The past few days my mind has been a sea of waves, certainly tossed and blown by winds of all sorts. I still wonder where I should have my baby, scared that I may make the wrong decision. We wait four more weeks and then go get my platelets checked; if they are low again, I’m high-risk category and everything changes.

There are things that are easy to pray about, that are clear and answer-worthy. Then there are weird things like this, decisions that have to be made but can’t really be clear, except that I have more peace about one place more than the other. So this morning I rely on that peace, and in tears I hang up the phone after making my first OB appointment. I’m 17 weeks pregnant.

Eliot and I have been sleeping in until 9 or so every morning, and I’m so thankful that I’ve got a boy who likes the late morning versus the early sunrise. Today my body and mind and soul woke up ready for some quiet. Travis is home this morning on spring break, so I left them at 8:00 to send a few emails and make banana nut muffins.

On Facebook I saw that Chinua Achebe died. His most famous book is titled after this line from a Yeats poem: “Things fall apart; the centre cannot hold; Mere anarchy is loosed upon the world…” I feel this anarchy inside me. We spent part of the break watching movies and resting at home. I hardly left the house, except for some breakfast outings or to visit friends here and there. I wonder day after day why I can’t get quiet enough, why I’m so prone to distraction and so tired of sitting on the couch.

This morning the TV haunted me from across the living room. After eating a half of a muffin, I put it away. Sound familiar? Probably because I do it every few months. Though I’m not really consistent, I can’t explain how much peace fills the room when that black box is not in it. Still, I long for the relax of watching a film.

There seem to be so many things I want, and still my little world is prone to fall apart. I want to put Eliot to bed on time, in his crib. I want to clean my living room and keep it organized daily. I want to gut out Eliot’s room and get it ready for a brother to share it with. I want to go get groceries that are healthy and take me 30 minutes to make meals out of. I want Jesus because of who He is and all that He’s done. And I really, really want this little Isaiah Desmond inside of me to be safe.

All I can hope for this morning is that my mind settles and the waves die down. That’s all I can hope for daily, and I wait for the sweet peace of Jesus to cover me. I say again, I need you. And I sit back and realize that maybe all things haven’t yet fallen apart, and that the center is in Someone who cannot be fathomed or understood by the storms of my heart.

Travis and I spent the day sharing thoughts back and forth. Thoughts on school. On having a baby. That I’m already in my second trimester, and that I don’t feel or look like it. On traveling. On dreaming about jobs and schools and future homes. On the kindness of God to provide for us always.

We watched a mini-series movie called True Women about the old south, and how bad things were then…for women, for families, especially for minorities. I dreamt about it all night and realized how convenient and easy I have it in this century and in this life.

This morning I woke up thinking about those women, and how they worked through the day while they were 7 months pregnant. They cooked the food that made them gag because it’s all they had, and they chased their little ones around the house praying that they’d calm down and take their naps. I hoped for their strength, but I still found myself sitting on the couch for most of the morning, quietly reading books with Eliot and every so often checking my email.

But there are still little bits of inspiration that come and pour blessing over me. Reading a sweet friend’s blog about how much she loves her boys; watching Eliot’s whole body light up at the peanut butter crackers I’ve just pulled out for a snack; getting a good grade on a paper I was completely unprepared to write; sitting and resting and remembering that I am blessed to be a mom. Eliot looks at a little flashlight and laughs at the way it lights up. 

To be inspired is to be aroused with the spirit to do something. Anything. To move, dance, sing, write, be still, encourage, think, settle into yourself, into God. Eliot’s inspired by watching Ben Howard perform live, and Travis is inspired by his absolutely beautiful dreams. And I’m inspired by all of it. By this life I’ve been given, and the chance to live it in the fullest of ways, and especially in the hardest of seasons.

I need to have patience and love, along with every other fruit of the wonderful Spirit, who is my constant friend.

Sounds like a big goal and a tough journey. I think I need the climb.

Last night we celebrated Valentine’s Day with a living room picnic of cheddar brats and Braum’s fries. We tried to make Eliot think his squash and hummus tasted better than our icky fries, but he probably read the nausea all over my face.

He crawled across Travis again and again to get to my golden crinkles. Moment by moment, frustration began to build inside me. 

This little boy loves his mama, and hardly spends more than five minutes away from me every morning. Sometimes I think he’d love to be back in my womb, safely tucked away from the world.

We watched Skyfall, and in the back of my mind I thought about when to start my math homework and quiz, both due by midnight.

Eliot’s exhaustion continued to grow, and only I could comfort his little body. He wanted up on the couch with me– in my arms, reading with me, working on the laptop with me.

An hour later, by the time his sweet eyes closed, I held him, thankful for the quiet and worried for the next few hours. On the defense, I snapped at Travis numerous times before he and Eliot went to bed.

I did my homework and finally laid down after eleven, exhausted. I watched Eliot sleep, snuggled between his parents. I told Travis I was sorry, and, once again, received his sweet forgiveness.

Last week I looked out the kitchen window and saw the white streaks of a cross, left by an airplane. I didn’t bear an ashen cross on my forehead for Ash Wednesday, but I have no doubt that the cross spoke for me and speaks to me.

By the Glory and Grace of the cross, I can love my son and respect my husband. I can balance life and stop worrying at every twist and turn.

“My heart is fixed, O God…”

Last Saturday, Hope and Peace came to our home for a few hours. They looked like a few of our good friends, dressed to clean and rake and encourage. It was a war-zone here; the floor could barely be seen, toys were scattered across every room and dishes piled across every countertop of the kitchen. 

I asked them to come and help me. There is something painful and wonderfully freeing about asking for help when you’re most vulnerable and certainly most tired. While Travis worked a part-time job, our surroundings transformed from a battlefield of messes to a sanctuary. I breathed deeply for the first time in weeks and tried to take in the help and love without shame. 

I will never get over the effects of kindness and love when they pour over me in community.

The house is messy once more, and I suspect that in a few weeks I will send out that same email again. And I suspect that Hope and Peace will come visit us again. The blessings never die, and in this home they will certainly cover these days of sickness with everything that is good. 

Travis makes me laugh and exaggerates my sour attitude with sarcasm.

Eliot wines more because, well, that’s what mom’s doing.

So this afternoon, we just need to dance.

Travis is gone to fill his students’ heads with wonderful things, empowering them to change the world. (I really love him.) Eliot’s eating blueberries and a “baked organic cheese & grain snack” that’s got him smiling.

So we turn on Pandora. First, the Lecrae station. A little headbanging and jiving, and we’re done.

Next, Gotye– that’s better. Now he’s hiding behind the curtain and laughing. Eating his puff off the floor and wiggling his little legs, clapping all the time.

The party’s just not quite right without his new dog– the plastic one that scoots and barks at him. We invite him into the kitchen, and Eliot’s in bear crawl position, bouncing his booty up and down.

I dance while I put away the dishes, he dances while he bangs on the refrigerator. Now it’s “Lights” by Ellie Goulding. Hands in the air. Celebrate something. Howl like the dogs do. It will make it more fun. And feel every beat.

We keep jamming. I can’t wash the dishes because I got a spray tan this afternoon (go ahead and laugh), but I can clean while I dance. Cleaning is sort of my hobby, my de-stresser. I wonder if Eliot will pick up the habit.

He watches me, wants to know when I’m smiling, when I’m glaring, frowning, worried and stuck in my own head and circumstance. I smile, he smiles. I dance, he dances, and the world appears right. It’s a piece of God in the brokenness, and it’s what I need. What we’ve always needed.

Maybe when he’s 11 he will pick up my habit of worry. He will be up until 12 trying to write a paper that he knows he will get an “A” on. I will teach him the lessons I’m still trying to learn at age 24 now, at age 35 then. But right now, the lesson for both of us is simple.

Let loose and dance.

Our range of music is wide, and includes most everything except techno and country, and anything GaGa.

He sways to Frank Sinatra and Harry Connick, Jr. He headbangs to Modest Mouse, Lecrae, and John Mark McMillan. And he shakes his little booty to the sounds of his dad’s favorites, Ben Howard and Mumford. The one who created me knows that my heart leaps when I see my son carry a beat in his head, even when no music plays aloud.

Over the past few months, I’ve started writing songs again. It was always a distant longing, a quiet whisper to come and be, to sit and wait, to hear, to write in the notebooks and journals designated for a sacred purpose. When Eliot goes to sleep, either for his two naps in the day or his bedtime at night, he sweetly dozes off to the rhythms and melodies. In the silence, too, his breathing creates a new and symphonious sound.

I cannot imagine a world without music, our home without the sound.

And neither can he.

Today before naptime I looked through our NPR:MUSIC app and found a live Sigur Ros concert. NPR describes the lead singer as having an “otherworldly” voice, harmonies that are “ghostly.” I would certainly agree. Eliot’s eyes slowly closed as we rocked in our rickety glider–the broken springs making music all their own.

I gave up a let a few tears fall, and I thanked God for music. Sometimes I wonder what people think is worse, to be deaf or blind. I can imagine my world without vision, but I cannot imagine it without music.

Today, whether you’re rocking your little one to sleep or looking out the living room window at the rainy air, bring some music with you. Find what soothes you, what leaves you with wet cheeks and a soft smile, what calms your heart and reminds you of all that is absolutely beautiful and absolutely God.

(sigur-r-s-live-in-concert-from-celebrate-brooklyn)

“I want to be a compassionate soul, finding worth and beauty in the worlds around me and within me, attempting to sing a transcendent tune with my temporal position in this life.”

-Jon Foreman

The Legacy

My dad was in a rock band in high school. He continued to play well into adulthood, singing and playing over his first love, and over his children. He constantly played “Smoke on the Water” for us and weekly crooned out Eric Clapton. We’d sit, mesmerized by his presence, taken over by his talent. His tenor voice and picking rhythms were the runway, my desire to perform, the plane soaring into the cloudy sky. I would begin writing lyrics and playing guitar a few years later.

First Steps

The beginning steps are the most painful. The hours of trying and trying harder cannot be fathomed until your fingers are bruised and calloused by the metal strings. Scribbles fill the pages, phrases like: you’re coming through the ceiling. And none of it seems to make sense until it’s over. Then, the steady pace and even gait, the process a bit less painful every time.

The Invisible

The march along dirt brown Uganda soil began on the living room couch, watching Oprah. Three men from the non-government organization Invisible Children told the tale of night walkers, children escaping the hands of enslavement from a terrorizing rebel group. They would run at night and hide in safe places, away from the wilderness. They were the invisible, the scared, running barefoot to save their lives. I took it and I wrote for them, wrote to them:

You are a gunman, no longer a child,

Take your memories and let them slip away…

Hurricanes

Hurricane Hanna ravaged northern Haiti in September 2008. It happened just as I wrote it.

Didn’t I hear someone crying in the night,

 But I chose to shut my eyes and sleep away my life?

Melissa was a midwife there. She was saving lives and catching babies as the waters rose over the horizon. She talked to Travis on the phone and we knew she was okay. We knew her home was damaged and her heart was broken. The song was a sojourn into my insides, a deep glance at the apathetic brokenness of my existence. It was my conviction: closed eyes no longer, sleeping heart no more.

Brothels

Travis and I went to the movie theatre to see “Taken.” We got home, walked in the front door, and I grabbed the guitar and a notebook and fell to the floor. I wrote a song about trafficking, and then I wrote another. I took a journey of tears on the living room carpet, through the darkest corners and into the most sacred of hearts. I wrote late into the night. I played the words in my head and in my dreams:

Who’ll be there to hold her

 When she’s alone at night?

Chattel

My mother owed him her life, and now I owe him mine…

And it’s not slavery if you’re not meant for the ships to sail…

The Indian brick mill owners enslave families for generations, mother, son, grandson and beyond. And then someone comes, breaking down the door of enslavement. We heard it from inside the walls of the Sheraton Hotel in Vienna, Virginia at the International Justice Mission conference. We watched their sun-scorched, exhausted faces on the screen and we cried out to them, for them, because of them. From inside that auditorium, I was in India. I was on their side, holding their hands as they signed their name to the declarative document, the one that called them free.

To Africa

Travis and I were going together for the first time, and the words came quickly, without reservation, with life.

Love, be my guard, be my fortress…

Give me your hand, let me follow.

I know no sense without you.

We were to touch the faces and see the hands of the invisible, who were, after all, never invisible to begin with. The journey was of child’s play, the rights of these little ones to dance and sing and walk about freely. It was the journey of soul’s finding and soul’s healing, covered in life uncontaminated, and most certainly unafraid.

Lack Of

For years there was nothing. The plane was silent, the propellers broken and rusted. No new paths trodden, no new journeys taken.

Breath

The season’s new. The coming cold brings life, even as the leaves die and fall to the chilling soil. Adventure waits, and the beckoning brings forth song. Soon the plane will take me to new places. It was only a few weeks ago, in my living room. Still, the lyrics and melodies carry me through my day. Healing is on its way, and the taste is sweet. I’m strapped in and there is no return, the transcendent tune uttering life in rhythm and prose.

            My plague is the prideful plague,

            My burning and disease.

            Eating up the inner parts,

            I’m falling on defeat.

So give me the salve,

Give me the potion.

All of the cure, all you can provide.

Tell me I can beat this,

I feel it, I am dying more and more every day…

            I feel myself recovering,

            But relapse waits for me.

            The self-help truths of live and learn

            Have brought me nothing.

So give me the salve,

Give me the potion.

All of the cure, all you can provide.

Tell me I can beat this,

I feel it, I am dying more and more every day…

            I was dead in the grave,

            And dirt covered my bones.

            Then a hand reached in and picked me up,

            And dusted me off and told me I was free.

            I can feel my lungs again,

            The air inside is clean.

            Because you said that I’ll get through this mess,

            Healing’s coming, Healing’s coming.

After an uninterested 30 minutes of Baby Bookworm, we wrestled our way quickly out the door and to the movie aisle.

The goal: to find a Christmas movie, particularly a cheesy Hallmark one that brings out the warm fuzzies.

Instead, we left with Disney’s A Christmas Carol, a BBC Irish film, a TV series, and a chick flick.

We got home, Eliot went right to sleep, and I settled into schoolwork. I decided to watch the romantic comedy as I mindlessly copied world civ terms from my book chapters.

I was disobedient.

The film was pretty much trash from the beginning. But, optimist that I am, I figured it must get better, though certainly not more meaningful.

About twenty minutes in, Eli woke up. I paused, rocked him back to quiet rest, and heard the whispers of my Father.

I chose optimism over obedience, ignoring his always tender plea to refrain.

Ten more minutes in, and my heart broke before my very eyes. Again, I was the little girl with the finger in the light socket, and he was gently reminding me, I told you not to.

Shocked, I pulled away.

Ashamed, I begged for forgiveness, took the movie out immediately, and tagged it as trash in the inbox of my heart.

Eliot is still fast asleep.

This morning, Christina an I talked about the things we sacrifice for our children. Are we crazy to let them take up space in our beds until they are 4, or nurse from our breasts until they are two? Is it insane to put their nap and play time above our shopping habits?

Eliot doesn’t know that I watch a movie that corrupted my heart and gnawed at my flesh. He does know, however, the character of my heart toward him.

I will not sing the dirge of my society, the death-melody that haunts households worldwide.

I will not give him over to the silliness of the sex-addict character who watches pornography for fun, or teach him that cheating is okay and it will all work out in the end.

Nor can my household survive it.

Instead, my knees should be worn as I plead beside the spirit of James and others like him.

A disobedient heart cannot well instruct another disobedient one.

Again, I fall on grace, knowing it is there for me.

Hallelujah.

We woke up Sunday morning in our home on Nashville Street. We were married the night before, and our life together was about to begin. I wanted to open the presents so badly I could hardly stand it. “Let’s just open them before we go, so we at least know what we got.” Travis finally agreed, so we tore through them. The neighbors probably heard squeals of joy and laughter, and even ripping of tissue paper as I opened each wedding gift. A picture frame! Another picture frame! A quesadilla maker! After minutes that seemed like seconds of opening, the living room carpet was covered, and a sea of wrapping paper, bags, and bright tissue smothered it. “Okay, let’s go.”

Travis saw me pick it up. The suitcase was in my hand and we were on our way out the door. I felt the suitcase and felt my feet walk towards the front porch. Something in between happened, and somehow something was lost in translation, lost in motion, as we headed for our week-long honeymoon.

The drive to Eureka Springs was beautiful. Trav’s shaggy hair and patchouli scent had me mesmerized, and Bob Marley cooing from the speakers helped create the mood. After hundreds of twists and turns engulfed by green trees that shaded us from the hot sun, we arrived at our cabin – The Hilltop Hideaway. Our dream cottage was decorated with everything a honeymoon suite ought to have: aJacuzzi in our bedroom loft, a full kitchen, and a beautiful front porch with a swinging bench. It was perfect, perfect like a honeymoon dream.

Travis unloaded the car.

“Where’s my suitcase?” I asked. His face grew grim, but sort of the way it does when he wants to play a really mean trick on me.

“It’s not in the car, Kaitlin,” he slowly pointed out.

“That’s not funny. Stop it.” I said indignantly.

“Kait…it’s not out there.” The seriousness on his face proved his honesty. I darted out the door and headed down the steps, off the porch, and straight for the white Kia Spectra sitting empty in the driveway. I checked the trunk, the back seat, and the front seat—no suitcase of mine. We were two and a half hours away from home, and I seriously considered driving back to get it. Then I thought more logically, and the impulsion came over me to clean, just like I do when I get upset. I don’t want to talk about it. Give me the broom or a towel or the dish sponge, and let me get to work until I’m done freaking out and the house is spotless. I crawled into the back seat and started picking up trash, any trash I could find. Bits and pieces of wrappers, a cup, a piece of grass the size of an ant. I picked and picked and cried quietly. Our honeymoon ruined. Travis came out and stood silently beside the car, and finally pulled me out of the back seat in the midst of my purging.  Sweetly and with laughter in his eyes, he told me we’d go shopping for new clothes. At the moment, all I had in my possession was a bag of shoes, dresses for dinner dates, and toiletries to last for the entire week we’d be there. To some, it’s not as bad as it sounds, but to this new bride, it was devastating.

After recovering from the trauma of the early afternoon, we settled into our new, short-lasting home. Travis uncorked a bottle of wine—a 2004 Napanook, a bold Cabernet that he specifically chose just for our honeymoon. We had carefully packed our wine glasses, which were patiently waiting in a bag to be filled. I can just imagine how Travis pictured the next moments to unfold: his sweet, new wife taking her first sip of truly dry, red wine; a smile spreading across her thin lips, her eyes closed with kind wrinkles perching at each corner; in other words, complete success. Reality, however, unfolded in a manner much to the contrary. I took a swig, let it slosh in my mouth for a second or so, then ran to the sink and spit it out. If failure and disappointment could be perfectly depicted in a facial expression, his had it. I imagined his heart dropping to his stomach and wondering if this was all a big mistake.

We planned to go hiking on the trip, but because I didn’t have my suitcase, I didn’t have any hiking shoes or clothes. So, instead, sporting my “MRS CURTICE” t-shirt and jean skirt, we headed downtown to spend what little money we had. Our first stop had to be the one and only lingerie shop in town, Scarlett’s Lingerie and Curiosities, because I, of course, was not only missing lingerie, but every piece of underwear I owned. Small town Baptist puritan that I was, I couldn’t have felt more terrified as I tried to keep eye contact at a minimum. Finally, in a display of anxious nerves, I quickly explained why we were in the shop in the first place, which brought surprise and laughter from the mouth of the woman running the store. She dubbed me the pantiless lady and gave us a free candle.

The next few days consisted of shopping for new clothes, one dress with gray and light pink, a tie-dyed skirt from Romancing the Stone, and a peach-colored tank top with adjusting straps and one pocket from a little hippie boutique. I can do this, I can be a hippie, I thought as I tried on linen pants and dresses that flowed with the contour of my totally un-hippie body. That week they were my favorite items, but home in our Joplin surroundings I wore them only a handful of times. We visited the giant Jesus statue, unsure of whether to be in awe or a little disturbed at its hugeness. We drove and drove, and Travis saw a herd of deer—his sign of God’s presence in our midst, some quiet from the chaos of the winding roads and loud music. I tried salmon from his plate but stayed in the safety of my hamburger or chicken pasta, with a Coke to drink as he sipped his red wine.

I danced beside a bubble machine and Travis snapped pictures. I wore my white-rimmed sunglasses and my black cotton Target dress. We both wore our wedding TOMS and we celebrated that we made it there together, with or without clothes. We bought our faded yellow wicker hamper from an antique market. It sits in our bedroom today and holds our stuffy, dirty laundry. I’ll never get rid of it. We looked at cat paintings and I realized that when Travis said he was allergic, he really meant that he hated them. We talked about how much we missed our dog. Travis smoked his pipe, and I took in the scent.

We drove home. We laughed about my lack of clothes, and we reminisced about our favorite moments and places. I collected brochures from the business that rented us our cabin, and I cherished the memories they contained. I watched him again from the passenger seat, and the ride back was not nearly as long as the ride there. We dreamed out loud to each and to ourselves what the next few days, weeks, and even months would look like, and we haven’t stopped dreaming since. Later Travis told me that when we got back, he imagined taking me home to my house and dropping me off. We knew things would be difficult, that the honeymoon phase was truly ending and real life was about to kick in. We unloaded the car and walked back through the front door to the house that waited for us. Things were not as they used to be. I was in his territory and he was in mine, ‘til death do us part. This was the journey begun, the road of marriage, winding and naked as it may be.

You, with the overarching assumptions and created hate.

There is mockery and broken-record talk on your lips.

So throw your blanket over me.

I am under it with

the OTHER,

the THEMS,

the THEYS,

who protest in the streets like oppressed people would– because they are.

And you are acting cold in the above-water, lifeless stream.

But I need the warmth.

There in the womb of reconciliation it is peaceful, and all that flows between us brings me to them.

I’d invite you in, but come with arms open and weapons down, mouth silent and ears hearing.

Come under the blanket. It’s not always what it seems.

Come under the blanket. Let’s give birth to new dreams.