When an Owl Takes Flight

"I didn't tell you before because there's nothing you could have done.

About my leaves..."

"What about them? Please, please tell us."

"When my leaves go..."

"You go too, don't you? When?"

"Now." - The Odd Life of Timothy Green

There are certain moments as we guide our children through difficult seasons that are worth documenting because they are flashes in which we can literally see their emotional intelligence blossoming before our eyes. What a privilege it is to guide them through what you wish you could protect them from. So much of parenting is like that. "I know how much this will hurt. I want to shield them from this; I want to make the bad go away." And they are always watching. We make decisions and they not only receive those decisions, but observe in what manner we execute them--an agonizing, anxious, overthinking parent's nightmare. 

When we really consider the hardest of times, what would we wish for ourselves? "How would I help me through this season if I could prepare and coach myself?" For me it would be to have someone listen, or sit with me in my grief. To not be alone. To be reminded of hope and the beauty that exists even in pain. To grasp joy even in deep suffering. These are difficult skills to possess, let alone try to figure out how to nurture them in children. How do I hold their hand through feelings that leave one broken and dark? How do I keep them afloat?

My grandmother Peggy was full of life. She was the party, wherever she was - The Ansonia, Rock Hall, Plymouth, a room in my mom's house, her hospital bed. She had a superpower to make anyone and everyone feel welcome, celebrated, heard, seen, and enjoyed. She was a wonderful listener and your victories were her victories. She loved well, and cherished her grandchildren, and then her great-grandchildren. The last 5 years of her life Peg had endearing relationships with both Aria and Leo. They loved her so much. She was vibrant until the absolute very end, and then she quickly released her TIGHT grip on life and was gone. 

I did not know how to guide my children through this and I was afraid of a misstep.

A couple weeks before Peggy's swift exit from this side of eternity, we were searching Disney+ for a family movie. Stephen and I were dealing with a few crises at once that week in a couple of our circles and were distracted as we selected a movie I had seen years ago with my siblings, "The Odd Life of Timothy Green." It's a quirky film starring Jennifer Garner about a couple struggling with infertility who spend a night writing down character traits of a dream child they wished they could raise together. He, Timothy, ends up magically growing from the list they buried in their garden and shows up covered in mud and sporting some strange leaves on his legs. Timothy Green then spends a few weeks as their son teaching them all kinds of lessons in the process about love, friendship, and overcoming adversity, but it becomes apparent, with his falling leaves, that his time with them is fleeting. The ephemeral nature of life on earth resonates as a motif throughout the story.

What we often forget when we fret about the future and how our decisions and actions will impact it/them, is that God is here in it with us. It is these teaching moments that make us who we are and give us the capacity for empathy and compassion. This story that we are only a small part of does not end with us. Death is not the end of life. These children are not meant to be protected from all bad, and doing so is leading with fear and distrust in God's work in all of it, molding them for His purposes and kingdom. All the bad is being made new and it takes dying to rise again. 

It is clear to me that we did not prepare and coach our children through Peggy's death alone. God was working in us, in them, and in Peggy. It is important to note that in the last few weeks of her life my grandmother gave her entire heart over to the Lord. It was a near-inexplicable transformation as the end of her days grew near that she began to talk about Jesus constantly to anyone who entered her room or called her on the phone. Her salvation was a thing for which we had prayed my whole life, but the most mention of God Grandma ever made was a shout out to me in passing as I walked out the door to "say a prayer for me" when I got to church. It was not until the very last weeks as she lay on that hospice bed that she began quoting the words of Jesus, proclaiming his death and resurrection, and acknowledging his mercy and love. We saw it. My children saw it. Everyone who knew Peg and visited her saw this change in her. 

"It's soon," said my mom on the phone as we were driving home from a family function the first weekend in June. "She has taken a turn. Bring the kids if you think they can do it."

"Turn the car around Stephen. We have to go see her." 

"All of us?" Yes. I think so."

Over the course of the forty minute ride Stephen and I prayerfully unfolded the situation for our two oldest.

"We are going to see Grandma Peg in the hospital." 

"Is she ok?"

"Yes, she is ok. But you need to know. We want you to begin preparing your hearts...she is dying."

It hurt me to say these words out loud. I did not know if I was messing it all up. There must be a better combination. Something more poetic that would soften the blow. I couldn't find it. 

"She is?"

Tears. The hard reality setting in. Some shock. She has been sick many times but she always gets better. She always comes home. A lot of silence from Leo and questions from Aria. 

Gentle reminders from Stephen and I that Jesus was calling her home. 

The heavy air and empty spaces I wanted to fill with words of love and comfort I could not find.

We arrived at the parking lot, and began getting everything ready with the two babies in the stroller. I looked over at Leo and he finally spoke. 

"What do you mean dying? What will she be like? Will it be like Uncle Bub? Like in Timothy Green?"

There it was. One of those moments when you get a little glimpse into your child's head and it is so beautiful and full of the spirit. An open door for Stephen and I to build on in conversation and reach their listening hearts in this difficult moment where words were so hard to find. A sign that God was there with all of us for this journey. I was floored. 

This particular scene that Leo was referring to involved Timothy in a hospital room with a close relative of his mother who is dying. They are briefly shown the unfolding imagery of an elderly man (Uncle Bub) who is deeply loved by his family, asking for a child who is dear to him in his final hours. They spend some time laughing and simply enjoying each other's company. Uncle Bub is then seized by a violent cough, Timothy is whisked from the bedside, and the movie tastefully alludes to his passing in the hospital. It is not a long scene but that same heaviness we felt in this moment was a call back for both Aria and Leo. Much like Timothy and Uncle Bub, my children were about to visit with someone close to their hearts whom they knew would not be long with them. Stephen and I had our minds elsewhere that night we watched the movie together and were not fully present, but God had my children absorbed and locked in. He was preparing them for what was to come. 

As I watched my children hold Grandma's hands in the hospital, speak to her loudly and comfortingly, be present in the moment despite the fear and sadness in their hearts, I could do nothing but take it in with admiration and wonder. It felt unearthly then and it does now as I write. I am so thankful for the tender experience of grieving with my children a life we all adored so much. I revel at the unfathomable loving presence of Jesus who has endured death on a cross for our sake, and yet who continues to sustain us through our pain and loss, knowing he has come to redeem it all. Peggy was a gift to our whole family, and we were blessed with so much time with her. Like the owls she had such an affinity for, near-silent when they take flight, she left us so gracefully with remarkable peace. It still feels like she is here. She is forever imprinted on our hearts and minds. What a beautiful way to pass through the veil. 

A Letter to My Isaac for His First Birthday

My Dear Isaac,

As I sit here collecting my thoughts and reminiscing over our first year as a family of six, I am so thankful to God that He chose me to be your mommy. I have been blessed four times with the incredible honor of being someone's everything. To be a mother is to look into the eyes of a creature who does not yet know themselves apart from her and realize that she is the only one who will remember holding that space. That bond, though it changes as you grow up and discover yourself, never leaves my heart. Though our relationship evolves, for me it is all still there, just with new layers. I have known, loved, and cared for you until, and infinitely beyond, the moment you started lifting your head, noticing your own tiny hands and feet and presence in the room. If there is one thing that motherhood has taught me, it is that every single child is a new adventure, and a new angle in a mirror reflecting my own soul. Each of you are uniquely mine and I am constantly learning new things about myself and the world through being your mom. We are all such magnificent creation, and have so much to give.

As I mentioned in your birth story, all of your firsts this year have been my lasts with a new baby. I have cherished every single one, and I am still relishing each moment you decide to try out a couple steps walking to me. I no longer feel sad as your enchanting personality begins to shine through and light up all of our days. You are adored by us all. With you and Callen I feel like I am almost raising twins. I feel that you two play well together; something I was worried about with how young Callen was when you arrived. You seem to find joy in each other's company. My heart was so full to see Callen walk by and gently tap you on the head when you did tummy time on the floor, or when you would giggle each time he laughed. You both participate when I read books or sing songs at lunchtime, sitting side-by-side in the Bumbos. Callen talks to you in his own language, I think, more than anyone else. Whether you understand yet or not, you are definitely along for the ride. It is my prayer that you two will be close your whole lives. Having a close sibling is such a gift, and I am grateful that all of my children have one of those. 

Big and strong, you love to climb up on our living room table, plant your feet, and fearlessly stand up. You seem to understand and pick up on things quickly, like you know you're the youngest and want to catch up and contribute to the joke or conversation. It reminds me of one of my favorite accomplishments to date. Traveling to Greece pregnant with you was one of my more daring decisions. Having planned an ambitious site-seeing trip for our family before I knew I was pregnant, instead of cancelling the trip I still did EVERYTHING planned, just with you inside me. I have always tried to do things I am scared of, and never regretted laughing in the face of fear and going for it. Together, we climbed up and down multiple mountains, explored ancient caves full of little rooms with stories long forgotten, swam in the ocean, and stood before an active volcano. You were there with us, even before you knew you were, and we did it all. 

Carrying you was a powerful journey for me in which I discovered that incredible strength that can be yours when you let go of fear and trust in the Lord to sustatin you through the life he has given. This is just one example of a thousand instances where being your mom has made me feel powerful, confident, and blessed in all circumstances. We always have the choice to let go of fear and embrace what is certain in any unknown. My verse for you comes from Philippians 4. "I know how to be brought low, and I know how to abound. In any and every circumstance, I have learned the secret of facing plenty and hunger, abundance, and need. I can do all things through Him who strengthens me." I love you, Isaac. I cannot wait to watch you grow in strength and in all things joy and confidence in your place in God's kingdom. You are powerful and full of life, and I am so very proud of the little man you are. Thank you for this beautiful journey, your first year. I continue to grow and stretch with you. 

Love always,

Mommy

Isaac Stephen: "One Who Laughs, One Who is Crowned"

Dear Isaac, 

You are our family's crowning glory. Our final piece. My great triumph, and abounding joy. Our souls rejoice at your arrival just when God intended, and we revel in His perfect design and will. Your name means laughter and you are a reminder to our family of what it means to "laugh without fear of the future." You make me smile every day. God has blessed us so beyond my heart's desire, and I am overwhelmed and humbled by His grace and mercy to me in carrying and delivering you. You are ours, and we are yours, and we all belong to Him. We welcome you earth-side, my babiest baby, and we love you so very much.

Love,

Mommy

I will admit to having somewhat of a mental block for this post. I have started and stopped so many times over the past 7 months. Everything feels extra weighty. I think it is because of it being my last of its kind. Our minds are made up. We have peace in this decision. I am grateful to be closing this chapter of being a newborn mom and welcoming this new season of enjoying all my littles where they are at as they grow into themselves. 

But my heart seems to be trailing behind. 

Donating clothes I know I will never use again, and celebrating each first for Isaac knowing they are the last baby firsts for me has been hard on my mommy heart. It is a strange reality to process having spent so much of the last decade devoting my soul to being a baby mom. I am stepping into a new chapter of motherhood and it feels like a graduation. Celebrating this last leg of a beautiful season full of so much magic, that grew me in so many ways. There is grief along with the celebrating, and I will treasure this closing chapter in my heart all my days knowing I have felt it all fully and am present in what is the greatest work of my life.

"Pregnancy takes you to the brink of insanity, and then the baby comes." Just a little phrase coined by my mother that always hits the mark. 

Isaac's due date was January 1st, and I was miserable. 

I had 3 weeks to go. 

While I was extremely grateful to know I was in the clear to have a VBAC, there is the tradeoff of how difficult my three natural deliveries were to carry. My last trimesters for each were painfully brutal, and I was praying daily that I would be blessed with an early delivery.

My previous due dates were all over the place. 

Aria was 10 days early; Leo only 3 days early and just shy of 9 pounds; Callen was scheduled. I did not have a good gage for when I would go into labor. What was consistent with the natural deliveries (Callen, my c-section was actually a much more comfortable pregnancy because of his odd positioning) was the excruciating pressure and lower back pain, and sleepless nights all of 3rd trimester. I also knew that for me labor was a 0-100 situation. No tell-tale contractions until is was a rapidly progressing emergency--time to get in the car and race to the hospital. So on December 8th, as we celebrated Angela's birthday, I told my in laws I would be moving to their house within the next week just to be safe. Same practice back in Nassau...even though I have lived in Jamesport since 2016.

I know...what can I say? I like keeping things the same. One more Mineola delivery for the books.

I had been sent twice to the hospital to check for early labor. Both times were an uncomfortable exam, a stupid long wait, and an assurance that I was dilating but not contracting yet. 

Isaac was consistently measuring in the 90th percentile, and it seemed very likely I was going to have a ten pound Christmas baby--another thing I was not thrilled about because Christmas is my hosting holiday for our immediate family. I am very jealous and covetous over it always being at my house. I LIKE TO KEEP THINGS THE SAME.

We had as a family just battled numerous sicknesses (each individual having a rough bout one at a time) and Stephen was the last to succumb. I was sluggish to move back yet...because what if I went all the way to my due date? We were all just finding our way back to healthy. Stephen was still fighting off the tail end of his fluey symptoms. I was so uncomfortable and wanted to stay in my bed as long as possible. But the 'what if' of him coming as early as Aria did made me anxious. SO we had our hospital bag packed and began the process of preparing all of our children to move for an undetermined length of time starting Monday the 11th.

Sunday the 10th arrived. Day before the big move. Stephen downed some NyQuil and climbed in to enjoy one more good sleep in our bed in his still not 100% healthy state. The solid downpour outside was a nice lullaby as he drifted off into a medicated dreamworld. I hunkered down to doom-scroll and read and toss and turn uncomfortably, and wait for the morning to come.

I started feeling some slight cramping a little after midnight...which made me uneasy. I did not want to wake Stephen up...but I also did not want to wait in case this was it. Like I said...ANY contractions for me have always been the beginning of a very quick progression. I started to time the cramps. They were only slight cramps but they were consistent. Around 12:45 I sat up and said "Stephen, I'm so sorry. I think we need to leave tonight. Like now. Let's take the kids to your parents tonight just in case."

My husband is a BEAR when he sleeps normally, and adding NyQuil to the mix, I was bracing myself for his response. 

But, miraculously, I believe God gave him an extra measure of readiness because he just simply woke up and said "Alright, let's go."

So up we got. I grabbed some things. He started gathering our packed bags and told me to just head downstairs. He'd get the kids last. As I went downstairs I felt a change. I went over to my kitchen counter and gripped the edge. Contractions were steadily getting more painful. I could not believe it. Was this really it? Stephen passed me on his way to grab things. We had some type of exchange and he reminded me to just get in the car.

I walked out the front door and over to the truck and got in. The truck smelled so bad. One of the kids had left an old clementine somewhere between the seats and we couldn't find it for days. I hoisted myself up to the passenger seat and labored as I waited.

One by one each of my confused and bleary-eyed babies were placed by Stephen in our backseat. It was comical when it wasn't painful. We took off into the night around 2 am. Stephen said..."Are we still going to my parents?" I answered. "No. We need to call and wake them up. They need to meet us in the hospital parking lot." Aria had a thousand questions. The boys just sat wide-eyed. I was able to calmly answer her for a while between contractions but about a half hour in, Stephen frustrated with the need to abide speeding limits with the sheets of rain pounding the windshield, the stench of the rotting clementine, intense contractions coming every 3-5 minutes, we all have limits on stimulation and my nerves were on fire. "Aria, I love you so much. I'm doing great. Mommy needs to focus on getting this baby out safely. I need some quiet while I focus."

My quiet, zoned labor creature inside who always shows up wondrously was doing her job.

I know it was hard for my inquisitive Aria but she obeyed. 

All I remember between then and now was just focusing on breathing through each serious contraction. Picking distant highway signs. Locking in on a point in the car. Slow breathing through the peak until it was over. I said once to Stephen. "What if they send me back?" 

"They won't. This is it, Sarah."

Every labor story has been a unique journey for Stephen and I but I never expected to get to experience labor with all three of my other kids present for a good while. 

By the grace of God, we arrived at the hospital baby still inside. Feeling immensely confident in my words as Stephen helped me out of the truck, I mustered up an excited tone for my other kids "I can't wait for you to meet your brother! Next time I see you he'll be here!" and hobbled into triage while Stephen absently rushed to hand the others off to Angela and Steve. I was grateful it was so early in the morning and very few people were in waiting rooms as I crossed them. Labor is one of the most vulnerable forms of existence. Something about unrelated onlookers witnessing your agony. It's not the best.

Anyone can attest who has been in active labor in triage...it's the worst. Confirming date of birth and whatnot while fighting your demons and pausing to breathe when all you want to do is get into a room and finish this.

The usual stuff. 

I ask for an epidural as soon as someone who can get me one is within sight. It was at this point, after walking through the labor and delivery doors (It's funny how differently they treat you when they know this is most likely not a false alarm and trust me they know the difference) I started to become very frustrated. This is my fourth delivery. I know my body. I know what real contractions feel like. I knew going in that I was already dilated and from where my pain was at I knew I was closely approaching the "brink of insanity" zone, but at the same time I have found myself to be a very quiet laborer. While it works for me, I guess it is not typical because quite a few nurses did not rush to check me thinking I still had a ways to go. Once they did check me, a few times they would say "I can't believe you're this far along. You're so quiet." And I did not want to hear that. I wanted a needle in my spine. IV placement took what felt like forever. Checking for dilation took forever (freaking 8.5 cms). Getting into a room took forever. THE ANESTHESIOLOGIST TOOK TOO LONG--45 minutes to an hour I was waiting. When he finally arrived I was ready to push, and it was ineffective. I did not know that was a thing but apparently they do not work if you are ready to push. They let me chill for a little bit in dismay as I painfully accepted my fate of doing this without taking the edge off--I know that drug-free labor is empowering to a lot of women. It just is not important to me. Having tasted of the epidural fruit and found it sweet, and helpful after months of no sleep, it was sorely missed this time around.

But we rolled on.

Pushing had never taken me less than an hour, and I was in a rush for him to be out. Without the epidural in my way I wanted to change positions. After pushing for about 10 minutes I asked it I could turn to my hands and knees. My doctor said "Yeah! I'm fine with that if you're comfortable!" So I tried that. Stephen and the doctor and nurse had been chanting "Push, push, push, push...and after a few rounds of that I had an overwhelming sudden panic attack. I did not think I was making enough progress, and I was exhausted. I said "I don't think I can do this." 

"Brink of Insanity" ladies and gentlemen. 

Stephen said "Sarah, the head is right there. You're crowning!" 

For future reference, to any who might take it, this is a really good thing to tell a woman who is pushing without her needing to ask!

With this new knowledge I asked if I could lay on my side. Everyone obliged, including Stephen who now was assisting in holding me on my side on the edge of the table. 

And in another one to two pushes, Isaac's head emerged. 

They told me to stop pushing so they could position me better on the table for full delivery. 

It has been my experience that this takes the cake for hardest requests to obey during labor...the actual finish line in site, baby has partially emerged, the agony almost over, seconds away from holding your baby finally...but please pause for a moment. 

But then, when I was given the go to give one more big push, in what felt like one polished motion, Stephen and the doctor pulled Isaac out and placed him on my chest. Whirlwind 5 hours of labor from Jamesport to delivery. 15 minutes of pushing. 

Our final labor journey complete. We were through it again, another precious gift of life having joined our crew earth-side. Worth every single minute.

There were many funny moments in recovery. The nurse telling Stephen to look at the placenta. Stephen looking at the placenta. The nurse asking if I was sure I was ready to hop out of bed and gleefully get to the bathroom with no baby inside. 

My mom showing up in the recovery room to take Isaac after he'd nursed and letting Stephen and I crash for a few minutes into an exhausted sleep. I love the image of her sitting between us smiling down at the gooey newborn while Stephen and I metaphorically died on either side of her. 

The hospital stay was short but we were back after a few days for light therapy.

We had a little ways to go yet to battle Isaac's jaundice in the next coming weeks but we were able to be home for Christmas *all 6 of us* and what a celebration it was. 

In thinking about how best to close this final birth story I can devise no other way than to thank my Stephen from the bottom of my heart for his unwavering love and support in these transformative years for both of us. You have been my rock through building a home, giving birth to these four amazing humans we made, entering parenthood, celebrating our victories, bitterly grieving and growing from our failures, and in all of that stretching each other up towards heaven as we cultivate our little kingdom on earth. It has always been us together. My heart and soul is forever entwined with yours, and I thank the Lord every day for your friendship, and to walk alongside you in this life. It is during these journeys I have been propelled on by your closeness and oneness with me. I fear nothing ahead, as long as it's with you. <3 Thank you for choosing and loving me, and for making me a mommy to four beautiful children. My cup overflows and floods all around. I am ready for our next adventure, all six of us in toe. Always Yours.