Hunting out the next size up of clothes for the boys (all three of them, and this new little one who will arrive while we are here).
Cleaning the house in the way that only a nesting mother-to-be can do.
Packing and nesting and saying “See you next spring,” to our friends.
And up until the last two weeks, immersing myself for an hour each day back in 1941.
And it was tiring.
I was tired.
Tired like an addict of some sleep-inducing drug.
But planes and newborn babies, they don’t tend to wait.
And so I pressed through, and I made it, and we’re here.
We’ere here!
Scotland.
Scotland, which was home for eight years, and now hasn’t been for three.
Scotland, where everything is dear and familiar, strange and new.
Even after all that time, the hills never disappoint me.
Never seem less beautiful than ever they were.
And I can never help but think that all of this–all of this crossing of oceans–must mean something. Must DO something, deep inside of me.
Because it always has.
But when you’re away, out of your routine, it’s easy to forget the working, the striving, and try to get by just sailing for a while. And sometimes you still learn this way. Sometimes the haphazard can still help you grow. But I don’t want to leave it to chance.
I’ve got people. Dear ones. They need me at my best.
And though in the rush of the sea I hear the whisper of my Maker calling, it can be hard to hear His voice amongst so many other things that charm. Here in this place that always stirred my heart.
But hearts, as you know, are not always true. They can lead us on a merry dance.
And so while I want to savour each misty hill, each cup of tea, each warm embrace of a dear friend, I want to end this journey with a clearer eye, a clearer vision, and a closer walk with my Saviour than when I began.
I’ve never had to wrestle a pair of tights onto kicking, squirming legs. Never had to untangle and braid a head of baby-fine hair. Never had to search through vacuum cleaner dust for Barbie’s other shoe.
No, these blessings have never been mine.
But also, I’ve never looked into my daughter’s wide-eyes face and caught surprising glimpses of my grandmother, sisters, mom. Never curled up with my daughter to watch Anne of Green Gables. Never got to lay into her arms my favourite childhood doll.
And probably, most probably, I never, ever will.
Because I have sons, you see.
Three of them.
And two weeks ago, in the cool, dim room at the doctor’s office, my stomach smeared with sticky gel, for the fourth time in my life I heard the words “It’s a boy,”
and with those three small words came the death of a dream.
I didn’t realize it at first.
Yes, I wanted a girl. To dress in tutus and lace, as opposed to dinosaurs and sharks. To shop with. Drink tea with. A little girl who would be like me in ways my wonderful sons could not.
But it’s taken a week
or more
to realize how much more than all that it meant to me.
Taken a week to realize the lifetime of hopes, plans, and expectations that I will have to bury along with my dreams.
When I was 13 I was given a journal. Instead of filling it with the usual teenage drama, I dedicated the book to my future relatives with love. I counted the pages, divided the book into thirds, and over the years filled the first section with photographs of myself, favourite quotes, and information about myself and my family. I planned to pass the journal on to my own daughter on her 13th birthday, and the middle section would be for her to fill out. She, in turn, was meant to give it to her daughter, my granddaughter.
I’ve always been aware of my heritage. The Brazilian side of my family. The Swedish side. And my place in the long line of women whose blood and genetics I carry in my own body. Those women who sailed to a strange new land to endure the harsh winds of a Minnesota winter. Contend with murderous Frenchmen and barn fires and drought. Or face the cramped conditions and sheer terror of being a foreigner in New York City.
I’ve heard their stories, watched the battles and triumphs that my own mother, aunts, and sisters have faced. I’ve felt my place among them. And I always thought I would one day add to that line with my own daughter.
She’d have my curls, I imagined. And when I married, I imagined those curls would be a wonderous, Scottish red. And when she was old enough, I’d tell her the stories of the women who had gone before her. The Brazilian side, the Swedish side, and now the Scottish side, too.
I’d tell her of the wonderful tapestries that God wove with the lives of these women, and paint pictures in her mind of the beautiful things she, with God’s help, would one day do.
Now I wonder what to do. What to do with that book? Or with the box of dress-up gloves, hats, and scarves? With my American Girl doll? My Mandie book collection?
What will I do with the name? With her name. The name I’ve whispered to myself, scrawled along the margins of my journal. The name of the little girl who will never come to be?
I’ll love my fourth son. Oh, how I’ll love him.
But having a daughter, I’ve realized, was an integral part of all I hoped my life would be. Like getting married, or writing, or seeing the world. It’s hard to imagine a life without any of those things, and it’s hard to imagine my life without her.
The day after I found out, I rose early. Crept through the house, my black Bible in hand, and went to the porch. Sat there a while in the refreshing morning coolness, with the song of the birds and the breeze in the trees.
And I cried. And I asked God why. Why, when I wanted it so much? When it came so easily to others. Even others who didn’t even want their girls.
But I know, from experience, that when God’s providences are not in line with our own desires, that it’s easy to seethe. Rage. Grow bitter inside. And I know all the damage that can do.
And so I’m choosing, though it hurts and I don’t understand it, to accept God’s will for my life. Knowing, believing, though I cannot see it, that God is in the habit of making beautiful things out of dust. Of weaving together strands, which to us seem fragmented and broken, and creating pictures more lovely than we ourselves could ever dream.
To read about the amazing changes coming to our lives 11 years after this post, click here.
Avonlea xo
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The weather kept me guessing yesterday.
Couldn’t make up its mind between radiant blue and stormy grey.
Kept me running in and out to fetch the washing off the line–
rescue those white sheets billowing in the wind.
Reminded me of a Scottish summer’s day.
And so I dug out an old poem I wrote whilst we were still living there.
I’ve been told it needs tweaking, but I’ll share it anyway.
The posts haven’t come as regularly recently. Did you notice? But they aren’t done and the inspiration hasn’t stopped.
The whirlwind of life has kept going, providing me with more life-lessons than I’d sanely choose, if given the chance. And after the long bitter winter, I find myself still in awe of the heavy fullness of the trees and the strange new sensation of heat.
And so yes, still the words come to me, click together like magnets in my head, demand to be spoken, printed, heard.
But in spite of all I long to share, I’ve been otherwise engaged, and I’ve found there simply isn’t enough time in the day (not until I get a housekeeper like the Brown family in Paddingtion Bear, as the Professor suggested I do).
Otherwise engaged? Yes.
Lying on the sofa, mostly. Enduring the drug-like fatigue and debilitating nausea of the first few months of pregnancy. Baby #4 is due to arrive in December, and before you even think it, no, we don’t know the gender but are counting on the baby being another wee boy.
And when I was well enough to be up and caring for my family, holding up the walls and trying to keep the layers of crusted on food from becoming too thick, I’ve been writing.
Writing?
Yes! Fiction, this time. Fiction that I deeply hope I will get the chance to share with all of you.
And what is it about?
It’s set during WWII . . . and the present day.
A wee blurb for the back of the book might go something like this:
Two women. Two generations. Separated by an ocean. Brought together by a house.
So, yes, I’ve been writing fiction, trying to churn out a few pages a day.
Then there’s been the preparation for our Scotland trip. Oops, I didn’t mention. Yes, a trip to Scotland. A long one. We’re hoping to have the baby there. AndI wouldn’t dream of going without you. So stay along for the journey!
Stay and see the view of the Moray Firth from John’s parents’ house.
Stay and find out if #4 is indeed a boy.
Stay and maybe even find out more about my book.
For today, I leave you with a quote–a thought to keep you soaring–aptly taken from the words of a German Christian who was martyred by the Nazis for standing up for all that’s right.
I dig my heals into the mattress, feel the sheets wrinkle up beneath my feet like an elephant’s skin as I push myself up to sitting. My legs are cold, so I tug at the quilt my grandmother made me–all polyester and purple and pink, though I have it flipped round so I can only see the back–and the white, nobbly chenille bedspread we bought at a market in Portugal.
I’m tempted to lie still, bask in the white light that’s pouring into my bedroom, let myself drift in and out of dreams. After all, silence is a thing that a mother learns not to waste. Silence is not a thing to waste, I remind myself, and so I reach for it–my black leather Bible–breathe in the sweet smell of the leather. Run my thumb across the gold lettering, faded from those years I read it every day. Those days I underlined verses, scribbled margin notes, added stickers–a shiny pink heart and an ice cream cone. Those days when silence and aloneness were not a foreign thing. Not like now.
And then I flip to the index, search for a phrase our pastor said. And I find it.
for we do not know how to pray as we should, but the Spirit Himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. – Romans 8:26
And I read it, and I read it again, and I’ve read those words three dozen times before, but somehow this time they strike me. Stay with me through the day.
The day of noise, and being anything but alone–though I can feel alone in a house with no one else over the age of eight. My day of being followed by Mr. Waddlesworth, his arms lifted, his curly head tilted back, big Charlie Brown mouth wide open as he cries crocodile tears because he’d love to be picked up and carried the day long.
My day of struggling through the times tables with the Professor, and the difference between “puppies” and “puppy’s” and reminding him to be a little ray of sunshine and not a little black rain cloud.
My day of helping the General in and out of his daily costumes–felt super hero masks, and pirate belts, and cowboy hats, and asking him if he needs the potty, and then adding his wet clothes to the laundry basket when he’s been too busy saving the world to take a trip to the bathroom.
My day of crumbs and stickiness–on the worktops, on the highchair, on the walls, on the floor. Crumbs and stickiness that never stay away for long.
My day . . . and yet I found, that during those rare seconds of quiet–or at least a quiet thought–that my mind drifted to those words I’d read that morning. Drifted like it never does, and I felt wonder. Peace. Strength.
Because I knew that every time I let myself become aware of the presence of God, that He was there, also thinking of me,
caring for me,
loving me,
as He always does,
though I cannot see Him
and I do not know.
Though I forget He’s there,
and how He cares,
and hardly think of Him in my busy, noisy day,
He is there
on His knees
lifting me.
Though it’s easier at certain times than others to see the miraculous, the eternal, in the everyday, today JUST KNOW that whenever you think of Jesus, He is already right there, thinking of, praying for, loving you.
of moving continents, moving cities, moving lives.
When I never knew from one month to the next
where I might be,
what British or European city I’d have the pleasure of exploring,
just me and my camera and my thoughts.
Here in America, everything feels so far away,
but of course life happens all the same.
And when you have three little men
all around you like a daisy chain,
(sometimes like a fence),
you have to move a lot more slowly
than you’d sometimes like.
And so the blip, and nothing’s the same and everything is at once,
and it all might mean a long trip to Scotland later this year,
but that is all later and not now.
And I can see just one corner of one piece of the puzzle of my life,
and seeing pieces can get me excited,
full of dreams,
make me fear that when it’s all together, it might not look the way I’d hoped.
Waiting is like that–hope, and fear, and anger, and sometimes peace.
Or the way I am today, realizing there’s a hand working those puzzle pieces,
setting them in place.
A hand, and I know it’s not mine.
And it can take my breath away,
seeing life return to the earth in the form of tender green,
acknowledging that my own life is not in my hands
(and thank goodness),
but that LOVE Himself knows all the days, all the plans, all the tomorrows of my life.
And that He not only knows them, but He’s planned them long in advance.
With one hand behind me, and one hand before, He guides me, keeps me,
though I cannot feel it,
and I do not see.
Some words stick with you,
drift in and out of your mind and heart,
and these I learned at our first church in Scotland,
surrounded by those dear ones who would become lifelong friends.
I remember the piano, the frayed red hymn books, the voices raised in unison
In heavenly love abiding, no change my heart shall fear.
And safe in such confiding, for nothing changes here.
The storm may roar without me, my heart may low be laid,
But God is round about me, and can I be dismayed?
Wherever He may guide me, no want shall turn me back. My Shepherd is beside me, and nothing can I lack. His wisdom ever waking, His sight is never dim. He knows the way He’s taking, and I will walk with Him
Green pastures are before me, which yet I have not seen. Bright skies will soon be over me, where darkest clouds have been. My hope I cannot measure, my path to life is free. My Savior has my treasure, and He will walk with me.
– Anna L. Waring
Though sameness,
or blips of both the smallest and most painful types,
so often leave me paralyzed,
from weariness or fear,
at times I remember
to embrace the stillness,
and in the sound of the wind in the trees out my door,
or in the stirring notes of my favourite song,
I am turned to Him who thinks of me more times than I can count,
who never makes even one mistake,
who knows all the good plans He has for me,
who holds all my moments,
all my days.
And I am left to meditate,
worship,
awe.
At all He’s doing,
all He’s done,
and in the fact that He’s not finished with me,
not just just yet.
Which piece of music or spot in nature stirs your heart,
is able to draw you away from the happenings (or non-happenings) in your life,
and helps you to meditate, wonder, and awe?
Miserere Mei Deus – Psalm 51 – by Italian composer Gregorio Allegri in the 17th century for use in the Sistine Chapel.
I wasn’t ready for it. A restless night of twisted sheets, being forced from bed to soothe a crying baby, and strange dreams of being a gymnast, practicing my skills on the bars, had left my body feeling tired, my mind distracted and dazed. But it came anyway. The start of the day. Breakfast, and packing lunches, and making beds. Changing nappies, and dressing wee ones, and preparing for the school day ahead.
Before my boys came along I worked as a teacher, but this is my first year of official home education. My first year of adding tutor to my already full job description of chef, maid, nurse, chauffeur, activity director, police officer, and kangaroo (for the Admiral, who, at a whopping 24 pounds, still wants to be carried the day long).
And so an hour later I found myself, still dazed and unprepared for a day of living (let alone living well), trying to have a discussion about odds and evens with the Captain, all the while jiggling the Admiral on my knee and trying to ignore the General, who had squeezed onto the dining room chair behind me and in his very high-pitched three-year-old voice was speaking non-stop about wanting some cake (although I’d told him several times over that he had to wait for elevenses).
I tried giving snacks, introducing different toys, and even (though I try to avoid it in the mornings) putting on the television so I could get on with the lessons. But still, each soldier in my little army remained intent on being inches from me, if not in direct contact, each asking for something more or different or better from what he already had.
My head seemed to spin faster than I’d spun round those bars in my dream. I longed to crawl back into bed and find the unconsciousness of deep sleep. Or even the still, quiet surroundings of an empty house, where I could potter about, making sense of my jumbled thoughts.
To my right, the living room was strewn with giant colored cardboard bricks and scattered sofa cushions, the abandoned remnants of my attempt to entertain the younger ones. My mind seemed just as disorderly as the house, and as I attempted to turn my focus back to the math lesson, the thought crossed my mind that it would be awfully nice to have a real nanny and maid, so that I could be left to teach the Captain, and do only nice things with the boys (and perhaps sleep in a little on rare occasion). But of course that seemed as likely as my getting around to organizing some kitchen cupboards and planting the bell pepper seeds as I’d hoped to do that day (not to mention the school subjects we had yet to get through).
But unrestricted sleeping hours and empty houses are not some of the frequent luxuries of mummies of armies of wee boys, and in the chaos I longed for some little escape, some little treat to bring me comfort, and temporary escape from the swirl of color and noise that surrounded me.
A square of dark chocolate, perhaps?
A cup of espresso, topped up with raw sugar and heated milk?
A few minutes to skim the news feed on my Facebook account?
These are the things I often turn to bring drops of sanity to my busy, noisy day, but yesterday as I contemplated what method of escape I would employ, I thought of a different way. Down the hallway on my bedside table sat my black leather Bible, which I hadn’t yet touched that day.
And I didn’t have time, not just then, to pour over it as I would have liked to do. But I did have the time–as long as it would have taken me to slip into the kitchen to devour a square of chocolate–to flip to the Psalms, and the sweet morsels of goodness found there.
O taste and see that the Lord is good; How blessed is the man who takes refuge in Him!
– Psalm 34:8
And I wondered as closed my Bible, felt peace wash over me like a cup a chamomile tea, what I’d been missing.
Although there isn’t anything wrong with coffee, and chocolate, and Facebook news, what had I been missing by reaching for them instead of the Living Water found there in the Psalms, so accessible, so available to me?
For while our SIN can be easy enough to spot (though at times it’s not), there are deeper, sweeter paths of closeness to the Lord which we can go a lifetime and not discover. And what if those paths, those changes I so long to see in myself, can be reached not only through long segments of time spent in the Word, but through little moments of calling out to God for strength, and reaching for little pieces of His word?
What change could even one pure morsel of eternal truth make to my day?
After taking the time to read from the Psalms, I went on to finish the school day, plant those pepper seeds, and even clean out my kitchen junk drawer!
What a difference the reminder of Jesus’ love and presence had made.
In Him is strength, beauty, refuge, truth, and the nourishment I need to help me view my boys, my home, my life in the light of eternity.
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happy little sigh 