I sat through last year’s Easter vigil service sandwiched between my husband, my one year old and my four-day-overdue belly. My husband and I joked that this service could be key to kick starting labor—the climactic energy of the celebration beckoning the baby to come join us. Instead, as is often the case in the last days of pregnancy,  I felt the stillness of a baby who had finished being hemmed in the secret place where only his Creator could see. In no rush at all. 

Any mother who has gone past her due date knows the feat it is to make it out of the home—to do almost anything at all—counting down the days and minutes until baby’s arrival. But nothing was going to keep me from attending the service that marks my favorite day in the Christian calendar. I knew this is what my soul needed after a long season of waiting. This was the culmination of a long season of Lent and a long nine months of leasing my body to this child. 

The 40 weeks of pregnancy are not unlike the 40 days of the Lenten season. Although there is joy in carrying life, there is also sacrifice. Pain. Discomfort. Both a physical and spiritual stretching. Both are reaching towards the final end of new life and hope. This was my third year attending an Easter Vigil service but my first time doing so while carrying another little life inside. Because of this, my heart seems to feel the heights and depths of the service even more than usual. I feel the weightiness of sin and separation from God. I feel the longing for hope. This is the broken world that I am bringing my child into so the words in the service feel especially poignant. 

In preparation for what’s known as “the great noise,” we chalked my bag full of all the noise makers we could fit: an old antique dinner bell, a steel door bell that had fallen off our apartment door, my one year old’s xylophone, my husband’s antique train whistle. 

The service begins dark, quiet, looming, as if we’re still buried in the tomb with Jesus, sitting in the discomfort of not knowing what comes after the grave. We feel the ache the disciples must have felt after saying their goodbyes, after seeing Jesus’ limp body being taken down from the Cross. I wonder if there has ever been a heaviness, a quiet despair, like there was that day. Mary, mother of Jesus, grieving and Christ’s friends waiting for some sort of secret wisdom to know how to proceed. The scent of Mary’s anointing alabaster now mingled with the scent of sweat, blood and tears. 

… 

The only light in the cathedral comes from the small candles we hold in front of us, lit from the main source of the Paschal candle. Christ is the light of the world (Jn 8:12). We proclaim the truth that though the world  is wracked with darkness we will not fear, for we hold within our hands—our very souls— the light of Christ.

The service culminates with a loud exclamation that, “Christ has risen, alleluia!” The instruments are taken out and the otherwise quiet, serene cathedral booms with the jubilee of people who are, indeed, free. The somber tone that cast its shadow over the church the past forty weeks transforms suddenly into gladness. All of God’s redeemed join in one rambunctious cheer to praise the Resurrected One. Flags and fabric doves are raised up and clergy circle around each aisle of the church. The sounds of a hundred bells echo off every piece of wood and brick. A service that began in quiet grief ends in edenic gladness. For a moment, however brief, we get a small taste of heaven. I am always surprised at the emotion that grips me in this moment. Is it the fact that I am surrounded by God's people, all broken but being healed? Wounded, but filled with hope and all singing the same song? Is it that I don't praise like this enough? Do I forget how my story ends? 

The ancient celts spoke of “thin places” where the veil between heaven and earth is slight;moments as if you could reach through the paper thin barrier to the other side and taste the marrow and aged wine at the wedding feast of the Lamb. This cathedral, here, tonight, on April 3, 2021, is a thin place. We are so close to the beating heart of God. 

…

I often feel numb to the spiritual realities at play around me.  I think of Lewis’ famous quote: “...like an ignorant child who wants to go on making mud pies in a slum because he cannot imagine what is meant by the offer of a holiday at the sea. We are far too easily pleased.” I am master mud-pie maker. My desires are dull. Jaded. I am tired. After two years of babies back to back and sporadic sleep, I feel unable to feel the weightiness of it all. But during this service, for a brief moment, I am there with Mary and Salome at the empty tomb, running to tell the others and my heart swells with theirs, feeling the possibility that death and despair do not have the final word. Even just for a moment my senses are awakened and I remember that I was made for joy—abundant, childlike, tambourine joy. I catch a glimpse of the end (or just the beginning?). It’s like I’m at the marriage supper of the Lamb and we’ve all brought our wounds, our broken stories, our tired minds and frail hearts to the table to feast and be nourished by the restored communion. We are all so different and yet in that moment all I can feel is the similarity that marks the whole congregation. We are all so much the same. All different stories leading to the same triumphant end. All desperate to hear our names uttered by the mouth of Jesus. Desperate for a final place to call home. 

…

On Easter Sunday that year, the day after the vigil celebration, my niece Ruth Evangeline would make her entrance into the world. Her small, fragile body would be laid on the bed and an oxygen mask put upon her face as her mother and father watched attentively, holding their breath as they waited for hers. Hours after bringing their daughter into the world, my sister would be in the back of a car with Ruth headed to the NICU for immediate attention for complications associated with her Cystic Fibrosis. Just days after being born, Ruth would undergo major intestinal surgery. She would spend her first days on this earth—168 days to be exact—tethered to chords and lulled to sleep by monitors. 

What does Easter mean in light of this? Where are the healed scars that I can trace my trembling hands over when I feel open, gaping wounds? Why can’t I hear the sound of the bells and the “alleluia’s” reverberating from every corner? What does Easter mean for my sister who lays in bed without her newborn baby next to her? What does Easter mean for every grieving parent?

This was the hardest Easter. This was the Easter of Ruth Evangeline. The gift we so eagerly received only to feel so far when she was finally given. This was the Easter where I wept with my sister over the exhaustion of this world and the frailty of the body—over the unbearable distance between mother and daughter. Wondering together if we trust God’s word that He does not give us more than we can bear. This was the Easter of sharing bowls of lovingly-prepped postpartum stew as my baby lay napping on the bed—not hers. 

This was also the sweetest Easter. The Easter where friendships comfort took form in tattered quilts,quick visits and coffee dropped-off on the front porch; shared meals and shared grief and shared questions of why such a kind Shepherd allows such sorrow to enter. The birth of Ruth and the hours that proceeded felt like a thin place, too. A different tone than the Easter vigil service and yet the same Comforter was present. The promise of the Resurrection felt nearer and dearer than ever before. 

I love Malcolm Guite's poem for Holy Saturday:

“He blesses every love that weeps and grieves

And makes our grief the pangs of a new birth.

The love that’s poured in silence at old graves, 

Renewing flowers, tending the bare earth, 

Is never lost. In him all love is found

And sown with him, a seed in the rich ground.”

So this is the great consolation. That our grief is but a seed. That we do not see the full picture yet. That we will one day harvest what is sown. And in the meantime, as we sow our tears, the Savior of the world, the Master Gardener, carries the plough next to us. We are not alone in this grief. There is friendship in our frailty. Jesus’ resurrection did not cancel the cross or make the pain insignificant, meaningless, forgotten. Nor do we find hope in denying the suffering, but in embracing it. We find the sweetest fellowship in the midst of it, because of it. 

This Easter I remember the words of George MacDonald: “We know how much of the pleasures even of life we owe to the intermingled sorrows. Joy cannot unfold the deepest truths, although deepest truth must be deepest joy.” Just as we had to travel the road of Calvary with Jesus on Good Friday and through the darkness of Lent, so the joy of Easter cannot be unless we first name our sorrows. We cannot skip the darkness. Bitter and sweet are always intermingled.

  …

Author Beldon Lane writes: “Divine love is incessantly restless until it turns all woundedness into health, all deformity into beauty, all embarrassment into laughter. In biblical faith, brokenness is never celebrated as an end in itself.”

One day, my Ruth Evangeline will sing with lungs full of air and a body strengthened, healed, by her God. She will not need enzymes with her portion at the wedding feast of the Lamb. One day all mothers who have wept silent tears over the manifold troubles of this life will be comforted. We will turn around like Mary Magdeline and hear our names and we will know immediately the voice that speaks it. We will trace our fingers across His wounds and watch our open wounds heal before our eyes. 

Allelujah!

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On April 6th at 7:16pm, another little one joined our family. He began his grand entrance the very moment I would have never wished for it. 5 days overdue. 12 o’ clock AM. Stomach Flu. That very night, as we were turning off the lights, I remember telling Shane: “One of my worst nightmares is going into labor sick.” I knew the physical feat birthing a baby was, even without the added depletion. Sure enough, despite all the cautionary measures I had taken to avoid the dreadful stomach flu that was spreading through my family, I woke up at midnight needing to throw up. After an hour or two of throwing up, the tensing of my stomach muscles finally sent my 5 day overdue body into labor. Now I was battling contractions between each reach for the bowl. I felt so weak. I cried to Shane because I didn’t want it to begin this way. I knew it would be only the sustenance of God to get me through the next 24 hours.

I called the midwife around noon the next day, once contractions were unmistakably stronger and closer together. “The flu can really stall labor, making contractions sharp and unproductive,” she told me. “Best if you rest and try to eat and drink what you can.” I was able to take little sips of coconut water while pacing but I could tell I was seriously dehydrated. I tried to rest since I hadn’t slept the night before. Shane made me some avocado and sprouted grain toast that I was able to stomach. As it nourished my tired body, it also restored hope that I would have the strength to make it through the journey ahead. I was afraid I wouldn’t have the energy to face the intensity of labor without the fuel of food in my body. I already felt so weak, so tired, and this was just the beginning of the journey. 

Pre-labor was slow and gave me time to recover from the previous night. I took several warm showers because it helped ease the intense back pain. I sucked on a lime popsicle my sister dropped off for me and I slowly felt the strength returning. Contractions were fairly inconsistent ranging from every 5-7 minutes. Contractions became sharper anytime I would stand, so I spent most of the day laying and practicing slow, focused breathing. Shane made the call to go ahead and send Lilias with my mom. My mom arrived jolly, excited, stunned (her 9th grandchild had just come two days before!) She arrived with a bucket of treats for little Lilias. It felt assured knowing that she was in good care. I was sad to say goodbye, though, because I knew upon her arrival home things would forever be different. She would no longer be my only baby. I had to remember what a gift we were giving her in a new, lifelong companion. With Lilias gone, I had time to focus on preparing. I finished packing my bag and began doing exercises on the yoga ball as well as the Miles Circuit to get baby in optimal position. 

The day progressed slowly. My body was doing exactly what it need to but I was struggling with patience. Throughout my pregnancy I was told again and again that second babies come much quicker than the first. I wanted the day to speed up. My midwife encouraged me not to rush things because my body needed time to replenish and rest before the intensity picked up. The baby felt low and the bottom pressure was intense. Walking was painful. This was a sensation that I hadn’t experienced this with my first labor.

Shane set up the pull-out couch downstairs and made me feel cozy and comfortable. To get my mind off the discomfort, we watched a few episodes of a British show called “Repair Shop” that we thoroughly enjoyed. Kelly and Steven, our dearest friends and neighbors, dropped off coconut water and popsicles on their way out to the hospital.  My little niece Ruth was born two days prior and was in the NICU for complications associated with her Cystic Fibrosis. Today was little Ruthie's major intestinal surgery. Kelly, my doula, reassured me of her love and presence with me that day. I was heartbroken to not feel like I could be fully with her on this heavy, weighty day and likewise she felt the loss over not being with me during labor. But we were together in the truest sense of the word, even if we were physically apart. I felt Kelly’s strength with me the entire journey. I felt her cheering me on. The entire day I couldn’t help but think of my little niece who I ached to hold again—wanting to be assured that she would be okay. Conflicting emotions at raged within my heart. 

Contractions had finally intensified to the point where I was no longer able to talk or laugh through them. I continued to delay getting in the car because I loved the comfort of laboring in my familiar environment. I didn’t want to show up at the birth center with little progress and dilation to report, which had been the case with my firstborn. “Just a little while longer,” I remember telling Shane again and again. Shane felt differently and was convinced that I didn’t realize just how far along I really was. He was convinced that I was trying to birth this child in the car. 

Around 5 pm and after a whole day of consistent contractions, he finally made the executive decision to get in the car and go. Now was the time. He grabbed our bags and grabbed a quilt and pillow for a comfortable journey there. I grabbed my TENS unit and a comb to squeeze—a few pain coping mechanisms I had heard about. Even with the increasing intensity of the contractions, I remained convinced that I would have a long road ahead of me. The length of pre labor with my first had made me sure not to get too excited, too soon.

I was checked as soon as we arrived to the birth center. 8 cm dilated and entering transition. I was "in the zone" unaware of the flurry taking place behind the scenes. According to Shane, our Midwife, Sadie, was in a bustle grabbing bowls and towels and quickly calling the assistant nurse to come. Sadie, offered to draw me a bath and put some lavender and peppermint oil in the diffuser. I remember there being so much peace during this time. I was learning to trust my body and lean into the pain. I remembered the words of my sister's midwife at the birth of her daughter years prior "The only way out is through." The hot water helped ease the contractions and Shane clutched my hand tighter during every wave of pain. I remember having some incoherent conversation with him between contractions asking him the same silly questions over and over again, “Are you sure I can do this? Are you excited? Do you think it's a boy or another little girl? How do you think Lilias is doing?" It hurt so, so bad. But through it all I felt strong and calm and between the swell of a contraction I would catch comforting glances from Shane. His quiet and gentle companionship anchored me. My body had done this before and it could do it again.

I thought of Ruth, my niece, who was undergoing surgery as I gave birth. I channeled that little girl’s strength and the strength of my sister, whom I had witnessed give birth so peacefully and courageously just two days before.

Everything that transpired next was a bit of a blur. The end was fast and furious. The pain was peaking and yet I felt comfortable in the bath and had found a helpful rhythm of breathing. I was unprepared for a water birth. I hadn’t planned on this. I kept asking Sadie “What do I do when the baby comes out? How do I do this??” She just chuckled and just said that everything would be alright and that Shane could catch the baby. Trust my body. She checked me one last time. An hour after arriving at the birth center, I was there. Baby’s head had fully descended and she suggested I reach down to touch it. A little wary at first, I conjured up the courage to feel it. I couldn’t believe it...the baby was right there.

We were minutes away from meeting this little human but I wanted to hold off because my sister and mom were still rushing through traffic to get here. It became harder and harder not to push.  Sarah, also sick with the flu, strapped on a mask and pushed through whatever sickness she was feeling in order to be there. Sadie assured me: “You can push whenever it feels right.” I hadn’t felt the urge to push with my first labor but this time around it took everything in me to wait and hold back. 

They finally arrived and with the sweet presence of my mom and sister came the calmness and freedom to proceed with pushing. 6 minutes—6 excruciating minutes of pushing and the baby was born. I squeezed my mom's hand the entire time. According to Shane, I had the most intense “war cry” he had ever heard. It took every ounce of strength in me to get the baby out. I was a mess. Adrenaline was coursing through my veins. I couldn’t stop shaking. Shane grabbed the baby out of the murky water and lifted it up. A deep, loud, healthy cry. “A boy!” I exclaimed, having the front row seat. “A baby boy!” The reddest skin I had ever seen and full, plump cheeks just like his sister. 8 lbs and 10 ounces and incredibly beautiful. 

The minutes that proceeded were just as glorious as I had remembered. There is nothing quite so faith-bolstering as watching God provide the strength in your deepest hour of need and seeing a beautiful child at the other end of it. I will never grow numb to this miracle. I will always be in wonder at the mystery that God allows us the privilege of partnering with Him in this 9 month process of creation and the final push of enduring pain in order to make way for new life. 

I was moved to the bed, our baby still attached. They were in no rush to separate him. Shane draped the patchwork quilt that I had stitched together slowly and reflectively during his pregnancy, praying and wondering about this anonymous baby. I basked in the glory of what has just transpired. Nothing compares to the relief after birthing a child into the world. It's almost as if you’ve been to the grave and back—a new person... As if there is nothing that you couldn’t do, with God’s strength supplied. My mom had labored with my sister Kelly, her third, 27 years before on this very same day. On April 6, 1993, God had been faithful to her and had given her that same mysterious strength that had just sustained me.

Is there any experience that takes us closer to the heart of the Resurrection? When can we more acutely feel the weight of Jesus' words "...but if the wheat seed dies, it bears much fruit." God reserves this special privilege for mothers. He has allowed us to share uniquely in the sufferings of Christ and the subsequent glories that follow. For us, the glory of a wet, warm, hard-won baby placed on our beating chest. For Christ, the reward of repairing our relationship with the Father forever; light overcoming darkness, once and for all. If following the church calendar, Christ had just a week before this birth day, traveled to the cross for the glories that were set before him.

Kelly and Steven sped through rush hour traffic downtown after Ruth’s surgery in order to be with us. I will never forget the sight of them coming around the corner and seeing their new nephew for the first time. It is an image I will take with me for the rest of my life. Kelly’s eyes filled with tears and Steven’s eyes lit up with joy. Even on such a day of grief and uncertainty, they had wanted nothing more than to be there rejoicing with us. “It’s what Ruth would want,” she assured me. “This is exactly what I needed. This is so good for my heart.” Only two days postpartum herself and still bleeding, Kelly was rushing to the restaurant down the street to bring back food for us to feast on. I’m not sure I have ever felt the power of friendship more than I did at this moment. Nor have I seen such a beautiful display of sacrificial care for others even when the one sacrificing is hurting. Kelly and Steven had every reason to be home, to be resting, healing, receiving help...but here they were, rushing through downtown Orlando traffic to be here, next to us. Bitter and sweet intermingled and coming together to form a beautiful display of sacrificial, abiding love.  

We celebrated with mounds of Italian food from the local restaurant down the street. I ate hunched over the little nursing babe, going back and forth with those in the room recounting the series of events that had just transpired. Had that really just happened? Was he really real?! In shock over the speed of it all. You wait nine months, nine long months for this little one, and suddenly they're here in your arms. Whatever appetite I was lacking the night before had returned with great voracity. I’m not sure food has ever tasted so good in my entire life. So nourishing. We truly feasted. Even the midwife and her assistant joined us for chicken carbonara and spicy, made-from-scratch noodles with pesto and peanut butter chocolate cake to top it all off. The whole room was buzzing with excitement and shock. 

On our way home, Shane picked up blue balloons to attach to our mailbox to placate our neighbor’s curiosity and share the joyous news. Our wedding flags hung from our home in celebration of eastertide and the remarkable event of Jesus' Resurrection that we had just celebrated two days before. With my little boy snug at my chest I felt jubilee ring in the deepest part of my soul. Jesus came to give life abundant. The Spiritual life in our very souls but also this tangible, chubby, 8.10 pound life I hold in my arms. He is the God of all things sweet and wholesome and good. Life would always be triumphant and Easter should be the song that we sing, always. The Easter Lily I had planted when we first moved in was blooming and the big sister squealed at her new, forever friend. He was hers to keep, a companion to grow with.

We are grateful for this abundance. And just as the pain was intense, and at times more than I could bear, so equally was the sweet relief and euphoria of holding him for the first time. How sweet it is to serve a God that, amidst all the darkness and sadness that still exists, gives us the privilege of holding these red, fresh, sweet babies. There is nothing like it. 

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Your name would be Finlay. Finlay Davis. Finlay after the most beautiful place we had ever laid eyes on. A small mountain in Victoria, British Columbia. Mount “Finlayson” the mountain we climbed and where Shane pulled out the gold band and asked me to marry him and made me the happiest girl in the world. Your momma was named after this beautiful city and you would be too. Nearby, on the harbor overlooking the bay, your great, great grandma Harriet opened up a little tea shop, selling coffee for 5 cents a cup. I can’t wait to climb this mountain again one day, this time with you right next to me. Finlay, “how beautiful on the mountains are the feet of those who bring good news and who proclaim peace (Isa 52:7)” May you be blessed with the great privilege of being a carrier of the love of Jesus into a broken and lonely world. We pray your love for Him towers above any present darkness and becomes the hallmark of your life, like a grand mountain in the midst of a city. 

And “Davis” …a strong family name. Your great, great grandmother was Virginia Davis. Mother of your great-grandfather, Ted Fletcher. Eccentric and bright. Long brown hair down to her waist and hands stained with wood polish. A jolly sense of humor and a boisterous laugh. Entrepreneur. Furniture refinisher. Mother to seven. You have a beautiful, strong, unique lineage of people who have loved Jesus with their short time here on earth. I can’t wait to tell you all the connected stories that made your story. But you are also named after David. Shepherd. King. Warrior. Poet. Beloved. Our prayer is that you become strong and courageous like him. That you record God’s faithfulness to you like David did, with poetry or song or just with the simple beauty of your ordinary, unfolding days and a kind, grateful heart. We pray that you know Him intimately as the shepherd who leads you beside still waters. I have taken such refuge in the Psalms all my life, and I hope one day you too find hope and courage in his words. May you one day join him in saying “ In your presence there is fullness of joy” (16:11)  I hope you dwell in His house all your days and gaze upon His beauty. May you always know that you are beloved.

I do not know what your story will be or where your road will lead. I cannot wait to watch it all unfold. I know that there are hardships ahead that I cannot, as much as I may try, shield you from. And yet, there is so much joy to be found in this one short life that we are given. So much good. And we have a kind Shepherd who walks beside us, so we must not fear. Look for the good along the journey. Pick up the gold hidden along the path. Watch for His beauty. Cling to it. Let it be your song.

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August 2020

After a year and a half, I finally pulled the last thread and I am finished. I made a quilt. What a long, tedious, rewarding journey it has been. I began weeks after I discovered I was carrying our first child. I knew immediately that this was the final push I needed to start the quilt I had always dreamt of making.There is nothing like the impending arrival of a child to motivate you to tie up any loose ends and tackle projects that have been put off for too long. I had always dreamed of making an heirloom quilt that could be passed down through my family, especially because I have fond memories of my own childhood quilt.

An Indonesian woman and one of my mom's dearest friends, Dede, made matching heart quilts for my sister and me. I still have my quilt, though it looks nothing like it did when I first received it. It's been with me through 20 of the 24 years of my life. I can still see it hanging off my single bed in my periwinkle room– the room with the butterfly nets hanging on the wall and an aquarium lighting up the dark walls at bedtime. I can still see it on my bunk at college. Something familiar, securing and reminiscent of home, in a season where everything was changing. I see it wrapped around me on all the road trips back and forth from Florida to South Carolina– AC on high, audiobook playing and a Starbucks double-shot in reach.

I see it on our white couch in our first home as newlyweds; a time when I felt the weight of my childhood behind me and the rest of my life ahead. The reality of officially "growing up" had set in and I couldn't turn back to the comfort of being a child again. It’s a bitter-sweet time when the days of walking down the hall and knocking on your parent's door in the middle of the night are no longer. When life isn't quite as care-free anymore and barbie games and trampolines and Lizzie McGuire slowly turned into college papers, student loans, complex relationships and life-long vows. But the quilt was there, symbolizing a past-time that felt simpler, purer, more innocent.

Again, the quilt was wrapped around me as love turned two into three and my body became a home for another. On many-a-morning I would lay nauseous on the couch with the stainless steel bowl in reach as Shane made me oatmeal. I cried into that quilt over the weakness I fought, the burden of being a living-sacrifice, the weight of fostering a new soul. Surrendering to the exhaustion my body felt, I’d sink into the worn patchwork once again.

I've considered mending my quilt and replacing the withered fabric but I can never seem to bring myself to do it. I don't want to change the original because then it wouldn't be the same quilt that's traveled with me all these years. All the bright pinks and baby-blues are now faded. The loose threads and tattered edges speak of the time that it's been cherished and the many years in which I've lived, grown and changed since I first received it as a pig-tailed four-year-old. The faded colors tell its story and each tattered block holds a memory.

I wonder what this new quilt will weather with my little girl, as she travels through the heights and depths of life. Already we've been wrapped under it together on our "sick day" as we watched Winnie the Pooh for the first time– sippy-cup in one hand and cheerios in the other. We are making our own memories now, just as I did when I was younger, wrapped under that labor of love. Time is elusive and suddenly I am no longer the little girl being cared for; instead, I have a little girl myself, sitting beside me, growing up with me. Her story is just beginning. I wonder if this quilt will be present in some of her favorite memories when she looks back one day; will it embody a large part of her childhood for her, as it has for me?

It's amazing that something as basic as a blanket intended for warmth has become something women throughout all of history have put time, creativity, energy and love into. This basic, utilitarian necessity became a piece of artistic expression, communicating love to the people who lay under them. Isn’t this what’s so wonderful about being image-bearers? We take the ordinary, most basic items and fashion them into works of art. These women inspire me and encourage me to make beauty out of the very “scraps” of life– the rejects, the remnants. 

My quilt is far from perfect. There are crooked lines, loose thread and subtle stains from the coffee I sipped while working on it. But I take comfort in remembering the Amish women who would intentionally include one obvious mistake into each quilt, resembling the imperfect nature of each of our lives. In an exquisite king sized quilt of striking blue and white squares, they would include one small red square in the left bottom corner, catching the eye of the beholder. These little "mistakes" make them human, real, honest. There are always those mistakes, those crooked lines in our lives that we would rather hide or forget about– but these are the things that make our lives more beautiful, meaningful. These are the very stories worth telling.

My mom and dad started a business on the most densely populated island in the world— hand-stitched, one-of-a-kind quilts in the tropics, of all places! Turns out, Indonesians, with their small, nimble hands were incredibly talented quilters. What started as a small group of people meeting to sew in my parent’s garage trying to earn enough to feed their families, turned into a warehouse with over 400 workers sewing masterpieces– quilts that outshine the most beautiful Amish quilts I've seen. My parents offered these people jobs, dignity and access to hearing the gospel for the very first time. Not one quilt was identical. And behind each quilt was a maker who spent hours upon hours laboring over this gift.

I remember my mom saying when I was younger, "God uses the scraps of our lives and turns them into a beautiful tapestry." Maybe this is when my love of bold textiles laid next to each other was born– as I heard stories of lives transformed and how blankets could bring people to feel loved and taken care of. I imagined our lives as separate pieces and scraps that don't seem to be worth much from our limited, human perspective but when sewn together and quilted by God, the Master Artist, we become a magnificent tapestry.

As I stitched this quilt, I reflected on the slow work of God. Almost anything worth doing is slow. Art takes time. Beauty is often tedious. Time and patience for slow isn’t something easy to come by in our day. We prefer the fast, the instant-gratification, the quick, measurable results. We are always in a hurry and we sacrifice so much because of it. We are losing quality. Patience. Character. Value. Traditions passed down through hundreds of generations are being lost because they're archaic, unnecessary, old-fashioned. They don’t meet our criteria for what is “worthwhile.” We don't have time. And even if we did, we have lost the desire to pass things, tangible things and valuable skills onto the next generation.

It is such a simple patchwork quilt and part of me feels awfully silly that it took this long to finish. But cutting the squares, the stitching, the ironing, the needle work is tedious and I am finding that repetitive activities are hard in a world where attention-spans are less than five seconds. There is a soul-nourishing quality about doing something with your hands. About making slow, inch-by-inch progress, not knowing what the end result will be or when you will arrive. I’m afraid that in our digital age, we don’t make time for these crafts. Rogowski, in his book Handmade, says “We live in a world that is working to eliminate touch as one of our senses, to minimize the use of our hands to do things except to poke at a screen.” Do we use our hands for making anymore? We do so much consuming and so little creating. But these hands-on activities are deeply-rewarding in a way that doesn't compare to our digital activities. They help us feel less like information-consuming robots and more truly human, exhibiting our God-given command to “be fruitful and multiply” and spread His beauty wherever we go. 

Slowly chipping away on this quilt gave me time to reflect on what life is and what it means and how to live it well. When my belly was growing daily and I was cutting out the squares, I wondered about the child I felt kicking inside– Are you a boy or a girl? What will we name you? What will you be like? Look like? How will I manage as your mother? This time to reflect is rare and priceless in a world where little black boxes occupy our minds nearly every minute of the day. This quietness, this tedious pulling of the thread, slow-work, is what my heart craves in a world that is so loud and so fast. You have to fight for it. You must seek it out in the margins of your day.

In past seasons I have clung to God as my bread of life, sacrificial lamb, or the good Shepherd but in this season I have a fresh image of His love for me as a quilt. During this project a verse that has become very dear to me came from when the Psalmist is reflecting on the all-encompassing love of God: "You hem me in, behind and before" (Ps 139:5). David must have been referring to a military tactic, but my mind has always imagined it as the straight and folded lines of a finished blanket...fastened and without frays. A perfectly hemmed quilt is like the deep, all-securing love of God. Something we cannot break out of, no matter how hard we try to fight and kick our way out of the hold. He is the master-quilter that supplies the cover for our sin. He transforms our tattered remnants into something of beauty and significance. The psalmist’s prayer of being hemmed in became my prayer for my baby, as I sewed each piece together. I pray that she would always feel assured of the boundless love of God, of the tight threads that fasten her that will never break loose. I pray she feels God's love like a quilt– an enveloping, comforting, safe place for her to rest her body at night.

I am reminded of how much my little garden speaks of Christ’s resurrection. In the garden, death is never just an ending but always a beginning. The drying up of a tree’s summer leaves falling to the ground lay a blanket of decomposing, nitrogen-rich humus for the tree to feed on for its Spring growth. Raspberries need the harsh bite of  winter in order to produce fruit. 

Back at the farm, compost was our only hope for our acidic, sandy soils. Compost: discarded food waste collected from schools and other institutions left to sit, be digested by microorganisms, turned and sifted–becoming gold for the farmer and food for plant life.  We would lug wheelbarrows of compost to  each of our beds before planting. It was the most taxing  of all garden tasks and yet arguably the most essential. This death and decay brings forth so much green, so much potential. This digested carbon creates an ideal environment for the millions of soil microorganisms beneath our feet and, in time, produces the harvest on our tables. These protozoa, bacteria and fungi feed off of each other and produce life out of death. Compost reminds me of how peculiar this God of ours is, who delights in making something out of nothing, making beauty out of ashes and rows of salad greens out of last year’s discards.

Another tiresome task on the farm was pruning the tomatoes. A tomato needs to be pruned back, entire parts of the plant eliminated, sacrificed, for the main stem to receive all the nutrients the soil has to offer and produce the most sizable, healthy fruit. If left unpruned, a tomato would get carried away sprouting new growth and all that would be left is a chaotic mess of green and some piddly fruit. Trimmings or “suckers” of the tomato plant can be saved and rooted to produce entirely new plants. Always death giving way to more life, more abundance.

My mind doesn’t want to go where I know it must this Easter. The same dying and coming alive that I see in the garden and in the life of Christ is required of me. If I am to truly live abundantly I must first  carry my cross next to Jesus and enter this Winter with Him. 

Motherhood has given me a small taste of this death-to-self. It’s been 8 wearisome, beautiful months of having this little human chipping away at all my rough edges but I am still here, ashamedly, somehow finding the breath to complain about my interrupted sleep, bickering with my husband who forgot to close the diaper pail, refusing to carry this cross that God has asked me to, failing to see the privilege of it all. The daisies in my garden have long learned the lesson of surrender and they function so effortlessly in the cycle of life and death but here I am, trying desperately to hang on to my petals. 

In these long, ordinary days, my prayer is a simple one from Hopkins: “Let Him easter in us.” Not simply this single day of the year; I need resurrection every day. I need the presence of this mysterious God whose art is in making something out of nothing. I need Him to do this pruning work. I need to learn this lesson from my daisies. 

I want to flee from this death. Everything around me tells me to reject this message– to preserve, defend, protect self. From a very young age our school teachers hammer into our heads messages like  “follow your dreams” and “believe in yourself.” No one wants a cross. We are surrounded by gospels of self-care and esteem which leave us tired and wanting. If I am not careful, I will spend my entire life decorating the altar of my ego– pursuing things that build my image. I want to stay seated here in the ease of Springtime and not face the sanctifying knife of wintertime. 

Our society has redefined this life that I currently find myself in. This life of motherhood, hidden behind sippy cups and pumping parts and oatmeal crusted on the floor. This hidden life.  I try my hardest to see the romance of it all and there are moments when God gives little glimpses of the true art that this unseen life is, the privilege in the calling. But most days I am struggling to emotionally and physically give of myself to my child, trying desperately to conjure up the energy to use the 30 minute nap to write, envying my old self that seemed to have endless minutes in a day in comparison.

I need Him to Easter in me– even when I don't have the energy to ask for it. I so badly want to know “the power of His resurrection” and skip over what precedes: “sharing in His sufferings” (Phil 3:10). Most days I am like the rich man who, though happily approaching Jesus, confident in his own holiness,  went away despondent after hearing all that was required of him– all the emptying of self left to do. 

Lilias Trotter knew this sacred Easter-jewel that I long for. A jewel only attained by those courageous enough to follow in Jesus’ footsteps to Gethsemane. She felt that same Easter tension I feel this year: “There lies before us a beautiful possible life – one that shall have a passion for giving that shall be poured forth to God – spent out for man. But how are we to enter in? How are we to escape this self- life that holds us?” A flower does not stop at flowering but goes further still to give of itself, to reproduce, to make way for new life. Are my hands off “the very blossom of this life?”

She tells me that “sacrifice is the very life-breath of love” and that it's this unglamorous love that the world is starved for. That my neighbor is hungry for. That my marriage needs om me. The kind of love my little girl needs to witness. What God asks of me this Easter. 

After visiting Calvary with Him “even the commonest things put on new beauty.” Love turns piles of dirty dishes, spilled milk and hours spent in the dim of the nursery into glorious pathways to the Easter heart of God.This God that turns banana peels and coffee grinds into rich, nutrient dense soil is the same God that takes us by the hand that we might rise with Him.

Oh that I wouldn’t fear this death– cling to this glass of wine but choose to give it away, pour it forth. That I would, like the oak and its leaves, let my sin wither and fall to the ground, giving energy to produce in me holiness and fruit. 

Today we replace our nailed sins on our little wooden cross with flowers and take up the task of celebration, boisterously proclaiming that he is not the God of the dead but of the living! We raise our flags and light our pressed flower luminaries, rejoicing that He has overcome the darkness. Oh, glorious life with “nothing to keep and nothing to lose.”

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Radishes are always the first on the scene in the garden, boasting of their efficient growth and surprising us with their humble glory. Radishes are often undervalued and under appreciated. Maybe because they're so easy to grow. Maybe because we haven't learned how to cook them well.

The French eat them for breakfast, adorned with a generous dollop of butter on a bed of toast.

Radishes are incredibly versatile. You can eat them fresh, roast them, pickle them. You can transform their tops into a delicious, spicy pesto. My husband loves the satisfying crunch they add to tacos.

They're the crop I recommend growing for any first-time gardener. They're fast, so they appease the instant-gratification we all are used to. They can be directly sown into the garden. You can grow plenty in a small space. They're beautiful. There's an easter egg mix that, hence the name, look like easter eggs. There's icicle radishes that have long roots, Daikon radishes that penetrate deep into the soil and aerate, Watermelon radishes that look are nothing short of stunning when cut into.

It's only right that radishes are the first to ring in the Spring season, in all their unassuming beauty. After their greens grow nice and tall, they start to turn their energy towards their roots. I love watching the bright pink, pure white roots slowly pop up and contrast with the dark soil around them and pulling aside the cheery green to see the progress underneath. Nothing beats the burst of peppery flavor when you bite into one directly out of the field.

It's time to give these little guys the applause that they deserve.

I am saying goodbye to this home. To this home that stored the memories of four years. Four of the sweetest years of my life. 

I’m saying goodbye to this town of Blythewood-- this place I never would have chosen. Like most romantics like myself, I dream of rolling hills and large oaks and wild poppies on the side of the road. Instead God gave me this quirky town adorned with chain link fences, feed-and-seed stores, Bojangles and trailer homes. There's a restaurant we pass on our drive downtown marked only by a sign reading "EAT."  I have come to love the people in this town. Connie who serves faithfully at Round Top Food Pantry, eagerly filling the back of her truck with our farm discards to give to the 200 families they feed weekly. Sunny Clark and his 50 year old Mule who still ploughs his fields. Sally and her collard transplants on the side of the road. Tony and the city food scraps he turned into compost gold. George who helped us construct a walk-in cooler until 10pm on Valentines day. Jason and the sourdough bread we traded for ground beef and pork chops. The Kemps. The strangely comforting sound of Devin’s led feet above our room. Hearing Carly practice her violin.

This is the place where I took care of my first home garden. The Kemps graciously allowed me to dig into a plot nestled under two tall pines where they used to grow their Fall pumpkins. This would be the little plot I would visit each morning to water with the hose– the plot where I harvested 80 pounds of sweet potatoes, where I planted 10 foot "mammoth" sunflowers, where orange cosmos went to seed and sprouted up in every nook and cranny. Where I learned how much you could grow in a small space and that bigger is not always better. Where I vowed to always be a child full of wonder– to never let the turning of a seed into a sprout become any less miraculous to me. This is where we learned to raise chickens and quail, where eggs comprised fifty percent of our diet and helped with our newlywed, shoestring-budget. 

This is the pond where I caught my first fish one Summer evening. This is where we would harvest blueberries in the evenings after class and where the music of the “Prince Albert” the peacock would startle us awake at dawn. Where Shane would feed the sheep acorns when he got home from class. This is where we would bring home our share of the farm’s harvest and feast with a picnic in the pasture near Cody, the Clydesdale.

Flowers always in a large vase on the table, even if it’s only goldenrod from down the street. The thrifted bee painting above the sink. The mustard yellow curtains. Candles to make the cave-like interior warm and cozy. This is the kitchen where I fell in love with baking sourdough bread. The home where we discovered how to love Jesus by inviting others to our table to feast with us and where the act of opening our doors and setting a table for friends became the simplest expression of the gospel to us. Where our creaky pull-out couch was regularly unfolded for college friends who’d rather not spend another night in the dorms and who craved the warmth of a real home.

 A fall harvest-meal, a flower-potluck with my Hobby Club, William's Paw Patrol birthday party, a baby shower for my expecting sister, members of book club all huddled around mugs of chamomile and Brave New World, a Seder meal where we celebrated the coming of the New Jerusalem! This is the place where God laid on our hearts the sweet, vivacious people from the island we would point to on the map hanging above the piano. This is the place we came home to after our wedding. A "Just Married!" banner hung by the youth group, groceries stocked in the fridge and enough toilet paper to last us our entire first year of marriage. 

More recently, this is the home we brought our baby girl home to. The little den we painted green and the rocking chair nestled in the corner. Already countless hours spent rocking, nursing, laughing, crying. A place I know she'll never remember but for the stories we'll tell her. There’s a Bradford Pear just a few strides from our door that we’d go and sit under and wait for her dad to pull up the driveway after work. She’d look up from her blanket and watch curiously at the leaves dancing in the wind. I’m glad she started to shape her little world in a place as beautiful as this.

Since becoming a mother, change has been hard for me. I used to pride myself in my nomadic heart– never content to stay in one place for long, always eager for the next new thing.  But this home, and being a mother, has changed me– has made me see the beauty of staying put, of letting my roots sink deep down into familiar soil, of seeing a place change from one season to the next and letting myself change with it. 

I have wanted to hold on to it all...to slow down time. I have held things with a tight grip. I’d like to think that I will always live near my sisters. I’d like to imagine that I can hold on to the farm I nurtured and cared for, the two acres we imagined (and sweated) into being. I'd like to hold on to these newborn days and keep little Lilias cradled up close to me forever. And I'd like to hold on to these four walls– this little house we've made home.

I’m headed to another home now. A city just as peculiar to me, just as worthy of being loved and just as likely to surprise me as this one has. I’ve vowed to look at this cement jungle with fresh eyes and not think any less of it because there’s Disney in place of rolling hills and because it’s nearly December and I’m sitting by the pool in a tank top writing this. I’ll search for the beauty here, too. I’ll look for the people to love and invite to our table. Our pull-out couch will still be here for any weary souls who happen to pass our way. I’ll make a new home here. 

So much of life is learning how to loosen our grip and embrace the new. It hurts but it's good. It is good to grieve the end of this season so long as it doesn’t keep me from tasting the goodness in this new one. I often think of my dear friend Gerard Manley Hopkins' who tells me to "sign it, seal it, send it away" to God, the giver, who keeps things "with fonder a care than we could have kept it." Nothing is really ever lost. This is the promise I cling to as I close this chapter and move forward into the next. All this undeserved beauty that I’ve witnessed here is safely kept; now is the time to walk forward with eager feet!

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If we could go back in time
what would we tell ourselves?
Those two high school lovers
walking in the halls

Would we show them this house
we made home
the books filling the shelves
quilt on the bed, mums on the table,
the yellow curtains?

Could we point to the acre of land
we sunk our hands in
the soil we nourished with care
the brimming baskets of summer fruit
the neighbors we fed?

Would we believe us when we tell of
the strawberry blonde girl
we brought into this world
this space in our hearts, only for her
this piece of you and piece of me
in that green floral dress?

What would our faces be
as we told them
the story of such richness?
Could they believe that it's theirs?