Sarah Anne I Am

5:59am   I wake up and look at the clock. WHY. WHY AM I AWAKE? This is ridiculous. Whatever. I go to the bathroom, because I'm pregnant, so odds are I need to. During the forty-five seconds that takes, Judah starts crying. Touche, internal mama alarm clock, touche. I DO need to be awake.   Judah is a snotty, congested, crying mess. Fortunately, The Solution To All Things (his pacifier) is relatively easy to find in his crib. I mentally take his temperature- is he too cold? He might be too cold. I carry him to our bed, where Arthur is asleep, blissfully unaware that our firstborn might be a little bit too cold. I tuck the comforter around Judah and hand him his water cup. The next four minutes consist of Judah eating two-thirds of a banana, drinking some water, and going back to bed. I eat one bite of granola bar and go back to bed as well. 9:03am   I wake up and look at the clock. Praise Jesus. I listen- Judah is not crying. Judah is not talking, bouncing, or banging on

  A week ago Judah nursed for the last time, and the ensuing wave of hormones that has engulfed me as my body rapidly shifts gears has been a bit overwhelming. But amongst the many emotions, one has stood out above all the others: Gratitude.   I am so incredibly thankful to have been able to nurse my son for fourteen months, especially considering that I was pregnant for the last four months. It has been a greater blessing than I anticipated to have to opportunity to feed my child so naturally. And as thankful as I am for this experience, not every step has been easy.   Judah was born knowing how to nurse. He was an expert right away. Unavoidable pain of learning to nurse aside, I am exceptionally fortunate to have a child who never struggled with his latch, never needed to be coaxed to eat. We had the opposite problem: He was ravenous. Like, CRAZY ravenous, all the time.   For the first few days of his life he nursed every two or three hours like a good little newborn, and jus

  Oh, hi there. No, I didn't fall off the face of the earth, I'm still here. It's just been three and a half months since I posted anything...that's not embarrassing at all.   In my defense, it's been a busy three months. I've INTENDED to blog about a hundred times (okay, like six times) but never managed to get around to it. So let me bring you up to speed really quickly.   My husband's family visited us from South Africa! Hurray! Lots of family time was had, lots of pictures were taken, lots of memories were made. It was wonderful.   Then we did one solid, jam-packed week of ministry together as a family. I count Judah's sacrifice of normal naptimes as his contribution to ministry, yes. Totally valid.   Then I had a minor emotional meltdown (more on that in a second) and my wonderful, patient husband was like "Alright, we need a vacation." So we went to the beach for a week and just...were. We took it easy, spent hours by the sea,

  This is like the sixth time that I've tried to write a post in response to an article that I read online. In the past, I've never actually posted anything, because I get so worked up about the topic that my indignation removes my ability to properly form sentences.   And I was about to try again, because I am sick and tired of the way my generation views adulthood, marriage, parenthood, careers, finances, and...well, just about everything. Our entitlement makes me sick. Our selfishness knows no bounds. I am embarrassed to tell people that I'm twenty-three, because of the immature, irresponsible, self-centered lifestyle that is so glorified and promoted by many people my age. I have spent the past ten years of my life trying to prove my birthdays wrong.   But what will another drop in the massive bucket that is the (ugh) "blogosphere" really do? Maybe a little. Maybe a lot. Honestly, with an unpopular viewpoint like mine, maybe nothing. And as I was despairing,

  Three years ago yesterday I met a man BETTER than the man of my dreams. It wasn't love at first sight, it was "Hmm...maybe" at first sight, and the love followed shortly thereafter.   I remember the moment I met him. It wasn't a lightning bolt moment. The earth didn't stand still while all the birds sang a shining rendition of Beethoven's fifth, or anything like that. But I do remember.   There are lots of little moments like that that stand out clearly in my mind: Shaking his hand. Sitting across the hall from him while he played guitar. The conversation in which I "casually" mentioned wanting "like" twelve kids, and he said that sounded awesome, because he is polite, but I took it to mean that he'd be down with actually literally being the father of twelve children. (Note: We currently do not plan on having that many babies. Stop panicking.)   But before I get into all of the beautiful ways that God worked in the beginning

   Yesterday afternoon someone walked into Seattle Pacific University and began firing a gun. You've probably heard about it by now. There are countless articles flying around the internet, and the reason I am choosing to share this is simple: It is so full of hope.   What you are about to read was written by a young man named Ben Higashi. He is a student at SPU, and his words moved me to tears. He chose to share his experience throughout the events of yesterday afternoon, and I am so thankful that he did, as his perspective of clear, Christ-centered hope is a refreshing one in the light of genuine tragedy.   I am sharing these words with his permission. _____________________________________________________________________________________________ The SPU Shooting   I have so much to say and no idea where to start. When I first heard the news, when I was told we were in lockdown, I didn’t know what to expect. We’d been in lockdown before; it had just been a holdup at the 7

   At 5:56pm my little family was in our not-totally-clean-but-passably-clean kitchen. My husband stands at the stove cooking chicken, our baby is army crawling around on the floor with his toys, and I am making coffee- because, you know, we're parents. And being parents means we drink coffee anytime we actually need to be around people, and/or capable of coherent speech, and/or in an upright position. It was relatively peaceful, or at least relatively quiet. And then I looked at the clock.   It is always a bad idea to look at the clock. I think of clocks much like a Glade air freshener that automatically releases scent when you walk in a room, except clocks automatically release cortisol into my bloodstream when I look directly at them.   "It's four minutes to six."   These were the words that sprang us all into action- Arthur heading out to church, I packing the diaper bag with baby food and grabbing a sweatshirt, Judah utilizing the 47 seconds I was gone to s

Every once in a while there is a night when I am up far too late (ok, that part is pretty frequent) and something just hits me in the gut. It is usually something that saddens me deeply. It is usually something out in the world that I have no control over, something that is wrong, something that I wish I could right. Tonight it is no large thing. There is no catastrophic tragedy weighing on my heart tonight. It is just little things. Two little things hurt tonight, inconsequential though they may be. The first is a poor choice of words. Someone referred to Christ's sacrifice as empathetic- it may be unintentional, or an attempt to put a new spin on the way we perceive Jesus, but there is no need for a new spin. "Empathetic" hardly does my Savior's perfect sacrifice justice. Empathy is passion, emotion. But the Bible says Jesus went to the cross because He LOVED us, and the Bible describes love as a choice. The perfect God of the universe CHOOSING to LOVE us in our

  Yesterday morning I woke up with an admirable amount of ambition.   Ok, I thought to myself, Let's do this! I'll take a quick shower, get us both dressed and fed, and we'll get out the door! We'll visit the midwife, take Chloe coffee, pick up prescriptions...that will still leave us plenty of time to come home, fold laundry, bake cookies, and make dinner before we head off to Life Group! And then reality struck.   I look back on yesterday-morning-Sarah the way one might look at a child who says they want to be a dinosaur when they grow up: Aw, that's sweet. They actually think that's possible.   Nothing on my to-do list got done. Instead, I spent my day trying to trick my son into going to sleep. He's teething again, and it's worse than before- and somehow, the sweet escape of sleep has become his greatest enemy. Where three days ago my child would lay down in his crib and go peacefully to sleep, now he looks at me suspiciously just for carrying h

  When I was about eleven years old I went to summer camp for the first time. Before my sister and I left, my mother talked to us about something. She explained that we needed to mindful of our behavior at camp, not only because it is important to be kind and respectful, but also because we would be a representation of both our family and Christ to the people around us. That stuck with me.   Now, with so many of us daily browsing and posting to social media sites such as Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, Instagram, and blogs such as this, our representation is no longer limited to the people we are around in person- it is far-reaching, even global at times. It is certainly a far more widespread representation of yourself to post on the internet than it is to say something in person; on the internet, the dozens or hundreds of people you are connected with may see it. That is an enormous audience.   I feel very strongly that we need to be mindful of that audience, of that representation,

When I was a little girl, just old enough to have outgrown taking a nap each day, my mother began something called "quiet time." It was exactly what it sounds like- just a period of time each afternoon when I was to sit on my bed and be...quiet. My Mama would turn off the light and draw closed the curtains, close me bedroom door, and leave me so that SHE could have some quiet time as well. I was allowed to read or play on my bed, but it had to be done quietly. Well here I am, a mama myself. I am sitting in the car which is parked outside out apartment. We have been here for a half an hour or more. My sweet son, exhausted from a morning of hissy fits and meltdowns, is sleeping in this carseat on the backseat. So as not to disturb the nap that he is FINALLY taking, we sit here, quiet. I don't mind. I am loving this quiet moment myself, forcibly shut away from the dishes that need to be washed, the laundry that needs to be folded, and the dozen other things in my home th

I am lying awake in bed at 4am as I far too often do nowadays, and my mind is full. I found myself feeling torn about something I did not expect, and as I began to examine my heart and search out the root of this feeling, I found an unpleasant surprise. The culprit of my problem was not an unfamiliar one. Like so many things I have noticed in myself lately- and really, throughout my life- it was simply a matter of pride. My pride is an ugly beast. It rises up to greet me from dark corners of my heart that I wish did not exist. While I am a new creation, constantly being transformed, continually being sanctified...still, with sad frequency, I stumble. For me, that stumbling often looks like pride. I have no excuse. I am not pretending that this ugly beast overtakes me against my will. No, I have a choice in the matter. And I choose it. That is the truly tragic part - not only am I prideful, I CHOOSE to be prideful. I choose to give in to the temptation to think far too much of myself, t

   Our little family moved into this sweet, two-bedroom townhome two months ago, at the beginning of November. When we moved, my goal was to be all settled in by Thanksgiving. We were not. So my new goal was to be all settled in by Christmas. We weren't by then, either.   So my NEW new goal is this: I am going to pace myself. I will try to get a little done every day...and I will be satisfied with the little. Even if it takes me a month of Sundays to get one closet organized, I will not fret. I will not (anymore) go to bed stressed and overwhelmed by something as inconsequential as a closet, nor will I (again) stay up till four in the morning organizing that closet.   Progress is progress. Even if it is just a little progress, it is still progress. Even if that progress looks like things getting messier before they can get cleaner, it is still progress. ANY progress is progress!    There is a trick I discovered when I was 38 weeks pregnant. As I was eagerly (read: impatientl

  When I decided to start a new blog several nights ago as I lay awake in bed, I debated what to call it.   I used to use the name Turns Like The Ocean- I was young, and tumultuous, full of emotions and dreams. But I am not that girl anymore. I am more grown up, I have more self-control, I am more dependent on the Lord and less tossed about by the world.   My previous blog was called The Abstract of Me. A friend suggested it when I was fifteen, because I was really into abstract art, and really...well, weird. I was weird. And I loved it, I embraced it; I was proud of how unique and strange and unexpected I was. And while I am still proud of being unique, I am not so much that girl anymore, either. I am softer, gentler- maybe not soft or gentle, but not as bizarre as I once was.   So I began to think about who I am NOW. I have changed so much in the past three years that at times I hardly recognize myself. All of the change has been good, very good! Yet I feel I am getting to know my