Mornings

Most winter mornings my daughter, Ella, is up before the sun. So she and I head downstairs for a morning bottle (for her, not me) and sit in the ugly brown recliner. After finishing off the bottle like a ravenous hobbit, she leans her head back over the crook of my arm, looks at the ceiling and starts to talk. Its like we are two friends sitting on the hood of a car stargazing as we talk about loves and dreams, fears and regrets.

This goes on for a fifteen minutes or so, then Ella squirms to sit up and we play--face to face--for a half an hour or so, while the nearly rising sun casts a pale blue light through the closed blinds into the living room. Then, just a few minutes before Ella goes back down for a nap, I reach behind my right ear and turn the blinds open and the life of morning is revealed right in front of her. I would exchange the rest of my day to spend those five minutes looking at the wonder in her eyes.

For as long as I can remember, I have wished for a disciplined morning "quiet time." It's never worked for me. Our townhouse is full of life in the mornings--Julie is off to work by 6:15, there is the bustling of breakfast in the Benjamin's kitchen on one side, and by the time Brooke leaves for work, Joel is strumming on the guitar to start the day on the other. (There is a familiar comfort in hearing the indistinct banging of guitars through my walls--reminds me of college). But B.E. (before Ella), I was a zombie until about, oh, lunch.

I say that only to say that the morning "devotional" that happens between Ella, God and me each morning blows any expectations I have ever had out of the water. It is worship for me. My heart pours out thanksgiving as I watch the gift in my lap. I understand Love better because of these mornings, and that is as valuable as any of my Bible studies.

Here is the point though: I am struck by how often love and fear are wrapped up in the same moments, the same relationships, the same visions. For each moment I look lovingly on my daughters face, a passing thought reminds me that I could lose her anytime. For all of the beautiful moments between Julie and I, doubt still creeps in. For all the passion I have about my future dreams, it is regularly punctured with fears of inadequacy and disappointment. There is no sure confidence in my love. No absolute trust. It is not Perfect Love.

That is enough for me to chew on for a while.

New Year's Thoughts

I wrote this early on New Year's Day:

It is two hours into the New Year. The aftertaste of the midnight wine is still on my breath, and I just finished watching the Appendices of The Lord of the Rings: The Return of the King straight through. This was our first full day home after being on the road for the last three weeks, and my first day at home since finishing grad school. Even in going out for Taco Bell at 10:00 this evening, I haven’t even gotten out of my new Cat in the Hat pajamas.

About six hours ago Julie came home with a pile of cardboard boxes. They stare back at me as a reminder that life keeps moving. I have 14 days before I fly to Grand Rapids to start my new job, 26 days before we hope to close on our first house, 30 days before we are supposed to move all of our earthly belongings across the Midwest, and 38 days before Julie starts her new job.

Life keeps moving. My baby daughter Ella turned 4 months old 10 days ago, and she discovers something new every day. She is changing before our very eyes—growing and learning. She talks for minutes at a time without using consonants. Her tiny hands clamp down on any bottle that comes in her reach. She sucks her thumb, her fingers, our fingers, and anything else she can get in her mouth. She just started giving her mommy and me full, slobbery, open mouth kisses. And she smiles—all the time. Giggling and squealing at the sight of her parents or toys. My favorite moments right now are when I go into her room to get her up from her nap. I sneak in and peer over the crib—when she sees me, her whole face lights up and she throws her arms up towards her daddy.

This New Year, more than most, seems to be a call for new beginnings for our family. So I suppose it is a natural time for reflection and projection, even if a bit clichéd. Rather than make absurd resolutions that are based on fantastic whims that slip into my consciousness without a hint of historical evidence that I actually have the perseverance and willpower to follow through on them, I have decided to seize the momentum of a growing theme in my life and thoughts in hope that it will continue this trajectory and substantial life change may be realized: There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear .

I hope to spend the rest of the year trying to figure out what this means. I have some initial thoughts, but none coherent enough yet to even type.