Paul Harrison: A Family Session

I am so thankful that in the midst of sleepless nights, empty cups of coffee, dirty diapers and postpartum tears that we were able to capture these early days with our sweet Paul Harrison. Thank you Naomi McIntosh Photography for capturing these legacy memories that we will cherish always.

Our dear friend, Judy, wrote this beautiful poem for Paul the morning after he was born. We are so honored to have her attentively listening to God's voice and sharing His word over Paul with us. Judy, you are a blessing!  

A Prayer for Paul
Ten little fingers. Ten little toes.
One little boy, with Daddy's nose.
Jesus I ask that You command
Guardian angels to be at hand
Watching protecting our little Paul
To Catch him gently when he falls.
Holy Spirit call his name,
That he will hear it loud and plain.
Teach him Jesus, of Your Love.
Light his path from heaven above.
God has chosen just for Paul,
a loving family in each and all.
Pray him thru trial and error.
Keep him on the straight and narrow.
God bless Paul, Your tiny sparrow.
Thank You Lord for quiver and arrow

Paul Harrison, we are so glad that you joined our family when you did. We can't wait to see you become the mighty warrior and disciple that God created you to be.

Mama is all about those fat lip kisses!

Paul Harrison: A Nursery Reveal

 

I am so thrilled to {finally} reveal Paul's nursery with you! I was fortunate enough to enjoy a two week Christmas vacation in December where I was able to do a lot of nesting. Additionally, I am blessed with a husband who likes to organize as much as I do and is equally handy with a hammer, so we were able to prepare for Paul's arrival during very peaceful and exciting late nights this spring.

I am not a lover of the traditional baby blue boy theme, whether we're talking about clothing, toys or a nursery. Our home is already very nature-like with lots of green, brown and beige, so I knew that I wanted a theme that would flow with the rest of our home. Matt is a lover of archery, so I wanted to incorporate that aspect, as well as an overall nature and animal feel with wooden pieces and fun aztec prints.

It was also important to me to create a room that Paul would be interested in as he grows up. From current decor additions (like an oversized deer that I purchased the minute I found out I was pregnant!) to the ideas of one day including a teepee in the corner for when he wants to read to his little fox and husky toys and a warm wooden table in the center of his rug for coloring with his nine (yes nine!) local cousins. Also, I would be lying if I said that I don't hope that our next child is also a boy so he can grow up with Paul and enjoy the same adventures that he will dream up in this nursery.

Since Paul's arrival, I've made some slight changes to meet our daily and future needs. Since Paul is still sleeping in our room, we've moved the glider to the living room to allow me (and daddy!) to rock him to sleep while watching shows during the afternoon, catching up with each other once daddy is home from work or when daddy takes over at night and mommy falls asleep on the couch. ;) Once Paul fully transitions to his crib, I plan to move it back into his nursery to the left of the window.

Additionally, Paul has been showered with many fabulous books, so I knew I wanted to display them in a way that would allow them to be accessible for bedtime readings as well as for when his little chunky hands wants to play with them one day. I used this beautiful ladder bookshelf in my room growing up, and it fit in perfectly. (Sorry for the iphone quality!)

I'm so grateful to my sister in law, Naomi, of Naomi McIntosh Photography for capturing these beautiful photos of Paul's nursery while she was over for his newborn photoshoot - which I can't wait to share with you soon!

Sources: Fox & Racoon Prints; Our Greatest Adventure Print; Fruits of the Spirit Print; Triangle Blanket; Crib; Curtains; Rug; Table; Glider; Teal Baskets; Wooden Shelves; Shelf Decor Items; Lamp; Pillows; Metal "P"

A Birth Story: Paul Harrison Roberts (Part II)

(Read 'A Birth Story: Paul Harrison Roberts Part I' here.)

 

After nodding off only a handful of times between staring at the glowing pictures of my son on my charging phone and savoring cold ice chips, my husband and mom woke just as the first visitors of the day arrived. It was so odd, to have visitors coming to see my son, when I had only seen him for a moment myself. After bringing me fruits and coffees and baked goods, they would say their hellos to me and disappear to see Paul, coming back with bright smiles and new photos for me to see. I could only crave to see him more.

With my doctor's orders to take me off my magnesium drip and with regaining feeling in my legs, I took my first step out of bed since laying down in the OR. I was told that if I could walk, eat and clean up, I was allowed to see Paul. Talk about motivation. I not only ate an entire meal and showered, but I made sure that my hair, make up and outfit were perfect. I needed to feel like myself. I needed to be myself. I was going to see my son for what felt like the actual first time. As if I was going on a date for the first time, I was so nervously excited and ready beyond all belief to hold what I knew for nine months.

 

My husband wheeled me slowly down to the NICU, acting as if picking up the phone, speaking NICU language to get in, scrubbing fingertip to elbow and getting visitor passes were something he had done a thousand times already. After wheeling through two rooms full of babies and nurses and doctors and parents, he slowly wheeled me to an incubator, will the smallest little boy laying nearly naked, hooked up to oxygen, IVs and monitors. I couldn't help but tear up and ask, "Is this him? This is really him?" He already looked so different than when I kissed him in the OR. He already looked so different than the photos I stared at for hours. 

I slowly stood up and grabbed the nearest nurse to my arm. "Can I hold him?" How odd, asking permission to hold my son, the one I held for nine months inside of me. Without any hesitation, she opened the incubator, and placed my small, warm, beautiful son in my arms. I wept.

After soaking in perfect moments with my son, I retired to my room to rest. Forcing myself to sleep felt like the hardest thing I had ever done. I wanted to be with him. I wanted him with me. I wanted him next to me. After waking from a few hours of rest, I was transferred from the L&D room to a postpartum recovery room.

I stayed in recovery for two more nights. One with Paul in the NICU and one with Paul joining us in our room. That night was perfection, in the best way that it could be. The three of us, my husband, son and I were all finally together. My husband and I shared my bed, with our son by our side.

On Sunday, April 19, Paul was transferred from our room to the nursery due to continuing respiratory issues. After much back and forth between doctors and nurses and nursery visits, Matt and I received one of the best calls of our life: Paul was officially cleared for discharge and coming back to our room. I still cannot recall a moment before then that I have seen my husband's face with a bigger smile or look of relief. We were finally on the home stretch of this long four day journey. Within moments, our son arrived in our room and we packed our bags to head home.

I will never forget our drive home. For weeks, I would look back in my rear view mirror at the empty car seat, wondering what our little babe would look like, sound like, be like. Here I was, sitting next to my son, soaking in his perfect face, with my amazing husband looking in the mirror back at us, smiling. Our little family of three was finally together, finally home.

The road to postpartum recovery has not been easy. Due to my diagnosis with preeclampsia, I have had continued high blood pressure for nearly five weeks now. With many, many doctor visits, ER visits, medications, bed rest, house arrest, complications and scares, I am finally on the mend and getting on the high road to a full recovery from high blood pressure, surgery and overall postpartum recovery. The road to motherhood was not what I envisioned it would be, but I would relive the past month in a heartbeat if it leads me to my son. I have a "mommy mark" on my stomach to remind me of Paul's amazing birth story and give God all of the glory and praise for giving us these memories and moments that have led me to where I am at this very moment: snuggled up on the couch with my endearing husband and cooing baby boy. God is good, all the time.

An (Official) Introduction

I'm sitting in my living room with a giant bowl of fresh strawberries with cream dolloped on top and the pups at my feet, sprawled across the couches snoozing the afternoon away. My 35 week old son is fist bumping me from inside my belly over the choice to turn on Shane & Shane Pandora. The only lights in the house are streaming in through the windows from the sun setting and flickering down the hall from a newly trimmed and lit candle (Woodwick, of course).

If you've already scrolled down and bypassed this post, you'll notice that this isn't my first one. It isn't my first time writing, either. I can recall afternoons, just like this one (minus the pups, the candles, the strawberries, the baby in my belly and being in my own house...so, maybe not just like this one), where my heart and mind race as one to form words to remember the thoughts and feelings I have in this very hour. As a young girl, I would lock myself away in my room writing personal thoughts in a secret journal or stealing all of the time on our family computer typing up what I envision to be the next best-selling book. Afternoons filled with the desire to share the story of blessings, of hope and of love.

As I did as a child, I kept these words all to myself. All of those best-selling stories (you never know!), all of the hand-written journals, all of the letters I would write to my future self - I kept them stored away between me, myself and I. When I met my husband twenty something years later from being that girl, he recognized my passion for writing, inspiring and dreaming early on. He knew that I would keep these writings to myself and would encourage me to share them - with him, and you. Night after night, he would be my constant encouragement to do something more with my gifts than keep them filed or hidden away. One night in particular, I slowly made the first step in sharing our story.

Years from taking that step, I am finally taking the next one - sharing it with you. So, welcome dear friends! I'm Margaret Roberts - a young wife, soon-to-be mom (as in, less than four weeks!), writer by day and dreamer by night. I am thrilled to share my family's story with you and yours - one richly infused with the hope, grace and thumbprint of our Savior. I hope you'll find humor, lessons and inspiration squeezed in between words and photographs that share our journey as the Roberts. Let's do this, shall we?

Sunday Roads

"Do not let sunday be taken from you. if your soul has no sunday, it becomes an orphan." Albert Schweitzer

Sunday, bringing in a new sunrise, a new home. Awaking to the warmth of the sun through the tall windows. Awaking to the sounds of chirping from the coop under the tree. Awaking to the softness of the skin next to her.

With a checkered collar and soft blonde peaks for him and a flowing dress and wispy black bangs for her, they rode down the long narrow road to the steeple they loved most often. Through words, through songs, through hugs and fellowship, they loved and were loved.

The next road, they ate and drank the overflowing cup of the deepest fellowship and family they knew. Through more songs, through more words, they cherished it as the next generation loving the ones before.

The next road, they were baptized in love, in fellowship, in Him, in babes, in newness, in life.

The next road, they slept, they dreamed, they heard the silence. They were met with babes, and drools, and smiles, and laughs, and cries and love.

The next road, they met home. A home. Their home and their home. They met the soft white sheets, the soft white fur, the soft sesame fur, the gentle love and perfect sleep.

That Day

That day, when everything they knew was stolen from them. That day, when the familiar comforters were no longer comforts. That day, when everything changed.

That day, when they moved their life into a box. That day, when they were greeted with arms of friends and family. That day, when rough cardboard and soft blankets and hard wood moved them.

That day, when she laid on soft leather and dreamt her fears away. That day, when soft white fur and soft sesame fur slept at her feet, in more innocence than she could conquer in her own being. That day, when he came home and held her close.

That day, when they moved, on.

The Times

“Dost thou love life? Then do not squander time, for that is the stuff life is made of.” Benjamin Franklin

The night, when she changed out her black textured stilettos for her perfectly contoured sandals, for a trip to the market. Freshly sliced meats, blocks of infused cheese, tossed edamame salad, soft pears, warm indian bread and sparkling sips. Arriving home, placing all of her delicious finds on smooth white plates and bowls, arranged on the warm wooden tray. Hustling to clean her home of packed boxes, newly arrived furniture, and the mundane of the day, into a glimpse of the home it was once, before it became a house. Always, greeting him with the most eager kiss and longing heart. They ate with an agape love.

The morning, when they woke up slowly. Again, and again. The sunrise peaking through the window, pairing with a morning grey. A glimpse of him, slowly smiling at the pup resting at her feet. Pulling the pups close, they played and they played. Their small family, loving each and every one, over and over. Talks of plans for the day, possibilities for the days, promises for the day. They met the morning grey with a freshly pressed collar, slim denim & pearls for her, gingham, dark wash & sandals for him. They awakened their morning with warm lattes and afternoon salads at the local coffee shop. Talks of politics, of news, and then of love. They frolicked the town, picking out their favorites to take home. Finding a local bakery, hidden in a familiar place, they pointed to their favorites and exchanged coins for a paper bag, filled with the most desirable sweets, that couldn’t wait until they arrived home. They played together, hours and hours, of new games that entertained them, until the sun said good day. They threw the whitest of powder on the warm brown stone, rolling out the fresh dough. Meats, fruits, sauces, they placed them on the oven stained stones, and watched as they baked. Sipping and devouring, they finished the night in his arms, watching endless movies.

The afternoon, when they arrived in the quaintest and familiar town to celebrate his mother. Family, friends, new and old. southern comforts and sweet iced tea. Gathering the babes by the hands, walking down stone streets, holding a small pup that needed a home, smiling at the train depot…thinking of all of the loves that kissed hello & farewell….finding small wooden toys at the festival, picking out his favorite to take home. Saying goodbye to his family, and hello to the hum of the engine and to sweet sleep, until they could celebrate her mother. Warm, buttery fish, cool slaw & honey biscuits. She set the table, with old familiar patterns and clothes, for the loves that could pair and celebrate together. Sweets, cards & settlements, ended the night. Oh so late, and oh so satisfying. Falling sleep, again & again, each time his arm touched her.

The morning, when she awoke, as if on clouds.

“This is life,” she thought. “To love those, and to be loved. To know who gives love, in this very hour.”

The House & The Home

“My soul yearns, even faints, for the courts of the LORD; my heart and my flesh cry out for the living God.” Psalm 84:2

She must have dreamt it. it was such familiar feeling; such a familiar voice. This desire to be…home. this desire to be near. This desire to be made whole……

They searched for months. They prayed for months. Hand-in-hand, fingers intertwined, lifting their only praise and only hope to the One who holds it all in His hands. They wanted their home.

The first look; when the smooth key unlocked the clean-white door into babes crying, dinners warming on the new stovetop, love in the bedroom, pups circling in the yard. This, this was the home…their home.

The promise was made. the cord of three was going to enter into a new home; a home of promises and of futures.

But, the wait. Oh, the wait. The wait of 27 days, now. The wait for a home, the wait for life, the wait for future. She put put her trust in Him and in him; the only one that could hold all her heart and the one that could all of her.

The One who promised her a year of peace & of hope. And she was reminded…like a dream. This desire for her earthly home, turning oh so quickly into a heavenly desire for her eternal home. Oh, how she longed for it. like a breath that finds itself captured in the midst of your small throat, she found this desire, for His home. No longer her home, but His home. And the irony, her home, is actually His home. If she can desire something so earthly and small in comparison to eternity, should she not desire His streets of gold and angelic homes so much more? Oh, her stubborn soul. Humility, grace & hope found themselves in that moment…not for the first time, but for the longest time.

So now, she lives in promises. With eternal promises, not earthly wanders. And while the smooth white keys that she presses even now, can deceive even herself, she has…will…and will always…wait on Him. Because He is the faithful One.

“The one who calls you is faithful, and He will do it.” 1 Thessalonians 5:24

And while she waits, she waits with a smile on her face and in her soul. Because the wait is not a lack of promise, but of a promise that is growing and exceeding her wildest dreams. Because while she waits, and wonders, she will not have to wander.

“But why did you need to search for me? Didn’t you know that I must be in my Father’s house?” Luke 2:29

So, there she is. Waiting. With Him. And with him.

“Home is the nicest word there is.” Laura Ingalls Wilder