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.)

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.

Can’t you see, it’s amazing what you do to me. You took my heart and made me feel things I never felt before. And it’s changing me. I lose direction so suddenly. Shook me up and threw me around and helped me learn to breathe it all in. You help me learn to breathe it all in.
- Mindy Smith, It’s Amazing

Lesson #59: Parenthood is not for perfectionists. It is for the un-made-up, un-showered, un-slept who are just fool enough to keep trying, keep fouling it up, and keep loving.

Lesson #81: You can love someone to the stars and back again, love them with every breath in you, love them more than your own life, and still not know what they need when they cry.

“. . . He was a fugitive & a wayfarer upon this earthen ball.”
- Gene Edwards, The Birth

Lest we feel alone, misunderstood, rejected, forsaken, let us remember – however we can – that infinite perfection was born into a finite and broken world. Perfect and despised. Unwelcome amidst the ruins He came to rebuild. Hated by those He came to love.

And, in our remembering, may we know something of His presence, His acceptance, His favor, & His love.

It was an ordinary day, a Tuesday. I was working. Jason was working. And it was also the day marking our second year of marriage. Normally, I make much of these occasions. I plot out gift purchases months in advance. I craft brilliant poems, homemade cards and sweet vignettes. I buy new outfits, cook the perfect dinner, bring out the good China.

But this year, this sacred occasion slipped up on me somehow. Not that I could ever forget April 8. It’s engraved on my wedding band and on my heart. It’s my most unforgettable day, when I joined forever my every molecule of breath & spirit with my soul’s mate. It’s just that so many pressing matters, really urgent and important things, have filled up my moments (and his moments, too), and I didn’t have time for my typical above-and-beyond-ness.

And I felt guilty. Ashamed. Like I had failed at all the unwritten rules of wife-dom. (At least the rules I’d conjured up.) I felt guilty for not making much.

But then, not long after Jason surprised me with a dozen roses at the office where I spent the afternoon working, I realized that we, Jason and I, make much everyday. We give flowers – verbal flowers, emotional flowers, hug-and-kiss flowers – to each other on quiet Mondays, rainy Saturdays, and weary Wednesdays. Not just one-day-a-year flowers. We surprise each other with the gifts of presence, laughter, singing, kindness, dancing, listening, hoping, believing, dreaming, loving. And we give these gifts consistently, passionately, selflessly.

Of course, we’ll keep marking April 8, our favorite day. But even if life catches up with us and we’re pulling a last minute Hallmark stop on the way to dinner at Zola’s, it’s okay. Because there are plenty of other days when a love note gets tucked in a pocket, when a favorite chocolate bar ends up in a backpack, when a deep soul cavern is excavated and understood. Plenty of days when some flower is left on a windshield and, with it, a card with a word only the two of us know.

I watched an old couple hobble slowly through the café where I worked today. There wasn’t anything particularly notable about them. They were just an old couple, like so many old couples I see when I’m out and about.

But then he gave her his hand. Neither of them needed it. They hobbled. They were slow. But they were balanced. Her hand in his was not a substitute for a cane, a crutch or a walker.

He gave her his hand in love. They must have been in their very late seventies.

Jason and I still hold hands. Though it feels like we’ve known each other forever, like there never was a life before our life together, the fact is we have only been married one year and eleven months, give or take a few days. It’s normal that we would still hold hands on our way into the auto shop to get tires rotated. It’s natural that we would make out in the salsa-and-marinara aisle at the grocery store. It’s expected that we stop what we’re doing to dance in the kitchen. We’re newlyweds.

But in all this newly wedded bliss, I have often wondered, with some fear and sadness, what might happen when years and kids, sickness and circumstances take their toll on our bodies, our minds, our souls. Will we still hold hands, I have asked.

And this precious, wrinkled pair gave me the answer I think I have always known. An answer that spoke far louder than doubts and naysayers.

And he will still get the door for me, too, I thought, smiling as the old man opened the passenger door for his white-haired bride.