Lucy Elizabeth

I've been a bit behind the ball with this post—I intended to set down some of Lucy's "welcome-to-the-world" details much sooner. Alas. Three small children consume a wee-bit more time than two.

So without further ado, we are delighted to present:
Lucy Elizabeth Hautala
Born May 14, 2012 at 1:51am.
7lbs, 12oz. 20.5 inches long.

Photo by Gretchen Ennis

She came into the world after a long pregnancy filled with much morning sickness, preterm labor, and prayer. But her actual arrival was undeniably the easiest and most expedient of the three—for which I am ever-so-thankful!

I went into early labor the Friday before Mother's Day weekend, but not enough was happening to warrant the hospital's hospitality. But by Sunday evening, our daughter had decided her time had finally come. She missed being born on Mother's Day by only an hour and 51 minutes. But that hardly matters, as really, everyday is Mother's Day for me.

And as excited as I am to finally be able to post this wonderful news, I would be remiss to leave this post at little more than a birth announcement, because Lucy's story is deeper than that. God did some amazing things over the course of the last nine months. And THIS is the story I really want to share.

It begins with a verse from the book of Isaiah—we call it "Caleb's Verse," because Aaron and I taught it to him this past year as he was wrestling with nightmares.
"Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be afraid for I am your God. I will help you and I will make you strong. I will hold you in my hand." (Isaiah 41:10)

Little did I know these words would be meant for me, more than for my son.

When I was about 10 weeks pregnant and struggling severely with morning (all-day) sickness, I was swept over with this irrational, unexplainable fear that literally came in waves.
I spent time in prayer over this. I spent time in the Word, dwelling on God's promises. Aaron and I prayed together. But it seemed that every time I turned around I was hearing about someone's loss of a baby or child and I was so afraid I would lose the child I was carrying. —Which, as I said before, was irrational, because  don't have a history of miscarriage, praise God.

Nevertheless, fear is an irrational darkness, and no amount of reason would chase it away. I kept thinking, "Maybe the reason I keep hearing of all these losses—joining in the grief of loved ones—is because God is graciously preparing me for my own loss. Maybe He is getting my heart ready to handle what is to come."

So taking a deep breath, I determined to trust Him and rest in the fact that He only works for my good and His glory. I chose to be thankful for the days He was giving me with this unborn child—just as I had already chosen to be thankful for the days He gives me with the beautiful children I already have.

And then one morning while I was reading through the book of Acts, dwelling on God's faithfulness and how the apostles came to know Christ so intimately through the difficulty of their circumstances, Caleb's verse sprang into my mind, illuminated like a neon sign.

"Do not fear, for I am with you. Do not be afraid for I am your God. I will help you and I will make you strong. I am holding your daughter in my hands."

My daughter?! Lord, are you sure?!

So I told Aaron, and also my mom who had been praying for me over the course of the last several weeks. And together we determined to take God at His word, resting in the fact that regardless of gender, this child was truly held. And whether or not I would ever hold her in my hands was less important than the fact that this baby was held in His. 

My fear didn't leave, but it was gradually overshadowed by this new fresh dawning of God's love for me. And I knew this wasn't just an distant sort of obligatory love —"So I made this covenant with her and now I have to keep it because I'm God . . ." But rather a deep abiding fondness. The knowledge that He delights in revealing Himself, encouraging me to trust Him, and then rejoicing over me when I do!

I clung to the words of Isaiah 41:10. And when our 20-week ultrasound revealed that we were indeed having a girl, I clung to that promise all the more.

The following week I went into preterm labor.
My fear threatened to swallow me up.
But the promise held and He held me and my unborn daughter. And for the next five months many of my friends and family prayed for this little girl.

And Lucy Elizabeth came into this world only three days early! Healthy, safe, sound, and still held in the gracious hands of God.

Lucy means "Daughter of Light" and in choosing this name, we recognize that our precious daughter is truly a gift from our Father God, the giver of every good and perfect gift. It is also a nod to C.S. Lewis's Lucy, from his beloved children's books, The Chronicles of Narnia. —That little "daughter of Eve" whose faith carried she and those around her through great and daunting circumstances.

Elizabeth is her great, great grandmother's name, and we pray our daughter carries on the legacy of  faith her dear namesake has established.

So thank you—for your prayers, your support, and your love! We are so thankful and awed by the faithfulness of our God!

Kitchen Redux

Well, I think I've finally done it. I made a decision. *gasp*

At this stage in my pregnancy and with my varying ranges of hormonal change, this alone is quite the feat—as my ever-patient husband can attest. But it's true. I've finally decided to do something about my kitchen.
Now.
As in, before this baby comes.
I love saving things for last minute.
Of course, the glorious SPRING weather in MARCH has helped beautifully. Have I mentioned its SPRING in MARCH? In MINNESOTA?!
Okay, I'll stop with the emphasis. I'm just a little overcome by this. Again, wide range of hormonal reactions . . .

So, my kitchen is currently yellow. Which is fine, save that my bathroom and much of the upper level of my home is also yellow. And while I like the color (A LOT), my preferences lean more toward mustard and not the butter shade that is prolific throughout my home. It should be noted here, that I did not paint the afore mentioned shade in either the kitchen or upper level. Though in a momentary loss of sanity I did paint the bathroom. (But it was GREY, and who wants to look at their face, first thing in the morning, surrounded by GREY? It's just mean).
Anyway.

This is my kitchen: It's a rather barren yellow place. And because the pictures don't really do justice to the shade of yellow, I also included a swatch of the accurate shade: (I realize it may appear slightly different on my monitor than yours). 

And now that you've seen the "before" pictures, here are the intended "after" pictures: (Just the paint colors people, I promise not to do a full kitchen remodel this weekend, 32 weeks pregnant). The plan is duck-egg/robin-egg blue for the cupboards, a kind of creamy-tan for the walls, and off-white/custard for the trim.
—And for those of you concerned about the whole painting-while-pregnant thing, I PROMISE to properly ventilate. 

The exact shade of duck-egg/robin-egg blue will be my next big decision, but it will fall among these five:

So, if I appear rather distracted, or if my hair is be-speckled with flecks of paint the next time you see me, this project will be the most-reasonable explanation. (If the term "reason" can be used in this situation). *dons painting clothes*
Stay tuned for some REAL "after" pictures!

Birthday Girl

Ella turned 3 yesterday.

I had to stare at that sentence for a bit before I could continue. Not that it isn't right she's three—somedays she feels thirteen—it's just that I can't believe three years have gone by as quickly as they have. In three years my daughter went from a tiny, mellow, cooing bundle of pink humanity to a rollicking little girl who is desperately in love with horses, the word "serious," and the color pink.

Pink, by the way, has been a whole universe of discovery for me. Until Ella, I didn't do pink. Not sure why exactly, I just . . . didn't. Now I do. Pink shoes, boots, hats, socks, scarves, mittens, coats, pants, skirts, shirts, and bathing suits. We have glittery pink things and tule-covered pink things, pink blankies, and one much-loved stuffed pink hippopotamus. I'm getting good at pink—and good thing too, because our house is about to grow by one more bundle of pink humanity in, oh, nine weeks or so.

I hung pink balloons and streamers from my dinning room ceiling yesterday and stood there fully satisfied and overjoyed even, as my sleepy moppet clapped and squealed over the color choice. It was a good day.

This year Ella has mastered walking in a straight line (this is a big deal for those of you familiar with my daughters lack of . . . um . . . grace). She knows her colors, can count to sixteen, can dress herself (for the most part) and is a great little helper. —She especially loves to help me set the table for meals. Ella loves to color, do puzzles, antagonize her brother, "read" books, play with her babies, and sing. Her favorite food would probably be cheese (orange not white), and her favorite color: pink (obviously). 

Darling girl, you have made my life a warmer place with your sweet smile, eager hugs and kisses, and intense aim to transform your Mom-mom into a softer version of herself.

Not a day goes by when I do not thank my Heavenly Father for blessing me and your Daddy with your sweet self. I love watching you care for those around you, even when they are not necessarily kind in return.  

I love listening to you pray at night and imagining all of the amazing plans God has for you. I love you birdie girl. Forever and ever.
—Mom-mom. 

4 + 1 = 5

Basic Math :)

InstaLife

So, I recently discovered instagram. I know. *ducks head* I'm a little behind the ball on this one, but now that I'm here, HOLY COW. I've never loved my iphone so much.

And here's why:

Sometimes I can't believe I get to hang out with these two tater-tots everyday. I love this work.

It's the everyday, instalife stuff I want to remember forever and wouldn't be able to, save for my iphone and a handy little app. Thanks Steve Jobs, for giving me—all of us—tools that help capture snapshots of this achingly beautiful life. Your work has helped me see past some of what might otherwise be mere 'daily-ness' in mine.

"You've got to find what you love and that is as true for work as it is for lovers. Your work is going to fill a large part of your life and the only way to be truly satisfied is to do what you believe is great work. And the only way to do great work is to love what what you do. If you haven't found it yet, keep looking and don't settle. As with all matters of the heart, you'll know when you've found it."
—Steve Jobs, 1955-2011

5 Years Old

Dear Caleb,

You are five. FIVE. When did that happen?

I feel like I was just wrapping my arms around you for the first time, thankful that you had made it safely into the world, and terrified about what I was suppose to do next. —Namely, be your Mom for the rest of both of our lives.

And today, as you crawled into bed with Daddy and I and announced happily, "Now I am five!" I must confess that it felt a bit similar to that first morning, five years ago. Only now we know each other a little better.
And for the record, you are one amazing kid.

(This is you when you were 4).

I wish grownups had the ability to pour the reality of our love and pride into our kids' understanding—or that kids had the ability to comprehend it. But I suspect we would both implode, so for now, I'll put it this way:

You amaze me. I love watching the wheels and cogs of your mind turn and spin behind those blue eyes of yours. I love how the sun catches your red hair and how everyone says how special that makes you. (But of course, I already know that).

(This is you when you were 3).

I love those moment between you and Ella when you give us just a glimpse of the gentle, kind-hearted man you will become. I love watching you figure things out, take brave new steps, and learn new things.

(This is you when you were 2).

And even though your quick tongue and intense desire to be RIGHT all the time drive me a bit crazy at times, I thank our Heavenly Father for that part of you too, because one day I know you will fight for the Truth with every ounce of your intense creative spirit. And I can't wait to watch.

(And this is you when you were 1. Weren't you cute?!)

We love you Bud and we are so proud of you. Happy 5th birthday!

Love Mommy, (And Daddy and Ella too)

Ride 'em Cowboy!

We went to the county fair two weeks ago and in the midst of the delight that is cotton candy, interesting-looking people, races, and livestock barns, Caleb got to ride a horse. For the very first time.

Correction, he rode a pony. —A pony tied to one of those wheels around which he walks in a circle all the live-long day, giving rides to children like my son. Well, not exactly like my son. My son was polite, kind, and patient, especially considering how EXCITED he actually was to RIDE A HORSE (Pony). Just look at that face.

I grew up with horses. Not ponies. There is a distinction, you know. And if it's the last thing I do, I will see to it that my kids get to do the same. Eventually. Like, when they are strong enough to handle a five-gallon pail of water, tall enough to pull themselves into a saddle, and confident enough to get back on when they fall off. So, another couple of years or so. And I can't wait.
Neither can he. Ride 'em Cowboy!

Just Passing Through

It's butterfly season again.

I love this time of year—the heat and ripeness of August with an occasional hint at cooler days to come. Everything is dressing for a royal party—all gold with Black-Eyed-Susans, Yarrow, and Lilies, and purple with Coneflowers, Fireweed, and Thistle. It's a good time of year.

But it's a little bit sad too, because I know change is coming.

I found a Monarch chrysalis hanging from a Milkweed plant yesterday—translucent green and held together by the body of the caterpillar who had sealed herself inside. Often, I will take such finds home with me so that I can watch the change happen, but I left this one right where it was. I know that whether or not I see it, the transformation will happen just the same. There will be a butterfly where there was once a worm.

Metamorphosis is an old, perhaps even a tired metaphor, I know. But it never fails to amaze me—the evidence of Glory in the mundane. It's no accident that God wrote evidence of Himself, His plan, His story into His creation. It's what authors do, and He of course, is the greatest author of us all. 

There have been a lot of endings happening around me lately. Loss and grief. Change. Evidence of the temporal. And I have been brought to tears more than a handful of times over the last couple of weeks. Yet the conflict involves more than my mourning the loss of a friend, sorrow over the loss of another's mother, or ache over altered relationships. There is longing too. A longing for More.

Sometimes, when I look in the mirror, I am surprised to see myself beyond the skin that contains me. The physical removed, I am more than what is mirrored in the glass. And there are days when I desperately long to shake off the dust and spread my wings. Because like the proverbial worm watching her friends fly away, I know I was born for that as well, and waiting for Glory can be hard.

Today, I will be only one of probably hundreds in attendance at a memorial service for a lovely, beautiful, woman of grace who went Home this week. She will be deeply missed by many and I ache over the loss I know her husband and two beautiful daughters feel so acutely. But I will join them in celebration too—celebration of a life lived well. For even her death was an act of faith. 

She lived and died evidencing her Savior's salvation, His authority over death, and His power over darkness. Even in her suffering she pointed others toward Christ. I pray for strength to do the same.

But until then, like the waiting worm, I'll watch the skies and wave goodbye, knowing I too have an inheritance of wings. 

"Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those who fall asleep or to grieve like the rest of men who have no hope. We believe that Jesus died and rose again and so we believe that God will bring with Jesus those who have 'fallen asleep' in Him. According to the Lord's own word, we tell you that we who are still alive, who are left till the coming of the Lord, will certainly not precede those who have fallen asleep. For the Lord himself will come down from heaven with a loud command with the voice of the archangel and with the trumpet call of God, and the dead in Christ will rise first. After that we who are still alive and are left will  be caught up together with them in the clouds to meet the Lord in the air and we will be with the Lord forever. Therefore encourage each other with these words."
—1 Thessalonians 4:13-18 

Thankful in the Storm

I always forget how stormy it is mid-July through August. Every year I forget this. Every year I am reminded anew.

I love storms. I actually do. I was nearly struck by lightning once because I was out tromping around in a pretty hefty storm.

I don't do that anymore, by the way. I've grown up and have become much more sensible. Wise even. *shakes head*

But last night my love of storms took a bit of a hit. Part of this was due to the fact that our bedroom is currently under remodel and so my husband and I are bunking in the summer porch. —There are about six-hundred windows in there. They are awesome for letting in morning sunlight, and I can see the stars from my bed. All throughout June I watched the lightning bugs flash across our back yard. And last night I watched a lightning storm. For four hours.

Additionally, have I mentioned that my daughter has recently become unreasonably terrified by loud noises? So, while watching an impressively bright light display, and not sleeping, I was also listening for my daughter's fearful wails of terror with my own utmost paranoia.

It struck me—lying there, delirious with lack of sleep, concerned for my children's' sleep, watching an immense thunderstorm press across the sky—that I was actually angry. I had this irresistible urge to go outside and shout "Enough already!" at that storm. Really. That's the frame of mind I was in. 

But I didn't. I just lay there for a while, listening to the wind and rain and thunder. Eventually I decided that it was a terrible waste of time and emotion to be angry at a storm. So instead I started making a mental list of things I was thankful for—in the midst of that particular storm.

• Safety and Health.
• Shelter, Food, and Work we love.
• Time and Energy to do the things we are passionate about.
• Freedom.
• Family, Friends, and Community.
• Storms.

And then I rolled over, closed my eyes, and fell asleep thanking God for thunderstorms that wake me up and remind me to be thankful in ALL things. —Thunder, lightning, and quiet skies alike. 

"Give thanks in all circumstances; for this is God’s will for you in Christ Jesus."
—1 Thessalonians 5:18 

Play Dough

Rainy days were made for play dough. My children spent the first several hours of today fighting—which is always super fun, so in desperation I broke out the flour, salt, cream of tartar, oil, and food coloring, and whipped up a few batches of play dough. My children are now acting like human beings again, as opposed to small wild animals, and happily sharing play dough at the kitchen table. I hope it lasts.

PLAY DOUGH RECIPE: (Yields about 2 cups per batch. I often cut this recipe in half).

1 cup white flour

1/4 cup salt

2 tablespoons cream of tartar

1 tablespoon oil

several drops of your choice of food coloring