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.

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.

Nobody said it was easy
No one ever said it would be this hard
Take me back to the start
Coldplay, The Scientist

Lesson #785: Sometimes you really can’t do anything except be there with them in the night with your heartbeat and your tears.

“This baby is lucky to have you as parents,” the older lady in a blue skirt and white blouse said as she quietly knelt next to me. She stared at Jude, who was sleeping against my chest in the wrap I wear him in several hours a day.

“You’ve got him next to your heart. Right where he should be,” she said, gently touching my shoulder. Jason and I didn’t say a word as we basked in the kindness of this stranger. We just nodded and, as for me, I blinked back tears. “Have a wonderful life. God bless you.”

I kissed Jude’s head, closed my eyes, and breathed in the sweetness as this precious lady walked away. You see, the past month has been tough, to understate it. Not only have I battled some of those typical post partum physical and emotional issues, but we’ve discovered that Jude has some of his own colic and reflux issues. It has made for some very wild evenings and some very long crying sessions, on Jude’s part and mine.

And these crying sessions in all their vigor and lengthy-ness have left me feeling like a failure. What kind of mother can’t soothe and calm her child? What kind of mom can’t figure out what’s making her child cry? I’ve asked the questions over and over, grieving that this season of motherhood has not looked anything like I expected. This season in which all those instincts a mom is supposed to have, all those motherly lullabies and caresses that are supposed to work, have failed.

But then there have been angels. Like little old ladies in blue. And then there’s the mom who showed me how to tie my Sleepy Wrap, a perfect stranger whose blue-eyed baby boy was also named Jude.

There’s also the Le Leche League ladies who offered incredible support right when I needed it. And I can’t forget the ladies at 9 Months & Beyond who have been there for me around the clock with strength, kindness and wisdom since before Jude was even born. There are the three women I emailed on one of my darkest days, who wrote back immediately to share their stories of colic and tears and that they truly did know how hard it was. And when I got an infection and ran a fever two weeks after Jude was born, it was my mom who drove seven hours in the middle of the night to take care of us so Jason could work.

Angels, every one. Angels who didn’t make the problems and the pain go away. But who showed us a new way to nurture our son. Who helped us see the glory in the grime. Angels who gave us a softer place to land in all our falling and flailing.

Jason and I watched the little old lady in the blue skirt walk past the deli counter at the store. “That was an angel,” I told him, completely convinced.

“I’m keeping an eye on her,” he said, nodding. “See if she disappears into thin air.”

We laughed and breathed another sigh after we saw her turn a corner. We’ve always known we’re lucky that Jude’s our son. Our little angel helped us believe again that he’s lucky to have us, too.

And love is not the easy thing…
I know it aches
And your heart, it breaks
You can only take so much
Walk on
All That You Can’t Leave Behind, U2

Lesson #533: When your child cries, you cry.