Because everyone loves a good story
Lord of Late Summer: A Poem
While I’m sad that summer is coming to a close, there’s still so much to rejoice in. I was reminded of this on a bike ride through the woods a few weeks ago. Creation’s symphony reaches a crescendo in late summer, and I tried to capture a few stanzas myself. (Ten points to Gryffindor if you take note of the musical motif throughout the poem!)
Grasshoppers praising raise a rasping summer song;
cicada-chorus buzz to long crescendo then rattle to rest.
Hot above the hush, unending chant of katydid percussion and
how-scant crickets chime staccato with tiny shouts
singing hallelujah, hallelujah to the Lord of late summer.
Doves perch above on high lines, mourning the fall from treble-holy Maker
while all songbirds chip, chirp, warble, glide, and gladly feed on seed provided.
Bumblebees, humming, sip the sunny, brilliant blooms
and bullfrogs rumble, booming out annunciation to creation,
singing hallelujah, hallelujah to the Lord of late summer.
Wood wind whispers to me through the trees,
rustling rich-green tambourine leaves that flutter, clap, and jingle as I pass.
I sing, my feet softly stamping log-fallen earth, clay on damp clay,
as Spirit-wind symphony sustains my soul aloft, refrain of rebirth
singing hallelujah, hallelujah to the Lord of late summer.
A Contrast of Classics: Leading Ladies
If you read my post last time, you’ll remember that I’m embarking on an Austenesque journey by contrasting Pride and Prejudice with Emma. I recently re-read both novels and was as delighted by Pride and Prejudice as I was disenchanted with Emma. Why? Well…that’s the question I wanted to answer. My opinions were strong but scattered, and I wanted to bring order to the chaos.
I figured I wasn’t alone in this feeling, either, and I wanted to see where others fall on the love/hate spectrum. Surely I’m not the only one to wish I could hug Elizabeth and backhand Emma, right? …Right? Whether you agree, disagree, or agree to disagree agreeably, I hope you’ll enjoy the posts as much as I’m enjoying putting them together!
ENDEARING AND EXASPERATING
So I’ve spent a ton of time thinking about and writing this post, which (predictably) produced twice as much content as you’ll want to read in one sitting. That’s why I chose to split it in half, giving you a bit of description and evaluation this week and saving their flaws and redeeming qualities for next time. And for those of you who feel like reading Austen puts you in a mental corset, don’t despair! I’ll write a miscellaneous post before moving on from there.
Now that you know the plan, let’s look at the leading ladies. Both are young, lovely, the favorite of their father, and rather hasty in coming to conclusions. But that’s pretty much where the similarities end. Each one’s privileges, family fortunes, habits, interests, and personalities are quite distinct from the other’s. While this speaks well of Austen as a writer, it was tough for me as a reader. Maybe it’s because I love Elizabeth Bennet so dearly that I dislike Emma Woodhouse so vehemently. But I hope to give a (relatively) objective analysis of each to see why I infinitely prefer Elizabeth both as a person and a character.
ELIZABETH: MORE THAN “A PAIR OF FINE EYES”
Poor Elizabeth. She comes from a pretty ridiculous family. I won’t steal from my upcoming post about the characters, but suffice it to say that most of them are absurd. Jane is the best of them, and she’s so sweet that Elizabeth could get diabetes just from being around her. Mrs. Bennet’s head has enough vacancy to fit all of Netherfield inside with room to spare. Kitty, Lydia, and even Mary aren’t much better. Mr. Bennet is sensible, but what good is that if he doesn’t do anything profitable with his sense? Alas. Poor, dear Elizabeth.
And yet she emerges from this quagmire of cringeworthiness unscathed and untarnished. She manages to remain (nearly) the only reasonable character in the whole of Hertfordshire. How is this possible? Behold my theory: there’s no doubt that she inherited wit and humor from her father since both were MIA on the maternal side. From her mother Elizabeth seemed to inherit nothing but a “pair of fine eyes” and a pretty face. But Elizabeth also benefitted from her mother’s foibles; from them she built up an immunity to aggravation. Her enjoyment of good books and fresh air did the rest. And so a diamond was formed amidst the coal mine of Longbourn.
EMMA: LESS THAN PERFECTION
While Emma’s family is significantly smaller and less hectic than Elizabeth’s, I would have found it even harder to handle. Emma lives alone with her widower father since her older sister is married and gone. But her father…oh boy. Mr. Woodhouse would drive me crazy more than even Mrs. Bennet would have. She may fall prey to self-induced “spasm” at times, but Mr. Woodhouse is the willing victim of every ailment he can conjure, even imposing his preferences on everyone else. And to make matters worse, Emma is obliged to cater to him. If there’s one thing that makes me grit my teeth (besides sleep, apparently), it’s a hypochondriac being catered to.
Furthermore, his obscenely-positive opinion of Emma does her no favors. In his eyes, dear Emma is perfect. That is not a recipe for a healthy child. But even more shockingly, Mr. Woodhouse is not alone in that opinion; several of Emma’s friends seem to think she hung the moon as well. Not surprisingly, Emma doesn’t spend much energy disagreeing with her fan club. I’m sure it would be tempting to give credence to a group of cheerleaders, but a sensible girl should spend a few moments in introspection now and then. Otherwise she may be confronted with the stinging reality later on.
ELIZABETH: EASY TO LOVE
So Emma Woodhouse is a far cry from perfection, but Elizabeth Bennet isn’t faultless either. What makes her so much more enjoyable? Let me count the ways. I think it’s her complex mix of penetration and patience, insight and simplicity, humor and earnestness. Also, I admire her love of walking and reading.
And have you noticed her ability to take things in stride? It’s a mark of maturity to stay level-headed despite trying situations. Silly things? Ridiculous things? Difficult? Flattering? Insulting? She is (usually) able to keep her head and react in a becoming way. And her classy responses aren’t just a difference between “back then and now-a-days;” her own mother and sisters are proof of that. A lack of elegance is easy to spot, even through Regency-era dialogue.
ELIZABETH: EASY TO LAUGH WITH
But one of my favorite Elizabethan traits is her sense of humor. She’s able to observe the ridiculous and glean enjoyment from it without being too uncharitable in the process. This is a trait she shares with her father, both genetically and situationally. I wish I could have seen the looks that she and her father exchanged when Mr. Collins first came to supper. Even her exchanges with (and about) Mr. Darcy are laced with good humor.
See, the wonderful thing is that you get to laugh with Elizabeth. Her wit adds sparkle to every page. Even when she’s wrong, you can easily understand and forgive her. Because she’s charitable to others, we readers feel charitable toward her.
EMMA: HARD TO FORGIVE
On the other hand, I have a very hard time feeling charitable toward Emma. She to whom life has handed not lemons but roses—she is much harder for me to forgive. I’m so frustrated at her foibles that I can find very little joy in the story since, well, she’s the story. Thankfully, now that some time has elapsed since I finished the book, my feelings have mellowed a bit. I still wouldn’t rate Emma in my list of Top 50 Favorite Books, but my opinion is less abrasive than it was initially. As evidence, here’s a note I jotted down just after finishing the book:
“Emma is so thoroughly aggravating as to be very nearly contemptible. Seeing her smug pride, pompous judgments, and obtuse self-evaluation continue unabated for the majority of the book is like eating your way through a bag of kitty litter in hopes of finding a toy at the bottom. The toy is there in the form of Mr. Knightley’s verbal wallop on Box Hill and Emma’s resulting penitence, but one wonders if the prize was worth the misery.”
Yikes.
REDEMPTION MUST WAIT
As loth as I am to leave you with that mental picture, I know you’ll thank me for saving the rest until next time. I promise that I do have some lovely and redeeming things to say about Emma, and I have some critical opinions about Elizabeth too. I’d love to hear your opinions, too, so feel free to drop a comment! Until next time, adieu!
A Contrast of Classics: Pride and Prejudice and Emma
If you’ve read this blog for very long, then there’s no doubt that you know what I like. I tend to wear my preferences on my sleeve (or my tee shirts, as the case may be). If you had to answer a multiple choice question about me, I’m sure you’d pass with no problem.
Which of the following does Emily not enjoy:
A. J.R.R. Tolkien
B. C.S. Lewis
C. Star Wars
D. Sports
See? You’ve already got a 4.0 in my class without even trying.
But did you know that I also enjoy Jane Austen? That may not surprise you since I’m bookish, but then again it may surprise you since I’ve never mentioned her in nearly three years of posting. But there it is: I like (some) Austen.
For Shame
If your eyebrows went up at the qualifying word in parentheses, fret not. I’ll explain myself, beginning with why I’m just now breaking my Austen silence. I was recently inspired to read (or re-read) all the works of Jane Austen. What turned my interest away from yet another perusal of The Silmarillion or Perelandra? Well, as much as I hate to admit it, it was a movie—and a pretty corny movie at that. I watched The Jane Austen Book Club, a 2007 film based on a novel by the same name. What motivated me wasn’t stellar acting or thrilling dialogue. Frankly, it was the feeling of shame that I wasn’t able to recognize more of the references to Austen’s novels. And for me, guilt is a pretty effective propellant.
Here I am with a Bachelor’s degree in English Education, having taught British Literature for eight years, and I’ve only read two of Austen’s novels. I’ve listened to one or two more on audiobook, but for me, things tend to go in one ear and out the other. Words that come in through my eyes stick around a lot longer. So the fact that I didn’t understand the allusions to Mansfield Park and didn’t laugh at the Sense and Sensibility jokes made me determined to be a better student of Austen.
Hold Your Tomatoes, Please
I’d already read Pride and Prejudice and Emma several times, but I decided to start with them anyway. The others could wait until I’d whet my appetite for Austen. I tackled Pride and Prejudice first. It not only held up to my memory of its merits, but it also exceeded my expectations. I love that book. Then I cracked open my old college copy of Emma. It also held up to my memory—I remember disliking it in college, and I disliked it again.
Now, if you’re a diehard you can feel free to heckle me. I may deserve it. All I ask is that you hear me out before disowning me entirely. I plan to write a mini-series on the contrasts between these two books, not just to defend my position but to discover it as well. I wanted to like Emma as much as I love Pride and Prejudice, but I just couldn’t. Why are the characters and plot of one book so lovable while the others are so aggravating? We’ll dive into these questions and more in the upcoming posts.
A Glimpse into the Future
I resisted the urge to dive right in to a discussion of the characters today. I wanted to give you a chance to blow the dust off of your copies of the novels and give them a read. Or listen to the audiobooks. Or (in a pinch) at least watch the movies. Get familiar with the stories so you can better enjoy, agree with, or be offended by my upcoming posts. Here’s what you can look forward to:
- Endearing and Exasperating: The Heroines
- A Cavalcade of Personality: The Characters
- Two Comedies of Errors: The Stories
- Just Flawed Enough: The Takeaway
Until next time, enjoy some Austen! I’ll be plugging along in Sense and Sensibility while carefully avoiding any movies along the lines of The Herman Melville Book Club. Ain’t nobody got time for that.
Make America Wild Again
“Everybody needs beauty as well as bread, places to play in and pray in, where nature may heal and give strength to body and soul alike.”
So penned naturalist John Muir in his book The Yosemite. In the mid-1800’s, Muir lived in a still-wild America. People of all ages spent time outside just for the sheer enjoyment of it. During his lifetime and partly because of his influence, the National Park Service was born. His love for nature became the theme of his writings, and his legacy has inspired millions to savor the grandeur of the great outdoors. While I wouldn’t recommend going to Muir for theology, I would whole-heartedly recommend taking his advice to get outside. God made nature for us to enjoy, and that can’t happen if we never peel ourselves out of our recliners.
Riding Alone into the Sunset
Recently I was out riding my bike through the nature center in my neighborhood. It was a gorgeous evening—mild temperature, pretty sunset, deer timidly grazing in the weeds, geese roosting near the pond. The air was still, and the bugs were minimal. It was the perfect evening for a bike ride, a stroll with the dog, or a romp with the kids. As I pedaled under a canopy of leaves and out into the vivid pink of the sunset sky, do you know what I was thinking?
“Where is everybody?”
One Perk of a Pandemic
2020 wasn’t a stellar year. You know that. You were there. Most aspects of society suffered as a result of the virus. But I can think of one benefit: there were a lot more people outside. I remember walking through the very same nature center last spring, and it was teeming with people! I had no idea so many people in our neighborhood had dogs…or kids, for that matter. People came out in droves because, well, there was nothing else to do.
Kids were burnt out on screens because everything, including school, had gone virtual. Adults were burnt out on screens because many were working remotely. And, frankly, many families were probably pretty burnt out on each other, too. The great outdoors offered a change of scenery, some fresh air, and a little more elbow room. Whatever the motive, people were outside enjoying nature, and it made my heart happy.
The True Opiate of the Masses
But things are back to normal now, and when it comes to time spent outdoors, that’s not necessarily a good thing. Most people just don’t seem interested in coming outside. As I walk or bike through my neighborhood in the evening, I can see into people’s front windows. Don’t worry; I’m not creeping. Not much is visible from the road, but there’s one thing I notice about almost every house: the TV is on.
The blue light of mammoth flat screens floods the living rooms and glares out into the street. Basketball games, action movies, reality TV, infomercials, and other drivel numbs the American mind after a long day. Hey, I can relate to the desire to decompress. After my kids go to bed, I want to check out for a while. Sometimes I do end up sitting inside and loafing on the sofa. But do you know what I never regret doing instead? Going outside to enjoy the evening itself.
A Sight Worth Seeing
In the evening, God is just showing off. He makes the temperature perfect. He swirls pastels along the horizon. He send the little creatures out of hiding. He ever-so-gradually turns up the shine on the stars. He puts music into the hearts of crickets and peeper frogs. And then he waits for us to come out and enjoy the show. Sadly, he often waits in vain.
To be fair, not everyone stays inside. I see some families strolling through my neighborhood after dinner. There are a handful of moms who push strollers down my street pretty often. There’s even an old guy who walks his two little dogs just so they can pee on my mailbox every. single. day. These people make me happy. (Aside from the pee, which I could do without.) There’s a wonderful world just outside our front doors, and we’re missing it. We could be so much happier, healthier, and more at peace.
Last Child in the Woods
I recently read a book called Last Child in the Woods. Even though it was nonfiction, the concept gripped me. Having grown up outside, I’ve often worried that my kids may not get the same privilege because of location, safety, or lack of opportunity. This book assured me that my concern is more than valid—it’s reality for millions of American kids today. Many parents aren’t making an effort to get outside themselves, and their kids are following suit.
This loss of time outdoors leads to what author Richard Louv calls Nature Deficit Disorder. He’s not being ironic or clever; he’s giving a name to a real set of symptoms that come, a least in part, from a lack of time spent in nature. While I didn’t agree with some of his content, I did find the book helpful as a wakeup call. Spending time in nature should come—well, naturally to us and to our children. If it doesn’t, then it may be time for a change of habit.
John Muir’s America
When John Muir was a young man, he walked 1,000 miles from Illinois to the Gulf of Mexico so he could be closer to nature. He continued his journey by boat to several islands and back up to California, where he fell in love with Yosemite. For years he lived amongst the trees, meadows, and mountains, experiencing every kind of season, weather, animal, plant, and view the land had to offer. He was instrumental in making Yosemite one of the first national parks, and he published copious essays and books to help others enjoy and preserve the land he loved so much. Without him, we wouldn’t have the same America we enjoy today.
You and I probably won’t leave a legacy like John Muir’s, and that’s all right. But each of us can make small decisions that lead to big changes for ourselves and our children. We can start by turning off the TV, computer, and phone notifications and going outside. We can make a habit of walking or biking together. We can encourage our kids to play outside every day. We can even start socking away money for a family trip to a national park. Our kids will mirror our enjoyment of nature, and it will benefit them all their lives.
The change may not be easy, but together we can make America wild again.
PWD Goes Tri-Weekly(ish)
“Hang in there; it’s just a season.” For a few years, that was my mantra.
I was teaching at a small Christian school, and that means (among other wonderful things) being stretched very thin at times. Everyone on staff wears a stack of hats a mile high. Some of my hats included lesson planning, grading, church activities, counseling students, and writing various and sundry documents for the school. But during the second semester of each school year, I got to don one more hat—a big ol’ sombrero plopped right on top of all the other hats.
I helped direct a large-scale play.
While I wouldn’t trade those memories of late-night rehearsals, hilarious bloopers, technical difficulties, and opening night jitters for anything, I can also assure you that the process took several years off my life every time.
It. Was. Busy.
And when things are busy for me, the first thing to go is usually fitness. Well, fitness and sleep. My co-director friend and I would sit in the off-stage darkness and watch the students rehearse as we chugged coffee and ate animal crackers for dinner…again. We bemoaned our busy schedules that were too jam-packed to fit in a single jog. We commiserated that our pants were starting to feel tight. But then one of us would dutifully remind the other that it was just a season. It wouldn’t last forever. After the final curtain call, we could go jogging again. We could eat real dinners. We could work out as often as we wanted to.
Man, looking at that written out, the animal-cracker-dinner season doesn’t seem so bad after all.
But the reminder was still a comfort. Yes, things were busy, but there would come a time when things would slow down again. That’s the rhythm of life—a God-ordained rhythm. Work then rest. Work then rest. Animal crackers then jogging. It’s a cycle.
So what on earth does this have to do with Past Watchful Dragons?
Well, if you’re a regular reader (I mean, if you read the blog regularly. It’s fine if you’re abnormal personally.) then you’ve certainly noticed that a more-than-usual amount of time is elapsing between emails from yours truly. At first it was because I had a NICU baby. That was another animal-cracker-dinner season for sure. But now that my baby is home (hallelujah!) I’m finding that things are still pretty busy. The parenthood hat became a whole lot heavier when we added another offspring to the equation. Go figure, right?
So my goal is to post a new article every three weeks. It may even be less often than that, but a tri-weekly post is my goal. And while this does make me feel like I’m reneging on a commitment (something I really dislike), I know this is just a season (something I really believe).
Solomon (and the Byrds) knew the truth: “To every thing there is a season, and a time to every purpose under the heaven” (Ecclesiastes 3:1). There’s a time for writing and a time for playing. A time for feeling proud of my academic accomplishments and a time for feeling thankful for my parental accomplishments. A time to blog and a time to mom. I’m in the season of mothering right now, and it’s just that—a season. Seasons pass quickly, and I don’t want to waste this precious time.
So thank you, dear reader, for your patience with me as I savor the season. I promise I’ll post as often as possible. In the meantime, I hope you will enjoy your season of life as well. Whether enjoyable or difficult, it’s just a season. Hang in there.
Grace Like Manna
I’m a worker, a planner, a do-aheader. If there’s a project looming in the future, I’m probably going to tackle it today. Sheesh, once I read everything on my entire college American Literature syllabus and wrote the final paper within weeks of starting classes just because I knew I’d be busy with play practices when the paper was due! The point being, I don’t like to wait until the last minute for things I need. I’d rather plan ahead. Waaay ahead.
Know what doesn’t work that way? Grace.
Once Upon a Time
Perhaps you know the story of the Israelites when they left Egypt to find the land God had promised to them. At first they were stoked. God’s power was everywhere like Bam! Kablam! Flies! Frogs! Locust! Blood! Split seas! Drowned enemies! Yippee!
But the very next day they were as whiney as a tired, spoiled toddler. “I wish I were a slave again. I miss the onions. I miss the melons. Where’s the beef?” But God had not brought them out into the desert to die of starvation, of course. That’s why He sent them manna. Miracle food from heaven. I’ve always pictured it being like little communion wafers, but I hope for their sakes that it was tastier than that. Maybe more like lembas bread?
An As-Needed Basis
For five points in this game of Sunday school trivia, how often did the manna come down from heaven? Yes, you in the back with your finger up your nose. That’s correct—once a day, every morning except on the Sabbath. (Sabbath day was leftovers day, a welcome treat for the cooks, I’m sure.) And of course the whiney Israelites weren’t happy even with a daily provision of manna, but that’s a different story.
The point is that God provided them with the food they needed when they needed it. They couldn’t stash some away just in case God forgot to send it later. If they tried to hoard it overnight to save themselves the trouble of collecting it the next day, they woke up to jars of rotten manna. (Very short shelf life.) Instead, God gave them a daily chance to trust him.
Day By Day
God has plenty to say about each new day. Jesus teaches us to pray not for our monthly Costco trip or our weekly grocery run but for our daily bread (Matt. 6:11). He also tells us not to worry about tomorrow because “each day has enough trouble of its own” (Matt. 6:34). The Old Testament rejoices in the truth that God’s love and mercy are new every morning (Lam. 3:22-23). And more manna came down every day.
Really, God didn’t need to make a world with night and day, a world where each sunrise is a new beginning. But He did it anyway. Why? Only God knows the full answer, but part of it is to remind us of our frailty and His faithfulness. If it were up to me to make the sun rise every morning, I’d be up all night stewing about it. But instead I have to lay down and sleep (even if it’s only in snatches these days) just like every other creature. And while I rest, God renews. When I wake up, there is new love, new mercy, and new grace.
The Miracle of Multiples
When I was still expecting my second baby, I often fried perfectly good brain cells trying to figure out how on earth people raise more than one kid at a time. I knew there must be some method because of the frequency of repeat-offender parents, but for the life of me I couldn’t figure out how it worked. I was especially stressed about bedtime. My hubby works second shift, and my son had come to expect a rather elaborate bedtime ritual. I was stumped.
So I tried to plan it all out. I could put a bouncy chair in this corner for the baby, and my toddler could still sit on my lap for story time. Or maybe I could fit the baby’s swing here. But if the baby cries, I’ll need to hold her during story time. That means I need a bigger rocking chair. Or two chairs. Yes, I’ll need two chairs, a swing, and a bouncer, and then bedtime can remain unchanged.
Ha. Ha.
Hope in the Trenches
The truth is that every night is different. Some nights my toddler, Isaiah, gets a bath. Other nights he goes to bed grubby. Some nights the baby, Eva, sleeps so I can read three books and tell a story while I tuck Isaiah in and rub his back. Other nights Eva’s shrieking like an old door in a wind storm, so story time is truncated with many apologies (mine) and tears (also mine, but sometimes Isaiah’s too). That’s just how it’s going to be for now.
I had expected to out-plan and avoid these unpleasant nights. I wanted assurance that everything would be fine, that things wouldn’t change too much. I wanted to know exactly how it would all work out in advance. I wanted tomorrow’s grace today. But that’s not how it works. His mercies are new every morning. He gives me grace not for tomorrow or even ten minutes from now. I get strength for each moment and not a moment sooner. It may be messy at times, and I don’t know how things will go from one day to the next. But no plan is the new plan, and God is giving me grace to accept that.
Daily grace. Grace like manna.
And it is enough.
An End and a Beginning
Glory, hallelujah! Eva is home!
My sweet baby girl spent her first 54 days of life in the NICU, undergoing surgery, tests, pokes, prods, and inspections. Nearly two months went by from the time I first held her in my arms to the time I first held her in my home. And I can tell you, friends, it was worth the wait.
An End
So with abundant joy we celebrated the release of our Eva Sparrow out into the wild. In fact, the day she was being sent home, my husband Mark jokingly said it felt like we were headed not to a hospital but to a prison break. She’d been in there so long we wondered if she’d ever be considered “well enough” to send home. But on Monday, March 29, they finally gave her the all clear. Her face rash had cleared up entirely. She wasn’t spitting up too much milk. In fact, she could take enough milk to get rid of the Picc line, and the rest of her medication could be given orally. She was free!
We were finally getting her outta there, and there was no looking back. We snatched her up, snapped a few pics, and put the pedal to the metal. Peace out, NICU! And so ended a seemingly endless era of daily commutes, faithful babysitters, unused onesies, nights apart, and the constant worry about how she was doing when we weren’t there with her. Goodbye and good riddance! It was all sunshine and butterflies from here on out!
A Beginning
Those of you who have been in similar situations are either chuckling or shaking your heads right now, aren’t you? Because the reality is that having our precious little Sparrow home in our nest is both delightful and nerve-wracking. My worry about her being away from us in NICU is replaced by my worry that she’s home with us! Now, instead of an ever-rotating list of well-trained nurses to take care of her, Eva has two well-meaning but decidedly unmedical parents on call 24/7. My daily (and nightly) mental soundtrack plays to the tune of “Is this normal? Is she ok? Should I text her surgeon?”
She’s a fragile little fighter. We are constantly on the lookout for signs that things have gone south with the surgery or her medications. She’s on four different meds and supplements, and we have to keep up with the doses every few hours, day and night. That means plenty of pumping; bottles; and dishes, dishes, dishes. Ohhh, the dishes. Can we hire someone just to wash all the breast pump and milk bottle parts for us? It’s nearly a full-time job. We can’t pay much, but you’re welcome to raid our snack cupboard while you’re here. And trust me—I haven’t been stocking it with health food lately.
Valid Concerns
Aside from the time spent washing dishes, my bigger concerns are for Eva’s continued healing. While some of my worry is baseless, plenty of it is legit. Because of the way her plumbing has been rerouted, her bile empties into her stomach instead of joining the party after food leaves her tummy. This gives her “bile reflux,” which makes her uncomfortable, especially when she spits up. And her spit ups are alarming because they’re bile-tinged with yellow or occasionally green. We’re told this is normal for her, but it’s still unnerving. We have to keep her tilted upright pretty much all day and night because otherwise her milk likes to come spilling out of her mouth. Keeping her upright doesn’t always prevent this either. That’s just par for the course with babies, but the fact that I know her stomach is still new to the digestion game makes it more alarming for me.
Even more alarming is her recent habit of choking on mucus. We’re still on the hunt to figure out what’s causing it, but it sure scares the pants off of me. She’ll be sleeping peacefully and then all of a sudden, she’s stiff as a board and completely incapacitated with panic because she can’t breathe. She manages to scream and take a breath now and then, but it’s often a 5- or 10-minute process to suction out her mouth and calm her down again. In my unprofessional opinion, it seems like part of her reaction is due to some kind of PTSD from having the OG tube reinserted down her throat so many times. But I’ll tell you what—responding to her choking episodes will wake you up real quick.
Gloom and Doom?
I don’t tell you this to scare you or to drum up sympathy. I just wanted to be honest about what life is like post-NICU. I’m sure many of you have experienced similar things; you pray earnestly for something, and when you get it you realize it comes with its own set of worries. This is just part of being human.
But recently I was in the CVS drive through refilling one of her medications, and I found myself fretting that she was no longer in the doctors’ hands but was in our hands instead. No sooner had that though crossed my mind than God reminded me that Eva has been in His hands the whole time—in the womb, in the NICU, and at home. Her earthly caregivers have changed, but her heavenly Creator has not. His eye has been and always will be on the Sparrow. Thank you, Lord! That’s the only thing that brings me peace in my worry.
The Good News
And even with all my fretting—both valid and imaginary—I still couldn’t be happier that she’s home. Would it have been helpful for me to know ahead of time that she wouldn’t be 100% well when she came home? That I’d be playing nurse as well as mama? That my prayers for her wouldn’t stop but would certainly shift? Maybe. But she’s home now, and I wouldn’t trade that for a full 8 hours of sleep any day.
Know what else? She’s nursing like a champ and gaining weight every day. She’s still pretty tiny, but she’s getting there. She’s closing in on ten pounds and is almost too big for her newborn diapers and jammies!
And the best news of all is that we’re all together. I had been worried about how her two-year-old brother would react to her finally coming home, but he has been the sweetest. A little dangerous at times, as any toddler boy will be, but he loves her. Every day he lavishes her with hugs, kisses, toys, and occasional thumps. And she rewards him with big ol’ smiles. Except when he thumps her. I can’t wait to see how these two grow to be the best of friends (especially when she’s old enough to thump him back).
Continued Prayers
Eva is still on the road to recovery, but she’s further down the road than I’d imagined when I stood in silent tears looking at my tiny, post-op baby. God has been good and faithful, and he will continue to be good and faithful. We had prayed for the miracle of a united family by Easter, and God answered. We are so, so grateful for all the prayers of friends, family, and even strangers who have journeyed with us so far.
Will you continue to pray with us? Please pray that Eva will get stronger every day and that she will be able to wean off her medications sooner than later. Please pray that we’ll find out what’s causing her to choke so often. And, finally, please pray that we would remember and rest in the fact that, while Eva is in our hands, God’s hands are cupped strongly and lovingly around ours. We are not alone. The Great Physician lives here, and He never sleeps. Pray that that truth will help us rest deeply at night, even if it’s just for a couple hours at a time.
Welcome home, Evangeline Sparrow. You are so loved.
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