Milestones

First smile.
First word.
First tooth.
First wheelchair.

Never thought that would be in the baby book.

Last night, I watched my five year old at his first basketball practice ever.  I don't think we own a basketball.  Yet.  He stood, alone in the midst of the general mayhem of kindergarteners on the court, trying to dribble a ball.  Bounce. Smack. Bounce. Repeat.  If sheer will could have forced the ball to submit to his untrained fingers, it would have been easy.  But will isn't enough, no matter what the movies say.
It's not glorious.  In the sport, dribbling is merely the littlest accomplishment.  It doesn't earn you any game points.  But you must start there.
Baby steps.

Tonight, my almost two year old concentrated as he took his halting first turns of little tires.  Older brothers squabbled for a turn to push him, but we had to hold them back.  Let him do it.  Let him feel movement of his own labor.  Alone in the midst of adoring older ladies at a store, he glowed with the accomplishment of moving forward.  A whole tire rotation.  Baby steps.  Baby wheels.

At home, he crashed delightedly into the refrigerator.  What a lovely feeling of power.
It feels like there is a little toddler in my house, for the fourth time.
He will get himself stuck like every toddler (only this time, mostly in the laundry room, because the house slopes that way.)
He'll realize he's tall enough to knock things off shelves, crack his head against the dining room table, empty the contents of mysterious drawers that had always before been just over his head.
He'll get fast enough to steal toys from his brothers and take off.  He'll get stuck on the thresholds, but the brief chase will be glorious.

So today, my baby's learning to wheel.
I am so proud.
Time to toddler proof after all.  And, as a friend said, invest in steel toed boots for the whole family.

Tank full

I do not believe we are evolved creatures.  I can't.  I've spent three separate years with three separate 2 year olds so far.  And an assortment of 3 through 6 year olds.  They are proof of entropy - lacking order, descending into randomness, ending in utter chaos and destruction if left to their own devices.  They are born sinners.  Big eyed cuteness masks the sugar-driven evil within.

But they have their moments.  Not usually at bedtime, or when they have lots of math problems to do, or when I ask for help with laundry, but occasionally some smidge of a lesson on the golden rule will tickle the right part of their brain at the moment it is needed.  Yesterday, I was the one that needed that moment.

I ran upstairs to take the shower I should have managed before they all awoke and descended on the morning.  They'd had breakfast.  They were dressed.  Two were outside in the chilly November pre-winter dirt.  An assortment of plastic dinosaurs were apparently to be excavated that morning.  The snotty nosed archaeologists were already hard at work.  My oldest was in the living room.  He was puppeteering a quiet conversation between two transformer toys, completely engrossed in their riveting discourse.  Ben was doing loops through the house.  He scooched from the kitchen to the dining room to the living room and repeated, stopping every few feet to pull something off a shelf before continuing.
His ensuing clutter would take an hour to clean, not counting the mud the kid scientists would trek in later, or their pajamas still in a pile on the living room floor.  Ben had already grabbed his brother's long underwear and was trailing it solemnly behind him on his journey.  Everybody appeared both busy and not in immediate danger for their lives.
It was a perfect time for mom to shower.

I hurried through my daily ablutions - they're a lot more simple than they used to be before children were my life - and was just opening the steamy bathroom when I heard the front door open.  I peered down the stairs.  No, it wasn't one of the archaeologists.  Gavin stood in the doorway with his 22 month old brother clasped in a bear hug.  Both were dressed warmly with hats coats and mittens.  Ben even had on a puffy vest.  The six year old looked up at me.
"I'm taking Ben out to play, Mom.  He wants to and it's good for him to get outside you know."
"Uh... Yeah... You're right, Son... Did you get all those winter clothes on him?"  I asked the stupid question.  Obviously the toddler hadn't zipped himself into a coat.  I was pretty sure I hadn't been involved either.
"Yup.  We'll be out front."  He backed out the door with his 20-odd pound load dangling at his knees.
I stood there dripping for a moment.
Then I hurriedly threw on some clothes and ran to the front door to check the scene.
The archaeologists were still busy with bulldozers in the driveway.
And the six year old was crouching by the almost 2 year old in front of the porch.  Ben was happily ramming a toy tow truck over the crunchy old leaves on the walkway as Gavin piled more of them within his reach.  I smiled and shook my head in wonder.
I know the boys generally like having each other for playmates.  It is handy to have a younger brother  when you need someone to be a bad guy, or hold the toy nail that you want to hammer, or have an accomplice that you can point to when Mom frowns at you.  But brothers are also in the genre that you can ignore if they serve no purpose in your immediate game plan.  I found it odd.  My naturally egotistical six year old was going so out of his way to make a special play date with this little fellow human.

They played for nearly an hour.  They visited at the excavation site at the end of the driveway.  When I next peeked out, Ben was throwing the soccer ball and Gavin was dutifully chasing and returning it.  Ben chortled delightedly.

I forget often that Ben has Spina Bifida.  He has limitations, but so do all my children based on their age and natural proclivities.  Still, when I do consider his differences, it is often with a sigh.  I do wish he could toddle with the other toddlers.  I wish he could feel his feet.  I ache to think of the future when he will realize he is different, when kids will tease him, when potty training is uncertain, when he isn't chosen to play tag and his peers run off and leave him behind.  Certainly, God has made him this way for a reason, and it is good.  I know that.  But I don't see the future, and I don't know why He did it.  So, in my limited view of the big picture, his handicaps make my mommy heart hurt.

But was it the fact that his little brother was handicapped that made the six year old's heart soft?  I saw them giggling together through the window.  Through tears.  And my mommy heart broke again.  In thankfulness.  The helplessness of the little one encouraged a strength in the bigger one.  And I hadn't had to force it out of him.
I didn't plan to be thankful for the handicaps of my baby today.
But for the love it brought out of my older son, I was suddenly overwhelmed with appreciation.

They came in, cheeks flushed rosy.  Eyes bright.  I picked a crackly leaf off Gavin's hat.  And hugged him.
"Thank you."  I said, sincerely.
"He likes it." He answered nonchalantly, shrugging out of his coat.  And leaving it in a heap on the floor.  Ah, there's the boy I know.
"Pick it up."  I commanded.

I wasn't planning to be particularly grateful yesterday.  It just sneaked up and smacked me by surprise.  Apparently, God uses disabled little brothers to make men of big brothers, and the big brothers make Mommy thankful for the little brother's disability.  For the first time, really.  
And I got to shower in peace.
I am blessed.

"Mary" Me

"Mom, are you ever not busy?"
My six year old queried with a sigh one day.

Is that a hypothetical question?  I am a homeschooling mom with four young boys.  I am wife.  I am homemaker, daughter, friend, occasional blogger.  I am busy.

There is so much I must do.  There is plenty more I could do.  "Free" time isn't really applicable in this present chapter of my life.

It isn't that I really want to be this way.  Not that I want to be bored, but that won't be an issue for many years, at this rate.  I really would rather be like Mary, dropping everything to sit at Jesus' feet in adoration and wonder.
But somewhere along the line, probably when I was trying to juggle homemaker/wife/mommyx4/etc, life got ridiculously busy, and I turned into Martha.

Ben is a year and a half old now.  He is most content in the midst of the happy chaos his little world is full of.  He's barely aware that most of his peers are walking now, climbing stairs and chairs and falling off them and rubbing their heads, trying to clamber out of their cribs too late at night or early in the morning, and generally giving their parents headaches with all the childproofing toddler worlds require.
I wish, sometimes, that was my headache.

Still, I imagine him upright, chubby legs steadied in orange plastic braces, hanging on trustingly to tall toys, tables or a parent's knees.  Perhaps he will, in time.  But what if he's unable to walk, what if never?  What if I need to carry him for years ahead?  How can I bear this burden?  Will I be holding him at his brother's soccer games?  Will I carry him around the playground?  Will he watch from my lap at his brother's swim meets?  No matter how small his stature, or how big my muscles grow, this sometimes seems too heavy to bear.

It is.  
Martha said so.

Now it happened as they went that He entered a certain village; and a certain woman named Martha welcomed Him into her house.
And she had a sister called Mary, who also sat at Jesus' feet and heard His word.
But Martha was distracted with much serving, and she approached Him and said, "Lord, do You not care that my sister has left me to serve alone? Therefore tell her to help me."
And Jesus answered and said to her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and troubled about many things.
But one thing is needed, and Mary has chosen that good part, which will not be taken away from her.
Luke 10:38-42


The Son of God had just walked into her house, probably with a substantial posse of hungry, dirty, tired disciples.  They needed food.  They needed water to wash.  They needed places to sit and cool down.  It was her house.  It was on her shoulders to kill and cook the fatted calf, to not burn the challah or fig pie (I'm guessing at the menu).  She had to be sure there were enough fresh sheets if they were going to stay overnight in the guestrooms, and I'm guessing she didn't have a speed wash or dry cycle.  The outhouse had to be spotless.  She'd been meaning to whitewash the front of the house all summer; Passover was coming and how had she not done it yet?  Milk spoiled so quickly; maybe she could just run over to the neighbors and borrow a jug.  Ack!  So much to do for Jesus!  At least maybe Mary had hopefully thrown the sheets on the line, and if she'd started the roast they might just be able to accomplish it all by dinner time...
Mary?  Why wasn't she in the kitchen?  She loved seeing Jesus; there was no way she would have just gone wandering off like she did in those introspective moments.  If they could just get all the serving done, then they could spend some time with Jesus.  Martha peeked around the corner to see if Jesus needed a refill; He was talking so much, He must be parched.  There was Mary's upturned face, right in the middle of the floor in front of Jesus!  Shirking her duties completely; Martha would have to do it all.  It was just too much!      

But when Martha finally brought her frustration to Jesus, after much fretting, she wasn't initially soothed.  "Mary chose the right thing" wasn't what Martha wanted to hear.  She wanted to be affirmed and patted on the back for wanting to help Jesus.
But Jesus wasn't there because He needed help.
Jesus didn't need food; He'd just fed 5,000 people with a handful of fish and loaves of bread.
Jesus didn't need to wash the dirt from His feet; He'd made dirt; it didn't faze him.
Jesus didn't need clean sheets; He was used to not having a place to lay His head.
Jesus didn't need Martha to carry His load.
He was there to carry hers.

"Come sit with Me." He told Martha.
"I am the bread of life.  I will wash you white as snow.  I will give you rest.
You were meant to have a Mary kind of life with Martha moments here and there.  You've got it turned around.  I'm not here to make a Martha out of Mary.  I'm here to make a Mary out of Martha.

"Come to Me, all [you] who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.

"Take My yoke upon you and learn from Me, for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. "For My yoke is easy and My burden is light." Matthew 11:28-30

 Perhaps she got the hint and sat down next to Mary instead of worrying about the perfect dinner.  Perhaps He helped her with the dishes later that night, in characteristic humble servant fashion.  Or perhaps they ate leftovers on paper plates and spent the evening around the campfire singing and laughing instead of sweeping up the kitchen.  

Does this mean I can ignore the dishes?
Perhaps some of these things are so insignificant in His grand scheme that if I could see His big picture, I would indeed feel silly worrying so much about the congealed oatmeal in the bottom of the sink.
Does it mean He will make my son walk?
Perhaps He sees my little son as a grown man at a podium or even in a slum, championing the cause of the widow and the orphan.  Whether he got himself there on his feet or his wheelchair will be inconsequential to both of us at that moment.  He made Ben because He wanted to love his soul; the difficulties with his spinal cord are just part of helping Ben (and me) to realize that.
Carrying him now doesn't seem like such a big deal with the light of eternity in the corner of my eye.

Make me Mary, God.  "Busy" is not my priority.  "Being" is my priority.

Now, I hope you'll excuse me.  I have to go play legos with the kids.

Bouncing Baby Birthday Boy

Benaiah was the son of Jehoiada, the son of a valiant man from Kabzeel, who had done many deeds.  He had killed two lion-like heroes of Moab.  He also had gone down and killed a lion in the midst of a pit on a snowy day. 

And he killed an Egyptian, a spectacular man.  The Egyptian had a spear in his hand; so he went down to him with a staff, wrested the spear out of the Egyptian's hand, and killed him with his own spear.

These things Benaiah the son of Jehoiada did, and won a name among three mighty men... And David appointed him over his guard.

II Samuel 23:20-23

Beniah.  "The Lord has built."

Benjamin. "The son of my right hand."

New.  January 18, 2011.

He was born at 7:29 a.m.  One year ago.

What joy to finally meet the child I'd carried for 37 weeks.  Every one of my pregnancies seemed long. The last 17 weeks of this one had seemed like a lifetime.

We had found out at the 20 week ultrasound that something was different.  The tech had confirmed our guesses - boy number four - but then she went silent.  She wouldn't let us leave without seeing the doctor.  

"Spina Bifida."  They said.  And from that moment on, the phrase was added to our vernacular language.     

"He has a 'biffed-up spine.'" My husband would try to explain it in even more basic terms, when people asked.  His spinal column - the part that forms around 28-30 days after conception, before I had confirmed I was even pregnant - never closed all the way.  

We knew he was perfectly formed by the Lord, just like all children.  But it was hard to accept.

On ultrasound, we could see the bubble on his lower back where the spinal cord stuck out.  There was extra fluid - or too little brain - at the top of the spinal column.  His right foot was bent at a funny angle; it looked like a Charlie Brown foot on the grainy black and white silent movies transmitted from my growing abdomen.  

We went home and started doing our homework.  Best case, it might not actually affect him at all.  Worst case, it would affect the parts of his brain that would tell him to breathe and to swallow; he could also be paralyzed, mentally handicapped, there could be a myriad of associated major midline deformities with his heart, cleft palate, seizures, blindness.  The list went on.  We wouldn't know till he was born - and later.

So we waited.  We went to ultrasounds.  We studied.  We met the specialists.  We waited.  

Finally, it was time.  My other three children were natural births, without medicine - waiting at home till I was hanging onto the furniture before taking a quick trip to the hospital.  This one was tediously planned to allow every specialist to be present for the c-section which would protect his delicate exposed spine as he made his debut into the cold world.

They did an amniocentesis the day before our scheduled cesarean birth to check the maturity of his lungs.  (Not the most pleasant moment of my life.)

The next day, amidst the blur of blue scrubs, we finally heard him breathe for the first time.  Loudly.  On his own.  Thank God.  My midwife managed to take one picture of his back before the neonatologist deftly wrapped it.  I saw it one other time before his neurosurgeon closed it up.  Thin, translucent, fragile film covering the bubble of spinal cord and fluid visible within.  I was glad in that moment that I was experiencing the ache of the c-section cut, that I had known before he was due, that we could plan this and protect what looked surely like it would have burst open and killed him had he taken the trek through the birth canal.

Prepped for back surgery.

The next day, they closed the bubble.  Two weeks later, when we noticed fluid dripping from the scar on his back, he had brain surgery to place a shunt.  The fluid in his spinal column was building up and putting pressure on his back.  The neurosurgeon put a tube from his head into his abdomen where the excess fluid could be absorbed.  Then we brought him home and started getting on with living.       

   

After back surgery in the NICU.

Daddy and all his boys finally home together.

Henry (1 and 1/2) and Ben (2 weeks old.)

That is history.  His story.  Chapter one.  I

We will celebrate his first birthday today.  He doesn't need many presents; with three brothers, he has no lack of hand-me-down toys or clothes.  (He assumes this is normal; don't tell him otherwise!)  He will get a cake to smear all over his face, grandma kisses, pictures, the works.  

We still don't know when - or if - he will walk.  Or if he will ever stop wearing diapers.  Or draw a stick figure.  But he breathes.  He nurses.  He eats in a way that makes me worry about future grocery bills.  He laughs and inhales the frenetic attention of his brothers.  He imitates their chatter.  He rolls until he gets stuck under the furniture, squealing until he is rescued.  He wriggles to music.  There will be many doctor visits in the future; more surgeries, more therapy, more hard stuff.

But today, he is one year old.  He is perfect. 

Happy birthday, Beniah Benjamin!

Me and Ben in early December 2011.

Ben today - with breakfast.

Purpose - or, Here's mud in your eye.

Now as Jesus passed by, He saw a man who was blind from birth. 

And His disciples asked Him, saying, "Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?"

Jesus answered, "Neither this man nor his parents sinned, but that the works of God should be revealed in him."

It was one year ago that we found out the twenty week old baby growing in my womb was a boy.  We also found out that he had Spina Bifida.  We could see a bubble on his lower back.  His spine hadn't formed completely on the end, and the spinal cord was growing into that bubble.  One foot was twisted almost backwards.  He had too much fluid (or too little brain) in his head.  It was a shock.  The prognosis was uncertain.  He could be born and live almost completely "normal." Or, he could have massive problems and maybe not even be able to see or breathe or eat after birth.  

We searched for answers.  Had I done something during pregnancy to cause this?  Was there anything I could do now to fix it?  And why?  Why?

Honestly, I don't know why.  Not exactly.  

I recently read John chapter 9.  The entire chapter is devoted to Jesus' miraculous healing of a blind man.  This man gets a lot of "air time" in a Book where quotes are at a premium.  Why?  He isn't the first blind man Jesus ever healed.  In fact, its a fairly "routine" miracle (as much as that is possible - which is part of the point).  It is actually kind of a yucky miracle (as much as THAT is possible) - spit, mud, finger pointing, libel, and ostracism.  Jesus walked by a blind beggar, spit on the ground and made mud, rubbed it on the man's eyes, told him to go wash it off, and left.
I am amazed by his willingness to obey the Stranger who basically just spit in his face.  Jesus didn't tell him when he washed his eyes he would be able to see.  Yet he willingly found his way to the pool of Siloam and rinsed off the mud (certainly breaking several Sabbath rules in the process).  Suddenly, for the first time in his life, he could see.

Now, I'm not expecting someone to come up to little Beniah, rub mud on his back and head and erase all his physical difficulties.  And if you read this and feel so led, be forewarned I will probably, at the very least, spit on you.  Sure, it would be swell if my baby would be able to play soccer and drive a car and have his own children (well, not yet, but eventually).  Maybe in 20 or 30 years, God will heal him.  Maybe He won't.
In the meantime, I am encouraged by this man.  He had the wisdom to somehow know that this Man with the mud, whom he couldn't even see, should be obeyed.  He wasn't distracted by the politics and drama surrounding his healing; in fact, Jesus apparently gave him very good vision.  He seemed to see things clearly in black and white.

"One thing I know; that though I was blind, now I see...
"Now we know that God does not hear sinners; but if anyone is a worshiper of God and does His will, He hears him...
"If this Man were not from God, He could do nothing."


I love this man's boldness!  Perhaps it is easier to stare your enemies in the face when you've never seen a single face before in your life.  He had doubtless prayed every day of his life that God would take away any sin that had caused this handicap.  Finally, finally, God answered by sending the only sinless Man on earth to touch this man's eyes.
The very men who should have been rejoicing that God was there among them didn't even want to believe the man had been healed.  They questioned his very blindness.  They questioned his willingness to be healed by a man who would break the rules of the sabbath to do it.  Ultimately, they ostracized him from their whole culture for simply believing his healing came from God.  The man defended the mud-Maker against the mud-slingers.  It cost him.  But he got to know Jesus face to face.  

Beniah is 8 months old.  Many of the nerves below his belly button don't work.  He had back surgery the day after he was born.  He had brain surgery two weeks later to put in a shunt (which diverts excess fluid from putting too much pressure on his brain.)  He is followed by a bevy of specialists.  He can't wiggle his toes.
I love him and find him adorable.  I don't like that he has so much suffering and difficulty in his life.  I don't understand it.  Maybe this is how he will know Jesus Himself.  Maybe this is how God will use him to teach others about Himself.  Maybe my job is to raise him to fulfill whatever purpose God clearly has in store.  One day, I hope, we will see it as clearly as that man with the mud on his eyes.  Even if it seems like God is just spitting on us, it could be a miracle in the making...