At the Close of Another Year

The past few years have been a lesson in patience and acceptance. It's been a rough ride. I don't know how many times I mistakenly thought things couldn't get worse before I realized the fallacy in this line of thinking. Things can always get worse. I learned that not every broken thing gets fixed the way you think it will.  Some things go wrong and don't get fixed at all. Having faith doesn't have to mean you believe everything will turn out the way you think. To me, it means trusting that however it turns out will be okay. I've learned over the past few years that a large part of my faith means being humble enough to bow to life and accept whatever is being offered. It means giving love in the face of hurt and disappointment. It means finding peace in the midst of tumult and trial. Heaven knows I've become acquainted with tumult and trial, hurt and disappointment. 

2016 had something else to teach. 

It said, "Miracles do still happen". Sometimes the thing that is broken winds up fixed exactly the way you hoped it would be. Sometimes the thing you needed but didn't expect in a million years falls into your life at precisely the moment you need it. 

What's more, there exists a lot of mystery in the world. The longer I live, the more questions and unknowns I am faced with. Miracles seem to happen at odd times. The mending of broken things sometimes looks like a hodgepodge kind of job. And sometimes I'd rather give back certain gifts to the universe in exchange for one I'd like more. But the mystery and unknowing is beautiful, nonetheless. I am grateful for the miracles of 2016.  

Here is my favorite:

One Trip Down Rice Hill

The thin air was bone chilling that winter night. We waited for Patrick to arrive home from work so he could take care of Sam. Then we bundled up, packed our car and headed into the night. 

The sign at the top of Rice Hill read, "park closes at dark". Disappointed, we turned towards home, but then I thought of the forecast of rain the next day and turned around. Nolan had been looking forward to sledding for more than a year. Last year's winter was a bust. 

Truth be told, I had been looking forward to sledding for just as long and I wasn't about to let a silly curfew get in our way. 

We parked this time at the bottom where the parking lot has no rule-stating signs and we trudged up the long, steep hill, lungs stinging from the draw of frigid air.

At the top, we arranged ourselves in the one sled, the boy in front and I, his crazy mom in back. I held back the sled with my feet as I strapped the headlamp to Nolan's head. And then we were off, speeding and screaming, screaming and bumping through the dark, chilly night, heading rapidly towards the lake, until... Crack!  

We were halfway to the bottom when the sled gave out under my bum. This was not the first time I broke a sled. We laughed about it, picked up the pieces and walked the rest of the way to the car.  

A boy and his mom on a sled being led with a single light through the dark night as they speed down the infamously steep gradient known as Rice Hill. It's an image I'd like to recall again someday. 

Cheery and Bright, Ad Nauseum

As soon as the turkey is consumed and the bargain shoppers have stampeded the stores, we make our way to the back of our attic where box after box after box is paraded out and down our steep, narrow stairwell to the living room where our freshly cut evergreen stands waiting. We don't have any halls to deck, but we do our best to deck everything else with garlands and candles, Santas and glittery things. The small, porcelain village stretched across the wall at the front of the room is a festive prototype for what we're hoping to accomplish using the contents from all of those boxes. Cheery and bright. One of our favorite modes of Christmas decorating is strings of lights. White ones and brightly colored ones, both. We hang them on windows and door frames, of course on the Christmas tree, and on bushes outside.

Our house is looking downright cheery and bright both inside and out, but I decide we needed a few more strings of lights and pick up four new boxes when I am shopping one day. I throw white lights over the two bushes in front of our house and run colored lights to our flower boxes in the front windows. The result is satisfying and I take note of the spectacle every time I pull in our driveway after dark. Our house seems to be providing the season's cheer for the entire country block. 

On one such night, I am returning home with my two older boys. We have been out sledding. I slow in front of our house to get a good long glimpse of our darling house and I make some sort of remark about its cheerfulness and the next thing I know, Nolan is making his own remarks. 

"Vomit," he squeaks, quietly, almost imperceptibly from the back of the car. 

"What?!" Nonplussed,  I fumble for even that one word.

"It looks like vomit."  He states as a matter of fact.

"What?!"  I can't believe my ears. 

"It looks like the windows are vomiting."

With new eyes I examine the front of our festive home and realize he is right. It does, in fact, look like our windows are upheaving a big helping of Fruity Pebbles. 

To My Kids,

Your faces when we surprised you on the day Sam was born are something I will keep filed in my memory for as long as my mind will hold them. We all knew he would be coming soon. He was a full week overdue and each of you had been asking since mid-September when I thought he would arrive. Gerret, especially. Every night when I hugged him goodnight, he'd ask if Sam was coming that night and when he got the chance before school he would ask if Sam would be coming that day. My answer was always something like, "I hope so."  We were all anxious and getting impatient as the month wore on without the production of this long awaited baby. 

That day, Dad sent you off on the bus like any other day. It was typical for you not to see me in the morning. All of last year, I was gone before you woke up, teaching early morning seminary. All of the first month of school this year, I was generally in bed, overcome with the exhaustion that pregnancy exacted on my sore, stretched body. The only difference on the day Sam was born was that I was not upstairs in bed, I was in the bathroom downstairs, soaking in the tub since one in the morning, breathing deeply through every pain so as not to make noise and wake you or alarm you. Dad simply explained that I wasn't feeling good and you would all need to use the bathroom upstairs that morning.  And you all did without a second thought. 

After the three of you filed onto the bus that morning, Dad called my midwife and Sam was born just two and a half hours after she arrived. 

When the bus delivered you home that afternoon, I was waiting for you at the end of the driveway with Dad. There were three extra cars in our driveway, only one of which you questioned. Dad's car was here because, voila... Dad. That wasn't too out of the ordinary. Sometimes Dad comes home early from work. Then there was Grandma and Grandpa's van, which also appears in our driveway from time to time when they pay a visit. The third car was the black Hyundai driven by Aunt Olivia. 

"Why is Olivia here?" You all wondered.

 We made up an excuse about the lease expiring on that car and Aunt Olivia wanting us to say goodbye to it. It was true that the lease was up, but you would soon find the real reason she had come inside. First though, you found everyone waiting inside, including Aunt Elise who was seated in the living room with a jumble of blanket in her arms.

 It was like a party in our house that afternoon. It was already decked out for Halloween at Auburn's request.  Bats, owls, and skeletons hung from the kitchen ceiling, pumpkins adorned the island bar.  The celebration was complete with an ice cream cake which read, "Happy Birthday!" and bouquet of red roses from Grandma decorating the counter.

One of you, probably Nolan, asked why there was a birthday cake and we all knowingly smiled. Sam was there, but he was hidden amongst the commotion of your arrival home with backpacks and papers and the need to use the bathroom combined with the absurdity of having not only Dad home, but also your aunts and grandparents. It was explained that the cake was brought because it was someone's birthday. 

"Who's birthday?" You asked. 

Oh, that look of utter astonishment when Sam's arrival was announced and you finally noticed the little bundle in your aunt's arms. The room burst into frenzy as the three of you simultaneously jumped up and down, exclaiming your elation and shock, and rushed to get a look at that bundle. It was one of the best moments of my life.  

Sam: The Second Month

Sam is two months old. His dark hair is coming back. It makes his head so soft and fuzzy. He weighs 11lbs. 10oz and he's longer than he was when he was born, but I lost the paper that said exactly how much longer.  His cheeks keep getting rounder. They're so kissable. I seriously kiss them hundreds of times every day. It makes him smile; a victory for both of us.  Did you know he has deep blue eyes?  They're dark like Auburn's who tells me kids in her class ask why she has black eyes and she has to tell them she actually doesn't.   

Sam is a pensive little guy, mostly quiet, always observing. (That's what happens when you're the fourth kid.) He has started smiling and cooing sometimes. The older kids love interacting with him. Nolan and Gerret call him "Super Sam".  He really is super.