Where There's Life, There's Mess

The title for this writing comes from a few words from the late singer Rich Mullins, regarding Proverbs 14:4, "Where no oxen are, the trough is clean; but increase comes by the strength of an ox". He was giving a talk about moral living to a group of people of diverse backgrounds. When I heard his words and his take on that well-worn psalm, "Where there's life, there's mess", my heart was lifted. The more my brain has marinated on those simple words and their meaning, the more comfort and satisfaction I have derived from my daily battles.

I had considered naming this writing, "Eden in Chaos". When I met and married my husband, quickly and unexpectedly, it was with the understanding that I was marrying my true love, and we would be together forever. That much was simple. Our marriage was blessed from the start with the gift of our son Lelan, who I adopted. I would never know a time in marriage without caring full-time for a child, and trough would only get dirtier from there.

I thought we would be like my family of origin. I have three siblings and we had a truly idyllic childhood in almost every way. My mother easily spaced us at two to four year intervals. So it would be with me, I thought. The large small-family of four well-spaced children would be my reality also.

The mind of God is incomprehensible sometimes, I think. We quickly learned we would be welcoming another child soon after our marriage, as we planned. Those plans were wrenched from our grasp when he was lost him in the prime of womb-life, at the age of twenty weeks, five days. I learned I had a condition called incompetent cervix that is little-understood and highly unpredictable. In short, I would be unable to carry a child to term without a surgery to essentially stitch the baby in. During this time of grief and longing for growth we buried our precious son. I was given the gift of a flower by my coworkers. The watering guide said it would grow an inch every day, and bless me with it's life and glory. I thought of how many inches our son should have grown and I wanted to smash the flower to bits. Instead I stared. I ached. I prayed and I waited.

I suddenly found myself a rag doll of a woman like a character I loved as a child, Sally from The Nightmare Before Christmas. I would have to be stitched, then unstitched by a doctor for every baby. Again, we hoped for a child, and thanks to the benefits of modern science we welcomed a gorgeous long-haired baby girl into the world a little over a year after our marriage. My heart began to be healed, while I gazed into her flawless eyes.

I was thankful to be able to exclusively breastfeed, and I naively thought this would be it for a while. She was gorgeous and perfect and the answer to everything. The Lord looked down at the little empty stable and he laughed.

Five months later I was driving to work, and was at a stoplight. I was thinking about our three children. We had one in Heaven, one in grade school, and one nursing. Our hearts were happy. I was feeling great and had gotten my figure back. I was starting to juggle and unicycle again, something I couldn't do while pregnant. I felt strong and healthy.

I suddenly became aware of an involuntary action my mind and hand had taken. My thoughts, I noticed, had floated almost imperceptibly to thoughts of tiny babies. My hand, almost as if it were not my own, was rubbing my stomach. The evening commute home included two stops, one for a Dollar Store test, and one for the Quik Trip bathroom where I sat cussing and crying and wondering how to tell my husband. A couple of days later after I had given him the news, I sat in the doctor's office and witnessed, not a small sac with a heartbeat, but an active, kicking, long-legged little boy. I was in the second trimester and hadn't known I was expecting.

That was my son who, though totally unplanned, healed my heart some more. When he was born I didn't smile in triumph like I did with his older brother or sister. I cried. I had given my husband a son who was not dead.

It had come to pass that less than three years into our marriage, I was the mother of four. One son in Heaven, and three on earth. "For my thoughts are not your thoughts" comes to mind. I could go on about my other kids. Number five, who took away my fear of losing a baby in labor again, who brightens every day with smiles and cheerful songs. Number six, a happy baby and a Star Trek fan who dances to the Next Generation theme and kisses me passionately on the lips the way he sees Captain Kirk do it. Number seven, who ended up having a rare condition called craniosynostosis where his skull fused early. A lot of his skull had to be removed, and he had to be stitched up. He had to be stitched, like me. He was flawed, like me, but could smile and revel in life in spite of it.

My house will never be quiet. Cleaning up spills, putting out fires (literal and figurative), changing diapers, feeding, playing, washing, etc etc etc will be the norm. Will we have more? I don't know. I am glad for a break. It took three months of core work to get strong enough to juggle on my unicycle again, but I did it. I'd be great with no having any more. That's the plan. But just as Psalm 3 speaks to the misery of a burdened soul, "Oh Lord, How are they increased that trouble me!!", so does Proverbs 14 speak of another increase. This is my increase.