This season has brought lessons of fear and faith. I’m  learning that the two— much like fear and courage— actually can coexist. I had previously thought they couldn’t. As if, only once you’ve rid yourself of fear, then you can have faith. But I guess that’s like saying only once you rid yourself of judgment, then you can be kind. I think life’s about living in tension with a lot of both, not or. Not knowing and moving forward anyway. Not being perfect but loving anyway. Being scared and doing it anyway.

This past year in Tennessee has been one of growth—of finding patience I had never imagined, of collecting joy in places I hadn’t expected to find it, of learning to be brave and to venture out to see and be seen, of showing up before I’ve got it all figured out, of digging deep to learn who I’m becoming and of finding ways to be intentional every day.

Just barely over a year after we got here, we face the possibility of another relocation. Really it’s more than a possibility— a when rather than an if. I think we’ve done our best to grow roots in shallow soil, but I also think we’re ready for the soil to start getting a bit deeper.

In the midst of this, even as we can’t clearly see three days in front of us,
we are delighted to be expecting our third child.

After our loss last fall, for the first two months of this pregnancy I lived in breathless denial. Always waiting for a negative sign, always expecting the end. And despite my lack of faith and prominence of fear, here I am at 15 weeks pregnant, with a growing belly and lots of commentary from our ecstatic little girls, like Mirabella's clinical questioning, “Mommy, I’ve been wondering this for a long time...how does the baby come out, anyway?” or Emerie's reassuring announcement of,  “Mommy, I will love you no matter what your hair looks like. Or even when your belly gets big. Or no matter what your body parts look like.”

We’re growing, in just about every way possible. We’re unsure where we’re going. So we mark milestones for our growing children and marvel over the miracle of this other life we’ve been given.

We go puddle jumping and learn to laugh in the face of questions that don’t yet have answers. We thank God for the beauty and provision of right now, this day. We love each other and our new friends; we share our food and our space; we pray and we wait for everything to happen in what feels like perfectly imperfect time. We practice having faith through the fear.

Recently we took a vacation with my parents and siblings. I tried to make it a real break-- from focusing on the uncertainty surrounding our next potential move, from wondering where my kindergartener will be going to school next month, from e-mail, from Facebook and (quite obviously) from writing.

We rested, we played, we ate, we laughed; I read an entire book, cover to cover (and started another). We tried to slow down our time together, as it is never long enough and always too far between. We drank in these visions of our growing daughters, sheer joy and amazement over their new found abilities to swim in a crystal clear sea, to rescue clams and minnows from untimely deaths, to play miniature golf and to make friends with just about any child, anywhere.

Our girls relished unscheduled time with their aunts, uncles and grandparents. I soaked in being known and accepted, regardless of my choices or moods, by people who know me-- who've always known me-- and choose to love me and my little family. We were so very sad to say good-bye. I think one of the worst parts of living far from family is not knowing the next time you'll see each other.

Daniel had to leave mid-week overnight for work and surprised us by making it up to us with an extra day. Instead of heading home Saturday, as planned, we cashed in some of his (copious) hotel points. We wandered along the Gulf coast, stopping wherever we felt like it. I'm not sure why, but we don't have days like that. It was one of my favorite days the four of us have had (aside from Emerie's embarrassing and attention-grabbing meltdown in a densely populated area in Sandestin. I could've done without that).

Coming home has been a bit of a letdown, for everyone but Emerie, our little homebody. The worries are where we left them, only there are fewer days separating us from decisions, those made for us and those we will make.  We couldn't have been more grateful for this respite, the recharging, and the time together. Time away with our loved ones reminds me that these issues are blips. Our location matters, our decisions matter, but they're not everything. We already have all that we need.

Breathing in, breathing out, the salt in my mouth
Gives me hope that I’ll bleed something worth bleeding out
                                                   --The Lone Bellow, Bleeding Out

Before I became a mother, and before I started getting older, I had never given much thought to the nature of beauty. I knew I could see it in a variety of colors, shapes, sizes and ages. I knew I had seen it in the face of a baby, of my mother, and of my grandmother. Of course I knew it was easier to see and accept in others than in myself, but I had heard it said about me, and sometimes I had even seen it.

When I had my daughters—my second one in particular—I found myself giving more consideration to beauty, what comprises it, and how to talk about it. Now over thirty and the mother of two, my body doesn’t look the way it did before, and mostly I don’t give it more thought than it deserves. As I’ve aged I’ve embraced eating and exercising for health—not appearance or weight—and I am able to focus on that. But my face doesn’t look like it did before either, and that’s been much harder.

After I had Emerie, I developed melasma, hyperpigmentation of the skin often caused by hormonal changes and made worse by the sun. I’ve seen an aesthetician, had facials, and tried countless over-the-counter products and natural concoctions to get it to go away. In many women, it fades when their pregnancy is over or they are finished nursing. But mine is still going stronger than ever 2 ½ years after all that. There are more drastic steps—harsh prescriptions and laser treatments—but they are expensive and I’m not at a point that I’m ready to take them. So now I look for heavy makeup to cover it up. This condition has made me resentful, because it causes me to focus more on my appearance than I have before. Though I’ve always worn makeup, I typically favor a natural look. Now I don’t go anywhere without makeup. The idea of camping or swimming (an activity I love) makes me cringe. These splotches on my face have challenged everything I ever said about beauty and confidence and how they both come from inside.

Except they can’t. Trying to raise two little girls into strong young women is not easy, especially surrounded by messages that tell them their appearance is the most important thing. My children listen to the words I say; I know because they repeat them to unsuspecting strangers all the time. But more than that, I know they watch what I do. Lately I’ve been fielding questions about appearance. We talk about how beauty comes from who we are, not what we look like. When someone we love calls herself fat, we talk about how some people are big and some people are small and all people are valuable and worthy of love. We talk about all the things our bodies do for us and how grateful we are for them, no matter what they look like. When we see someone who looks different than we do, we talk privately about the differences and how we don’t comment on people’s appearances; we just show them kindness and love. We talk about how God made everyone, how He doesn’t make mistakes, and how everyone is beautiful.

All of this makes sense to me, especially when focused on others. But when the focus turns inward, it’s harder and maybe even more important to my children's development. As we prepared to go to the pool one day, I sighed and applied concealer to my forehead, knowing my efforts were futile. Mirabella watched me in the mirror.

“Mommy, when you put that stuff on your face, I can hardly see your spots,” she said, innocently.

I hadn’t even known she had noticed them before. “You know,” I winced, “I didn’t always have these spots. I got them after I had Emerie. Sometimes our bodies change when we have babies or get older.”

“Huh,” Mirabella said, watching every move.

“Do you think I’m still beautiful, even with the spots?” I asked her.

“Of course you are,” she replied quickly, “because you’re my mommy.”

As they often do, my children remind me that I would do well to apply the acceptance, kindness, forgiveness and love I teach to myself.  This modeling might be more instrumental in the way they regard themselves than anything I could ever say.