So together we weather
The surges of grace
That come our way
As grace, these days,
Floods us in tempest strong.
I know it won’t be long -
I’ll blink,
I’ll blink,
I’ll blink,
These days be gone
And I’ll wish them back,
The smock
The pain
The tears
Endless drain
Of shame and tasks
And more to do than
Ability or facility
And brevity,
O, brevity,
I know these days are brevity
But pain be what pain be:
TEACHER,
WAKER-UPPER,
FAITHFUL LOVER.

And you are enough, my friend,
My son,
My sun,
A treasure,
A pleasure,
A measureless glory,
You are enough.

And I am enough
In fallen state,
In guilt and hate,
A daughter still,
A daughter still
I am enough.

I cannot pretend.
I may not mend.
But he is here.
No fear.
No fear.
No fear.
He is here.

[For mommas everywhere who bleed love.]

Cause some things never change
I know you’re still my same girl
Same Girl, Jack Johnson

The girl with a messy ponytail was familiar. Her over-sized pleather purse, complete with jangly keychains and a flashy velcro wallet, reminded me of something. Of someone. I recognized the way she quietly paid for the organic peppermint patty in the line next to me at the grocery store. But it was the yellowed and tattered 1972 edition of The Mystery of the Brass Bound Trunk peeking out of her purse that brought tears to my eyes.

I wanted to say something. I wanted to hug her. I wanted to tell her that Brass Bound Trunk was the first Nancy Drew book I read (and I carried it around in my purse, too). That peppermint patties were my favorite. That I had a purse and keychains just like hers when I was a girl. But I didn’t want to interrupt her. She was so unassuming. So in her own little world. So pure.

In these precious new days of motherhood, I have often wondered, “Who am I?” Markers that used to identify my place on the map, my true north, have long since vanished in the bends and curves of fierce love. And, for the most part, it’s probably good. Many of those markers were things I shouldn’t have been using to identify myself anyway.

And yet, it was good to see this mini-me today. To remember things about myself – elemental things. Like a lifelong love for peppermint and chocolate. Like a collection of velcro wallets. Like devouring Nancy Drew mysteries in a matter of hours. Because it’s good to remember our old stories even as we write the new and exciting pages of our lives.

When I got home, I reached for The Mystery of the Brass Bound Trunk, my own 1972 edition that I keep on a special shelf in our library. It’s tattered, too, with dogeared, yellow pages. I opened to the first page and began reading while Jude slept on my lap.

“There was a hum of excitement on the ocean-going vessel…”

I gently turned the thick pages and inhaled their earthy fragrance. And for a few minutes, I reconnected to a forgotten place. A forgotten time. A forgotten girl. But the more I thought about it, the more I realized she’s really not forgotten or gone or so different. She’s the same girl. Just more complete.

I scanned the page of tweets, bleary-eyed and indifferent.

Relevant Magazine was linking to Obama’s Nobel acceptance speech.

Godgrrl was in California.

Donald Miller was in an interview.

Jimmy Fallon was answering to a feminist group.

I sighed and perked my ears to the white-noise-saturated room where Jude slept. Then I looked back to the Twitter page and something came over me. A strange loneliness and detachment. As I got reacquainted with my favorite Twitterers (is that a word?) in my first visit to the site in three months, I felt a little lost. The world had seemingly passed me by since Jude’s July birthday.

But somehow I didn’t mind so much. Because there’s something satisfying about pouring your life into someone so deeply that time and space and even tweets and twitters disappear for a while. It’s rare to be needed so greatly and, while those seasons are desperately challenging, they are also empowering and life-giving.

But as I closed my computer and went to check on Jude, there was also some small piece worth grieving. My life will never be the same again. And it’s not just the footloose-and-fancy-free-ness I’m grieving or the ability to simply get up and go whenever I want. There’s some element of Krista I can’t quite put my finger on that has had to die in order for me to love Jude. (Isn’t that what all true love requires of us…some death?)

But I can only grieve the lost piece for a moment. The second I put my hand on his chest, feeling his breath and his heart, I can’t say I miss it or even need to know what it is. Because whatever I’ve lost, whatever passes me by in all the days ahead, my love for Jude has exponentially filled.

And anyway, does it really matter if I know what Coldplay tweeted all summer?

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.

Maybe I’m amazed at the way you help me sing my song,
right me when I’m wrong,
Maybe I’m amazed at the way I really need you.
Paul McCartney, Maybe I’m Amazed

…weak flesh, that least-suspected place, where health and growth will be revealed.
Richard Rohr, Radical Grace

Lesson #503: My husband is far more amazing than I have ever given him credit for.

Lesson #519: I am desperately weak and hopelessly dependent – so much more than I could have possibly imagined.

Thank you, frailty
Thank you, consequence
Thank you, thank you, silence
Thank You, Alanis Morissette

Lesson #477:
There is grace in 3 a.m. fussies.
In t-shirts saturated in spit-up milk.
In a coming-apart swaddle.
In a mustard-poop diaper.
In a gummy smile.
In not being able to figure it out.
In getting his cues all mixed up and changing his dry diaper when all he wants to do is eat.

There’s grace in the bluest eyes I’ve ever seen.

Pain throws your heart to the ground
Love turns the whole thing around
No, it won’t all go the way it should
But I know the heart of life is good.
John Mayer, Heart of Life

Lesson #321: Everything may not be ok…and that’s ok.

Lesson #357: Doctors have their research, experts have their books, other parents have their opinions. But at the end of the day what works for Jude and me is what’s right.

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.