Remember – the root word of humble and human is the same: humus: earth. We are dust. We are created; it is God who made us and not we ourselves.
Madeleine L’Engle, Walking on Water

As I inhaled and exhaled in concert with the Ashtanga Yoga poses I attempted, I felt it. Felt it toe-tip to scalp. Felt it in my bones and in my soul. It reminded me of the mist that fell on us and the Yountville appellation each morning we spent in Napa. It was a refreshing. A re-birthing. A glimpse of wholeness.

Breathe.

Since Jude rocked our world back in July, important things like exercise, slowness, and breathing have gotten lost in the cracks and crevices of parenthood. Of course, proper priority says that raising a child is the most important thing we can do with our time and energy. But wisdom would also add that you can’t raise a child well if you are unwell.

And as I leaned back in child’s pose, the fibers of carpet tickling the tip of my nose, I knew what I had to do.

Breathe.

Science tells us that when we breathe, we eliminate 70% of the toxins in our body. I suppose that’s why I’ve felt like a cesspool in so many areas of my life. Scattered. Weary. Tired. Unbalanced. Frustrated. Harried. Hurried. Torn. Undone. Disconnected. Fragmented. Gross.

Breathe.

As I rose from Mrtasana, also known as Corpse Pose, I felt alive. Although this pose’s name literally means “death,” the  instructor on my yoga video explains that this is the most restorative and important pose in yoga. That something must die so that we can truly live.

Breathe.

After rising quietly from my final pose, I looked at the calendar. February 17. Ash Wednesday. First day of the Lenten season. I marked the day with the wispy writing: Breathe. This year, for Lent, I will breathe.

I continued breathing as I picked up the bonus room. And, as I did, I heard something new as the rhythm of my breath accompanied a deeper rhythm. This year, rather than giving something up for Lent, I would take something in, knowing full well that this would still require a giving up, a kind of dying. Dying to tasks that stroke my need for perfection. Dying to distractions that overstimulate. Dying to loves that poison any hope of peace.

Receive.

Breathe.

Talitha koum. Rise up, little girl.

And along with each breath, a prayer that I would experience God’s nearness so deeply that his very breath would be mine.

Then the LORD God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being. [Genesis 2:7]

*Print: Breathe by Melanie Weidner   Copyright 2005

An email from World Vision: 1 million homeless.

A letter from St. Jude Children’s Hospital: more than 10,000 children will learn they have cancer this year.

Another email from Not For Sale: 27 million slaves in the world today.

And, as I type this, a tweet: corruption and violence in Sudan continue unchecked.

I am overwhelmed. I read Madeleine L’Engle’s January 28 entry from Glimpses of Grace (yes, accidentally a day early).

When I am bombarded on the evening news with earthquake, flood, fire, it is too much for me. There is a mechanism, a safety valve, which cuts off our response to overexposure to suffering.

But…when the gentleman who cleans the building in which the Cathedral library is located talks to me about his family in Guatemala, rejoicing because they are alive although their house has been destroyed by earthquake…I am more able to learn what it is that I can and ought to do, even if this seems, and is, inadequate.

But neither was Jesus adequate to the situation. He did not feed all the poor, only a few. He did not heal all the lepers, or give sight to all the blind, or drive out all the unclean spirits.

That helps me. If I felt that I had to conquer all the ills of the world I’d likely sit back and do nothing at all. But if my job is to feed one stranger, then the money I give to world relief will be dug down deeper from my pocket than it would if I felt I had to succeed in feeding the entire world.

Thanks, Madam L’Engle. You have once again helped me see.

You are never more like Christ than when you are choked with compassion over the brokenness of others.
- Brennan Manning

“…the magnitude of this catastrophe is enormous.”

I felt small as I read the email from World Vision. Like most everyone, I’ve been catching snippets of information and news feeds of images from Haiti’s devastating earthquake. And, with reality setting in, I am at a loss as to how to respond.

As a new mom whose heart has been softened to the ways people, especially infants and children, suffer, I long to go to Haiti and hold the hands of so many children who are tragically scarred – physically, emotionally, and mentally. Their precious, tender lives will never be the same. Some have lost mothers and fathers. Some have lost limbs. All have lost their innocence and security. I want to hug them close in their losing. But I can’t do that. I just can’t. It’s not an option right now.

And I want to give financially. But what I don’t want to do, what I won’t do, is blindly throw money at some relief organization so that I can alleviate my survivor guilt and, simultaneously, pat myself on the back for being kind to those less fortunate than I. I did my part, thank you very much. Now, please, let me go on living my safe and comfortable life here in my affluent, earthquake-proof home.

So what I’d really like to know is: what does love do in a tragedy of this immensity? What does active mercy look like from a couple thousand miles away?

I know it’s the opposite of Pat Robertson’s and Rush Limbaugh’s rhetoric. I know it’s the opposite of complacency and indifference. But I don’t know what it is.

Maybe it’s a bunch of messy, complex things. Maybe it’s awareness. Maybe it’s just letting my heart be broken. Maybe it’s giving time to ask God’s mercy, grace, and shalom on these displaced souls. Maybe it’s going without a few cups of tea at the local coffee shop so we can send more money to the Red Cross or World Vision’s relief efforts. Maybe it’s going there, someday, with Jude — or to some other place where a natural disaster has wreaked havoc. Maybe it’s asking these kind of questions.

I am small. But the world is small, too. My neighbor is not just the woman across the street or the teenagers next door. My neighbor is the raped mother in Darfur. The prostituted little girl in Cambodia. The orphaned boy in the streets of Port-au-Prince. And I am called to love my neighbor as I love myself.

So what would I want someone to do for me… scratch that. What would I want someone to do for my son if he was homeless and alone in the aftermath of an earthquake.

Hold his hand.
Think of him.
Send clean water.
Give him food.

Maybe when we finally put ourselves in another set of shoes and walk around for a time, we are that much closer to being like Jesus. That much closer to some sort of answer in an age of so many unanswerable questions. That much closer to love.

Photo Credit: Red Cross

Only love, only love can leave such a mark…
Magnificent, U2

“Yeah, I’m going back to work next month. And I’m also going back to school to get my degree. I’m starting a business, too. Making kids’ toys.”

I sat across from the bright-eyed mom rocking her three-month-old baby in his car seat. I nodded and smiled as Jude wiggled (all 21 pounds of him) in my arms. As I listened to the young mom go on, something fractured a little inside. She went on about all her plans (“Oh, and we’re thinking about getting pregnant again. I’d have another one tomorrow if I could…”), and I began thinking back on my plans. I began thinking back on our six months with Jude, too.

Since July, every thread in the fabric of my being has been restitched. Natural childbirth stretched my body, mind and spirit in a beautiful way I never could have imagined. Colic sewed into my tapestry a broken heart overflowing with a new compassion and powerful motherly-ness. And Jude’s pronounced need for nearness and touch along with his intense passion and fiery spirit has embroidered the stunning stripes of sacrifice and time spent onto my soul.

To put it less flowery: Jude’s tenacious and extraordinary personality coupled with a high-response parenting style that Jason and I decided on and researched long before Jude was born has turned every part of my life (goals, dreams, exercise, everyday tasks, friendships, career, even the simple act of getting a shower) on its head. I could no more entertain the thought of tackling a home-based business and another degree than I could entertain the thought of being president of Bolivia.

So, I continued listening to this mom go on about her plans as her compliant baby fell easily back to sleep in his car seat without a sound. She sipped her tea and smiled with satisfaction. I smiled, too. A real smile, from way deep down, directed at my bold and vibrant son.

In these past six months, I have not been afforded the luxury of serving two masters, so to speak. I have had to choose between Jude and, to put it plainly, me. And I won’t lie, the cost has been great. Projects on hold. A messy house. Friendships barely treading water…and some, sadly, all but lost. Stories unwritten. Many days I have had to choose to do what feels like cutting off a limb – a real true piece of what makes me, me – in order to love Jude in the way that best meets his unique and strong needs.

Maybe the cutting off is just for a season.
Maybe it has always needed to happen.
Maybe it’s for good.

As the young mom finished her list of 2010 goals and dreams, I sighed, tired at the very thought. Maybe if Jude was a tame and yielding and “easy” baby, I could tackle all my goals and dreams this year, too, all while he watched placidly from some Fisher Price kick and play gadget. But he’s not. Not even close. (Truth be told, he’s just like his momma.)

The young mom started chatting quietly with another mom whose baby slept peacefully in her arms. They were talking about how their babies sleep 10 hours through the night. “Isn’t it great?” they said to each other. I smiled as Jude squirmed on my lap. He had woken up four times the night before.

So I sat back and, as I felt the little fracture in my heart about all the other things I can’t do and be right now, I let the beauty and wholeness of who Jude is plant itself in that fault line. I wouldn’t trade his fire and spunk for anything. Not for the chance to accomplish any of my other dreams right now. Not for another minute on the spin cycle at the gym. Not for a longer shower in the morning. Not for a quiet and peaceful night reading by the fire. Not even for uninterrupted sleep. All that stuff is good. And I’ll get back around to it someday. But, in the meantime, I’ll love on my remarkable little world-changer and pass on keeping up perfectly with the dishes and laundry.

Before I began packing up to leave the mom’s group, I turned Jude around in my lap and looked at his face. He smiled. I pulled him close to my chest and he continued drinking in his surroundings with great gusto. Then, without a warning, he arched his back, flung his left arm into the air, watched his fingers curl and uncurl, and then let out the biggest belly laugh you’ll ever hear from an infant. I laughed, too. Our voices echoed in the otherwise subdued room.

Long days and short years, a wise woman once told me. Indeed. And the flower growing in the break is magnificent.

Relax, everything’s going to be all right; rest, everything’s coming together; open your hearts, love is on the way!
- Jude 2

On this eve of 2010, as I sit with Jason and tend to Jude (who happens to be aching with new teeth and a scratchy throat), I can’t help thinking about the gifts given to me in 2009.

The precious gift of Jude Adam. With his laughter, his smile, his wiggles, his words, even his tears, Jude has turned my black-and-whites into technicolor, made me a momma, and taught me what unconditional love really looks like.

The unwarranted gift of Grace. In her quiet and determined way, Grace stayed close to me on this leg of the journey: in every moment, every turn, every tear of joy, every cry of pain, every unsaid prayer, every question, every doubt, every whisper to Jason, every song sung to Jude, every sleepy day, every tired night, every common cup, every page of the story. All along the way, she kept casting a knowing smile at Mercy and reminding me that even the failing is good.

The supreme gift of Love. I have never given or received or seen such fierce love as I have this year. From my precious, above-and-beyond husband. From my sweet and strong son. Even from my own inconsistent heart. But, ultimately, it’s been the fiery and consuming love of my Abba that has captured me this year.

The enduring gift of Courage. Courage gave me what I can only describe as my life’s purest moment: my beautiful, unmedicated, magical labor and delivery of Jude. It has paved the way for a strength and joy and identity I never knew was possible.

The priceless gift of Brokenness. The changes. The newness. The unexpected. The failures. The gray. The mess. The contradictions. The singing off-key. The missed dance steps. The weariness and work and rest. The not-knowing. The unknown. The fight. The loss. And the falling. There’s something freeing about realizing you were never in control to begin with. And that the breaking is good.

2009 brought me closer to so many things. Closer to love and grace, courage and truth. Closer to my truest identity as Abba’s daughter. In those few and rich quiet moments (and more often in the chaos), more than anything else, this year found me praying a prayer that I’ll carry with me into the new year and always: Abba, I belong to You.

(Thanks, Brennan.)

…the Sunrise from on high will visit us, to shine on those who sit in darkness and the shadow of death…
Gospel of Luke 1:78-79

Blood and water covered a crying baby boy and smeared his momma’s chest as she held him close to her heart in a moment of pure exhilaration. Joseph helped her wrap him in the tunic he wasn’t wearing. The young girl said, “Yeshua, Yeshua,” again and again, her cry of joy echoing in the air as angels tended and sang with her.

Mary held the Messiah tightly as she pushed once more, delivering the placenta that had fed Jesus while he lived inside her as a fetus. She rejoiced in the relief of having brought forth her son, God’s son, in wholeness and health. Then she leaned back in the hay with Jesus, who searched her face. She stared into Jesus’ bright eyes and whispered, “Bless you, Yeshua. Bless you.” He breathed quickly, the way infants do, and moved his head toward her breast to feed, content at hearing the voice he’d learned in the darkness.

Yes, it was a holy night. No doubt about it. Angels. Stars. God with us. The miraculous, glorious scene. But there was also something quite human about the whole thing. About Jesus. About this teenage girl and her betrothed.

Deeply human. Infinitely divine. The mystery and glory of the Christ.

I’ve been having trouble finishing my final advent reflection these past few days. In fact, I’ve been having trouble reflecting on Advent (or anything) these past few weeks. I’ve longed to remember what it means to wait and hope in these darkening days, but my mind is blocked, muddled, and filled almost solely with thoughts of how best to comfort Jude’s nearly round-the-clock teething pain.

Jude’s angst this past month has been sadly reminiscent of his colic days. We thought those days and nights would never end as they lingered long and dark and lonely. In the weeks where crying and white noise were our symphony, we tended to Jude’s wounds, licked our own, and waited.

And we waited.

We never wanted to wish time away. We knew somehow those hours singing “Sweet Baby James” and “Stardust” to Jude were precious in their own messy way. We knew that taking him for long walks, putting him in the bathtub with me, or wearing him in the wrap at 3 a.m. were the stuff memories were made of. We knew the tears and the ache would be redeemed as they bound our little family together in a way it wouldn’t have been had Jude been an “easy” baby.

So we didn’t wish time away. We waited. As painful and devastating as it was, we waited. We cried Jude’s tears with him and then cried our own. We asked questions and doubted and researched and made doctor visits and talked to moms and dads who knew about colic first-hand.

And we waited.

And then, one day, an ordinary Tuesday to be exact, the waiting was over. With a ten-minute chiropractic adjustment, Jude was suddenly and gloriously free. Free from pain. Free from his undying ache. Free to be who he was born to be.

We saw his personality shine through in those post-colic days like never before. I always knew he’d be a spitfire – he was from the moment I first felt him backflipping in my womb. But he proved to have more spunk and fire, humor and tenderness than I’d ever imagined.

He smiled.
He slept.
He urgled and gurgled.
He laughed.
He drank life in with intensity, curiosity and passion.

I think that must be what happens at the end of all waiting. The truest version of a thing finally appears: uncovered, raised up, born. All the broken parts become a whole – and life begins. And, on some ordinary day, Love comes on the scene and brings Grace and Truth in His wings.

Jude was asleep in the car seat as I pulled into the parking lot this morning. In a spot of sunshine, I would wait for him to wake up in time to make it to my stroller-mommy workout.

I listened to him breathing deeply, his fingers gripping a teething ring. As I watched his motionless face, his eyes closed so tight and his mouth open in surrendered slumber, my mind traced a random line back to the final days of my pregnancy.

It was a beautiful, whole and healthy pregnancy that I loved and would do again in a heartbeat. But those last few days of waiting were torture. You see, I had it in my head that Jude would come early (so much for motherly intuition). So when he still hadn’t come by his due date, I was angry, sad and a little worried.

In the waiting days, Jason and I did all sorts of things – some crazy, some sane – to pass the time. We made rosaries and painted model cars. We took walks. We blew up an air mattress and slept in the living room with all the windows open for nearly three weeks. We watched movies and ordered gluten-free pizzas. We did our best to keep our minds off the waiting, but as each day passed without a sign of Jude’s arrival, I couldn’t ignore the growing ache.

I knew I couldn’t be pregnant forever, but as 41 weeks of pregnancy came and went, I began to wonder if I may be the world’s first perpetually pregnant woman.

For me, Advent is something like that. There’s so much promise. So much beauty. So much good just on the horizon. But it can seem to stretch on and on and on as we wait for what’s coming. And we really don’t know exactly what’s coming. We think we know. But we really don’t. And no one can tell us entirely. We just have to wait. And see. And we do all sorts of things – some crazy, some sane – to pass the time.

But there will be a birth. There must be. We – all of us – and creation cannot groan forever.

I sat in our Advent service today, my eyes a bit glazy from the days before. In a week of new sites, sounds and people in Jude’s life, he required more of my care and attention to balance out the increased stimulation. It once again made me keenly aware of his deep dependence on me. Not just for food and shelter, but for compassion and energy, gentleness and peace.

As I held a sleeping Jude next to my heart, I glanced over the hymnal again and again to be sure I was reading the words right. The helpless babe… was what the Christmastime hymn had to say about Jesus.

Helpless.
Jesus.
Really?

I looked down at Jude and thought about how helpless he is. As it stands, he is utterly dependent on the care and kindness of someone else (namely, me) for every necessity. It’s hard to imagine Jesus in the same position as an infant. I mean, think of it – the being who spoke universes and mountains into existence incapable of lifting his head without Mary’s hand behind it.

Seems that Jesus gave more than we sometimes remember. Not just in coming to save his creation, but in entrusting his strong and holy self to the likes of a teenage mother and her betrothed. It says something about Christ. It says something about us, too. That somehow he believes we weak and frail beings are worthy of holding divinity in our hands and tending to his every need.

As I pulled my hands out from under his neck and back and let the sleep positioner cradle him, he stirred and shuffled his swaddled feet. So I put my hand back on his head and laid my other hand over his chest. Then I timed my own breath with his, letting my exhalations lull him toward deeper slumber. A minute later, he yawned, sighed contentedly and smiled again. He was asleep now.

I pulled my hands off his head and chest, but let them hover over him. And it was as I inhaled his sweet baby’s breath that I realized something. Jude will never remember this moment. How he was hungry. How I fed him. How I swayed him back to sleep. How I stayed with him till he reached the REM stage. How I saw him sigh and smile.

He’ll never remember it.

But I’ll never forget.

Maybe there’s something of God in that moment. In fact, I’m certain there is.