the tender are the strong (a five minute post)

It's Friday - a chance to write, play with words, share the joy of our writer selves with each other over at The Gypsy Mama's space. Won't you come along, and let your words fly free, too?

This week our prompt is: tender. 


My arm falls asleep only three minutes into rocking her, and her wails seem to echo in my small apartment and I worry, for the first time, that I really might never hear quiet again. And she's just four months and I am with her for two hours, just so that mom can meet with students, send emails, type with both hands on the keyboard.

So this little one and I rock, my feet in their silver Toms sliding against the carpet, and my voice cracked as I sing softly that I wish you'd hold me when I turn my back, the less I give, the more I get back... because The Civil Wars calm us both to sleep.

She is so strong, eyes laughing at my smile, arms flailing against my chest when we both know what she needs is mom but all she has is weak, small, insufficient me. And so we rock, arms asleep and weary, and suddenly, without warning:

She nestles into my chest, puts her small sweet face up against my skin, and I can feel her breathing, feel that pulse of life beat relentlessly in her chest and I realize that she carries me, in her softness and her helplessness and her need. She carries me, because my heart has been opened and widened beyond what I believed was possible, and it hurts a bit as it grows, and I keep wondering if the tenderness of the questions will ever become strong.

But she is the strong one in my living room. 


Her tiny fingers grip the edge of my sweater and she breathes life back into me and I realize that sometimes the messengers of God's love are only four months old and they only have one thing to say and it is this:

His love for you is big enough to fill your heart.

Love,
Hilary

Why I Babysit (a letter to my charges)

Dear sweet ones,

Tonight, the world shrinks. It's the size of the apartment, the size of the hallway where I pace back and forth, your squirming arms and legs colliding with my collarbone and my ribcage as I coax you. "I know, Ema! I know - it's hard when Mom's not here." The world is now the square foot of carpet with thousands of my sock footprints as I rock you.

I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror: my hair is falling out of its tight french braid and whisps are stuck to my face at strange angles. My corduroys are baggy and one sleeve of my sweater is pushed up and the other is not. There is drool on all of my clothes. You've been fascinated by my cell phone and it's also covered with drool.

You catch a glimpse of yourself in the mirror, too - and I watch your eyes grow wide in surprised delight. "Who is that other baby in there?" I laugh as I shimmy and shake. And as your eyes crinkle and you put your pudgy fingers to the surface, you laugh. There is nothing like babies laughing.

I wrestle you into your yellow fuzzy pajamas and hand you the bottle. You hold it in both hands, and settle into my arms. I sink into the chair in your nursery, trying to put the penguin night light back on its stand with my feet, so I don't disturb our sweet and temporary silence. You look up at me, your eyes taking in the light and the green and pink patterns and this strange new face. My world, which spins at 150 miles per second, which holds seven to fifteen meetings per week and that most days doesn't want to think about anything but grilled cheese and tomato soup for dinner - you flip it upside down. My world, that is always about the next horizon, the next job, the next task, the next... the next... the next... is for a few hours the size of my arms and your yellow pajamed-self.

I babysit because I need you to teach me how to love. I need you to laugh at me, tell me the same jokes and dare me to stick my tongue out the car window. I need you to color Christmas cards with crayons and challenge me to duels on your swingsets. I need you to remind me that there is treasure hidden under the oak tree, and that some days crying is the best way to express your hunger.

I babysit because I am a hurricane of a twenty-something world that goes by faster than light and sound. Because it feels like I am always straining to look older, seem older, seem cooler and wiser and more mature. Because I need the world to shrink down to a square foot of carpet where The Civil Wars and Sara Bareilles play the same songs, where the only words you need are, "It's okay, love." Because for a moment I need to step out of the hurricane and into the dragon hunting, storytelling, hot chocolate on my lap, fight over the broken crayon, aching arms of love. 

Your parents give me this privilege: to learn from you, in your yellow pajamas and pirate costumes and red hats. Your parents share the miracles that you are with me for a few hours, and those few hours where I can be the baby-whisperer are some of the most precious to me. I know that there are thousands of moments that I miss, and your parents are there in the long nights and the 3am stomach bugs and the letters from teachers and spilled finger paint and smacking your siblings. But I hope I never stop being your babysitter, because for the small miraculous moments I do get to watch you grow I grow, too.

Thank you, sweet ones, for everything you've taught me about love.

All of mine to you,
Hilary

What babies teach us about gifts

I have known her since before she was born - felt her squirm inside her mom over Family Night Dinners on 8th St, NE, and talked long over Starbucks lattes about the joys of being a daughter, and having one, to a woman who had only had boys before this.

But I just met her, over Subway sandwiches and haircuts, as she slept in the back of our rented car as we drove to the Relevant blogging conference, and her mom and I told stories about writing, and feeling anonymous, and boys (many stories about boys), and the desires that our hearts hold unfulfilled. I kept sneaking glances at her, this seven month old girl, and thinking about what it would be like to have one, what it would be like to become a mother myself, years and seasons ahead of the time I'm in.

And as the days wore on and I got to know her deep blue eyes and the way you can tell she is about to laugh by the way she crinkles the corners of her eyelids, as I rocked her to "Winter Song" on repeat and the weight of her sank into my bones and into my heart... I began to clamor and complain to God. "Why don't I have this, already?" I asked him staring at the ceiling while she slept. "Why don't I have this kind of joy, this particular gift, this calling, this identity?"

The questions flash flooded into my brain, along with their twins: what if.. I never have this, I never get married, I never have children, what if I am not really a blogger, what if I'm not a writer, what if, what if...


Then she stirred, and opened her eyes, and looked at me. And there was the answer: be where you are.

(photo: jessica fairchild)

Babies teach us the hard lesson of simplicity. They only want a few things, and their joy at finding them bubbles over into their squeals of delight. This baby, and her happy sounds, rocking in her stroller completely in love with a plastic water cup, knows how to be where she is. She does not live in fear of what if. She does not complain that she does not have things she sees others having.

So I spent time with this baby this week and her handprints cover my face, and her laughter at my Glee music rings in my ears. Be where you are. 


Be where you are. Let the longings be longings, and hold them in your hands and ponder them. Let the questions be questions, and ask them. Let the laughter be laughter, and the love be the most blessed beautiful love.

Her name means life and grace - and she taught me the way to live them.

"We wait in hope for the Lord; he is our help and our shield. In him our hearts rejoice, for we trust in his holy name. May your unfailing love rest upon us, O Lord, even as we put our hope in you." (Psalm 33.20-22)

All my love,
Hilary

Motherhood Should Come with... (A Five Minute Post)

Lisa-Jo asked us about motherhood this week - just five minutes, like we always play, our words free of all those edits and corrections and insecurities.

Motherhood should come with patient eyes, the ones that wear worry in the corners because their grown up girl, this one blogging late in the watches of the night, is up too late and is working too hard and is too stubborn to listen to you. Motherhood should come with soft hands that smooth away the wrinkles of the day with spontaneous trips to Starbucks for chai and cuddling close even now as feet creak across floorboards and we cling like kangaroo cubs.

Motherhood should come with strong arms that catch the kid turned superhero leapfrogging off the couch into the middle of life. Motherhood should come with plenty of tissues for the final decision to say goodbye, the final moment of moving away, the final moment of doing the brave thing in the quiet. Motherhood should come with lots of good red wine.

Motherhood should come with a bucketful of grace all its own for the moments when daughter and mother look at each other too weary even to make words from their shared heart. Mother becomes mercy. Motherhood should come with an endless supply of tea and mugs. Motherhood should come with the looks of love saved up for the moments when we the children stamp our feet and cross our arms because what we want is to not need you but all we need is you. You and your strong soft arms and your big comforter heart that wraps us up tight. 

Love,
Hilary

A Word for Wednesday: Daughter (A Series of Posts about Words)

When I was a junior in high school one of my classes was a creative writing class focused exclusively on poetry. I had no patience for poetry, I'm afraid to say. I believed that words are best when they are in the good company of many other words, strung together in sentences and contained appropriate punctuation. But after a semester (and then two more) of living in poetry, I learned to cherish words, just words, for their power and joy and unexpected meaning. So I take some time every Wednesday to think about a word with you. Glad you are here.

This post today is for Lisa-Jo, my DC mama, who taught me that being a daughter and being a mother and being a woman is all about God, being God's child, returning back into the warmth of daughterhood. I have sometimes wanted to claw my way into adult life, into the rhythm and independence of my own self, my unconnected, liberated self. I want to be self-defined, my own image of my own body and my own heart.

And then Lisa-Jo, and good food and laughter, and her face of earnest remembrance. Hilary it's about loving them, she said when I confessed that conversations were hard with some of my most beloved friends. It's just about loving them so well and letting Jesus do what He is going to do. And she said, over and over, until I could hear it in my own heart when I was back in my cold room in Massachusetts: He washes us in His love. He washes us clean in the love and the blood and the waiting and the hoping and the gift, Ann's eucharisto, the full life.

And a daughter, that precious word, has just been born. And she is so small and before the beginning, and she is the reminder that daughter is Zoe, is life. Is Grace.

So the word for today, my friends, is daughter.

Definition: Daughter means the female offspring of human parents; a female adopted child; and an atomic species that is the product of radioactive decay of a given element. Yes, the last is science's beautiful and atypical definition, an insertion into the word a whole new kind of conceiving of life.

Daughter, noun. The word for my grandmother's wrinkled hands that shake as they put paper plates in their wicker holders. My own mother, her cheerful voice ringing out from the puzzle on the card table, trips into the room and helps set out the glasses, and I put out the silverware, tucking napkins beneath forks and knives. And we three are all daughters, two of us mothers, me also a sister, and the word daughter binds and promises us to each other. I am Grammy's, Mom's - their hands smooth my hair and hold me tight and I am daughter and granddaughter and they repeat the motions of their own mothers and grandmothers.

(Photo Credit: Mandie Sodoma)

Daughter, noun. Me the day that I saw Dad in DC, saw the lines of smile and joy and sorrow around his eyes crease into recognition when I walked into the Newseum in my pink sweater and pencil skirt, my high heels clacking "I am a grownup!" And he looked so proud of me, so glad to know that I am his. Daughter is being Dad's, caught up in a hug of all the years of England and Pooh-sticks and lambs in springtime and reading out loud (always with his glasses on the end of his nose and a cup of tea cradled in his hand). I'm Dad's daughter.

Daughter, noun. The clamour of their voices, occasionally clear and harsh, occasionally soft whispers, the  other women gather round me, take me into their mama wings when my own mama is not near - and they teach and tell the truth - that I am His, really, only, always. That it is about the still more beautiful way of obedience. That I, too, am offered Mary's Annunciation (bear Me, Hilary, into the world), and I must say "Yes" to God. I am somehow their daughter too.

Daughter, noun. The look of joy when she arrives dressed exclusively in Jasmine costume, or with stripes and polka dots and flowers and a hat on her head and twirls for you. And when she plays pirates and sleds and chases puffs of milkweed through the backyard. And when she cuts her doll's hair right there in your nice bathtub, and when her sister cuts her bangs crooked, and when she barricades herself in her room because the hallway of sixth grade artwork is the first place she discovers how to have a crush on someone, and when she, flushed, hears her own voice ring clear in the solo, in that French address, and when she cries and laughs and lives. Daughter means alive. Daughter means watching her grow, and singing joy. 

Love,
Hilary

Lessons, Carols and My Mother's Smile: A Reflection as We Approach the End of Advent

It is quiet in the church building, light flickering on familiar faces. There are women and men whose wrinkles have creased hundreds of times upon seeing my face - men and women who watched me grow from one month old to twenty. I sit in my dark green puffer vest, my hair spilling out over the collar, my feet tucked snugly under the pew. I am waiting in silence for the beginning of Lesson & Carols at Christ the Redeemer Anglican Church, and I sense that the congregation waits with me. There are silent greetings - a pat on the arm, a red coat being shrugged off one shoulder as she clutches her friend to her side, the frantic wave between sides of the center aisle.

And then I hear the voice, quavering only slightly on the first two notes, sounding like a gong straight through the expectant silence. Once in royal David's city, stood a lowly cattle shed... And I am suddenly seven years old again, and Christmas Eve is the night I long for, and I treasure the haunting soprano voice that rings out over the lectern. I am ten years old, my own faltering voice climbing the notes like stairs, as I sing where a mother laid her baby, in a manger for his bed. I am fourteen, and anxious about my new school and making friends and being Christian, Mary was that mother mild. I am eighteen, home from my first semester in college and I am crying because I do not understand how Jesus Christ, her little child can be the fulfillment of the Old Testament promises I just memorized for my BIB101 final exam.

In the pews of Christ the Redeemer, I see these snapshots of myself like Polaroids strung on a ribbon. I am tempted to turn and see who it is, who is singing this song that has been my Christmas song for years, and then my eyes catch sight of something else - my mom is sitting in the pew next to me, and her eyes are closed, and a small smile peeks out of the corner where her lips meet. And I think, how long has my mother been smiling like that and I have never noticed?

When you are seven, or ten, or fourteen, or eighteen, you probably live in your own head most of the time. You notice how a song affects you, how what so-and-so said at the lunch table made you feel, and how good you are at singing. I hadn't, in all those Christmas Eves of the hymn "Once in Royal David's City" noticed my mother. I had noticed myself, my own heart and mind, my own adolescent turbulence. But when had I looked over at my mom? When had I listened to her talk about what Christmas means to her? When had I simply sat with her, in a darkened church, with green puffer coats and purple long fleece jackets, our faces dancing with shadows, and appreciated her?

My mother is the teacher of patience. My mother is the one who says, "Maranatha! Come, Lord Jesus" over our makeshift Advent wreath of tinfoil, old branches of Christmas tree and a cookie plate. My mother is the one who laughs at my jokes, who gives me practical advice over the phone when I don't know what to do and I call her as I enter the Farragut North Metro Station.

And as we enter the day that Mary gives birth to Jesus, as she gives birth to God Himself in Bethlehem - I think about my mother, and the many Christmas Eves we have shared, and how this song, "Once in Royal David's City" makes her smile, just as she makes me smile.

Love,
Hilary

P.S. Photo from Willow Tree. 

Ain't It Just Like A Middle Child: Thoughts on Being In-Between

I’m living in the land of the in-between. I’m in-between three jobs, in-between siblings (older sister, younger brothers). I'm in-between being an adult and not being on my own. I'm in-between wanting to spend all my time writing on this blog and thinking that it's highly unlikely I'll have all that much to say about myself.

I’m in-between my summer season and the fall semester I’m headed to in Washington, DC. Everywhere I turn people seem to be wondering “where I’m at” and “how I’m doing” and “am I getting excited for Washington??” – to which I long to reply, “Yes, I’m excited, I’m doing well, and I’m standing right in front of you!” I know I shouldn’t be impatient. People need to ask those questions, and want to feel connected to the thing I’m setting off to do. But the truth is I haven’t given much thought to my semester other than, “Have I turned in my paperwork?” and “What should I sent to ASP in the big package I have to mail Monday morning?”

It’s been a summer about now. When I write that it sounds peaceful (and unlike me, the Queen of Impatience!), and unfortunately trite. But I don’t mean forgetting the future or the past, or losing ourselves in our feelings or even spending long hours just breathing in one nostril and out the other (although a friend once gave me an article about how that exercise lowers your blood pressure, which I found very interesting). I am all for clear thinking, for driving the cars of our lives straight ahead without crashing into others or endangering ourselves. I am all about movement forward.

But this summer I’ve been at home in "now", my movements strangely cyclical: drive to work, work, drive home, drive to coffee at Starbucks with a friend, go to church… summer has lumbered by me slowly but surely and I am grateful for it. And it’s been about now: am I loving my family well now, am I listening carefully to the story of my friend’s self-discovery in this moment, am I working well within the boundaries I’ve tried to create for myself? And to be completely honest, now that the time to start thinking about the future appears to have arrived abruptly and without warning, I am strongly tempted to plant my feet firmly in the ground and stay put.

But before my legs start growing trunks, and my hands turn green and leafy (have you ever wondered if that could actually happen – like when your mother tells you you’ll turn orange if you eat too many carrots?), I’m left without a choice. I’ll be headed to Washington no matter what, grinding some dust and generally calling it a day in Massachusetts. In many ways I just don't want things to change; I don't want this season to fade away. But as a good friend said to me last night over coffee (I bet if my dentist saw the amount of teeth-staining beverages I consume in a week she would fall over in a dead faint), it matters what we do. I am settling into the idea that, whether or not I feel in-between, unwilling or nervous, what I'm going to do is get on the plane on Thursday morning and fly to Baltimore, MD. What I'm going to do is swallow the huge lump in my throat, grab my two old, tattered suitcases and my staple gray cardigan, and get off the plane. What I'm going to do is breathe in and out and in and out again, and walk forward.

My season of "now" - of the days blurring together into one long sunny stretch of time, of the big belly laughs with my family, of the cupcakes brought to the office to celebrate various birthdays - is ending. My new season: of wearing high heels, exploring Georgetown and waking up to the Capitol building sitting serenely in front of me is just around the corner. And so, as a middle child who finds transition troubling, as an in-between girl, as a lover of "the summer of now" - I'm ready to step out of in-between and into the next season, the next now.

Goodnight, goodnight.