unlike me, my daughter actually enjoys mornings.
Some of you will recognize the following story — I penned it just months after 26PM and i were married in 2008, and published it on my old blog (Remember Xanga? That’s how we all rolled back in the day, ha ha!)
Anyway, I rediscovered these words again today, and realized that I never shared our love story on this blog.
So, here it is. The story of a love that spanned the distance between the Atlantic and Pacific. The story of two people who could not remain apart. The story of our lives.
once upon a time, he saw her. after church, playing football in the grass. she was barefoot. this is his first memory, but she did not notice.
she does not remember, except for the time he could not understand something she said and then she refused to speak.
[we were both sixteen. –yellowcard, ocean avenue]
well, seventeen, actually.
[they had lots of common friends. –dennison witmer, 24 turned 25]
the same church. the same ski slopes. the same junior college.
but they did not notice.
[you never even see me. you look right through me. –coldplay, shiver]
she remembers how he flew before he could drive, and how he drew color and life bursting from grey rubble. she told her mother he thought about things, deeply.
he did not know he was present in her mind.
she did not know she thought of him, even when she did.
this is my tiny girl at seven weeks old, hanging out with her daddy. isn’t she gorgeous? i’m madly in love with her.
i love staying at home with her. we’re falling into quite a regular little routine here, and it’s been wonderful. with all the changes to our lives within the first few weeks of her life, routine has been a long time coming. but now our lives are swaying in a gentle rhythm, a gentle groove, and i’m savoring every single moment. every thing she does captivates me. i can’t stop praising God for our Aveline, our little wished-for child.
hello, readers? is anyone still hanging around? this little blog has been sadly neglected of late. i’ve been living out of my suitcase and only able to post via my iPod. but, tomorrow i’m leaving on a jet plane, back into the arms of my love. i miss him so.
and florida? i know we didn’t get along so well last time. i’m willing to forget all that if you are. here’s to new beginnings.
i love our miraculous baby. she is an answer to so many prayers. she is, as her name means, our longed-for child.
and when her little tiny fingers grab on to my shirt, and i bend down and kiss her head and breathe in that sweet aroma, i am pretty sure nothing on earth could be closer to heaven.
this morning dawned grey and brooding, with thick clouds drawn tightly over the sky, pulling down wind and rain through the tousled treetops.
it had all the ingredients that could have made for a really bad day. monday. exhaustion. valentine’s day. a night of restless, fitful sleep on an air mattress on my in-laws’ living room floor. a fussy baby. all our stuff on a moving truck. husband putting the last few items in his suitcase to leave for florida. me staying behind for two more weeks.
yes, i cried.
but then, my baby smiled at me.
and my husband brought me lilies and roses while i was still in bed.
and God gave me peace.
wonderful, deep, incredible peace.
that doesn’t mean i didn’t cry any more after that. after all, it’s still overwhelming. i still physically don’t feel good, and i am still ridiculously tired (although my recent diagnosis of anemia explains that. hello, iron supplements!)
but i am at peace. i am content. happy. excited about this next chapter. excited to see what God has in store. madly in love with my husband and with my miraculous daughter and with this wild and beautiful life.
it’s late. i’m too fatigued to have many thoughts. my fingers tap softly across the screen of this brand new iPod. my eyes, tired and scratchy, narrow to read these words. i sit on the black leather couch, surrounded by towering stacks of brown boxes. each is taped and labeled, and each holds a little piece of the personality that made these four walls our own.
aveline lays across my lap, peaceful and trusting, calm in the face of looming change. she is not fretting about where she will live next or how she will manage the next few weeks. she does not wonder if my arms will hold her up. she just IS.
and you know? i want to trust like that.
pure, peaceful, natural trust.
the whole United States, it seems, is being swallowed up by ever-falling snow. but here in my favourite comfortable corner of the world–NorCal–it’s warm, sunny, and bright. i could stay here forever, you know. i love it here. the high skies, the dry air, the perfectly majestic california live oaks, the way the sunsets dance purple and yellow, casting long shadows across the white Sierra Nevada peaks…
i could stay here forever.
but i can’t.
you know that pillar of fire? it’s moving now, and we have to follow. it’s been parked here for almost a year and a half (a veritable record, as far as the last 11 years of my life are concerned), but now it’s time to move on.
as hard as this is, i am at peace about it.
Josiah and i have been praying–for the past year and a half–for full-time work. hundreds of resumes later, it was starting to feel like a drought. there was still daily bread and there were still new mercies, but there were no open doors.
and then suddenly, this.
not even two weeks after Aveline was born, Josiah received a job offer from a company he used to work for. it was sudden job offer, with an even more sudden start date.
and that, my friends, is how this grand adventure called 2011 begins. we’re packing up the house now…wrapping up the insane amount of loose ends…trying to get sleep in between stacking boxes and waking up in the middle of the night with our tiny little daughter.
and in less than two weeks, we’ll be on the road to Orlando with a wee baby and a dog in tow.
as with countless other life events, i’m once again singing along with rich mullins. his music is the soundtrack to my soul. “sometimes i think of Abraham, and how one star he saw was lit for me. he was a stranger in this land, and i am that no less than he.” -rich mullins
so call us crazy. sojourners. gypsies. we wouldn’t have it any other way.
if we’re not connected on facebook or twitter, then you may have missed the big news. baby munsey is finally here! aveline alenka made her debut on wednesday, january 19th at 2:13am, weighing 6 pounds, 12 ounces, and measuring 20 inches long. i can’t stop thinking about what one of the nurses said when she looked down at aveline –
well, hello, little one! and what have you come to teach us?
it’s cloudy this morning. a touch of grey fog, quiet and calm. the dampness clings to the long slender shoots of grass and wraps around the tired oak fingers. the earth seems to sigh, and the clouds heavily roll along, lumbering, as if even they are too tired to take another celestial step. the occasional hum of a passing vehicle sounds far away and distant, the sound too weary to cut through the morning grey. inside, the dog rests his furry head between his paws, his eyes half open and lifted, watching me as a he fights a losing battle to stay awake.
me? in keepin’ with the situation, i try to eat my cereal with a fork. i feel clumsy, sleepy, already ready for a nap.
i wonder how much longer it will be before baby girl makes her debut. today we’re just three days away from 40 weeks.
and so much has happened since then.
praying every single day for a full-time job for my husband. quitting my own job just a couple of weeks before finding out i was expecting. it has been a wild ride. i’d like to say that i’ve learned a lot, but really, it’s more accurate to say, i have so much yet to learn.
like learning to trust. learning to know that God will take care of me tomorrow, just as he’s taken care of me today. learning what it means to pray for “our daily bread.” not our weekly bread, or our bread for the entire upcoming year; but rather, our daily bread.
that takes a lot more faith. wouldn’t it be nice to see it all stacked up, in neat little piles of 30 and 31, all marked out by month? but it’s not like that. it’s manna in the morning, and it melts away with the sun. and yet He promises the sun will rise again tomorrow. arise, shine, for your light has come.(isaiah 60:1) the sun of righteousness will rise with healing in its wings. (malachi 4:2) and with that healing, rising, sun, comes another layer of sweet, sweet manna.
if only i could learn that his mercies are new every morning. if only i could learn that his mercies never fail. if only i could learn that the sun will always rise. if only i could learn that he always hears our prayer for daily bread, and He does not give a scorpion or a snake. if only i could learn this, it might save me some tears during the darkness of night.
just a little preview of an upcoming project… (remember the pendant inspiration i blogged about last month?)
now back to the laundry and the dishes. (why do these two things multiply so quickly? and it’s only the dirty piles that grow. the clean piles never, ever do.) but, it’s ok. the dog is snoozing, my husband is working on an art test, and the music of josh rouse fills the house. a rather peaceful november night.
I know somewhere there is a party going down.
Interesting people; conversation to be found.
I’ve lived in cities where there is no solitude
Made some friends there that I hope I’ll never lose.
But, for now, I want to stay in this quiet town. -Josh Rouse