Luke weighed 5 pounds, 9 ounces and was 18.3 inches long. Ben weighed 6 pounds, 8 ounces and was 20 inches long.

Luke is doing well in the Special Care Nursery at Group Health hospital where he was born. He is in an isolette and has a feeding tube and several monitors, but he is healthy and will, we hope, be home in a week to ten days.

Ben has had a rough start in life: he was ambulanced to Children’s Hospital on Saturday morning after developing acute respiratory distress. He had two collapsed lungs, and it took the transport team and the neonatologist at Group Health several hours to stabilize him enough to get him into the transport unit and the ambulance. By the time he arrived at Children’s (a five-minute ambulance ride), his left lung had collapsed again.

When Doug and I arrived at Children’s at 3, the NICU team was inserting yet another shunt in Ben’s chest to siphon air out: his lungs kept developing small tears that allowed air to leak into his chest cavity; the air then pressed on his lungs, causing them to collapse.

By the time we met with the neonatologist, she was almost ready to recommend we take a very scary step in Ben’s care: ECMO, or what I call the scary lung machine. It’s basically an external lung that all of Ben’s blood would pass through to be oxygenated before being returned to his body. Risks include blood clots and internal bleeding, especially in the brain, that could quickly turn into hemorrhages because of the anti-clotting meds Ben would have to be on. I made some phone calls and asked people to pray that this step would not be necessary.

A few hours later, after shift change, the night shift doctor came out and said Ben was not doing well. He recommended we begin ECMO as Ben’s best chance at life. I started to shake. The doctor went to get the consent form.

He came back without it: in the past 20 minutes Ben’s condition had begun to stabilize. The doctor wanted to wait a few hours to see if Ben continued in this direction.

He did.

Though he is still in critical condition, Ben is in a much better place than he was Saturday night, and talk of ECMO has, for the moment, been suspended. In the past 24 hours, he has made huge strides in the direction of healing, and I am convinced it is because hundreds of people are praying for this baby boy. Their prayers are aiding this amazing technology, and though Ben is by no means out of danger and his situation remains precarious, he is, for now, on the path to recovery. Thanks be to God for the prayers of His people, for the technology that makes Ben’s recovery possible, and for the dedicated doctors and nurses at Children’s who are caring for Ben so vigilantly.

And many and heartfelt thanks to all of you who have prayed for the babies’ and my health these past months – and especially for Ben these past days – and to those who have helped me through these past few weeks and the past few scary days by watching Jack and Jane, cleaning my house, and bringing our family meals. May God bless you for your generosity and largeness of heart as you have blessed us.

Even though I know the first few weeks are going to be brutal beyond words, and the first few months won’t be a whole lot better, I’m so uncomfortable and heavy and sleep-deprived already that I can see glimmers of freedom in the postpartum period.

Here, then, in no particular order, are some of the things I’m looking forward to:

Not having this 55-pound beach ball protruding from my abdomen.

Sleeping on my back. Oh, I can hardly wait.

Having usable stomach muscles again.

Not having pain in my sacrum every time I change position.

Being able to pee sitting down. (It’s sad but true: I must squat over the toilet because one of the babies rests his head right on my bladder and nothing comes out if I’m sitting. Given how large my belly is, you can imagine the kind of aim I have. I pity the poor, blessed souls who come to clean my bathroom every week. Of course, they probably think it’s Jack’s mess, and I’m not about to set them straight.)

No more itching!

Being able to walk instead of waddle.

Being able to see my feet when I’m standing on them.

Hot, hot, hot showers.

Breastfeeding (oh please oh please oh please let us be able to breastfeed).

Wearing clothes that fit. (I’ve outgrown all my pregnancy clothes because, really, who is ever 10 months pregnant? They just don’t make them for women as big as I am.)

Calling the twins by real names instead of “Baby A” and “Baby B” (though Doug gets around this by calling them Brendan and Brandon or Sean and Shawn).

Seeing their faces for the first time.

Holding them skin-to-skin.

Being able to let other people hold them.

Watching Jack and Jane grow into their roles as older siblings.

And the thing I’m most looking forward to: simply not being pregnant anymore. Oh what a blessed relief that will be.

Of course, I may see all this a whole lot differently when I’m six days postpartum, bleary-eyed, sleep-deprived, and dealing with raging hormones and bleeding nipples. Then pregnancy might not look so bad after all.

Glorious, I thought. I can lay in bed and read and write and look at magazines.

And the first day was glorious. My husband and kids were camping, so I had the house to myself. I finished a book, started another, caught up on my blog reading, watched two episodes of Lark Rise to Candleford, and wrote a number of posts for after the babies are born when I’ll be too sleep-deprived and hormone-ridden to string a coherent sentence together.

But by Sunday morning, I was so stir-crazy that I went to the first service at my church. When left to my own devices, I never go to the first service. It requires getting up and getting ready by 8:30, and I’d rather lay in bed and read or journal. But I’d spent all day Saturday reading and journaling, and I was sick of being in bed. So up I got, and gladly. When I got home, I was very good, and went and lay down for the rest of the day.

On Monday I started feeling contractions every seven minutes or so and spent two hours in triage being monitored. I wasn’t in labor. Hallelujah!

On Tuesday, when I went in for my non-stress test, my contractions were coming three to seven minutes apart and Baby A (that’s what they call the presenting baby, the one who will be born first) had descended into my birth canal. I spent six hours at the hospital, being monitored to make sure I wasn’t in active labor. I wasn’t. But the doc said to continue to stay off my feet.

So far this week, my mother-in-law and five friends have come to clean my house, watch my kids, cook my meals, do my dishes and laundry, and keep me company; and my parents drove up from California to stay with us in case I do go into active labor soon. I am grateful beyond words.

I am also heartily sick of being waited on hand-and-foot, like some engorged and pulsating queen bee, who lies around gestating while her drones do all the work. It’s humbling, to say the least. Sometimes it feels humiliating.

Last night, I went to a going away party for some friends, where I sat in a reclining chair with my feet up while my friends graciously brought me food and drink, made sure my kids were fed, and kept an eye on them while they played in the yard and the house. I felt very loved and cared for. I also felt like a total energy-sucking schmuck. After all, it wasn’t my party.

I am sure there is a lesson for me in all this, probably several lessons.

I’m just not sure what they are.

I’d told Doug all week that I could swear I felt the babies growing. Turns out I wasn’t making that up. I really was feeling them grow. A lot. Which is of course good for them … and horrible for my back.

Luckily, I still have my baby hugger lift. Of course, it’s only meant to support pregnant women’s bellies until said women actually have their baby, which most women do by the time they measure 40 centimeters. I, on the other hand, still have (I hope, for the babies’ sake) at least two more weeks in which the babies – and my belly – can grow.

I don’t think the baby hugger’s up for it.

On Friday, Doug came into the bedroom while I was dressing. I had on my undies, a camisole, and the girdle part of my baby hugger. He laughed out loud. “I’m going to miss this,” he said.

“Miss what? Mocking me?” I fastened the velcro-and-elastic suspenders under my belly.

“That too.”

I made a sour face at him and pulled the suspenders over my shoulders and down to my belly. It was a bit of a stretch, even for the elastic. When I fastened the suspenders to the girdle, the velcro didn’t hold. The suspenders flew up and hit me in the face.

Doug laughed again. “Yep,” he said, “I am really going to miss this.”

Let’s just say I’m not. Pregnancy is humiliating enough without having to deal with vengeful undergarments.

****

P.S. On a completely unrelated note, over on the fiction page, I’ve posted a new story, “Purple Hyacinth.” I’d love to hear what you think.

Like I soon will be, Carla is the mother of four children – though hers are more than a decade older than mine, which probably explains why she has time and energy to run an organization, speak at conferences around the country and across the globe, keep up with her weekly e-votional, and write a book to boot.

Or maybe that doesn’t really explain anything. Maybe that’s just me making excuses. At any rate, I’d rather let Carla speak for herself – as no doubt, would you.

KCI: So, Carla, please tell us: how do you manage to balance mothering, writing, and speaking?

CM: Before I ever moved into ministry my husband and I prayed. I knew it was vital that I receive God’s blessing. Once this confirmation came I talked with my children. I remember when Carly, our youngest, was 12, I asked if she minded if I was away from home to speak at conferences and retreats. Her reply imprinted a mark on my heart as she said, “Mama, you have to do this because this is what God has made you to be!”

One of the challenges, as well as temptations, is to reverse the order and allow the ministry to become the focus. For me the Lord has to be first and foremost… my husband next… then my children… then ministry. Now that Carly is 16 she comes to most of my events and helps out. It is so much fun! Basically, it is important to follow behind Jesus in ministry and not try to jump ahead of Him. When this is the pattern, the whole family is affected in a powerful way!

KCI: In the Week One introduction, you briefly mention your struggle with depression. As someone who’s lived with depression, I wanted you to say more about this.

CM: Depression. I never thought it could be me. No one else would have thought it either. On the outside, I appeared as the perfect Christian wife and mom. I wore that mask well. No one, not even my husband, knew that behind this veil was a woman gasping for breath to live.

KCI: What triggered your depression?

CM: Order. Organization. Control! The perfect receipt for depression. From the time I can remember, I liked things or my life to be in order. Organization was my middle name. After a few years of marriage and four children the “Out of Control Syndrome” invaded my life.

KCI: How long did it take you to realize what the problem was? What (if anything) was the catalyst for this realization?

CM: Honestly, it was a slow process. When it all came to the surface I was about 35 years old. But, to be honest, the depression had been building up in me over time.

The night before reality hit I couldn’t pray anything but the words, “God, help!” Nothing else would emerge from my lips. At that moment the process of healing began. My yearly visit to the doctor was the next day. After fainting in the examining room, the nurse and doctor said, “We’re going to help you.” Come to find out my adrenal gland was totally shut off which triggered a major hormone imbalance. Physically, I began the road to recovery. Mentally, God began to redirect my pattern of thinking and habits. Spiritually, I realized I am not in control of anything. At that point, my walk with Christ took a different turn. Even now as I type these words tears well up in my eyes as I think of how God’s grace and mercy poured out on me through the words “God, help!”

KCI: How supportive was your family and your community as you walked the road to healing?

CM: God used all of them in my life. My children were too young to grasp what was happening. But my husband carried me through the healing with his prayers, love and support. My parents prayed night and day. Friends brought food, took my children for the day, prayed with me, listened, and more.

KCI: What prompted you to write this study?

CM: After speaking at retreats, events and conference for five years I began to notice a question asked repeatedly: “Carla, how do I learn to see God in my daily life? You share your everyday experiences with us and continually find a spiritual application in it. How do I learn to see things like this?” The birth of this Bible study came from the heart of this question. God is at work around us 24/7. But, sometimes we are so busy with our own agendas we don’t recognize His life lessons.

KCI: What was the most difficult part of writing this study?

CM: The writing and rewriting, editing and rereading process! There were times I thought, “There is no way I can do this again.”

KCI: What was the most fun part?

I absolutely love watching how God puzzles people together to accomplish His purposes! If you have time please read my newest blog entry called “Heart Puzzles.”

KCI: I read Carla’s post, and I agree: all the serendipities and “coincidences” she recounts are really fun.

Carla’s book, Reflecting Him: Living for Jesus and Loving It is a ten-week women’s Bible study. Like Jesus’ parables, which teach by creating visual pictures for the reader, Reflecting Him uses familiar objects and situations (such as our five sense, the rooms of a house, even driving) and draws comparisons to help women become aware of Jesus in their daily lives.

You can read the first two chapters (or weeks) online.

Or you can leave a comment and if Jack-the-random-number-generator picks your comment number, I’ll send you a free copy of the study.

(With sincerest apologies to Dr. Suess.)

On Sunday, as we drove to the hospital (yes, we went to the hospital again on Sunday. It’s a long story, but the upshot was that I spent two and a half hours on the monitors and was sent home feeling like the world’s biggest drama queen.) Anyhoo, as we drove to the hospital, Doug said, “Apparently, we’re really having an impact at church.”

“What do you mean?”

“I talked to Adam Carlisle [not his real name] today, and he and Claire have decided not to have a third child because of us.” Doug laughed.

I rolled my eyes.

This is the third couple who’s told me this. The first was a friend who laughingly informed me that she told her husband about our twins on Friday night. On Monday morning, he scheduled his vasectomy – which he’d been putting off for eight months.

The wife of the second couple really wanted another child, but her husband had been sitting on the fence about it for over a year. When they found out we were having twins, he said there was no way in God’s green earth he was having another child who might turn out to be two children. He leaped off the fence and ran as fast as he could to the doctor’s office.

And now the Carlisles.

Ah, yes. My life has become a cautionary tale.

I wanted to scratch off my skin.

I also wanted a decent night’s sleep.

When I went to my doc last Friday, I asked her if there was something I could do about the itching. She gave me a low-dose Benadryl prescription and ordered some blood work. “Just to rule out a liver disorder,” she said.

Being the hypochondriac I am, you’d think the words “liver disorder” would have freaked me out. They didn’t. Well, okay, they did, for about five seconds. But then I remembered that I’ve sailed through 32 weeks of this pregnancy with no complications, despite my most active imagining of the worst, so I told myself this would be more of the same.

It wasn’t. My blood test came back positive. I have a rather rare condition called cholestasis of pregnancy. My liver is unable to effectively process all the pregnancy hormones in my body, so it’s releasing bile acid into my blood. The acid is lodging in my skin (hence the itching). The real concern, though, is that it will cross over into the babies’ placentas and lodge there, causing stress on their little bodies.

As I read about cholestasis, I got totally freaked out. Understandably, I think. Stillbirth is one of the possible outcomes of this condition. And fetal distress. And hemorrhaging. And preterm labor, for which I’m already at higher risk, simply because I’m carrying twins.

My first thought was, let’s do a C-section and get them out of there. But at 32 weeks gestation, the dangers of prematurity are a much higher risk to the babies than the danger posed by my cholestasis. So they’re staying put…for now.

However, since fetal distress can occur very quickly with this condition, I’m being monitored super closely. I have twice weekly non-stress tests in addition to a weekly appointment with the doctor.

And I have to sit down several times a day and do kick counts – literally counting how many times the babies move in 15 minutes – to make sure they’re behaving normally. If they’re not, it’s to the hospital I go.

On top of all this, I got a call yesterday morning from the nurse at the OB clinic. On Tuesday, I’d had to undergo the indignity of collecting all my pee for 24 hours and storing it in an orange jug in the refrigerator. (Doug thought this was so disgusting, he shivered every time he opened the fridge and saw that jug. For some reason, it didn’t really phase me, and I’m usually the germ phobe.) The doc wanted to make sure I didn’t have elevated levels of protein in my urine, an early sign of pregnancy-induced hypertension (PIH).

I have very low blood pressure and none of the risk factors for PIH, so I was (once more) unworried by this test – until the nurse called and said the urine analysis came back with elevated protein levels and the doc wanted to see me stat. (I begin to think that if I’m not worried, I should be. This is a horrible realization for a hypochondriac. It reinforces my tendency to assume the worst.)

I called Doug and started to cry. I haven’t slept well in nearly two weeks (the itching continues, despite two prescriptions and a topical drug), and I’d already been through an emotional zeitgeist this week, and I’d been at the hospital 5 of the past 7 days, and I was really scared. PIH is nothing to mess with.

After dropping my kids off with a friend, I traipsed back to the hospital for the sixth day out of seven and had another non-stress test (which the babies passed with flying colors) and my blood pressure taken every ten minutes for an hour and a half. The doc came in, asked me some questions, looked at my blood pressure readings, and said we should keep an eye on my protein levels (which means I have to repeat that awful 24-hour urine collection) and monitor my blood pressure at each of my non-stress tests, but for now it appears I don’t have PIH. Hallelujah!

***

In the midst of the yo-yo of emotions that Doug and I have been through this week, we have much to be thankful for, and since it’s the first Friday of the month, I thought I’d share some of those things:

991. Friends who watch my children while I’m at the hospital: Cindy had them for seven hours on Tuesday, God bless her.

992. Both babies are head down, so we’ll be able to attempt a vaginal birth and won’t have to have a breech extraction.

993. Princess parking right in front of the hospital when I was at the end of my rope on Wednesday.

994. Cool weather. (I’m probably the only person in Seattle rejoicing that this was the rainiest June on record.)

995. My friend Susan cleaned my house while she watched my kids on Wednesday.

996. My friend Amy came over and made dinner that night.

997. My friend Karen watched my kids yesterday afternoon on two hours notice when I found out I needed to schlep back up to the hospital again.

998. A fabulous homemade lasagne delivered to our door yesterday – the day this week when I most needed it.

999. I don’t have PIH.

1000. The babies are healthy and big for their gestational age, especially for twins.

First, you should know that over half of my reading, I do with my kids. Of course, the books below are not the sum total of what I read to them. My daughter really likes Disney princess books (can I poke out my eyes, please?), which read like they were written by a committee comprised of reps from the legal department and a hack writer on speed.

Doug finally asked, “Can we declare a moratorium on Disney princess books?” So the next day, when I went to the library and found an inch-thick anthology of Disney princess stories on hold for us, I handed it straight back to the circ desk clerk.

Of course, two days later my mother-in-law came for a visit and brought Jane a two-inch thick anthology of Disney princess stories. She was in heaven. I was…not.

Anyhoo, back to the real books we’ve read this month:

Catwings (and three sequels!) by Ursula K. LeGuin.

These are wonderful short chapter books – each about 50 pages long with a delightful illustration by S.D. Schindler on almost every page. I long for more such books that combine lovely language with stories complex enough for my six-year-old and simple enough for my three-year-old. A tall order, I know. Especially since Jane also wants the pictures.

Farmer Boy by Laura Ingalls Wilder.

We’re working our way through the Little House books. Both kids loved Little House in the Big Woods, which we read in May and Little House on the Prairie, which we finished earlier this month. Farmer Boy is a harder sell for Jane. There aren’t as many pictures as in the earlier books, and she really likes Laura and Mary and doesn’t understand why they’re not in this book. Jack, on the other hand, loves it. He won’t say why, but I suspect it’s because it’s about a boy only a little older than he is.

Skylark by Patricia MacLachlan.

This beautiful story is the sequel to Sarah Plain and Tall, which we read in February, and like Sarah, it has no illustrations. I wasn’t sure Jane would be able to sit through it, but we read it in two sittings, and she did just fine; she even brought it back for me to finish.

***

And here are the books I’ve read or am reading this month:

The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson.

The “autobiography” of a modern-day mystic, this book spans 70 years, weaving its way from present to past and back again. Given the structure of the novel and the long timeline, the story could have been a confusing mess, but Samson keeps it focused and always makes sure you know where you are in both time and place. And she draws such fascinating, compelling characters you just want to keep reading to see what happens to them. A beautiful and captivating read.

Nine Coaches Waiting by Mary Stewart.

Sort of Jane Eyre meets Rebecca, this is a slowly gathering story of suspense and romance, with delicious Gothic darkness hovering over everything.

Now that we all have ADD, I’m afraid they just don’t write them like this anymore, alas.

***

Surprised by Joy by C.S. Lewis.

I’ve long meant to read Lewis’s autobiography, and finally got around to it. Though it has its moments of lovely language and captivating story-telling, it deals too much in generalities. The places it’s strongest are when Lewis recalls specific incidents. I realize it’s risky to take on someone as august as Lewis, but this book is definitely not his finest. I think what keeps it in print is simply Lewis’s name on the cover (she said nervously, looking over her shoulder to see if anyone was coming with a billy club…)

Till We Have Faces, also by C.S. Lewis, and in my humble opinion it’s hands down his best book. Rich, layered, and nuanced, symbol piles upon symbol in this story until it’s impossible to unravel. You simply read it and are amazed that anyone could write such a compelling story with such deeply nested and almost unsearchable symbolism. I am in awe.

Here, then, are the top ten reasons I love my guy:

10. He farts openly. This is very important. I grew up in a home where bodily noises were a normal part of daily life, but once I got to kindergarten I learned quickly and humiliatingly that such noises were taboo in front of other people. As I got older, I wondered often if I would ever feel as comfortable and unembarrassed with a guy (especially a guy I was dating) as I did with my family of origin. Well, I do. In fact, we are so comfortable and unembarrassed about bodily noises around here that Jane calls us the Tooter MacGruder family.

9. He loves to cook and bake. This, too, is very important because I love to eat. And I really love to eat food that someone else has prepared.

8. He’s a geek. With cool glasses. I’m not sure what it is about smart men in hip glasses that is so darn sexy, but there it is.

7. He laughs easily and often, and his laugh is contagious.

6. A corollary to #7: he thinks I’m funny. Seriously. I make him laugh on a daily basis. You have no idea how healing this is for a girl who grew up believing herself to be a little dark storm cloud.

5. He is interested in other people. I love the way he’s always bringing me stories about some guy he met who’s passionate about motorcycles or computer code or surfing or whatever. I get lots of great material and a glimpse into others’ lives because of my husband’s curiosity.

4. He is thoughtful, in all senses of the word. He anticipates others’ needs and tries to meet them. And he thinks deeply about ideas, issues, and especially his faith.

3. He believes in me. He believes in my writing and encourages me to use my voice. And he has never once made me feel bad about being a financial drain on our family. My writing “career” has cost us a fair amount of money over the years, but he believes in me and my writing enough to be willing to make that sacrifice. He even calls it an investment.

2. He is a great dad. I love watching him interact with our kids. He is patient and kind. He expects a lot from Jack and Jane, but he also gives them the tools they need to do what he expects of them.

And the number one reason I love my husband:

1. He loves me. I still think it’s little short of miraculous when the people you love love you back. And when they’ve seen you at your worst and still love you – well, that is a miracle.

Underneath that was a pink construction paper heart and the words, “Congratulations Kimberlee and Doug!”

Doug laughed. He thought it was hilarious, the kind of thing you’d see after the end of an article in Reader’s Digest. I laughed, too, but only with my mouth. In my heart, I was terrified. I was sure I’d been found out. Someone knew.

They knew I wasn’t marriage material (whatever that is), that I was a liar and a hypocrite, that I was only pretending to be someone normal and functional and okay, someone who could be a loving partner in a marriage.

But I plastered a smile on my face and posed with my laughing soon-to-be husband for a photo next to the readerboard. I was pretty good at pretending I was okay even when I was not, and I wasn’t about to let on that it scared me that someone knew that about me.

Ten years later, I look back on that girl, and I want to give her a big hug. I want to tell her, “You aren’t as screwed up as you think you are” and “Relax. It was an innocent faux pas. No one was sending you a secret threat message.”

But it wouldn’t have mattered. That girl was determined to see herself through the critical eyes of the men at the Belvedere Tennis Club and through the even more critical eyes of their catty, mean-spirited wives. As Doug said to me during that first year we were married, “You won’t believe the nice things people actually say about you, but you believe all sorts of mean things nobody ever said.”

But somebody did say those mean things. Me. And the little chorus of critical voices I carried around in my head and projected onto almost everyone I met.

However innocent a faux pas those words on the readerboard were, they were also prophetic. Love really does cover a multitude of sins. It’s taken ten long years, but the dailiness of living with my husband, of living in the circle of his love for me, of slowly coming to see myself through his loving eyes instead of my own critical ones—this has transformed me.

Oh, the tennis club men and their nasty wives are still around, but I don’t listen to them quite as much these days. I tend to laugh when I mess up instead of freaking out that someone is going to find out and I’ll be a pariah. I’m more likely to own up to mistakes instead of hiding them or verbally flagellating myself for them. And I’m way more likely to tell the truth about who I am than hide behind a fake smile or a misrepresentation or even an outright lie.

It’s a process, of course, and I still have a long way to go on this journey into love and trust. But I am so grateful to my husband for loving me faithfully, even when I am unlovable, for walking with me these past ten years, for holding my hand and covering me with his love when I am scared and insecure, when I’ve made mistakes and even when I’ve lied about it.

Love covers a multitude of sins.

Love makes us beautiful and worthy and wonderful in the eyes of those who love us.

And love, more than anything else, sees truly.