Writing

On Rest by Cara Stolen

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From the window in my home office, I have a perfect view of the pasture closest to our house, where we feed our cows in the early spring. Every day, after I put the kids down for their afternoon nap, I stand at it for awhile. I’ve watched the snow melt and the sagebrush bud; observed the cows’ bellies widen and their udders expand as we draw closer to their due dates—signs of spring and new life.

Today, I lean against the warm glass and gently massage my lower back. I look for new calves and signs of labor in each expectant cow. In theory, that’s why I stand here every day: to make sure there isn’t a cow stalled in labor needing help to give birth. But more than that, I like watching the calm, quiet actions of our mama cows.

Our oldest cow, 1095, gave birth to her eighth calf last week. From this vantage point, I noticed her pacing circles around the pasture and knew it was time. An hour later, she licked her white-faced calf clean and then stood to feed him his first meal. I couldn’t help but grin, delighted by the miracle of life yet again.

I stretch to the side, then turn to face my desk. A stack of bills, an open day planner, two coffee cups, and a full email inbox await me. But as I start to sit, the washer chimes. I tiptoe down the hall and throw the clean clothes on our (still unmade) bed. On my way back to the laundry room, I catch sight of the kitchen, where dishes are piled in the sink and lunch remnants cover the island. I dash into the kitchen to clean up, telling myself it will only take a minute. With the dishwasher loaded and counters wiped, I head back toward the office, forgetting entirely about the clean clothes in the washer.

Glancing out the window on my way to my desk, I see 1095 and her calf making their way up the hill to the water trough. She nudges him gently with her nose, then steadies him when he stumbles on his still-new legs.

Observing other moms and babies makes me feel included. Part of. Because motherhood was created by God, and I’m filling a role he designed.

Ignoring the mountain of paperwork, I watch 1095 and her calf rejoin the rest of the herd. As her calf lays down, she touches noses with another, still expectant cow and swishes her tail at another cow’s calf, sending him back to his mom. Then she lowers to her knees and lays down beside her calf.

I pull myself away from the window and sit at my desk. Yawning, I take a sip of this morning’s (yesterday’s?) cold coffee, and read through my email. I respond to a few, delete others, and turn to tackle the paperwork on my left. I sort through it, tossing receipts and making notes in my planner of due dates and deadlines, but find nothing urgent. I should go fold that laundry, and make the bed. Maybe I’ll even have time to clean the bathrooms before the kids wake up.

Spinning around in my chair, I look out the window one last time. The whole herd is laying down now, all the new and expectant moms basking in the long-awaited warmth of spring after a longer-than-normal winter.

1095 tenderly licks her calf’s ear. I remember those early newborn days with both of my kids, but I’m struck by how little my mothering resembled hers. While she is completely present with her baby, I behaved much the way I do now and filled every moment with laundry and cleaning and work.

Trailing my fingers along the desk’s edge on my way out, I catch sight of the corner of my Bible, peeking out from under a power bill. It’s been a while since I’ve opened it—putting it off for a night I’m not so tired or during naptime after my chores are done. But that never happens, and every day my kids wake up from their naps to a clean house, clean clothes, and a tired, worn-out mom.

Why is it so hard for me to rest and let myself relax? If God created both 1095 and me for motherhood, why does her mothering look so easy and relaxed while mine looks so frenzied and exhausting? Did it take her eight babies to reach this point? Or does she just instinctively know something I struggle to accept: that God created us to work and rest?

The laundry can wait, I decide. I grab my Bible and tiptoe to the living room. Pulling a fleece throw from beneath the entertainment center, I sink into the corner of the couch and open its cover.

Thirty minutes later, I hear my son’s door open. His feet pitter-patter down the hall toward me, waking his sister, but I can’t help but smile. He rounds the couch with a “Hi, Mom!” and clambers into my lap. To my surprise, I’m not mad that he woke up my daughter. And for the first time in I-can’t-remember-how-long I’m ready, and delighted, for them to be awake; rejuvenated and refreshed by God’s word.  


Show Me The Way by Cara Stolen

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I helped Levi pull a backwards calf the other day. We were driving through our front gate when he leaned across me and pointed to one of our cows. “That’s not good,” he said.

To be honest, I couldn’t tell that anything was wrong. I squinted at her, but all I could see was that she had a foot out, so I assumed he meant she was just taking too long to have her calf. But he hopped out of the passenger side of my car before I’d even come to a stop, saying “backwards” as he slammed the door and ran to his pickup.

He roared down the driveway as I unloaded the kids, headed to get a horse from work. And twenty minutes later, I stood, pulling chains in hand, watching him rope the calving cow in the pasture behind our house. He swung his loop twice and caught her on the first try.

Together, we worked to get her tied off to a fence post in the half-finished pen behind our house where the head-catch will (eventually) be. He looped his slack around a post and alternated pulling from his horse, General Lee, with asking me to get her in closer. Eventually, we got her head a few feet from the post, and once Levi tied off to a second post he hopped off General and asked me to come get on.

I didn’t have time to think about the fact that I hadn’t ridden since before I got pregnant with Royce. I didn’t have time to think about it not being my saddle, or the stirrups being too long, or the irrigating boots I wore instead of riding boots. I just swung a leg over and took the reins and rope coils he handed me, following his instructions to “back him up and keep that rope tight.”

So there I sat, holding coils of blue rope in my right hand so tightly that my hand cramped, watching him strip down to his t-shirt before reaching an arm into the cow’s uterus to hook up the chains. He crouched for leverage, and said “it’s alive, barely” through gritted teeth as he pulled.

There’s so much here that I should probably explain if you’re unfamiliar with ranching, or cows, or calving. I’m far from qualified to give a lecture on calving cows, but Levi certainly isn’t going to, so I’ll just tell you the important things and get back to my point. For one, unlike humans, cows have a veryshort window of time in which to give birth after their water breaks (Google tells me 2-4 hours, but we allow 2, max), before their calf dies; for two, calves should be born front feet-head-body, not back feet-butt-body-head; and for three, most people use a stanchion to pull calves, which is basically a head and body “trap” that immobilizes the cow, and don’t use a horse and fence posts. So, to summarize: exactly nothing about this situation was ideal.

He tossed the pulling handle in the dirt and swore, then ran to me and unhooked his “backup rope” from his saddle. I knew better than to ask, so I just sat in silence as he ran back to the cow and tied one end of his rope around the chain hanging from the calves feet (still inside the cow…did I lose you yet?). He tied the other end to a fence post behind him, and stood on the rope. Then he tightened the fence post end and stood on the rope again.

The calf hit the ground in a splash of afterbirth and blood, and I winced. Levi grabbed a stick off the ground and cleared the calf’s nostrils, then bent to blow in its mouth. “Come on, come on,” he muttered, as he rubbed the calf’s belly furiously. Finally, the calf inhaled, and shook its ears just slightly, and I exhaled the breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding.

With a pull like that, you want to leave the mom and baby alone as soon as possible, so you don’t interfere with their bonding. So when Levi said “Ok, get out of here,” I knew what he meant, and as soon as he cut the rope off the cow I kicked General to a trot.

I headed toward the back gate, and as I rode I thought about what we’d just accomplished. What Levi had accomplished. And I thought about how I sometimes take for granted how awesome it is to watch him do something he was absolutely called to do: take care of animals.

When it comes to the cows (or horses, or dogs for that matter), he knows just exactly what to do—reacting to chaotic situations with confidence, knowledge, and skill that is more than just the culmination of years of practice. Skill that is God-given.

In today’s world it’s easy to confuse obtaining success and wealth with living into God’s calling for your life: the former is much more visible to the outside world, while the latter often looks like pulling a calf, and keeping it alive, in a less than ideal situation. But isn’t following God’s path for your life more important than gaining notoriety and fame among your peers? It should be, but if I’m honest I don’t always live that way.

I ask God again and again to “show me the way.” To reveal my calling. To give me the wisdom and talent and skill to lean into that calling.

But I look for signs of my calling in all the wrong places. I look for validation from my peers, when I should be listening for God’s affirmation. I count Instagram followers and “likes” instead of patiently following God’s whispered instructions. And I often find myself jealous of other women who have “found their calling,” forgetting that their outward appearance and social media presence don’t necessarily have anything to do with their calling at all.

I reached the gate, and smiled down at my husband. He grinned back and said “nice ride,” as he held General so I could get off. Then, he loaded him in the trailer, kissed me goodbye, and headed back to work in a cloud of dust before I had a chance to tell him how amazing he is.

As I walked back to the house, I thought about how much I have to learn from Levi. About cows and horses, but also about what it looks like to live into God’s calling for my life. And I thought about how lucky I am to have that kind of example in the man I love most.

So, God, I’ll wait. I’ll listen and learn and follow your cues. Because I know that when it’s my time you will, indeed, show me the way.

Butterflies by Cara Stolen

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I grasped the cold fence panel with both hands, and leaned my forehead against the top rail as I watched. His movement was slow, calm, and steady. Holding the lead rope loosely in his left hand, he ran his right hand down the horse’s back. The gelding’s eyes flared behind a long black forelock, but he stood still, and the horse relaxed.

The wind blew my braided hair, and I squinted against the morning sun, mesmerized by the quiet confidence of the man before me. My heart beat hard in my chest, and my stomach tingled with butterflies. I’d never met anyone like him before, and I’d definitely never felt a feeling that strong before.

Though we’d talked on the phone every day for months, we’d only been on a few dates. I went to school two hours from where he lived, and the mountain pass between us made our time together infrequent.

But as I watched him saddle a three-year-old colt for the first time on that windy Spring day, I knew with utmost certainty that I could spend the rest of my life with him.

I was twenty.

***

I peeked through the double-paned glass of the house’s back door, my dress rustling behind me as I leaned forward. The white chrysanthemum in my hair tickled my right ear and momentarily distracted me from my nerves. But when I looked up again, I saw our photographer beckoning to me from outside.

“Ready?” she asked kindly as I opened the door.

The lump in my throat made it hard to speak, but I nodded to her to indicate I was as ready as I’d ever be.

Across the yard, his black wool vest and crisp white shirt stood out against the vibrant green grass. His back was to me, and as I waited for our photographer to take her place I thought my heart might beat out of my chest.

When she nodded, I gathered the white gauzy fabric of my wedding dress in both hands and walked slowly toward him in my mom’s well worn cowgirl boots. And as I approached him, I felt a familiar flutter in my stomach.

He turned to face me when I tapped him on the shoulder, and as our eyes met I burst into tears.

“I’m hot.” He whispered softly, leaning forward to kiss my cheek. I laughed, and dabbed my eyes with a tissue as he laughed too.

I’d warned him that wearing wool in August was a bad idea, but (ever practical) he’d insisted on buying a vest he’d wear again and again. So there he stood, with sweat beads on his forehead, looking handsome in a black vest made for December.

I was twenty-three, and I thought I could never love him more than I did on that hot August day.

***

The light at the head of the bed was on, illuminating the monitors and IV stand that I was no longer attached to. My hours-old son wailed in my arms, still swaddled tightly in the flannel hospital blanket. I heard the recliner squeak from across the room, and the gentle shuffle of his sock-clad feet on the linoleum floor. Then, he placed his hand on my arm, wordlessly offering to take our new baby.

Our eyes met as I handed him our son, both of us exhausted.

From the inclined headboard I watched the two of them settle into the green vinyl chair on the dark side of the room. He softly shushed our son to sleep before tipping his hat over his eyes and nodding off himself.

Though exhaustion coursed in my veins, I lay awake for a while, mesmerized by the two of them together. Amazed by this new exhibition of the quiet confidence I fell in love with. And as the butterflies took flight in my stomach, I marveled at how much more I loved him now at twenty-six than I did on our wedding day.

***

“Da!” Her feet pitter patter across the tile floor, as our daughter races toward the door. “Da! Da! Da!”

A diesel engine hums up the driveway, and our son throws himself against the window to see who it is. “Dad’s home! Dad’s home! Mommmmmmyyyy! DAD’S HOME!”

I smile and stir the stew on the stovetop. The kitchen is warm, filled with the aroma of browned beef and stewed tomatoes. I hum softly along with the Van Morrison song playing on my phone as I chop the last carrot for the salad. Glancing out the window, I’m surprised to find it’s still light outside—he hasn’t been home before dark in weeks.

His truck shuts off, the dog kennel door clangs, and finally, his boots clomp across the porch.

“Dad!” our son shouts as the front door squeaks open. “I wanna show you some-ting!”

I hear him whispering to our girl in the entry as I add the frozen peas to the bubbling pot in front of me. He enters the kitchen carrying her confidently in the crook of his arm, and heads for the dining room to see our boy.

“Daddy, want to play Play-Doh with me?” our son asks.

“Hey.” I call to him. “How are you?”

His answer is lost in our son’s excited chatter. I turn down the stove, put the lid on the heavy green soup pot, and wipe my hands as I watch the three of them.

His hands are cracked and calloused, his sweatshirt dirty and faded. There’s mud on his pant leg and gray in his beard. His eyes are tired, but he puts our daughter on one knee, our son on the other, and scoops up a ball of Play-Doh without hesitation.

I can’t help but grin as I watch them, and feel the familiar flutter of butterflies as I do.

He’s wearing the same black wool vest he wore on that hot August day six years ago. It’s faded from black to gray and it’s missing a couple of buttons. If you look closely at the seam you can see blue thread where I mended it last winter. But that vest is a little like us.

We’ve been torn apart by our egos and months-long unemployment, by our son’s undiagnosed cleft lip, and the feeding tube required to keep our daughter alive. We lost a button when the medical bills piled up, and another when we bought our fixer-upper.  

But we mended those places; our seams sewn back together with time and apologies and dedication to one another. They don’t look the same as they used to, and things don’t always feel the way they used to, either. Our love is no longer new and crisp, it’s worn and tested. But tonight, with soup on the stove and two babies on his lap, I feel the butterflies again.

// This essay was originally written for Coffee+Crumbs #loveafterbabies essay contest. You can find a portion of it published on their instagram.

Want to read more about #loveafterbabies? You'll love these essays by my dear friends Molly Flinkman & Stacy Bronec.

Wedding photography by Hailey Haberman.

On Rainy Days by Cara Stolen

‘Mom! Mommy! Mama!’

He has been awake for an hour, talking and singing and ‘reading’ to himself. I take a deep breath and flip on the light. He is bouncing up and down, eager to start the day.

‘Mom!’ He points a chubby, accusatory finger at a book on the floor. ‘I don’t want that book, I want this book!’ With triumph, he holds up his well-loved copy of Cowboy Small.

I had hoped that the quiet time I spent snuggled up with hot coffee and a book this morning would prepare me for the physical and emotional demands of parenting a toddler all day. But I can already feel pin-pricks beneath the surface of my skin and know it wasn’t enough.

Mustering a smile, I roll my shoulders, trying to relax. ‘You want me to read it to you, Buddy? I can go get Sissy and we can all read it together in your bed?’

His face falls, and I silently ridicule myself for being selfish this morning instead of spending some one-on-one time with my son. ‘No. I want up.’

I cross to the window and pull back the curtains to see low clouds threatening rain. Before babies, I relished days like today. They felt cozy and full of promise, begging to be filled with a good book and hot tea. But today, those rain clouds mean a day stuck indoors. Inside, there is never enough of me to go around, and my senses become overwhelmed by the noise and touch and demands of my children.

***

‘Mom!’

I turn to face him and kneel down to meet his gaze. His face lights up again.

‘Mommyyy! I’m going to Miss Sara’s today?’

‘No, today you get to stay home with Mom and Sissy alllll day!’ I inflect enthusiasm I do not feel, and my stomach clenches with guilt. In irony that does not escape me, I spent my morning reading about forming secure attachment to your children, the first tenant of which is Proximity.

Tentatively now, he asks, ‘I get to go to work with Dada?’

‘No, Buddy, Daddy’s busy today.’

His whole body tenses, causing me to brace myself in anticipation.

‘NOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!!!!!!! I DON’T WANT TO STAY HOOOOOOOOMMMMMMMEEEEE!’

Throwing himself on the floor, he is overcome with emotion. Tears stream down his chubby cheeks as he pounds his fists on the floor. I count to ten and resist the urge to react similarly with a fit of my own. I say a silent prayer for the day ahead, and mutter ‘I’m the parent, not the child. I’m the parent, not the child.’

***

‘Mom I want a muffin.’ His hand yanks at the hem of my shirt. ‘I want a muffin. Mom! I want a muffinnnnnnnnnn! MOMMY! I SAID I want a MUFFIN!’

I physically recoil from his touch. My chest tightens, and I force myself to take a deep inhale. My nerves feel frayed. Exposed. Raw. I am not supposed to have this reaction to my own son. His incessant chatter shouldn’t cause such a visceral response in my body. How can my own child trigger my anxiety? Shame courses through my veins.

***

A therapist once described my anxiety as ‘free floating,’ and I sobbed grateful tears that someone finally named the feeling I had experienced for my entire life. For me, anxiety is physical, and I feel it in every cell in my body. A tightness in my chest, an inability to expand my lungs, a claustrophobic tenseness in my muscles. I feel like a caged animal. A prisoner. Like I drank 15 cups of espresso before an MRI. And more often than not, I have no idea what is making me feel this way. No specific worry or concern, no fear of impending doom. Just the feeling, without the specificity.

I am most often triggered by sensory overload: loud noise, excessive touch, clutter; but also by the rapid fire of my own thoughts. Sitting in silence makes my skin crawl, but I find relief from reading in silence. The sensory overload of sitting in traffic can be mitigated by an audiobook or podcast. For me, occupying my brain and avoiding sensory overwhelm when possible are ‘best case scenario,’ and I have survived that way for years. But living that way is also incredibly selfish, a fact that motherhood has forced me to face head on.

***

The room fills with laughter, drawing my attention away from the mountain of laundry I am folding. We have retreated to the master bedroom as rain pelts the windows. He has pulled the comforter from our bed and giggles as his sister tries to use him as a climbing gym, tickling him in the process.

‘Mom! Come lay with us!’ His eyes twinkle as he meets my gaze with a grin, his words wrapped in a blanket of joy and delight.

I am startled by how light and innocent his voice sounds. Where I have so often seen a demanding, loud, and attention-seeking toddler, I see a sweet energetic boy with his daddy’s eyes who is growing up too fast. Am I missing it? Am I too preoccupied with my own survival to truly enjoy his childhood?

I hope that my children remember their childhood with fondness, my love for them shining golden light through those memories, the way the evening sun shines through a forest and creates pockets of twinkling magic. But I worry that they will instead remember me as being sober and withdrawn, busy battling my anxiety. I fear that this illness will prevent me from providing them with the mother I know they deserve.

‘Mommy! Come lay with us! Please!’

And so I do. I lie on the soft down and wrap my arms around my babies. I breathe in their sweet smell, and feel my lungs fully expand for the first time all day. I fly my white flag, and temporarily make peace with my demons. I snuggle them closer, and close my eyes to allow this momentary calm to wash over me. In moments like these, when I am so aware of all the ways I am not a perfect mom, I am still exactly who they need me to be.

 

 

 

Photo by Danielle Dolson on Unsplash