, I marveled over the way sanding and painting my pantry made me miss two of some of the best men I’ve ever known. 

My grief holds no eloquence. I can’t make it make sense. There are no patterns to it. I let it come and go as it pleases, and ride the waves as they come. It never ceases to amaze me that the weirdest things at the weirdest moments hit me like a force of nature. 

I am not knocked over by it. It doesn’t force me under, it doesn’t drown me, its just there while I tread water. 

Before my Mawmaw died, she always used to wonder if those in Heaven could see or hear what what happening here on Earth. I always maintained that Heaven would be the best thing because Jesus was there and I just wasn’t sure we would WANT to see what was happening here on Earth. 

Today though, today I hope people can see small glimpses of what’s happening here. 

I hope John sees my stupid pantry, all sanded and painted and awesome. 

I hope he sees his daughter and that he marvels how he is part of her life even now. 

I hope he sees his amazing, beautiful, courageous wife. How she carries his legacy and dreams with her, how she honors him so well while still loving God. 

I hope he flies kites with Jesus. 

I was honored to be part of his life, I was honored to have my kids be part of his life, and I am thankful that my sweet Daisy Rebekah Lee shares a middle name with them. 

I hope that however bumbled my words are they convey the way grief has played a part in my life. 

I hope it encourages those in the thick of things that ebb and flow eventually helps lull you to sleep, instead of pulling you further out to sea. 

Shifting

I’m pretty sure every time I start to write I talk about how I’ve been thinking about writing something for ages. But then, how am I supposed to actually find time to sit and write? The demands of motherhood seem never to end. 

Right now I am wearing my shoes in my kitchen because I know I need to sweep again, there are still dishes to put away and dishes to be done. There are things that need to be brought in from the van after a busy morning at our Co-Op and clothes that I know need to be folded. The kids, mercifully, are all actually taking quiet time in their rooms, something that has been a struggle since we shifted Ana into her room with Ellie and Dean to his very own big boy room. My house, dare I say it, is quiet. I hear the hum of our heat and noises from outside on the street. 

I started Therapy in January. I didn’t realize how much of it would be stopping to actually realize how my body feels in these overwhelming moments. As I sit here my shoulders feel relaxed and I’m not tense, not even in my jaw. I have realized my need to release tension over the past month. Easier said than done…

There was such a shifting after Blair and I got sick with Covid in January. The isolation and desperate need I felt grew to be more than I could handle and I was overwhelmed all the time. suddenly the grief and emotions I have carried with me for the past six years bubbled out. I was angry. I was exhausted. I was the worst version of myself I think I’ve ever been and I could see the way it was hurting my kids and my husband. 

So I did something about it. 

I refused to stay in that place of despair and brokenness. I refused to let my mind wander more than it already had. I knew I needed help sorting out the mess in my mind and I didn’t want to wait until my kids were older to do it. Once a week I have a Telehealth appointment with my therapist while Blair wrangles all the kids. It is not a break. It is work. Important work. And it is hard. 

Often I will talk about things that have come up and she will stop me and ask me WHY I felt that way, or WHY I reacted a certain way. And because I can’t get out of it, I stop and think about it. More has surfaced than I thought possible. Therapy is wild like that. 

Slowly I feel like I’m starting to come up for air after years and years of medical trauma, grief, death, and showing up when all I wanted was to hide. We talk about my Dad, we talk about John, we talk about Daisy and how much I struggle/still struggle because four kids was not part of *my* plan. Sometimes I cry. Sometimes she asks me to just stop and breathe. One time just doing that made me feel panicky and I had to stop. 

This shift feels important to note. 2022. The year I stop saying “ill get to this” and I *actually* get to it, the year we finally get fed up with debts and commit to being debt free and sticking to a budget. The year Blair and I commit to one another and really work hard to communicate and pray together. The year I stop saying “next year” or “when the kids are older”. 

I want to remember. I want to remember the way Anas nose crinkles when she smiles at me. The way Daisy is learning to eat and makes small demanding noises for more. The way she lights up when she sees Ellie or Blair. The way Dean has started to really learn to control his emotions and how hard that is for my sweet boy. Or the way Ellie has found ways to connect to me and asks for things to do, just me and her, and how good it feels to have time with just each kid, one on one. I love seeing them grow and learn, no matter how challenging and hard it is, and it is, challenging and hard more often than not. 

As I feel the seasons shift and I wait anxiously to welcome Spring, I feel the lightness of it, for the first time in years. I’m not waiting to birth a baby. I’m not waiting for a surgery. I’m not waiting on a house to sell. I’m not in crisis. I’m not in turmoil. Most of my people are relatively safe and healthy and those who are not I am able to face it without panic and fear. I don’t cringe when I go past Winchester Medical Center anymore, I don’t panic when I hear a helicopter. I am finding a rhythm to my days and weeks. Mondays we do school and catch up on housework. Daisy takes consistent naps. Tuesdays are Library days. Thursdays are for co-op. Friday is pizza and movie nights. Saturday mornings are for family. Sundays are for AWANA and Church. 

The worlds chaos is there in the fringes, I know what is happening, it is impossible to not know. I allow myself to feel it all and then I put it back in a book on a shelf where I can see it and read it when I need to, without trying to hide or shove it down. My small slice of World, for now, is embracing these new shifts and welcoming in the changes I see in myself and my kids. It will help me be a better mother, wife, and friend. 

I find myself more and more in awe and thankful for each day is it comes. Nothing negates the hard, life will always be hard. It will always be demanding. I will always want to give more of me than I have and I will always need people who help me check that when it comes at the cost of my husband and kids. 

My Dad always told us, family first. 

This particular season embraces and embodies that wholeheartedly and I am just sitting on a Thursday afternoon, in my random bit of delicious quietness, thankful for that advice. 

Movement

 It is 1:45 AM. I am up nursing my sweet three month old baby and I want to write. 

Last night while Blair was snuggling Ana and I was with the big kids encouraging them to pick up Ellie asked me if I would read more of our big chapter book to them. 

After a long day of co-op, dinner, little girls…I didn’t want to if I’m being honest. I told Ellie that. 

“Ellie I’m tired tonight I still have to clean the kitchen and try to get some sleep before Daisy wakes up and fold that last basket of laundry.” 

My seven year casually says, “can’t you make Daddy do it?” 

I said “Well Ellie I don’t *make* Daddy *do* anything. I ask for his help and he helps me because we’re a team and we love each other. But some days Daddy is even more tired than Mama.”

Then we talked about wirk and why Blair goes to work. Every now and again my kids do this, they get sad Blair can’t be home with us and mention that they wish he could be home. When that happens, I like to remind them *why* Blair goes to work. 

Them. He works because he loves them. He makes sure we can pay our bills because he loves us. 

Usually then the conversation shifts to what I do to show them I love them. I mention clean laundry, food made, hush when they’re hurt, or even just that I wake up some days when id rather not. 

Or I read an entire chapter sitting on their floor watching Ellie inch closer and closer to me because she so invested in what we’re reading. 

Motherhood, parenthood, is so messy and requires so much Grace. And so much action. It’s an *active* love. 

I thought about that today when at co-op my friend got up and went across the room to help a two year old who was just so excited to play with friends, but was so excited right when we were trying to eat our lunches. I’m a “yell across the room” type of Mama but after being friends with her, watching her connect physical and take action to discipline or distract I’ve adopted some of her ways. 

To change the behaviors it took action. Movement. Physically getting up and DOING. 

Lately one of my best friends has mentioned that she is not good at waiting, but wants to be doing something while waiting. Or taking steps forward while waiting. She has so much love to give…that love seeks action. Movement. 

As I sit here in the quiet listening to this three month guzzle and snuffle and curl into me, as I hear the low hum of the still going ac unit and Blairs feet shifting in his blanket, I am just so thankful for the way love manifests and moves. 

I think for the past five years I have, overall, felt so paralyzed by so much. Heart surgeries, medications, a colicky baby, brain cancer, death…I have been non-stop flight or fight for nearly five years. More if I’m being honest. 

I have been brought to my knees in grief over the loss of my babies. I have begged God to let Dean live. And I watched my Daddy slowly and painfully, die. I watched my best friend in shock over getting the news no one, ever, wants to get and I have marveled at her as she has done the hard work of grief. 

Watching her made me realize how much of my own grief I have tampered down. 

For the first time in six years I realized I can’t get through these struggles without more professional help. The anxiety that manifests as rage, the tensing of my shoulders, the sheer panic I feel knowing I have to leave my house (even when I’m doing things I love), the way I’ve made my lip bleed biting it when I’m angry…it’s not good. 

So I put actions to me saying “I’m trying.”

Trying means I sought actual medical help. Trying means I step away when I get irrational. Trying means I let go of what in”should” do in favor of what I “could” do. Trying means we pick nurturing our kiddos hearts over yelling about things needing to be cleaned. Trying means I say yes to one more chapter and I go to bed when the kids go to bed to make sure I’m getting *as much* adequate sleep as I can. 

Trying means I start taking a medication for anxiety. Trying means talking to a therapist. 

Love means I don’t stay in this place in my mind anymore. It means I get help. 

It means movement. 

Record Keeping

I’m not honestly a good writer. I tend to get lost in my thoughts a lot and finding a quiet moment around here these days pretty much doesn’t exist. I’m also the worst at grammar (god bless my homeschooled children) but, I do love to write. 

There is something so special about taking a moment to actually record things. Thoughts, memories, the sound Ana makes outside my window when she’s screaming at one of her siblings. There are so many things I would have forgotten if I hadn’t written them down. 

All day I have been thinking about what I want to write today. I got the itch and it must be honored. 

I worry though about how insignificant my life must seem. I write for mostly myself and a handful of good friends who are willing to read, but this will never make money, it will never go viral, no one will pin this on Pinterest. 

And why should they? I’m offering no advice here, just an observation of my own life. Mostly to just make my own brain feel less cluttered. Just as I declutter my house at times my mind clutter must be cleared. 

Daisy is over a month old now, nearly two months. She is by far the easiest baby I have ever had, or maybe we’re just better parents, filled with more grace. Maybe I’m a different mom because I know I never am doing this again. 

And I am, never doing this again. Steps have been taken. 

Even saying that feels weird. Because we got a lot of feedback. Some positive some negative. Lots of opinions. Lots and lots. And that’s ok, I don’t mind them. Especially when I know we did the right thing for us as a family. 

I don’t think I’ve actually felt like myself for two years…plus some change. Ana had a really tough newborn stage, and once she got out of it, Daddy was sick and then there was death and death and death and another pregnancy. 

I’m not always so sure who I’m looking at when I look in the mirror some days. I just feel like a small fraction of Maddie. 

This feeling comes and goes. It’s not constant which is why it feels so strange to even entertain it. I often remind that person in the mirror how good she is actually doing given the pregnancies, trauma, heartache, and grief she has endured. There are times when the heart can’t convince the brain of the truth, and times when the brain can’t tamp down the feelings of the heart. 

It could just be the week I’m entering. Tomorrow, if my Dad were still alive, we’d be celebrating his 60th birthday. He’s dead though. And the idea of what we could have done to celebrate as a family has taken residence in the back of all my thoughts. 

We kept busy all weekend, but eventually things slow down, or there is a catalyst, or the baby wakes up SUPER early and you haven’t slept well which sort of skews all your thoughts. Maybe that right there is the catalyst…

See I’ve been thinking about all the thoughts I’ve had stored up in my head since Daisy has been born. Some are hilarious, some make me sad, and some just need to take a hike so I can carry on with my life. 

Most of the time I look around at this life I’ve created and love it. I love the chaos and the loud and the hard and the teaching and stretching that Motherhood demands from me. There are many other days however, where I make it to the end of the night, look around and wonder, what the hell happened? 

Those are the nights when the dishes don’t get done and the laundry baskets mock me and the dirty kitchen floor laughs at me while I shuffle around in my slippers. Those are the nights the baby doesn’t want any one but me and her siblings are too loud for me to be able to put her down. Those are the nights when sheer exhaustion defeats me and we pile in my bed for a show while I nurse the baby and beg the big kids to be still. 

By 8 o’clock if the kids are in bed, I am too. Laundry and dishes and dirty floors forgotten in favor of crawling into my bed. 

Daisy gives me the best stretch of sleep first thing. So from 8/8:30 until about 1/1:30, I get sweet blessed sleep. From 1:30 on though, it’s touch and go. I never know if she’ll sleep well in the early mornings or if I’ll be up on and off with her. The person I am when I don’t sleep well is not a person anyone should meet. 

Yet my husband and kids meet that person daily. Ellie has reminded me what we “used to” do, the park, Mimi’s pool,  play dates. I remind myself comparison is the thief of joy and turn my phone off  

There’s so much good here in this house too. Ellie drawing the Mystery Gang, her drawing of Scooby Doo honestly blew me away and I think she’s an absolute genius. Dean with his worn out graphic novels, following the words with his fingers. Ana with her scrunchy nose demanding to hold “my Daisy”, the way this sweet baby loves to be around people and loves her biggest sister…I don’t know what I’d do without Eleanor. She’s my “secret weapon” on the hard days. 

I see all these silly things I do post-partum that I’ve done with all the kids. For example, do you know that scene in Finding Nemo where Nemo is in the fish tank? And the other fish decide to initiate him? They come up wearing their leaves going “wah-he-ha-he-ha-oh-oh-oh-oh”….I burp my babies to that pattern. I have with every single one of them. I play a mental game with myself where, when I throw dirty diapers to the trash can, if I make it, it means we will have a good day and if I don’t I mutter under my breath about how the day is just shot for good now. 

I remember these things right now because they are silly and get me through these long days. The weight of motherhood and nurturing and teaching and organizing it pulls me down some days. Then other days it reminds me of who I was and who I have become. 

The duality of emotions has always fascinated me. Our capacity to feel so many things all at once, knowing that what we say and think might sound like one emotion yet be because of a different emotion. 

My capacity to both love and hate these long days, chaotic noises, and constant need for slippers because the floor never does stay swept, continues to surprise me. 

So the record keeping continues. Even if it takes me days or weeks to finish one blog post, I always seem to come back to it. Each time trying to finish a different thought or wrap up what I’ve been thinking. 

I think I can safely finish this particular rambling up with this: Motherhood has both brought out the best and worst in me and I continue to let it shape and mold me. Keeping these records of both the hard and the easy, the joy and the frustration all paint a beautiful picture. 

One I do not, ever, want to forget. 

Daisy’s Birth Story

 It’s always been important to me to record important things. Writing things out helps me process them, it’s why I wrote so much when Dean was born, it’s why I tried so hard to write when my Dad was diagnosed. 

It’s why I don’t want to wait too long to write out Daisy’s birth story. There’s so much…just like there always is. The entire time I was pregnant with her I kept reminding myself each story is different, just as each baby is different. I knew too, this one would be incredibly different. 

Finding out a week after Daddy died that I was pregnant again made me angry. I was already grieving and now I had to keep myself from sinking into a dark place of hurt and loss. Pregnancy is already hard for me…add in occasionally needing to stop and sob because a smell, a memory, or a text reminding me Daddy wasn’t here…the next 40 weeks felt daunting. 

From the start I just kept telling Blair, I don’t want to do this again. Usually the thought of labor excited me, it meant the end of the constant nausea and throwing up! I couldn’t envision the end this time though…and I knew the work I needed to do to prepare my heart and mind for this baby’s arrival would take work. I was already tired…

July 22 I was 41 weeks pregnant according to ultrasound dates. My mom had been living with us since July 2, and I felt like we were taking advantage of her love and support. Why was she even here if I wasn’t even in labor? Every night she would say “text me if you need me” and I’d think “I’m never having this baby I’ll never need to text you.” I went to bed feeling defeated and huge and frustrated and exhausted. I would pray and beg God to let labor start. Every. Single. Night. 

We made an appointment for a post dates ultrasound, made plans to see our midwife and talk about labor stimulation, I avoided people and I cried a lot in the shower. I went to bed Wednesday night feeling “off”, I could not even tell you why or how, I just didn’t feel good and I wanted to be in bed. Even though I figured it was nothing I made sure my midwife knew and I crawled into bed. 

Around three AM I woke up and had a few contractions. Good ones, strong ones, but nothing consistent. I took a shower and prayed…and cried. Woke Blair up because I was breathing deeply through some of these and he decided not to go to work. We tried to time a few, but nothing was consistent. I decided to go back to bed, I was convinced these were not real. 

We got out of bed and came down the stairs in the morning, got the kids fed and talked to my Mom. Had a few more contractions, was in touch with my midwife. I couldn’t fathom an hour long car ride to this appointment with these contractions, so we cancelled it. 

I sat on our living room floor with a cheap henna kit and doodled on my belly. I did some on each of my kids too. We watched Balto and I laughed at the stupid goose. I kept praying the contractions would become more consistent and for the right time to call my people. 

I have this terrible fear of wasting peoples time. I couldn’t stand the thought of asking my midwife, photographer and best friend, and my other people to come to my house, set it all up, only for my labor to stop, again, and need to send everyone home while I was left to look at birth supplies we once again wouldn’t use yet…

My midwife kept texting me and reminding me I was not an inconvenience. She would come a 100 times if I needed or wanted her there. I think, at some point after 12:30, I decided maybe we should mobilize the troops. 

I have no concept of when people actually got here. Of what time Blair set up our birthing tub in the living room. I remember squatting and feeling these long hard strong contractions but still being convinced it wasn’t real and trying so hard to rest whenever I could. 

I remember hiding in the kitchen bouncing on my birth ball talking to Blair and asking everyone else to leave me alone. I remember hiding in the bathroom, praying my water would break ir even that I would lose my mucus plug. I remember my midwife checking me and telling me I *had* dilated more and that my body *was* working. 

I remember my friend Amber coming. Amber who six years ago on July 22 gave birth and then said goodbye to her son Tucker. She helped distract Ellie and Ana. Dean had gone for a play date with a friend (who is now a best friend and locked in for life!) who has three boys, it was a special thing just for him. Ellie played on the switch for a while before being picked up by Chelsea, she insisted she didn’t want to spend the night and made sure she would be coming back. Ana stayed home with us all day. Blair went to put her down for a nap while I continued to labor. 

We rocked and sat and watched my favorite episode of Archer. We laughed and talked and did belly lifts to encourage baby girl to get on my cervix. I listened to music and the Christian Hypnobirthing app. I did my best to breathe deeply. 

Then I felt just this well spring of emotion, right under the surface…and I knew I needed to listen to *that* song. At Daddy’s service we sang O Come To The Alter. For months after his death I couldn’t listen to it. One day though it came on the radio and the lyrics “bring your sorrows and trade them for joy/from the ashes a new life is born” resonated down to my soul. 

This was the work I’d been avoiding. The trading. The recognizing. The acknowledgement that though my Dad was gone, God had given us a beautiful new life to love. I rocked as I felt the contractions and cried. My mom gently touched my arm. I just let myself, in that moment, say goodbye to my Dad and hello to our baby. 

I don’t know what time, but I asked Natasha to come do a check for me. I made it up the stairs and laid on our bed. She checked, didn’t say anything, but told me to rest. I laid and felt more contractions. Then I heard people coming up the stairs saying “She can get mad at me, I don’t care, it’s not like she can catch me if I run anyways.” 

My best friend of ten plus years came into my room with her camera and a big smile. Our friend Amber, who somehow ended up being an intricate part of this story, also came into my room. Amanda said “Babe.  You’re 8 cm dilated. You have to get up and get moving. It’s turns to walk and get this baby out, let’s go.” 

I remember being simultaneously so annoyed, amused, and scared out of my mind. 

And then, I knew I needed to call my big brother. 

I sat on the side of my bed with heavy contractions, tears on my face, looking absolutely insane, and Facetimed my brother. He reminds me so much of my Daddy. His voice sounds like Daddy’s. I told him I didn’t want to do it. I told him I didn’t want to have a baby that doesn’t meet Daddy. 

And he told me I had to. That he was praying for me. That it was time. That he loved me, that Daddy loved me, that I could do it. 

I made my way downstairs where I rocked, walked, and prayed. I stood on our back deck while Ana played outside and I worshipped. I asked God to help me surrender to this. When I came back inside Natasha checked baby’s heartbeat. It was a little fast for her liking. I told her I wanted in the tub and she warned me if baby’s heartbeat didn’t come back down I’d have to get back out. But I knew it would. I knew she would like the water. 

Immediately when I got in the water I felt huge surges. The contractions were intense. I was very vocal. I kept moving around, changing positions. Ana kept circling the tub, calm and happy as could be. She was never scared of what was happening. 

Between contractions I did my best to just let go and be lose. I kept drinking water, holding onto the sides, I could feel her moving down. I kept telling her to move down, I kept trusting to say yes. Natasha’s birth assistant asked if she could pray for me. She spoke a beautiful prayer over me and baby, even while I vocalized through more contractions…I figured Jesus would understand. 

At one point between contractions when my body was resting, Natasha told me a beautiful story about her own Dad who she had recently lost. We laughed with her at his antics…joked about the number of kids families chose to have. It felt like his spirit was there with us too. 

It was such an interesting and strange experience, the amount of grief and joy surrounding this baby’s birth. Even as I write her story there are so many mentions of death. I grieved my father and my kids godfather, thinking of them both often while working to bring her here. My friend Amber grieving and missing her son Tucker. My midwife missing her own Father…all these men who weren’t here with us, waiting for phone calls of “Maddie had the baby” or waiting for a Mama to come home. They all were well loved and welcome into my space as I continued to work. 

Natasha and I talked about my cervical lip. She told me she could push it back, she had with Ana, but that it would be intense. I said yes, let’s try that. For a couple of contractions she pushed that lip back and I bore down hard with each contraction. It was incredibly intense. I was still waiting for my water to break or even to lose my plug. 

Natasha got my cervix back far enough she thought I could do it on my own. I remember leaning forward and feeling that pop and I said “my water finally broke!” At the same time I started losing more of mucus plug. 

I kept laboring. Resting between contractions. Bearing down with them. I was very tired and very ready to be done. Natasha did one more check and told me “Maddie the lip slipped back. This next contraction I do NOT want you to push.” THAT was HARD. A contraction came soon and goodness yes I wanted to bear down. Natasha kept me focused on her telling me to breathe and “blow me away Maddie, blow me away”…after it ended, Natasha said “I think I need to get you out of the water and see if I can push that lip back. We can stay here by the water and get back in if you want to, or we can go upstairs, it’s up to you.”

I knew, I knew if I got upstairs I wouldn’t be having this baby in the water, like I’d wanted. I knew I might not be able to catch her, like I’d wanted. But I also knew I was tired. And I knew I needed to be done. 

“Let’s go upstairs.” I said. 

Movement and chaos and everyone was in motion. I stood up and I just knew I had to get up to our room, quickly. I beelined it man. I don’t remember anything else except concentrating on getting ip the stairs. Natasha and Blair came with me, the team and everyone else followed, Ana was still here and watching everything. 

Once we got to our room things happened very quickly. Blair sat at the bottom of our bed and I grabbed onto him and told him not to move, he said “Don’t worry I’m not going anywhere. I’m stuck here.” I felt activity behind me and heard Natasha say “I can’t I have sterile gloves”…I’m not sure why my mind picked up on that one sentence from her. Maybe it’s because I knew it meant she thought I would have this baby soon. I got down on my knees, felt my midwife behind me, and cling to Blair as if I was falling off a cliff. 

I remember Natasha pushing my cervical lip down and hearing her to tell me to push down onto her fingers. And it just took all of me to bring my baby here. I bore down and tried still to breathe deeply, knowing she and I needed the oxygen. I could tell it was working. I knew I was so close. 

I always wished I was one of these women who peacefully breathed my baby into the world. Those videos always look so calming to me. It’s not how I birth my babies though. 

I roar them here. It’s a deep guttural sound from the bottom of my toes. It feels primal and otherworldly. 

I heard Natasha tell me to put one leg up, she knew was Ana’s birth weight had been and was worried I was going to be birthing a larger baby. She told me later she was worried about shoulder dysctocia and wanted to be preventative. But. Once Daisy was crowning, and I felt that tell tale ring of fire, I did something I’ve never done before.

I reached down and felt my baby. 

I could feel her hair and her head. I could feel myself stretch. I knew she was nearly here. I knew I needed to take my time and give my body a moment to accommodate her. 

The next thing I knew I was pushing her all the way out and I heard my midwife say, “Maddie reach down and catch your baby.” 

And I did. 

I caught that slippery just born little baby in my hands, rocked back onto my heels, went to sit back and heard “the cord snapped”….

I looked down and realized Daisy’s cord wasn’t attached to my placenta and it was bleeding freely. There was so much blood. I knew, somewhere in my mind, in my relief that I had finally gotten her out of me, that this wasn’t that great. It wasn’t an emergency yet, but it did need to be addressed and quickly. 

I saw Natasha clamp her cord and felt her reach in me to find the other part of it. I never once felt like I or Daisy were not safe. 

In those first moments after birthing your baby, there’s so much that happens that you hardly ever know about. Conversations, people, activity…it all happens around you while you are just inexplicably obsessed with the tiny human you are hopefully holding in your hands. 

I kept saying hello and rubbing her messy little head. She looked so much like Dean and I was so relieved she was finally here. I was finally done. 

My last pregnancy was finally over. 

As we moved to our bed where I was massaged, cleaned up, cared for, and cuddled, Blair and I just looked at this little girl. Our third summer baby. These Jaques girls and their little noses. The absolute miracle of what I had just accomplished. Laying on my bed surrounded by my Mother, by my two year old (who witnessed every part of this birth), my best friends, my midwife and her team…by my husband…it was just such an amazing experience once again. 

Four babies. My body had nurtured and carried to term four babies. And I have been able to birth all four naturally. To feel each one of them pass into this world from somewhere secrete and sacred. This…this holy work that I partnered with God to accomplish. 

After so much grief and heartache this year…after so much loss, here in my arms was life. 

Daisy Rebekah Lee. Daisy like sunshine and spring and coming out of dark places. Rebekah because the Bible tells us what a comfort she was to Isaac after his mother’s death. Leaning into this tiny beautiful girl being a comfort and a joy to so many. Lee for John. John Lee Cunningham. A goddaughter named after him. I hope she gets his joy for service, his unwavering love for the Lord. I will always be able to tell her about her Uncle John, and how much he LOVED her. 

Experiencing grief and love and birth this way was an all new sensation. Frequently those who had been grieved were brought up during Daisy’s birthday. We cried listening to Daddy’s song. I texted Katharine in tears missing John. My sweet friend Amber quietly talking to her son Tucker. My beautiful human midwife telling me the sweetest story about her own recently passed Dad. 

These stories are entwined now forever with my sweet Daisy. Her birth helped me close another chapter of my own grief. And brought me so much joy. 

Don’t misunderstand me either, I think I’ve cried once a day since she’s been born because my Dad isn’t here to meet her. Or because Uncle John isn’t here accidentally breaking something and then fixing it like when Ana was born. The memories and desire to see their faces and show them this precious girl are still there. They always will be. 

But I am in awe of the story God wrote for this sweet girl. In awe of what my body is capable of. 

And so. So in love. 

After her birth my Mother being the amazing woman she is, jumped right into clean up mode and laundry and made me the most glorious breakfast bagel of my life. Ellie came home and was just enamored with her new baby sister. Dean came home and sang to her. We ended the night with all four of my babies cuddled up on my big bed, while I nursed Daisy, and read a chapter of the BFG to the big kids. It was beautiful. Absolutely just beautiful. 

Daisy Rebekah Lee, July 22. 2021, 8 pounds 6 ounces, born at home at 7:29 pm. 

So Will I

 Today I woke up thinking what I think almost every day, “Is today the day our baby comes?” 

As I was thinking about this in my day to day I suddenly realized why this feeling feels so incredibly familiar to me…

Waiting for someone who you know is going to be born…is the same feeling as waiting for someone who you know is going to die.  

For weeks every day I woke up wondering “Is this the day Mommy calls me to tell me Daddy has died?” Until she finally did call me…and I felt the world shake. 

The waiting, the knowledge that it’s coming…it messes with your head. I don’t want to wish these last days away. I know this is the last baby I carry and I know she completes our family. My mind and body are exhausted. I feel like I am somehow letting people down by not showing this picture of this beautiful baby girl who is on the outside of me instead of the inside. 

Every day I wake up and read an affirmation that “Gods Timing is Perfect”. My brain doesn’t believe it, but my heart does. 

In my brain I am angry at Gods timing I am angry that Daddy isn’t here for the not one but two grandchildren he’s not holding. I am angry that he’s not trying to convince me to come to the house or that he’s not asking “When you gonna have that baby?” I am angry that only a week after he died I found out about this pregnancy. I am angry that I carried grief and life all at once. I am angry that He took my kids Godfather from them…I am angry that my son is struggling as much as he is because two of the most important men in his life are gone. 

And all this anger does nothing but paralyze me. I know it’s not worth my time. 

As I wait for our baby I just think about the days I was waiting for my Daddy to die. The unknowing.  The suspense. Every text and phone call striking a sense of panic in my heart…all over again. 

Once again I’m drawn to the song “So Will I (100 Billion X)”…the lyric “If you left the grave behind you so will I…”

I have felt Death the whole 39 and a half weeks I have been pregnant. Not just my Daddy’s death…but others. It’s hit me harder. Made me weak in the knees. I have cried more. It knocks me out and for the day, I’m just done. My mind can now understand the pain and anguish you feel and I cannot brush past it. 

The end of this pregnancy…means…

Life. And Joy. And. Mercy. Peace. It means…there’s not just death in this world. 

She doesn’t erase the past nine months. She doesn’t stop me from missing these men who have meant so much to me, but she signifies a new chapter. And I desperately need a new Chapter. It will never stop my heart from hurting over these losses, but it will help me close out a chapter I have hung onto for a while. 

I wake every morning and go to bed every evening wondering if today is my baby’s birthday. And it reminds me every day about my Daddy and his life. 

Life and Death…that juxtaposition. We all think about it. But I feel I have had a unique experience to see both play out in such an interesting and heartbreaking way. 

Either way, I’ve been thinking…both can be a gift. 

My Daddy’s body hurt and his death meant Heaven, a gift from the Lord. Just like this baby is a gift from the Lord, a burst of sunshine after a storm. Death and Life are both a gift. 

Jesus left the grave behind Him. 

So will I. 

A Hug

 More than anything, you taught me to love Jesus. 

I know you didn’t do it well and oh man did you ever fail sometimes. Your heart was in the right place though, I always saw that. 

Your Bible sits on my shelf where I can see it every day. It’s falling apart, the mark of a well loved book. 

It hurt today not being able to call you or send a Polo or a goofy meme. It hurt missing your voice. It hurt that you weren’t with one of us, grilling things and convincing Mama to make you some sort of dessert. You would have wanted us to bring the kids over, you always wanted us to bring the kids over. 

Grief feels heavier today. It threatened me to drown me. Honestly planning a party kept me afloat but here now, in the winding down of the day, I miss you. Baby is rolling and kicking and Ana is asleep and I miss you. 

I hurt for those hurting. I hurt for the tidal waves of grief that feel like blow after blow after blow. Sudden death or long drawn out death, it doesn’t matter. Absences makes itself known.  

I know Heaven is better. I know they wouldn’t chose to come back given the choice. What I know and what I feel though are still disconnected...the thread is thin, it threatens to snap. 

And I feel...over all of it, even in all of it, the love of my Father. My Heavenly Father. The one my Daddy turned to and prayed to and loved. I feel His strength carrying me. I feel able to put one foot in front of the other to deal with every mundane task that felt insurmountable. I saw His love in the swept kitchen floor and food that got put quietly away. In friends and their fellowship and baked cupcakes and community, in the way we were quietly loved. 

The older I get the more I see the different ways God shows His love to us. It’s not always loud and miraculous. It’s not always a big story. 

It’s day to day life. Small sacrifices. Friends who bring other little girls to birthday parties. Men who make a point to befriend my husband. Sitting in the deep grief with a friend. A text. A phone call. 

Daddy’s love was so amazing and life changing because I know he loved the Lord. Today I got to see that love woven tightly into my everyday life. 

It felt like a hug. It felt like he was here with me still. 

None of it took away the sting of death, but it did lessen the blow. 

That’s the legacy my Daddy left me. 

Thoughts on Leaving

 I left all of it. 

The clean dishes in the dishwasher, the dirty dishes, the messy table, the unwashed kitchen floors, the two loads of laundry waiting to be folded, the laundry in the basement waiting to be dried, the stencils scattered on my art desk from today’s lesson, all of it. I left it  

And I crawled into bed. 

I write from under my gray blanket, my babies all safe and tucked away, already with heavy eyes from a busy day. The extra window unit hums loudly lulling me to sleep. My hardworking and loving husband also already asleep. 

It is 8:19, and I will follow them to sleep soon. 

There is a time when self care is cleaning the kitchen. Or folding the laundry. Or stepping into a hot shower. Then there is a time when self care is recognizing your limits, telling the to do list to wait a little longer, and snuggling into the rest your body craves. 

Each day I watch myself get bigger and bigger. At least once a week I spend some time sprawled on my bathroom floors, crying while my body loses the nourishment I’ve given it and our baby. Gravity pulls this sweet baby down and my hormones wreck havoc on my mind. 

In the routine of bedtime when I read to my two big kids, she pushes on them and me. A constant reminder that when I am doing nothing I am doing something. 

We are waiting. 

Waiting for a big girl to turn seven. To dive into reading which I know she is at the cusp of it. Watching her develop into a person I wish I could be. Drawing strength from her and worrying I ask too much. 

Waiting for a big boy to hit a learning curve. To see him become more brave than he is even now. Watching each cautious jump and another go down the big slides. Encouraging him to play with kids his age, use his manners and maybe not yell so much. 

Waiting for a little girl who thinks she’s big to turn a whole whopping two years old. Her personality very distinctly hers, never will she be outdone by her siblings. Watching her repeat words, try new things and feeling our hearts quicken when she does something that maybe we aren’t sure she’s ready for. 

All of life going on around me. The demands always there. The work always there. 

And I left it all tonight. 

I feel called to a deep rest. An introspective calm, going inward to a peace that I can’t explain. Oh I know, I know in the morning it will all still be there. The work. The dishes and laundry and cleaning. The grief and the changes. It’s always there. And it will all get done, it will be processed. Deep in my bones I know this. Because it always gets done. It always gets the attention it needs  

It is ok to leave it though. And enjoy this quiet for a moment. To rest in it. To enjoy it. I feel this is a thing not enough people know how to do. 

Walk away friends. From the mess and the constant doing. Snuggle next to your beloved under the covers. Watch the sunset. Make a sand castle. Blow bubbles. Say yes to one more chapter of the book. Sing the extra bedtime song. Know that just as easily as your feet can carry you through jobs and work, they can help you walk towards beauty and rest. 

Make room for both. 

Sometimes, just leave things and crawl into bed. 

Rest. Blessed rest. It is sweet. It is necessary. 

And you have permission to do it. 

When Sunday Feels Far Away

 I had the biggest expectations. 

I have been hyped up for Easter for weeks. Literally all of March I have been looking forward to Easter. We studied and learned and planned. The girls have cute dresses, Dean has a cute polo. I stuffed the baskets full of fun things: coloring books, regular books, play doh, sun glasses, all sorts of goofy fun things. 

We celebrate the empty tomb. We celebrate victory over death. We celebrate redemption. 

And my heart feels none of it. 

Maybe I was trying to pretend it wouldn’t hurt. Maybe I was trying to *do* enough that I’d forget. Maybe if we did enough projects, went enough places, were busy, maybe I’d forget...

There is a body missing. A text. A phone call. A “are you bringing the kids to see me?” A “what are your plans? Are you coming over for dinner?” 

And nothing we do fills that. You cannot busy away grief. You can’t ignore it. It makes me uncomfortable and annoyed that I can’t just celebrate. I can’t “just” be happy. I can’t ignore for one day, this is is the first Easter without my Dad. And it hurts. And I wish it didn’t. 

Christ’s tomb was empty, his body that was so broken risen. 

Today it still doesn’t help me when I look up to the corner of the bookshelf where I keep my Dads ashes. 

Today Death still Stings. 

It doesn’t have any victory, but it still stings. 

It won’t always. The farther out we get from October 29, the better I function. Each “first” stings, and I cry, and sit in the ashes for a moment. But it doesn’t knock me down the way Thanksgiving did. Or the way it did when I found out I was pregnant a week after he died. 

I find myself snappy and cranky  unable to shake a bad attitude towards my husband and my children.  All my expectations for an Easter together ruined by a baby with a cold who is quite miserable and keeps hitting me. I am tired of how consistent I have to be with her, I am tired of how “hard” things are.  

I am tired of grieving. 

I picture the empty tomb in my minds eye, the women walking up to it, their complete and utter shock to see it empty. What a thing to witness. What a story to be told. What conflicting emotions after two days of loss and pain and grief.  

I have found more comfort in the grief of Good Friday, more than I have in the Joy of Resurrection Sunday. Because it is still hard to feel the joy when the grief is fresh and raw. 

I don’t think though, that Jesus would mind, that He does mind, that I’m still a little sad today  That the joy doesn’t reach my heart. 

I think He recognizes and understands the deep grief, the kind He felt in the garden. 

Sunday comes. 

And I know, eventually, I’ll feel that in my heart