On Perfection

Practice makes perfect.

Is there anything more deeply, utterly false?

Lately, things have been crazy: becoming parents, moving into a new house, struggling to find time for the rest and quiet that our introverted souls crave. Ellis has been sick twice; I got to enjoy an icky 48-hour flu, which basically turned me into a miserable, helpless blob.

And the icing on the bittersweet, lopsided cake: four days after we closed on our house, the basement flooded. Like, bad flooding. Like, rip up all the carpet and pay our entire deductible and thank God we hadn't stored anything in the basement yet flooding. Apparently, tree roots had invaded the pipes--impeccable timing, tree. Thanks a bunch.

But we're human, which means we're no stranger to small losses.

We bought a dining room table on clearance, a little splurge. Beautiful mango wood, with a gleaming surface.

Within a day, we had accidentally scratched up one of the corners.

The next night, I prepared some dinner, a new recipe I was excited to try.

Halfway through, in a fleeting moment of forgetfulness, I tried to pick up a crockpot full of hot liquid--without unplugging it--and sloshed grease and broth all over my hand and wrist. It hurt (a LOT), and the burn still looks terrible; pretty sure there will be some scarring.

Today, I took Ellis for a walk on the first gorgeous day of almost-spring. My heart danced with joy; the sun warmed my face.

Somewhere along the way, I lost one of my favorite earrings, the pair that Phil got me for our anniversary. I spent ten minutes searching, but then Ellis began to fuss for milk, and I was forced to abandon the blue teardrop earring to a limbo of melting snow and wet pavement.

(Picture taken approximately fifteen minutes before my left earring was lost forever.)

And there's more. Oh, so much more. It feels like the past couple weeks have been a litany of small, unimportant, but overwhelmingly persistent disasters. Too many to list. Why does this keep happening? What about all our meticulous planning? Our carefully measured steps?

I'm learning more and more about the temporal nature of this world. Nothing stays perfect; it can't. It's not meant to. We're so fragile in this life--like cars accumulating dents and dings, going into the shop, getting fixed up each time, but everybody knows it's only a patch job. The raindrops keep falling. Pregnancy and childbirth, burns and bruises and wrinkles, scars that fade but never disappear.

Our earthly bodies are not built to last.

And that's why I'm so thankful for the reason God put us on this earth. Perfection is impossible, but it's also not the point. A neat and tidy life, a body without scratches or dents, a house full of spotless furniture like a Good Housekeeping magazine or a Pinterest board--this is not our destiny.

In my weakness, everything becomes clear. There have been so many gifts. My Madison mama coming over to take care of Ellis when I was so sick that I could barely stand. A Sabbath spent lying on the couch in my darkened living room, listening to hymns and my baby's happy squeals, being thankful, being still. My aunt Karen dropping everything to come rescue me, with a special delivery of soy formula and chicken noodle soup and a giant bottle of Gatorade. My parents--already starting the seven hour drive back to Detroit--turning back without a second thought and helping us rip out the drenched, ruined carpet from our flooded basement.

Through all these mishaps, I'm startled by a new sense of clarity. Things happen, and it's okay. I don't need comforting. There was a time when the possibility of permanent scarring would have filled me with dread. When the flooded basement and financial cost would've reduced me to tears.

But despite it all, my body is beautiful, my home is beautiful, my family is beautiful, and my God--He is perfection.

(Love this boy like crazy.)

Someday, I want to think of that one missing earring and remember my first walk with Ellis in our new neighborhood beneath the March sun, all those years ago.

I want to notice the scratches on our old, well-loved table and laugh with Phil about the bottle of wine that just refused to open.

I want to look in the mirror and delight at the scars on my shoulder and (maybe) my wrist, the new shape of a body that has brought forth a little life, the wrinkles and blemishes that come hand-in-hand with the fast, beautiful years.

God, be with us. And let it rain.

Ellis Michael Biller

I am exhausted, and so thankful.

Ellis is here. Phil and I have waited for him for so long, feeling his kicks and wiggles through my belly. We sang to him and read him stories as we lay together on the couch, Phil's head resting on my lap and his words moving through the womb cushioning our little peanut. As I tried to fall asleep each night, tossing and turning thanks to all the discomforts of pregnancy, I felt our baby's hiccups shake my whole middle. Sometimes I laughed, pressing my hands against my watermelon belly--other times I lay still and hoped he would stop soon, so that both of us could get some sleep.

As the due date drew closer, we became excited and (in my case) secretly impatient for labor to start. We wondered what our son would look like, who he would be.

Now he's here, and those words still feel unreal. Our son.

It has been the most amazing month ever--and yet, at the same time, the most difficult. Apparently, even when your baby is born, you don't magically become a super-mom with flawless breastfeeding technique, baby-soothing powers, and the ability to wake up fresh-faced and cheerful on two hours of sleep.

I'm quickly realizing how difficult it is to be a parent, what an insane and time-consuming job it is--the world's most obvious secret. Of course, I knew it wouldn't be easy. I knew it would mean totally abandoning my own desires, putting Ellis's needs before my own.

But until it actually happened, I had no idea how HARD it would be.

(Plus, the postpartum blues are a real thing. I broke down crying because I thought Ellis's bathwater for his first bath had been too cold; I panicked when he got a cold after two weeks, blaming myself, my heart pounding fast with every cough and sniffle.)

But it was all worth it--the morning sickness and heartburn, the wild storm of emotions, the intensity of labor without any pain medications, the stitches and week-long recovery, the jiggly tummy that still remains five weeks after delivery.

It's all worth it still. The miserable first few weeks of breastfeeding, when his latch made me grit my teeth and squeeze my eyes shut against tears. The long nights of sleep caught in desperate snatches--forty-five minutes here, a half hour there. The moments when I'm so tired that I can do nothing except sit and breathe.

Because Ellis was only the size of a poppyseed, a tiny promise, and now he's dozing in his crib.

Because our son has his daddy's nose and his mama's lips, and rock star hair, and the cutest big dark eyes I've ever seen.

Because there is nothing more humbling than knowing that this tiny, sweet baby looks to us for everything--needs us, trusts us, loves us unconditionally.

I pray that, whoever he becomes, wherever he goes, Ellis will always know he is loved--by us, by his grandparents and aunts and uncles, and most of all, by the God of all creation.

And I pray for help and grace in this journey--I'm definitely going to need it. :)