Poured from a steady hand

The other day, I sat and rocked my baby for an entire hour. My fifthborn—can you imagine? I just sat, and rocked him.

The big boys were happily occupied at school a few blocks away. The preschooler was pleased to have the play-doh all to himself. The toddler was taking a much-needed nap. And the overtired baby just couldn’t get to sleep.

The appliances were doing my work for me: clothes swished in the washer; potato soup bubbled in one crockpot while yogurt did its magical thing in the other; an oatmeal loaf was rising in the machine.

So I snuggled my nursling under a fleece blanket, and he settled, and sighed, and periodically shuddered in utter contentment. The autumn rain spattered on the panes, and the leaves swirled wetly down in clumps.

I was fighting one of those two-day headaches, which precluded reading, so I listened to the rain, I watched the leaves, I breathed the soft-sweetness of the warm weight in my arms.

And I thought,

My life is impossibly rich.

In that day, in that week, that hour was the eye of a hurricane: a temporary calm bracketed by swirling, buffeting activity that seemed certain to inundate me.

How soon I forget: the raging waters that threaten to overwhelm me spill from my overflowing cup. Sometimes, it feels as though the ludicrous Generosity that poured these blessings upon me was so rashly lavish that the sloshing will never subside. But our Lord is no careless server; His hand is steady. Once, and only once, was the water poured abundantly enough to drown me—so that forever after the waves may hold for me no ultimate fear.

Temporarily overwhelmed by the waves? Often, to be sure. But also—pure grace-gift in odd and unplanned moments—
unexpectedly and heart-swellingly overwhelmed by the impossible richness of this crazy, crazy life.

Bitter hours

How can one both look forward to another white cap in her ark and weep at the same thought?

Well, she can.

One of those things my husband says is, "Don't be more pious than God." God, as it turns out, was a man of sorrows and acquainted with grief. When his soul heaved in Gethsemane, no one told him to quit being so negative, to man up and do what he was born for and be glad about the privilege of being the Savior of the world.

Distress over the cups we are given to drink does not mean that we do not also cherish and cling to the joy set before us. It is only that promise of joy which strengthens us to receive yet another blessed cup of pain and hardship.

So Easter is coming, but Friday is also Good. We do not turn our eyes from the betrayal, the slander, the violence, the shame, the horror. The agony and humiliation? Not even God looked forward to that, not even knowing the full and holy cure it would pour out on eternity.

"If it be possible . . ."--the craziest prayer. As if a child could be born in sin or a world saved from sin without pain. How kind is our Lord to teach us that it's OK to ask anyway. In our Gethsemanes he will watch with us, when others sleep or spit the suffering back in our faces or just don't care.

Joy that a man is born into the world

I come unto Thee with hearty thanks that Thou hast called me to serve a little child unto Baptism and regeneration by water and Spirit. I go now, with joy, in the name and stead of this child, to renounce the devil and all his ways,and with heart and mouth and in true faith to confess Thee, the true God.

How blessed to receive tidings of a baby born healthy and well, a mother safely and mercifully delivered without complication. This week I have the privilege of praying the above words, taken from the "Prayer of Sponsors Before Baptism" from Loehe's Seed-Grains of Prayer. My new niece and intended goddaughter is beautifully named for 58 brave and faithful souls whose ship bore them not across the Atlantic but across the Jordan. They came to a land of perfect worship, far beyond the better worship they sought. God rest them in peace, and her in his promises . . . and her mother in a few months. :)

I will hug him and squeeze him and call him George ...

A sloppily cobbled post on naming just because I feel like it.

So, a rose by any other name may smell as sweet, but we’ll never know because it doesn’t matter. The English word “rose” has come to us through the etymological fires, and thus that certain combination of consonants and vowels will forever conjure that particular flower and its attributes. Frindle the plant to your heart’s content, and still “rose” means “rose.” Words are a comfortingly stable matter in the troubling ink of our anti-matter times, and mostly oblivious to attempts to deconstruct them. Words mean what they mean, and they mean it endlessly. This is really good news.

Given the preponderant significance of even the smallest of words, it is a serious thing that God has privileged Man with the naming of children. Adam received from God authority over all God gave him to name, for to name something is to wrap it in a single, declarative shell; to define its use; to brand it as your own. When man fell, he remarkably retained the privilege of naming; authority bestowed upon created things by our gracious God is not authority soon lost. The queen procured for Adam out of his own royal flesh was defined by her lord after the fall, and the blessing her name held stuck. "Eve" she was called, and "Eve" she remains.

Behold! Even we of the plebeian generations are yet authorized to name our children. And, whoopee! Naming babies is on the top ten of Great Things About Having Kids. I have a mental folder bursting with combinations of names that I hope to use someday: a little Grandpa mixed with a little patriarch mixed with a little venerated saint and—POOF!—a little description of a new little person. Ha, ha! The delicious sensation of power! :D

There was a time when I thought our name selections were so clever, but I’ve since noticed that we’re not at all unique. EVERYONE is going the way of grandpa and the patriarchs, and everyone else is going the other way, still very much together. (HT on the link: Cranach) But, so what? The more Marys we have the better. At the end of the day, I am ever humbled and amazed that my children, these remarkable people placed into my hands, respond to and are defined by the simple words my husband and I were entitled to place upon them when they were born.

And, of course, no naming post would be complete without a Baptism reference. Incredibly, for the sake of Christ, God so loves His elect that He bestows upon them His One True Name, thus wrapping them in a single, declarative shell, defining their use, branding them as his own. Eyes to the skies, friends, even while daydreaming up names for what babies may yet come. Names mean something, and they mean it endlessly. This is really good news.

Gone baptizin'

Our first two babies were baptized in church the respective Sundays immediately following their respective births. It was awful. Getting the baby and my terribly sore self clean and church-ready, ensuring that the baby's belly was full at all the right times and that no one was offended during the process, standing through the lengthy rite, the crowd of well-wishers needing food and a place to go, and pretending that I wasn't about to succumb to hysterical postpartum weeping the whole time were not challenges I had any desire to revisit by the time #3 came around. Furthermore, we never liked the 45 minute drive home with our precious little unregenerate heathen and living nervously with him/her until Sunday.

So #3 was baptized in the hospital 7 hours after she was born. Her godparents were local and were able to attend, the family members we had in town came also, and I watched the whole thing from the relative comfort of my shapeless gown, unwashed hair, and the bed in which it had all gone down. Her baptismal gown was presented as part of the rite. She wore it a few weeks later when the sponsors were enrolled on a Sunday morning at our church and we took home the baptism certificate.

We did the same thing a few weeks ago. The sponsors weren't local this time, but one of them was able to join us over the phone to witness with his ears and say his part. The only family members available were our three other children, accompanied by the nice lady from church who took care of them that afternoon. I don't know when we'll enroll the sponsors this time, and the little dude may well have outgrown the beautiful gown Grandma made for him by the time we get around to it, but I wouldn't ever go back to the old way.

It's an unconventional method at this moment in history, but it is so much gentler on the people who really need it: the baby and the parents. It would probably have been a harder sell to our family on our first baby; lots of them wanted to be there for that baptism (although we wouldn't have put it off if all interested parties hadn't been able to make it). The congregation misses out on witnessing the baptism, which is too bad, but doing it this way demonstrates to them that the baptism itself is much more important than the sentimental contemporary social customs surrounding it. Anyway, the point is, there are options. Your baby's baptism doesn't have to be a horrible strain on you, which is the last thing you need in those early weeks. It's one of the best moments in a parent's life, so don't let it get ruined for you. (Maybe the Gauntlets would like to share the approach they took with their 3rd, too.)