What Houses, Marriage, and Ax-murderers Have in Common

Chad and I once lived in an enormous house. I mean, huge. It was our very first rent house when we were married back in 1999. We lived in Nashville, Tennessee, and Chad had somehow run across this gigantic vacant house and managed to find its owner to inquire about renting it.

The house had been abandoned by the owner's deceased parents, and it was sitting exactly as it was when the man had carted his mother off to the nursing home. I mean, this lady's tissues were still in the trashcans several years later. The man agreed to rent the two story, hundred year old home for $500 a month if Chad agreed to clean the place out. The man had no interest in any of the furniture, artwork, clothing, or anything else in the house.

So, Chad jumped at the deal. I still lived in Texas in those months prior to our wedding, so he gathered some seriously dedicated friends and they began the task of cleaning out the place.

When I arrived at our new abode a few months later, still tear-stained from saying goodbye to my family in Texas, I was a little overwhelmed. He was so excited about bringing me into the house, giving me a tour, and showing me all the quirks of the place. The most obvious quirk was the fact that the driveway of the house also served as a parking lot for the tiny, old, filled-with-out-of-date-food grocery store next door. We literally parked between the yellow lines when we pulled up that day.

Another of the house's quirks was that it had one window unit, in the living room, so we spent our first summer together pulling our mattress into the living room at night so we wouldn't melt away while we slept.

The second floor was a little quirky, too. Still filled with the old couple's things, it consisted of a couple of rooms (one with a sink and toilet), and a little storage area. It was basically unliveable at the time because of no air conditioning, so we rarely went up there--really only to look through the old couple's things, and there were some neat things up there. Chad is still wearing some of the old man's socks. There were boxes of brand new socks up there, still packaged. You know the kind, the black dress socks that go all the way up to the knee. Chad has always been a bit of an old man.

Anyway, there were also really neat documents up there, Bible commentaries, and old publications from the church around the corner where we attended. The old man had been a deacon there for years. I think their marriage license may have even been up there. We felt like we had a weird connection to this couple we had never met, who had raised their kids in this house, attended our church, and had probably had many wonderful times and heartaches while going through life here. Aside from occasionally looking through their things, the only time we even opened the door to that part of the house was to grab the ironing board, which we kept on the stairs.

By far the biggest quirk of the house was the basement. The basement of this house was so large that when I descended the stairs to do laundry, I couldn't see the back wall of the dark, cold space. Usually I was running because I was terrified. The first time Chad took me down there I was fascinated by the large bomb shelter the man had built, complete with home-canned food and supplies. Chad was in a rock band at the time, so this place was perfect for the band to practice. They had a permanent practice spot set up down there, and eventually they strung Christmas lights around the beams and railings and made things seem a little less scary. But, I still hated going down there alone.

The house had a way of coming alive at night. Not in a good way. We spent some scary nights in there, each of us jumping up at different times whisper-screaming "What was THAT?" We were always hearing weird things, thinking someone was in the house, or imagining that something or someone was in the room with us. We often heard what sounded like an old telephone ringing. Sometimes we heard something like a football game broadcast on an old radio. It didn't help matters that I drove a cute little sportscar my parents had bought me in college that was constantly getting broken into. The house was so big, it seemed like there were lots of ways for bad guys to get in, and lots of places for scary spectres and ax murderers to hide.

It got so bad that one day when Chad picked me up from the bank downtown where I was temping, he told me he had a surprise for me and pulled out a pistol he had just bought at a pawn shop. We were serious about getting some sleep!

Shortly after we got the gun, we heard something in our front yard. Chad jumped up, as usual, and ran to the window. Once again, someone was inside my little car, working as quickly as possible to rip out the dashboard. Chad was instantly incensed and ran to get his gun. Before he managed to get the front door open, he in his underwear, presumably ready to scare to death the kid who was in my car, I convinced him that my stereo was NOT worth getting shot over, so we went back to the window to look at the kid. Then the craziness started. A car came careening around the curve in front of our house and slammed into our neighbor's fence. Naturally, the commotion scared the kid in our car, and he took off running. At about the same time, the kid in the (we later learned stolen) car jumped out and started running. So, we watched these two unrelated criminals go running down the street together. You could almost see them looking at each other, thinking, "What are you doing here?"

Another weird night post-gun-acquisition started when we were awakened from a dead sleep to the sound of a huge crash on the stairs leading to the second floor. I was always the type who would rather investigate than lie there terrified, so I grabbed our gun and headed to the stairs. I approached it like the awesome female police officers in the movies. Gun close to my chest. Back against the wall. A quick turn around the corner with my gun up and ready to fire. The ironing board had crashed down a few steps and out the door at the bottom of the stairs. But, of course, I wanted to know WHAT had made it fall. So, I went up the stairs with my gun. At this point I was kind of having fun. I was being quiet like a ninja, feeling powerful enough to take out whoever or whatever had run up the stairs. Naturally, nothing was there. The ironing board just slipped and made our already sensitive imaginations go crazy.

Lots of other things went on. Like the day I was home alone and distinctly heard someone walking around the second floor over my head. Depsite the fact that I didn't believe in ghosts, I couldn't help but wonder if the old man was up there rummaging through his things, possibly looking for the socks Chad had highjacked.

Another night, Chad was convinced something was pulling back our blankets all night. I slept through that one.

There were evenings when Chad was out of town and I moved the TV into our bedroom, cranked it up, and locked my bedroom door so that at least if an ax murderer was coming in I would be happily oblivious.

We were absolutely counting the minutes until our one year lease was up and we could move. We moved out one beautiful spring day to a small house in the same neighborhood, a house that was tiny and manageable, with no basement or weird connection to old deceased people. Of course, that house was in the backyard of the crotchety old landlady who got miffed if we didn't let her know where we were going every day. But, that's another story.

Ever since then we've managed to squeeze ourselves into tiny house after tiny house. You might say that we have an affinity for small living spaces. The house we live in now is a church parsonage. Five of us are squeezed in here like sardines, but we love it. Sure, I almost killed myself the other day falling over baby equipment, but I much prefer death-by-baby-equipment than death-by-ax-murderer.

In many ways, when I look back on it now, that big old house was kind of like the first year of marriage we spent there. We were figuring out each other's quirks (old man socks, anyone?), facing our problems head-on, and like we often reminded each other that there are no such things as ghosts, we were reminded daily that we were in love, we were meant to be, and we would survive that crazy, scary, fun, and beautiful first year. The house that was the site of so many heart-pounding creepy moments was also the place where we learned to be married, young and silly as we were. The day we moved out, I was relieved, but also a little sad to be leaving behind our big, rambling old house with its little elderly couple and dance parties in the basement and first burned dinners and long talks about the future.

Several different combinations of our friends have lived in that big old house since we moved out. None of them have ever heard anything strange. I can only assume that our near-teenaged minds were just tricked by the settling noises of a hundred year old house.

I think we'll continue to stick with the tiny houses. Even if our family of five doesn't quite fit anymore, little houses still fit us just fine.

When Technology Takes Over

I came a little late to the cellphone game. Well, sort of. When I was in college, my parents bought me one of those big car phones in the black zippered bag. I thought it was awesomely amazing technology. It was only for use in emergencies because each call cost fourteen dollars or something like that. I think I used it three times: once to call the police when another driver was scaring me, once when I had an accident, and once when my car broke down.

After college, I married Chad and moved to Nashville. Living on a private school teacher's and a starving artist's salary, cell phones weren't an option, even if they had been on our radar.

So, I didn't get a cell phone until the year after Chad started law school. We were still starving (so to speak), but we were leaving to live in Washington D.C. for a couple of months and my mother couldn't bear the thought of us going with no phones. So, she bought us some. Our phones did one thing--phone calls.

A few years later I got a Blackberry. Whoa, Mama. The internet was literally in my pocket. All the information I could ask for, at my fingertips. Communication with long lost friends suddenly skyrocketed thanks to Facebook, email sent directly to my phone, and texting. It was awesome.

Finally I got a touchscreen smart phone that does everything except make my toast in the morning. It's an amazing piece of technology. I don't need a GPS anymore. I don't need a TV. I don't need a computer. Why carry around a camera, video or otherwise? We even got rid of our home phone. I love my smart phone.

But, I'm about to get rid of it.

I'm giving up my phone because I keep catching myself having to ask my kids to repeat what they just said to me. Because I realize after several moments that one of them is trying to tell me a story. Because even while Sawyer is asking me to watch his latest dance move, I am engrossed in something a stranger wrote online. Because Adelade automatically brings me my phone if she finds it in another room, knowing how often I look at it. Because I have glanced down at Emerald while reading Facebook to see her smiling up at me, just waiting for me to pay attention to her.

I've thought that I would do better. I've tried. Apparently, the pull of the outside world is just too much for me. I don't really need to know this instant where the oldest tree in North America is. I can wait to learn who has posted Facebook drama today. When my children are standing right in front of me, changing every day, wanting me, needing me, and I'm giving them a half-hearted effort because of a silly piece of technology that I can do without.

I'm really looking forward to the liberation.

Sawyer grew an inch and a half this summer. Adelade is into carrying purses now. Emerald has figured out how to pull my glasses off my face. I want to be 100% present for all of it. I'm going to slow down, push the world out of my relationship with my kids, and go back to good old talk and text. I'm pretty sure my family will be better for it, and if it's nightfall before I learn whose relationship status changed, I think I can live with that.

Love Not Lost

Having babies is quite a journey.

Ours started way back in 2004 when I finally saw that little plus sign on the pregnancy test. So many tests, so many hopeful moments, and finally, our dream was coming true. We would become parents. Chad was just days away from beginning finals during his last year of law school, so I drove to Target and bought a little pink bib that said "I love my daddy." I remember my excitement was about to bubble over, walking around that Lubbock Target, holding my secret inside me, my secret living being like a tiny time bomb just waiting to explode into our lives.

I wrapped up the bib and gave it to him as motivation to power through his finals. He was so excited he picked me up in a bear hug and we giggled while we stared at those tiny pink lines that mattered so much.

Life went on. We moved. I grew huge. Adelade fought her way into this world on January 2nd, and she looked it. We recovered. Life was hard and wonderful and more fun than ever.

A few years later we started hoping for another baby. I got pregnant right away. We took the test while staying with Chad's parents one weekend. We were so excited to be able to tell them in person--I think we even videotaped it so we could capture his mom's happy tears. But, weeks later problems surfaced. We lost the baby. Reading those little pink lines was never really fun after that, just scary and nerve-wracking and tiring. Every pregnancy afterward started with sighs, hopeful little smiles exchanged, and months of waiting before telling anyone anything.

That's how my third pregnancy began. Complications set in and we were fairly certain another miscarriage was beginning. We went for an early ultrasound, and there was Sawyer, a little peanut of a person, heart flickering brightly on the black screen that just months earlier had confirmed that our second child was gone. His little flashing pulse was like a beacon of hope for me.

A thousand prayers went up.

Sawyer showed up in January, easy-going from the start, his personality like a billboard that said, "Why worry?" It was hard for us to even remember the panic we felt in the beginning when he seemed so fragile.

Years passed. Two more miscarriages. The first was an agonizing, months-long process of ultrasounds, hope, hope lost, and hope renewed. We prayed, cried, and it was finally all over twelve weeks in. The second was early, and not even surprising. We had become so accustomed to the fear, it almost seemed better to expect the worst. The ultrasound tech's demeanor at each appointment was slumped, uncomfortable. She would ask us again, "Now, HOW far along do you think you are?" No heartbeat. Life come and gone so quickly, we didn't even get a chance to witness it.

Finally, I became pregnant for the sixth time. We waited in agony for the eight week ultrasound that would show us whether the baby had a heartbeat. As soon as I saw that beautiful flicker, I knew she would be okay. Emerald entered our world in May, our little miracle baby that I thought might never be. Three children. Six children. I feel blessed to have experienced all of them.

I learned so much about God during the agonizing times. Ever-present. Life-giving. Faithful. Sovereign. Patient.

And I learned that I really can say of a God so good and so caring that when He chooses to give me what I feel I can't live without and when He chooses to take what I desperately prayed to keep, I can trust Him.

I have no doubt at all that one day when I leave this world, three children I never met will be waiting to greet me, their only mama, and I can't wait to see if at least one of them has red hair. :-)

He gives and takes away. I choose to bless His name.

Too Cool for Ski School

Once I went skiing. My wonderful in-laws invited Chad and me to tag along right after Christmas one year. Chad's sister came along, too, and I was really pumped about my first skiing adventure.

The Edgingtons skiied a lot while the kids were young. Chad and his brother and sister are all excellent skiiers. His dad is, too, of course, and even his mother, who took a lot of ribbing for stopping the ski lifts as she tried to get out of her seat every time, was good enough to go up on the mountain and enjoy herself.

Chad and I went to a used sporting goods place to stock up on clothes and supplies. I pictured myself turning out like the women you see on TV in their tight little black ski pants and coordinated jacket, gloves, hats, and cool goggles. How I ended up looking was something akin to Ralphie's little brother in A Christmas Story--puffy. As in, three times my normal size. Not at all coordinated. Not even remotely cool. It turned out that uncoordinated was a pretty consistent theme of the skiing trip. But, at this point I was still naively confident that skiing would make me look cool, regardless of my lame apparel.

Our first day "on the slopes" (see how I picked up cool skiing lingo) was my introduction to ski school. I learned how to put my skis on. They showed me how to snowplow and (theoretically) stop myself when I needed to. The very first time they put me at the top of a tiny incline I skiied directly into a crowd of by-standers, completely powerless to stop or change direction.

I probably should've taken off my skis then, headed for the lodge, and enjoyed a view of the mountain with some hot chocolate. But, I was determined to be a good sport and I really wanted to show Chad that I can be athletic. (By the way, I can't be athletic.) So, I pressed on, through several more rounds of plowing into strangers, through being literally skiied around by four and five year olds in ski school. I would've shaken my fist like an old lady and hollered at them to slow down, except that would've definitely caused me to fall on my face.

Finally they let us just go up and down the bunny slopes on our own, and I started really enjoying myself. The surroundings were beautiful. I could go at my own pace. I could snowplow my way all over those tiny slopes.

Then came lunch. I met up with the whole family at the lodge, and they suggested, now that I had mastered ski school, that we should all go up on the mountain together. You know, a real bonding moment. Ignorant as I was, and still eager to be a good sport, I agreed, and we went and got on a lift.

This lift was nothing like the one I had been taking all morning. This one was really, really tall. As we started moving, my stomach got all knotted up. I realized that we were going way up the mountain where things are steep. Where there are trees. I pictured myself falling, rolling, taking out half the skiiers on the mountain with me as I tumbled all the way to the bottom.

Another issue was the speed of the lift. I knew without any doubt that when I was supposed to stand up out of that seat and ski forward, I was going to fall, big, with injuries and a shut down of the whole place. My fall off of this lift was going to make Chad's mom look like an Olympic skiier. I was completely panicked by the time our "stop" approached, and Chad was frantically trying to coach me on how to get off of this lift. The ground came up to meet us, my stomach dropped to my knees, and I somehow awkwardly managed to get into an upright position without causing too much commotion.

But, that was just the first ten feet.

I looked around me and realized that I couldn't see the bottom of this mountain. I couldn't see anything but lots of snowy death traps that were supposed to lead me back to safety, to a lodge with a fireplace, hot chocolate, laughing children, kittens, musicals, happiness, and all the things I thought I would never see again after I perished somewhere on this huge snow-covered rock.

We started out, the whole family gathered around me as if they could help, but we all knew that skiing is like birthing a baby. It's just something you've gotta do yourself. They watched me fall. They tried to coach me. They knowingly glanced at each other over my head as my rear hit the snow. I literally got up, skiied two feet, fell, got up, skiied two feet, fell. Everyone on the mountain was watching me. Thank goodness no one had smart phones back then or I would have definitely ended up on Youtube.

Finally, this blessed angel of a woman who was patroling the mountain told my mother-in-law that if they didn't get me off the mountain I would never want to ski again. ("Too late," I thought.) She walkie-talkied some very compassionate people who came and picked me up and literally carried me, little puffy me, with skis in hand, back to the lift, which they put me on and sent me back down the mountain.

I refer to this part of the story as "The Ride of Shame." The really humiliating part about riding DOWN the lift is that you have to pass all the people who are riding UP it. So, here I was, meeting all these skiiers eye to eye. Tight black pant wearing, coordinated skiiers. Easily one of the most uncool moments of my life. I didn't start tearing up until they started shouting out encouragement.

"Bless your heart!"

"It's alright, honey."

"You poor thing."

Some just pointed and laughed. But, you know what? All I cared about was that I made it to the bottom of the mountain SOMEHOW. In one, teary, puffy, non-broken, non-dead piece.

It took a little time before I developed a sense of humor about the whole experience. I recall possibly asking Chad and his dad if something was funny when they giggled about it at the end of the day. They were wise enough/scared enough/kind enough to stop laughing and help me get my ski boots off.

The next time someone invites me to go skiing, I will definitely go. And sit in the lodge with a good book, sipping hot chocolate by a big roaring fire. I'll leave the skiing to the cool people.

A Letter to my Five Month Old, on the Occasion of her 154th Day of Life

Dear Little Beauty of Mine, Emerald,

Well. Here we are. I, your 35 year old mother, bleary-eyed. You, your adorable pudgy little self. Lately I've done a lot of figuring up how old I will be when you do this or that. Did you know that you will graduate high school in the year 2030? And, God-willing, I will be 53.

Fifty-three is young, you know. I plan to be totally hip and with it. Ok, so I'm not hip and with it now, but that's the great thing about you. You think I'm awesome, all-knowing, goddess-like. "Heidi Klum's got nothing on MY Mama," you think in your genius brain. Oh, stop! Heidi has her good points, too!

You, little Darling, have made the past five months of my life better. And worse. But, mainly better. Sure, I don't sleep as much as I used to. But, who needs sleep? I would honestly gladly get up every hour to see your little face smiling up at me. But, for the record, I am also entirely happy to just see your face once the sun comes up. (Think about that at about three in the morning, m'kay?) Some of those mid-night moments, when it feels like the entire world is sleeping, are some of the most magical. That's when I feel like you are completely mine, when I thank God for you and try to really FEEL you in my arms in an effort to remember someday what this feels like, someday when I'm 53 and you're in a cap and gown and I want to go back this place, this golden moment in the middle of the night when I am so tired, so blessed.

You are beautiful.

Motherhood never gets old, that I can tell you.

You're already changing. You may be forgetting what you knew of Heaven and all the things the angels whispered while you smiled and dreamed. I've always had that theory, you know. That you sweet babies smile in your sleep because you see things we grown ups can't, not with our cynicism and our "knowledge" of what is possible and what isn't. How I love to watch you with your deep, wise eyes, so bewildered by this world, but so full of the Truth of God and His love. I may be dreaming myself, but I like to to think about these things.

Thank you for enduring the journey into this world, for facing the lights and the cold and the harsh everything that goes on out here. You are a miracle. You are mine. Thank you for clinging to me. It really means a lot. You, my third baby, still as mysterious as the first. How I love you!

The Lonely Hours

I have been a stay-at-home mother for almost eight years. Typing this just now it's hard for me to even believe it's been that long. This job is without a doubt the most rewarding, beautiful, fun experience of my life. But, I have a confession to make.

This is lonely work.

Now, I know that you may wonder how this is so. After all, aren't we professional mothers always talking about (complaining about) how we never have a moment to ourselves? How many Facebook funnies have featured a mom's desire to just go to the toilet alone? It's true. I am very, very rarely alone. I'm surrounded by bubbling life, laughter, and slight chaos at all hours of the day and night. Yet, I'm still lonely.

Along with all the fun, all the sweetness and the unforgettably precious moments, there is lots of frustration. Lots of concern, debating in my own mind how best to care for and train these little humans. Lots of messes. Lots of wonder-if-I'll-have -a-chance-to-brush-my-teeth-before-noon times. Lots of trying hard to look good for my husband when he comes home for lunch, all the while knowing that the extra pounds, the unwashed hair, and the spit up stains can't really compete with women he has probably interacted with during the course of his workday. And there's worry that I'm not doing enough. Enough for the kids. Enough for my husband. Enough volunteering at school or at church. Frankly, while all of this is swirling in my heart and mind I feel that I'm barely keeping my head above water as it is.

And then there's the internet. Oh, Pinterest. Oh, Facebook! How can so many stay-at-home mothers manage to make after school snacks in special shapes that their kids will love? How do they have craft time with their preschoolers while the older kids are at school? How do they decorate and redecorate, write wonderful blogs, keep up with fashion, always have their kids looking like a million bucks? How do they wow their husbands with their talents and abilities? It's enough to send an average mother like me into a tailspin.

When I can't even keep up with my laundry.

When I never really learned to cook.

When my house is almost never company ready.

When my biggest concern of the day really and truly is whether the baby has pooped.

And then the day comes to a close. The kids are in bed and I try to think of one interesting thing to discuss with my husband. I try to tell him about something cute the kids did. But, it was really a you-had-to-be-there kind of moment. I talk about something I saw on Facebook. I talk about an idea I have for redoing a piece of furniture in our house that I'll never redo. And then I'm officially out of conversation. So, I ask him questions and try to get some details about his day out in the world. And I clean up the kitchen and restart that load of laundry that I already washed twice before getting it in the dryer.

There are no promotions to shoot for.

There is no feedback on how I'm doing.

And, oh yeah, there is no paycheck.

Yet, I'm happy. Yes, really and truly, and I know without a doubt that I am in the middle of God's will even while I'm in the middle of the chaos, the loneliness, the jokes about soap operas and bons bons. This life, this Motherhood Experiment (my poor guinea pig children), this is my calling. And, even when I'm not that good at it, even when I make mistakes and burn dinner and forget about a spelling test and let my kids watch too much TV, I am still their favorite mother. Imagine that.

So, I persevere. Not every moment of full time mothering is ideal. But, every moment is important. The next time you consider making a joke about how easy stay-at-home mothers have it, consider the lonely hours. There are many. But, these sweet little lives are worth every minute.

This Post has Nothing to Do with Chewing Gum

Emerald Darling, my third child, is five weeks old. She is funny and pitiful and demanding and sweet and interesting and boring. This is the newborn existence. She cries, dirties diapers, eats, spits up, sleeps, opens her eyes, flails her limbs, and burps. But, sometimes she doesn't just open those gorgeous deep blue eyes. Sometimes she sees. I mean, really sees. She looks at the world around her (more like the world within ten inches of her face) and her expression says that she's bewildered, fascinated, and maybe a little scared. She sees faces of the people who love her, toys we show her with hope for some reaction. And she looks until she's overwhelmed and lets those little lashes fall in retreat.

But, there's one aspect of her little world that she sees most of all. One area that she is really drawn to, that can settle her down when she is fussy. One thing that can draw her shaky little head around in all directions just to try and focus on it.

It's light.

She loves lamplight, sunlight, flourescent light, low light and bright light. She is drawn to any type of non-darkness.

And, you know what? You used to be the same way. So did I. All newborns are drawn to light--it must seem so shiny and brilliant to us when we're just learning to process the world around us. And then we get older. And we stop begging for nightlights and start buying heavy curtains to try and block out the sun. If you're like my high maintenance husband (just kidding, Chad), you have a collection of sleep masks to keep out every last particle of light when you are trying to rest.

We kind of grow to love darkness. And, not just physically.

Spiritually, we see the benefit of darkness when we first tell a little lie to our parents. We don't want to shed light on the fact that we're doing wrong. Later we get a little more desperate to keep certain aspects of our life in the dark. Like when we develop sinful habits that plague us. We would be mortified if anyone knew what we said about a friend during a gossip session. We would be humiliated if someone found out what we looked at on the computer last night. So, we hide things. We maintain shadowy corners in our soul where we can cover up sins. To bring them to light would be horrific! People would know we're not perfect! NOT EVEN CLOSE!

In the Bible, John tells us, "This is the message we have heard from Him and declare to you: God is light. In Him there is NO DARKNESS AT ALL." So, this is our hope. If we know God, if we trust Him and believe He can save us from our sinful nature, we have access to the Light of the World. I'm talking about THE light that can pierce the deepest, darkest most dank and dreadful parts of our heart. He can do it.

We're good hiders. But, He's an even better finder. He knows where our dark spots are. Only He can shed light there and then keep it nice and clean and shiny and brilliant.

So, let my five week old little dear remind us to love the Light. After all, we're really no less pitiful than a newborn. We are weak, but He is strong. Let's admit our weakness and look for the Light with our shaky little hearts.

Live in the Light!