Because I want to remember

My eyes snap open and then immediately shrink back against sudden consciousness and the angry red glare of the clock.

4:03

Thank you, Jesus.

I lie still and look out into the grey shades of very early morning, listening. Silence, except for the whir of the ceiling fan and Josh’s steady breathing next to me.

Thank you, Jesus.

The last night was rough, one of the worst in months. Ellie’s cries woke me before midnight, and it was a three hour struggle to get her back to sleep. Finally I gave up and brought her to lie next to me, something I haven’t done since she weaned herself from the bottle in December. We slept then, but not fitfully, and all afternoon, after the morning’s boost of coffee had long ended, the words on my screen at work blurred and yawns melted into one another.

Please, Jesus. Please help her get the rest she needs tonight.

4:03. She made it so much further than the night before.

And for 10 minutes I drift in and out of consciousness, expecting. And then they come, the wails from the room down the hall. They are sudden and fierce and I am out of bed, half-wishing I had taken my leisure time to use the bathroom before I would be rocking 23lbs of shifting baby (she is still a baby to me).

She was standing in the corner of her crib, closest to the window, clutching her blanket.

“Hold-a me, Mommy. Hold-a me.”

I pick her up and she melts into my shoulder, and as I settle into the rocking chair, I can tell tonight she needs quick comfort. It won’t be a fight like last night.

Soon her breathing is quiet and regular, and she is mostly still. Many minutes pass. When I am more awake than asleep, I play the mental game of deciding when to attempt to lay her back down. Anything other than the perfect moment will either land me right back in the lazy boy or in my bed, listening to her wails and hoping she goes to sleep on her own.

Finally, I decide the moment has come. I shift her in my arms and stand. Almost immediately, I know my timing was wrong.

Her body tenses and her arms reach for my face.

Her voice is desperate. “No….no….no…”

“Shh, baby. Shhhh. Mama’s right here. I’ve got you.”

“Hold-a me, Mommy! Hold-a me!”

I sway and shush and sway and shush, but she remains tense. The fight just isn’t worth it tonight, so I kiss her forehead and settle back into the lazy boy.

She relaxes with gratitude, and her little voice sighs in the dark.

“Tank you, Mommy. Tank you. I wuv you. You’re my best friend.”

My heart cracks.

Thank you, Jesus.

I kiss her again. “Mommy loves you, too. You’re Momma’s best friend. Now go to sleep.”

And she does.

Five Minute Friday_ Broken

Our last Sunday was the week before Mother's Day. We didn't know it then, of course. It was our Sunday in the nursery, so we watched our girls play with the other children and half-listened to the songs and message being piped in.

Things had been building, churning, but I, ever optimistic that the issues were not so large as they seemed, ignored that they were only getting worse. That every week we had to make allowances for some things said. That the longer we went, the more we realized it was nothing more than a 1.5 hour playdate for our girls--no instruction, no songs, no simple Bible verses. That we felt increasingly outcasted, though no one knew, because our subscription to Jesus is not intricately tied to to a political party as well. That we carried hurt from broken promises of get-togethers and community and being there when the need was overwhelming. We smiled and gritted our teeth and went on, and hoped it would get better.

And then on a Wednesday afternoon, a Facebook post.

And that was it. The camel's back was irrevocably broken. And so were we.

I spent most of that afternoon in tears at my desk. And the next day as well. We took an entire month without stepping inside of a church. Sometimes the hurt was overwhelming.

It shouldn't be this way.

And it shouldn't.

But in brokeness comes mending. And we are on our way. We may limp from our bruises, but we are not so broken as I thought. We are moving again. We are searching.

We still have Hope.

Garden before Girls

I am behind on writing about the girls, particularly the events of this past weekend (Ellie’s 2nd birthday party, Elaina’s first trip to the movies, and Ellie’s actual birthday), but that’s going to take more time (and frankly more data (thanks, Verizon, and thanks new neighborhood with no cable internet)) than I have tonight. So instead, here is a quick update on the Serrano Family Garden.


Veggies
We are doing really well in the traditional garden this year, thanks to the fact that it is not 10,000 degrees out every day and it has actually rained more than once since June 1, unlike last year. We’ve had several zucchini, a good mess of green beans, a few hot peppers, and our tomatoes are ripening up nicely. (Tonight I enjoyed my first ever yellow tomato, and I am a fan. Not quite as acidic as red, but just as sweet.) The watermelon and cantaloupe are fattening up, and the eggplant is flowering. Overall, I am quite pleased with how things are doing.

And then there is the cucumber. Because of last year’s drought, I might have been a *teensy* overambitious when it came to planting this spring because, the cucumbers, please make them stop. Or give me a pickle recipe. Or stop by our house and get some. We have an entire drawer in the fridge full of them and several more on the vine. I never believed before I could get sick of cucumbers, but sadly, I now know it can happen.

Berries
Thanks to all of Josh’s hard work, the berry patch is now as beautiful as it is productive.

The strawberry crop is finished until fall, but we had so many this spring that I am optimistic we will be able to make freezer jam with the next. We are still in the early stages for most of the raspberry and boysenberry plants, but we’ve managed to pick a couple of handfuls of red and black raspberries most days, sometimes more. (And sometimes there would be more, period, if not for two very cute but very grabby helpers who think “lightest possible shade of pink without being white” means a berry is ready to be picked and consumed.) And as much as I am enjoying the berries, I am mostly proud of all the work Josh put into that area of our yard. He planned and planned and planned (and I whined a little bit), and then he burnt broke his back putting his plan into action. It looks fantastic, and I love the way his eyes light up when he shows it off. Job well done, babe. :)

Handsome and handy!

In the least exciting but most related news (to the berry garden, that is, not to Josh’s work), the Mason Jar of Death has been officially resurrected for the summer season as more and more Japanese beetles have been appearing on our plants. The problem/plague isn’t nearly as bad as last year, because last year I was convinced Moses got it wrong and it was beetles, not locust, that were plagued upon Egypt. That being said, it’s still highly infuriating to find once-beautiful leaves chewed to lace, so part of my evening ritual has become to grab my jar and knock those suckers into it.

So there you have it. With any luck, we’ll be enjoying our produce for the next few months. Unless the produce happens to be a cucumber. Then, all bets are off.

What I Wear: an embarrassing glimpse into my workout attire

I’ve never been one who could be mistaken for an athlete. In fact, my most shining athletic achievement was being the star walker on my little league team, mostly because I was so short I had no strike zone. (My, how things change. Or not.) I did strike out once. And then I cried. But mostly I crouched down low to get on base or stood in left field half-praying a ball wouldn’t be hit in my direction. I was a cheerleader in 7th grade, too, but beyond that, the closest I came to working out outside of P.E. was marching in 10,000 degree heat and attempting to play my trumpet without passing out. Until recently, most of my working out consisted of walking the ½ mile from the parking lot at work to my desk.

Not surprisingly, I’ve never been a runner, either. Oh, there was the one semester in college when I decided to see if I could work my way up to a 7-minute mile (a feat accomplished once and likely never again), but when summer break came and I had no track to go to, that was that. Since then, I’ve loudly claimed to hate running, all the while harboring severe runner’s envy anytime I saw someone effortlessly jog down the street. And then I started reading on Erika’s blog about how she was training for a triathalon…and while there’s no way in h-e-double-hockey-sticks I could do that, I couldn’t help but think maybe, despite all of my misgivings, I could give running another try.

So it’s been about a month and a half, and now that my legs and my lungs have decided to play a little more nicely together (re: I don’t feel like I’m going to die until at least .75 of a mile), I’m actually (and begrudgingly) beginning to not mind it so much. In fact, the last 3 times I’ve gone, I’ve run 2 miles without stopping (or mostly not stopping). So when Erika posted about her workout attire, I thought it would be a good opportunity to let her know the part she played in my getting my rear in gear and thank her for presenting the possibilities of cool workout clothes. She replied to my comment, and then the moment of truth came: I had to confess the sad state of my workout attire.

And then I promised pictures.

Oy.

But, despite the fact that I might die of embarrassment by posting these, I am a woman of my word. (Don’t worry, Erika. I’m saving the best for last.)

Shoes

I have had these lovely Nikes since senior year of college. They replaced a pair of Nikes I bought sophomore year of high school—they were green and lovely and slick on the bottom because all the tread had been walked (not run) off. Oh, and they were covered in paint from my lucrative and oft-envied work study job as a campus painter (which mostly consisted of painting the fence that surrounded the campus a lovely forest green—good use of my tuition, ONU). Anyway, when it came time to retire them, these shoes made their way into my home. The tread is wearing down and the paint (?) is wearing off, but they’re pretty comfy, all things considered.

However, find me a pair of shoes like Ellie’s in a 6.5 adult,

Source

and I am would definitely be in the market for an upgrade.

Shorts

I have no idea when I got these. I’m thinking an outlet mall some forgotten time long ago? They’ve mostly been worn as comfy post-work shorts or sleeping shorts, and I have a fondness for them because Josh has complimented my legs more than once when I’ve worn them. Last Memorial Day I had the brilliant idea to wear them while repainting Ellie’s room because I was certain there was no way a little cutting in and rolling would ever get them messy. I am clearly a master painter, and a genius. And I also discovered this week that running in them in 90+ degree heat actually causes chaffing of the thigh, which is so very comfortable and good for the self-esteem. (I did recently purchase some running shorts from Old Navy, and so far, I’m a big fan.)

Shirt
This varies from run to run, but mostly my shirt consists of whatever is handy, comfy, and clean. In addition to the wonder I am about to feature, I have worn my Missions in Action t-shirt from my trip to Russia as a junior in college (2002), my Crop Walk t-shirt (2007), and a light pink “Perfect Cami” from Old Navy because it was too hot to run in anything else.

But to completely appreciate my favorite running shirt, walk down memory lane with me to the Colchester Labor Day celebration right at the start of my 7th grade year. The sun was hot, the smell of onion rings and Chester chips were wafting from the Eat Tent, the sound of the carnival rides were whirring in the distance, and I entered a tent selling dog t-shirts with quiet excitement. I flipped through the samples, and there it was: A Shetland Sheepdog. And it looked a bit like Ivy, my beloved dog who was my 3rd grade Christmas present, gifted to me after years of asking for a dog every.single.day. I paid for the shirt and wore it proudly (even to school, if my memory and shame serve me right). And then time passed, and it became an undershirt for itchy sweaters and a jammie shirt for summer nights. And last month, it became my running shirt.

Here it is, in all its glory.

And here is the completed ensemble (minus the shoes. Gonna have to have a talk with the photographer on that...)

It is a sight to behold, no?

On the bright side, at least I’m still running. (Got my 2 miles in this afternoon!) That has to count for something, right?

For Mama, for tomorrow

Once upon a time, a little girl, who was not quite as high as a grasshopper’s knee, knew that she wanted to help people when she grew up. She wanted to be a nurse.


Some years later, she found herself facing the incomprehensible monster that is high school geometry. As she tried to wrap her mind around theorems and postulates and angles and scratches on her notebook paper, her teacher looked at her dismissively and said, “You’ll never make it as a nurse. ”

Hmph, the girl thought. I’ll show you.

That girl was my mama.

She has been a nurse for 42 years.

When her day ends tomorrow, she will close this long chapter of her life and take her first steps into retirement.

The girl who wanted to help people grew into the woman who lived her dream of helping others. It can be said as simply as, she was a nurse, but really, it was so much more than that.

It was a wardrobe that consisted of blue scrubs and hospital polo shirts more than it did high heels and fancy dresses.

It was hours after a 10 hour day spent dictating her day into a voice recorder, then, when the hospital said she must, hours spent learning a new computer system, then hours spent typing her day instead of speaking it.

It was having folks at church stop her on her way out the door, describe their ailments in very specific detail, and look to her to offer a diagnosis. (She never did, by the way. But she would listen sympathetically, and sometimes, that’s all they really needed.)

It was learning to give shots that didn’t hurt.

It was figuring out which weekends and holidays she was scheduled to work, then figuring out which weekends and holidays she would have to switch for so as not to miss a birthday or a move to college or the birth of a grandbaby.

It was waking up to the 2am phone call from the hospital, summoning her on her night on call. It was the sound of the beeper going off in the middle of dinner, in the middle of a holiday, in the middle of the night.

It was driving ridiculously steep and curvy country roads in the dead of winter to see her home health patients. It was bags that weighed nearly as much as she did. It was a dog bite she once got as thanks for doing her job.

It was wrapping wounds and cleaning vomit and administering medication. It was remaining professional in the face of undeserved hostility. It was remaining calm when panic seemed a much more reasonable response.

It was loving her patients. It was celebrating with them as they got better. And sometimes, it was losing them and crying private tears because part of her heart had gone with them, too.

When I was a senior in high school, Mom and I attended a mother/daughter luncheon. The speaker asked the moms to share any inspirational quotes that they believed would we could carry with us as we left high school and entered a new world.

Mom raised her hand and said, “People don’t care how much you know until they know how much you care.”

For her, it is a sentiment true for work as much as it is for life.

For the past 42 years, her patients have been blessed because she has been a nurse who cares. She has listened to their stories. She has lifted up prayers on their behalf. She has helped their wounds. Some were physical. Some could only be seen by the heart. But every patient, every life, was better, because she was in it.

Well done, Mama. Turns out you made one heck of a nurse, after all.