easter.

Today is easter. i feel little, yet i know that His death has given me life. i still feel like i am trying to muster emotions to try and give today more significance. today is something because it is bigger than me. and though i don't feel its depth in this moment, the truth is that i believe that God's Spirit weaves His way into the threads of my being- and in his grace and providence leads me, calls me, and draws me deeper into Himself- into His love. so though i feel little i am okay with that. i remember how i was blind and now i see. that he saw me. he saw the heart i had so hidden, the room where i became so silent, he saw me weeping on the floor of my college dorm room, saw me starring out the rainy window, he saw me when i waved goodbye, he saw me sitting alone in my car in the dark at the beach, he saw me when i said yes, he saw me spill open my heart when i was so afraid, he saw me when i thought no one else could.
and he sees me today-
even if i can't see Him very well.

My son is one.

I love him because...
he is as adventurous as anything
he loves tangerines
he dances to any sort of rhythmic sounds (including his dads singing)
he loves balls
climbing stairs is his idea of a ride at disneyland
he can throw an ugly temper tantrum
he is a human vacuum cleaner, eating anything in sight
he burrows his head into my lap when he is sleepy
he loves veggie tales
he is happiest in the dirt and mud
outside is like a kingdom of the unknown which he must conquer
he loves waking up unexpectedly in the middle of the night for no reason
he is a gift

he is Manoah

happy one year buddy!
thanks for spending it with me.

my band aid heart.

it was as though i saw my heart... deep, thick, and pulsing. there it was in a messy fleshy sort of way. and on my heart were band aids. they were there holding together the parts of my heart that had been ripped apart. yes- one friendship, one rejection, one loss, one walking away, one no goodbye, and one never had. yes, the parts of my heart that were once filled so beautifully by these loves. attachments so deep into my soul, ripped away and now replaced by band aids. band aids corroded, wet in blood, and hanging on by their last ounce of stickiness. i feel my powerless efforts to force the band aides back into place- i pound and i pound the flailing flaps of the band aids to stay down. the littlest stimulus will puncture my band aid and the blood comes gushing out uncontrollably. i replay the incessant arguments, imagine different scenarios, practice endless dialogues, or defenses that may have worked or might work to change the way things are now. yes- i am desperate to plug up the holes in my heart.

and all the while my heart beats away, even stronger, ever louder.

maybe my band aids aren't working anymore. maybe my wounds are deeper than i like to realize or feel or admit. maybe i hate that i still hurt and hurt and hurt from these lost loves. maybe i am afraid that if my band aids fell off... i might bleed my heart away.

washed feet.

i sat hunched over on the kitchen counter with my feet dangling in the sink last night while sam baked oatmeal cookies. Warm water running over my feet is one of my greater comforts in life. in the moments when i am most overwhelmed with 'me' you can find me with my feet submerged in a tub of hot water. after a long and difficult week of fighting off the flu my body craved relaxation. as sam and i were chatting i realized a familiar feeling rush over me, guilt. what am i doing? i should be the one baking. after a whole week of sam caring for me and sick manoah, being double duty at work and at home, here i am just sitting here while he is baking (of all things- baking- the stereo typical women's role). instead of experiencing or seeking to understand my guilt, with all of its frightening roots i said this, "thanks for making those cookies, they look so good." here's the funny thing about me...

i said thank you, not because i am truly thankful (bc i am) but even more than that, i said thank you because i didn't want to feel guilty. by saying 'thank you' i free myself from my guilt. i do this all the time. all the time. i feel guilty. guilty when sam gets up with manoah in the morning or the middle of the night, when i don't play with manoah enough or watch tv when he is awake. i feel guilty for letting him cry to sleep or when i go and pick him up. i feel guilty about driving too much and getting my 'list' accomplished with little manoah just strapped into his car seat or a shopping cart, or stroller. i feel guilty when sam comes home and i don't have a clue what to make for dinner. and when we finally decide what to eat he ends up cooking most of it. i feel guilty when he changes diapers or cleans up around the house. and for all these 'guilts' i brush them away by saying "thank you." somehow thinking that if i can say "thank you" first or fast enough then sam won't get upset or angry. my 'thank yous' pardon my guilt. and for a moment i think i am free.

a wise sage once told me that the only thing i am guilty of is not receiving the love of God. and although i still don't understand this fully in my heart, i believe it to be true. if i believed that God loved me i wouldn't live in fear. if i believed sam loved me, just being me, than i wouldn't be afraid of not pleasing him and losing his affection. love is hard to receive. love is a gift and sometimes i just don't believe i deserve it. perhaps if i can earn or deserve love than i can also take credit for it, and so creating in myself an idol of 'me.'

jesus washed the disciples feet. each of them, including Judas. peter couldn't not receive the gift of love. Jesus replied to Peter, "Unless I wash you, you have no part with me." Jesus continues, "i have set you an example that you should do as i have done for you." unless i receive God's love for me- His entire and deep, abounding, unending love for every weak and glorious thing about me, i am not free of my guilt and the 'shoulds' that haunt me.

jesus washed the dirty feet of his friends. he knelt down on the dirty ground and dipped each foot into a basin of warm water. his hands held each foot, receiving them as they were. he had a towel tied around his waist and dried the remaining water off of their feet. he stood and moved to the next disciple, one after another, after another. he held them in all of filth of who they were, in the most unworthy places of their bodies. he knelt, came low before them and washed their feet. jesus washed their feet... all sinners, and yes- one murderer.
he knelt and washed feet.

a lot to say a little thing... i resist so deeply my feet being washed...really it is my heart pleading politely to sam and to jesus, "don't love me. thank you. and please don't wash my feet."

the truth is i am tired of saying "thank you."

Peaceful Places.

Our home is a constant work in progress. We just moved things around again for the 100th time. Sam got a good work out. Here are a few shots of my favorite spots.

My kitchen project. I bought the main wood piece at Michaels and painted it taupe and antiqued the edges. Every kitchen needs a chalk board. The verse is Ps 28:7 "The Lord is my Strength and my Shield." We've needed a little extra strength here this week as we all fought off the flu. The iron hook hangings are from Anthropologie. It is hard to see but the glasses in the center box are filled with coffee and each of the cups have a letter on them- S (for Sam). A (Anjuli). M (Manoah)- spelling SAM. Fun huh? I just realized that the other week and had to capitalize on it.

Beautiful Flowers.

I struggled trying to fill up this shelf. I searched the house and found a mixture of blue objects. My goal is to fill the blue goblet with shells Manoah and i find the next time we go to the beach.

my first isaac.

I fed him from my breast for the last time on Monday. I laid Manoah down in his crib and at the alter. My first Isaac. I laid him down in his crib and at the alter and i walked away. I walked away. i hid my face in the arms of sam and i wept. i wept for me. i wept for Manoah...wept for the first moment i ever held him, wept for the joy i found in calming him when others could not, wept for his fingers that tugged on my hair as his tummy filled up, wept for his wondering eye that caught mine as he drank in comfort, wept for his tiny face burrowing deeply into my chest.

My first Isaac. My last feeding. My first laying down. My first letting go. My first Isaac. One week now. Manoah has forgotten. My breasts have not. they ache and pulse in pain... filled, but now to stay full. My first Isaac. my last feeding.

this helmet mom

i am done. tonight and every night, day, and moment after i refuse, resign, and remove this iron helmet fasten so tightly to my head. this helmet i have worshiped and invited onto my body. this helmet covers my ears. it seems to protect me. it seems to conform me. it keeps me from confronting me and my creator. this helmet locks me in place and steals my freedom. i hate and love the way it fits me and for the fleeting moments it whispers to me that i am safe. the helmet carries with it generations of pain and a society that is so muttled in sin that it licks its own bloody wounds to find pleasure. i put this helmet on 10 months, 17 days, 7 hours, and 42 minutes ago. at the moment of his birth i became- this helmet mom, with all of its heavy burdens, and black chocking guilt, with all the anxiety and the fear of lack of anxiety, with the voices of a million other moms screaming -"this way,that way, my way, wrong way" with the cries of my mothers abandonment, and her mothers abandonment. With all of it and them, this helmet digs into my skull, it pulls clamps down around my ears and over my eyes, the helmet has chains that lock around my mouth and tighten around my throat- i can not breathe. and after all this i realize that i can't see my son. he is there, but so far away. there are these walls and layers between us. i can't smell the warmth of my sons skin, feel his sticky hands on my face, i can't hear his constant glorious babble, i can't kiss his soft forehead. i have forsaken these precious treasures in exchange for this helmet mom- the helmet thickens every moment that i let it go unnoticed. tonight- again, with many more days to follow- i remove this helmet. i say no thank you. i stop. i don't want this helmet anymore. this helmet is filled with poison and it is corrupting my soul. i say no thank you to the voices that run rampant in my mind, no thank you to my 'shoulds' and 'oughts', no thank you to my mom, no thank you to the nameless eye that i seek to please, impress, or find applause, no thank you. yes please to freedom, yes please to my son.