Which title is supposed to be a clever pun for my made-in-May update.

I am sitting at the kitchen table to write this while the children take their afternoon naps. My hair is loose down my back–a pleasantly relaxed feeling for someone who usually wears it up. I am wrapped in two sweaters and a blanket despite the fact that it is a beautiful sunny day outside and seventy degrees. Isn’t that ridiculous? Ivan would certainly think so. He often pokes good-natured fun at my mostly chilly body temperature. Or is purely disposition? I like feeling cozy.

Regardless, Ivan is the opposite. He’s always hot. He kicks off everything but the sheet in bed, while I take my warm fuzzy underneath the sheet, so I will be cozy. One foot under the fuzzy, one foot poked out to touch Ivan without making him hot. We like that small friendly touch when we sleep–still there and communing, but space, too, on each side.

And there, that is everything you didn’t need to know about our sleeping arrangements.

I talk about these things because it is easier than talking about the big things. Like will I ever figure out how to make my back stop aching? And how do two different people in a marriage learn to communicate and love each other well? How does one navigate being a one person (yourself) while being a two person (yourself in an intimate married relationship) while also being a birth person (a mom who carries in her body her entire life-long the tiny fibrous roots of her offspring)?And what is the proper balance between honest but negative talk about people and institutions versus seeing and appreciating the good in both people and institutions? Which is also honest…but is dwelling mostly on the good glossing over legitimate concerns or creating a false life? And is it ever okay, according to New Testament teaching, for someone to divorce their partner and marry another? And if one decides it’s always wrong–since Jesus said to do so is to commit adultery–what does repentance from divorce and remarriage look like? Does it look like separation from your second partner, or does it look like staying faithful to the commitment where you now find yourself? And is close communion possible or desirable between church members who feel differently on this issue–or other doctrinal issues? And will I ever feel completely at home and completely natural in a church and community so far and so different from the place I grew up? And where does a person ever find time to think around here?

Instead of these big things, I write about small things. They are easier. The sun shines on the pine tree outside the window. The wind moves its branches, speaking in that mysterious, adventurous wind languages that lets us know it has visited far-away places and seen far-away things. A chickadee hops spraddle-footed; a sparrow alights with blurred wings. My heart opens and drinks–each small thing a miracle.

Who is to say that a foot touch in bed is not, after all, the really big thing? It is these tiny things that make up a life. Each tiny impression creates a reality–a feeling of well-being, a feeling of harm. From these realities we spin our existence.

Teddy cries. I will get him, read him a story and then–if he allows me–I will add pictures to this post.

We were in Iowa to visit Grandma Dorothy recently. She is still a good grandma.

And this daddy is a good daddy. He got Teddy to sleep on the plane when I was at my wit’s end as to what to do with him. (And yes, there was puke and scream-crying involved.)

We also visited my family and were honored to be present at my nephew Onyxy’s adoption. His parents were asked some big questions, like: “Can you provide for all this child’s physical, mental, and emotional needs?” “Do you fully understand all the implications of this adoption?”

Maybe many of us as parents think about questions such as these, worry about them…but we’re not forced to put them in black and white and say yes to them. And who could say yes honestly? Who of us can fully meet our child’s every need or completely wrap our minds around what caring for this child will bring us? I didn’t cry, listening, but I felt like it.

Here is the group of us in the courthouse gathered to support Benny, Tricia, Onyx, and the rest of their sweet little family in the center.

The May world is beautiful.

Teddy is my little boot boy, and I am loving being outside more than I ever have in my life, seeing him enjoy it.

Don’t you love the big sisterly pose below? She’s turning his face to the camera for the picture. ;)

Here’s a photo of Teddy by a window.

And a throwback of Annalise by a window when she was close to the same age Teddy is now. It was too cute; I just had to share it. :)

In closing, an excerpt from the family journal:

May 3, 2025

The other day when I was changing him, Teddy grabbed his balled up dirty diaper and threw it. “Ball!” he said.

The post May I Say Hello? appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

This post was first published in Anabaptist World.

We recently bought a neglected house in town to use as a rental—a property foreclosed on and sold cheap after its owner died. So now we are left with the task of sorting through piles of “junk” once valued by someone.

I sort through a box of photo remnants of a life. Black and white photos of a schoolboy and schoolgirl in various stages. I wonder if these are the boy and girl who grew up into the man and woman who married, whose marriage covenant I found framed large. If so, he died first. There was only an old woman living here at the last, an old woman who must have needed the ramp and the wheelchair and the plastic storage cabinet full of medical supplies.

She’s left other records behind. A girl’s—maybe a daughter’s—perfect attendance record. A certificate for a CPR class. A certificate of divorce. What I guess to be a son and daughter looking slightly unnatural in too-dressy clothes and gummy smiles.

I wonder why these records of a life were not treasured by family. Do they not care about such quiet old things? Are their lives too full of podcasts and talk show hosts and work? Was there a breach in the relationship? Or were the pictures simply overlooked?

Here, this fresh young face. Is this a granddaughter? And this, a grandson? Pictures show the daughter reaching adulthood, but what happened to the son? Did he die? Leave the family? There is a book about grief here. Here a motto, birds flying, commemorating a Stephanie who’s flown. I remember a child’s artwork, signed Stephanie, among the collection. And here, what’s this? A letter from a correctional institution addressed to Mom.

What heartbreak lies folded among the remnants of this life, heartbreak along with smiling faces, records of accomplishment, sweet cards from friends.

And here am I, a stranger, conjecturing. Looking at the photos not so much because I am morbidly curious but as a mark of respect. I do not want to briskly throw the last records of living and being away, along with flaccid pillows, outdated tins, moldy books.

There is too much of everything in this house. Too much bagged, boxed, stored and unused. Gone moldy. Maybe a record of a thrifty soul caught in bounty. Or maybe the record of an old woman who didn’t have the ability to get down the basement stairs anymore, to sort and discard herself.

Who knows what things I have saved that later eyes will look at impatiently (why on earth?) and toss into a dumpster.

That is why I am afraid to confide too much even in a journal—who knows what those later eyes will unearth? The words will probably be shoved in a box, deleted from a file, burned, forgotten…but what if they are not? I am listening to a biography of Elizabeth Elliot, based on her piles of journals. “Things nobody cares to read but me,” she wrote in one of them. But I am listening to excerpts from those journals. I care.

What if, years later, someone who cares reads my records of birth, death, and emotion and finds things I would not have told them? Or what if, years later, no one bothers to read?

Which would be worse?

I’ve heard people say that writing can impact others for years to come. Maybe. But words are cheap. Amazon and the internet are inundated. When I think of the people who have most impacted my life, I don’t think of a person faceless behind a book. I think of my mom and dad first. Their unconditional love, their willingness to listen. Then I think of others. An older couple who mentored me. A friend who loved me wholeheartedly. Our children’s adopted “grandparents” at church.

Written words are almost meaningless compared to the impact of one ordinary life lived.

I am fascinated, captivated by ordinary life.

Ivan walking into the house, his loping gait. Sunlight on pine needles. Blocks scattered across the floor. Teddy making broom broom noises with his tractor—how does he know to do that? He’s just turned a year, and I never showed him. My daughter’s warm head, hair under my cheek, long lashes fanned down.

The present your children want most is your presence, I read recently. That is why I call Annalise when it’s time to set the table, do the dishes, work on a jigsaw puzzle. Often it would feel easier and more enjoyable to do it myself—but I want her friendship and company when she is fifteen, so I court it now, when she is three.

The things we leave behind. The moldy books and flaccid pillows will be thrown into a dumpster. Other things remain.

***

Feature photo by Margarita Marushevska on Unsplash.

Wishing you all a good month. And check back mid-May for a family update. :)

The post Remnants of a Life appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

After I posted last, Ivan told me I should make it a point to post every six or seven months. LOL!

“I thought I’d post at least once a month,” I told him. For a person who used to post once a week, I thought that already quite a come-down.

He thought once a month sounded unrealistic, but I think I can. Maybe not long posts, maybe not profound. But a post, near the first of the month, sharing a little about me and what I am thinking and of course, the children. And yes, I did miss the first of April, but I’m sliding in near the end. I’ll try to be more faithful after this. :)

Sometimes I will also share articles I’ve written for Anabaptist World…I have several in the files. So look for one of those around May 1st.

For now, here’s a couple of my favorite recent pictures, with commentary, followed by a favorite excerpt from our family journal.

Ivan had a birthday! And spoiler alert…he turned 49. He is ten and a half years older than me…a distance that felt like quite an adjustment at first. But now, I’m cool with it. It’s part of our uniqueness, and I love that we’re unique. To celebrate, we hung balloons and streamers and had birthday pie. Of course, the children helped blow out the candles.

I’m very proud of this vegetable train. I was going to make it for a party, but the party cancelled, so I made it anyway. A great way to get the children to take an interest in veggies, and quite easy to make. ;)

I love the feature photo at the top of this post: the epitome of summer. And I love the warmer days we’re having. And I love having two children to play in them. Teddy is my little boot boy, and Annalise spends so much more time outside, now that she has someone to play with.

It gives me all the warm fuzzies to see them interact in positive ways. Of course there’s a lot of spatting too. Funny thing is, when Annalise gets in trouble and has to sit somewhere, Teddy faithfully comes and hangs out beside her. The other day, I sent her away to look at a book, leaving him with the coveted toy…and he lost interest as soon as she’d gone and trotted in beside her and squatted down with a book, too.

“You’re my best friend and I love you so much!” she can often be heard to say. (While giving him an overly enthusiastic hug which I have to cut short to prevent him squawking.) Such are the joys of a sibling.

April 14 (an excerpt from the Kinsinger Family Diary)

Last night I was sad & sat with Ivan’s arms around me and cried. Annalise came over & in such a soft sweet voice said, “It’s okay. What’s the prollem?” She gently patted me & said, “Should I get you a blanket?” & brought me a soft fuzzy one. She is a very, very good comforter. :) Teddy also came over and gave me a couple of big open-mouthed kisses. Both children so sweet.

Until May,

Luci

The post Hello in April appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

Well over a year ago, in December 2023, I began a blog post like this:

“Many of the best gifts in my life have been unexpected, and Theodore Jonas Kinsinger, born November 7, 2023, was no exception. He weighed in at 4 lbs 3 oz, was 16 inches long, and arrived almost 8 weeks before my December 31st due date. He is a gift beyond measure, but nothing like my carefully laid plans and deadlines anticipated. You haven’t heard from me on this blog because in the three weeks following his birth…”

And there the written part of post ends, followed by a string of pictures I uploaded that day and never put words to.

Today I will finish that post. And I will attempt to explain a little bit why I didn’t finish it earlier.

Ivan and I recently tried to name a major event for every year since our marriage (“the year Annalise was born, the year your dad died” etc) and the description we came up with for 2024 was “the year we were tired all the time.” Crazy what one little gastro-intestinally challenged baby can do to you. Besides the stress of caring for Teddy, we were also working through difficult decisions and emotions–decisions and emotions that have not been completely resolved yet, and so I won’t talk about them.

But I will talk about Teddy, my bright-eyed, giggly, wiggly, amazing little boy. Before he was born, I was scared to parent a boy. I mean, how does one know how a boy THINKS? How does one relate to a boy?

Strangely, my apprehension vanished the minute I held Teddy in my arms, and just between you and me (and minus the gastrointestinal challenges), boys just might be easier to parent then girls. So far, our second born seems far less dramatically inclined than our first.

I came this close (picture two fingers held a centimeter apart) to giving up blogging during tired twenty twenty-four. But something in me wasn’t quite ready to. Maybe I need to blog. Maybe it is one way of processing. Maybe it is one way of being somebody, of being heard. Maybe it is one way of forging a connection with a foggy puddle of readers, mostly nameless and faceless in my mind, but people that in some way care about what I have to say, because they read my stuff. Maybe it is one way of maintaining that elusive thing a writer needs–a platform.

And so I never entirely gave up the idea of blogging…sometime. I’d even narrowed down my start-up time to within the next couple of weeks, when I opened an email a couple mornings ago from a reader who sounded rather frustrated. If you have decided that you need to let it go indefinitely, she wrote, it would be nice if you would at least put a short note to that effect on the blog so the people who keep coming to see if you have a new post would know to just let it go also.

Yes, it would. And I am sorry, people who keep coming to see if I have a new post. I had no idea you’d remained faithful. This is due to the fact that the only blog posts I ever check are the ones that pop conveniently into my inbox (and even then I read them less than half the time because, well, I just don’t have time). Bless you for coming back, a whole year later.

Here’s Teddy, the day he was born.

His birth felt miraculous to us. My contractions came so hard and fast there was no way to stop them, but the doctor gave me magnesium and steroids via IV: steroids to strengthen his lungs and magnesium to slow my contractions and protect his little brain. The steroids would need 6 hours to be fully effective, the doctor said, and there was no way we were going to get that…but maybe the magnesium would buy us a couple.

By God’s grace, my labor stretched out seven hours, enough time for Teddy’s little lungs to fully absorb the steroids. When he was born, he needed only minimum oxygen help, which is unusual for a boy. He was transported to Ruby Children’s Hospital in Morgantown, about an hour away.

I got to hold him for the first time the following day, after I was discharged from our local hospital.

One of the most exciting moments of my life was when he got to try drinking from a bottle for the very first time.

We were so impatient for him to master sucking and swallowing so we could take him home! That and growing older, because we were told he wasn’t allowed to leave the hospital before thirty-five weeks.

Such scrawny little bird legs my baby had! Actually, I worried tremendously about his below average weight his entire first year and only recently calmed down a bit and relaxed (since the worst of his gastrointestinal difficulties seem to be over and he’s settled into a heartier feeding routine).

Another exciting step was exchanging his incubator for a bassinet.

And FINALLY, finally when he proved that he could actually and surely eat all by himself, having his feeding tube removed.

At our request (okay, pleading with a few tears) we were allowed to go home two days early, which happened to be the day after Thanksgiving in 2023. My parents were there to escort us.

Home at last.

With this bright-eyed little munchkin.

Who grew into this joyful toddler.

In retrospect, the two and a half weeks Teddy spent in the hospital wasn’t that long. I know people whose babies were in the NICU much longer. But to us, every day felt excruciating. The daily hour-long drive to the hospital. The fact that our little family was always split in two, since Annalise wasn’t allowed into the NICU. The fact that I wanted to care for both my babies, and couldn’t. Annalise started acting out specifically for me over that time, because she couldn’t understand why I left her.

It was two and a half weeks in the hospital, but much longer until our family felt anything like normal again.

If you call this normal, that is. It must be admitted, Teddy’s mama is a VERY messy baker.

We thank God for our Teddy.

The post Welcoming Theodore appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.

Merry Christmas from our little family to you! And yes, that is a second baby in our family photo, a baby that may be a surprise to you if you follow me only on my blog and are not an in-person acquaintance. That’s Theodore Jonas Kinsinger, the reason for my long silence here. He was born November 7, at 4 lbs 3 oz, 16 in long, and almost 8 weeks early. Teddy will be seven weeks old tomorrow, but I tend to forget that and remember instead that he was 39 weeks gestation this past Sunday and we are almost…ALMOST…to his projected due date on December 31st.

He is doing well and growing nicely, thank you for asking.

Sometime soon I will tell a more complete story of his birth and share pictures, but for now, I want to share the Christmas article I wrote for Anabaptist World, in which I tell part of the story and–from the perspective of a mother who’s just given birth to a son–reflect on what Mary must have felt those long years ago.

***

Following a grueling trek across the country, by donkey or by foot, Mary gave birth.

Following a grueling trek across the country by airplane and by car, I also gave birth. Theodore arrived almost eight weeks prior to his due date and—though the circumstances surrounding my labor were different than Mary’s—our son’s birth was in its own way unexpected, traumatic, and miraculous.

We had just returned from an early November visit to my parents five states away. At breakfast time the following morning, I started timing regular contractions. By the time we gathered a few things together, dropped our toddler daughter off with a sitter, and arrived at the hospital’s OB department, I was doubled over in strong labor.

Teddy had decided not to wait for his scheduled arrival date. He was coming and coming now.

Through IV, doctors gave me magnesium to slow the contractions and steroids to strengthen his lungs. The steroids needed six hours to be fully effective—and my labor would never delay that long—but maybe the magnesium would buy us a couple of hours, the doctor said. 

Many people prayed, and by the grace of a gift-giving God, Teddy waited not two just hours, but seven to make his appearance.

From birth he needed only minimal assistance with breathing and was weaned from his c-pap completely several days later.  In the next two weeks, he passed through miles of development, moving from an incubator to a crib and learning to coordinate sucking and swallowing. Just before he hit 35 weeks gestation, Teddy’s doctors released him to come home.

Now he is here with us, and I am amazed to see this tiny person, who should still be floating in amniotic fluid in the safety of my womb, doing all the things a baby must do to live in the great world.

I had thought he would be a Christmas baby. I had looked forward to waiting through the quiet days of Advent for him to arrive, thinking—as Mary must have thought—contemplative thoughts about nurturing and motherhood.

God never gave me that chance.

Like all the best gifts he has given me, he gave Teddy in an unexpected way at an unexpected time and, for good measure, double wrapped the package with a season of stretching and growth. For two and a half weeks, Ivan and I scrambled and stretched to meet the needs of our two babies—a two-year-old and a newborn—in two different places an hour apart. There were hours spent rushing between hospital and home, interrupted nights in a busy hospital, the agony of our little family separated, our daughter missing her mom.

But along with his hard gifts, God gave grace.

And I wonder…those quiet days of Mary’s waiting were maybe a myth in my head. Mary’s pregnancy and delivery also were nothing like what she must have expected and hoped for.

Pregnancy carried her through tremendous stress, through ostracism from loved ones. The circumstances of her son’s birth were less than ideal. Did she have an experienced midwife to coach her, or did she push out her baby with only her husband—who had never seen a birth in his life—to help her? Whatever the case, she must have concentrated—like me—on nothing but her baby, straining every muscle to deliver him safely into the world. And like me—after he came out red and squalling, after she felt his chest warm against hers—she must have loved him.

Did she realize she would love him deeply, love him always, respect him as a man-to-be—not because he was Messiah, but because he was her son?

To hold God, to hold a human baby…what does it matter? To a mother, both are miraculous.

To see the tiny mouth open, expectant, like a bird. To feel the first sharp nibbles on a breast and to know that this tiny baby somehow knows that you are his mother and knows where and how to get his milk. We both experienced this miracle, Mary in her first century stable, I on the seventh floor of a twenty-first century hospital.

Mary’s gift, like mine, was double wrapped. She knew the miracle of holding her baby, of holding Messiah. Later she felt the piercing of a sword to her heart at what her child must endure. She would gladly have died for him, would have preferred it that way. Instead, he died for her. I think there is nothing in the world that could break a mother’s heart like that.

Maybe God’s best gifts are always unexpected, always miraculous, always traumatic. Even the gift of a son to his mother.

The post Christmas Babies and Double-Wrapped Gifts appeared first on Lucinda J Kinsinger.