Although I’ve personally known only a handful of twins, I’m currently getting an up-close look at twin grandbabies. The fact that Evelyn and Thomas arrived together, when unexpected, seems a bonus of immense proportions. Katy is often asked if twins run in her family, and she can’t give a definitive answer. It’s possible Katy did have a twin who was lost in early pregnancy, and she has had the unexplainable feeling she was half of a twin couple. In that case, the answer should be “yes”.

Evelyn and Thomas are, at only one month, already beginning to evidence personal likes and dislikes. For example, Evelyn likes to be warm; Thomas is a hot-body. Evelyn is a slow, steady eater; Thomas prefers short, frequent meals. Evelyn cries in a “snuffle”; Thomas cries with a wail. Evelyn is a night owl; Thomas is a morning lark.

They do have one fascinating thing in common, though. They genuinely like each other. If they’re crying simultaneously, placing them together stops one or both of them. It’s as if one is comforted by the close proximity of the other. They remind me of the magnetic Scottie dogs we had as children. As we moved the white dog toward the black one, suddenly they’d rush together and hold tight.

This afternoon Katy was enjoying a little cooking time while I was on twin duty. Both were fussy, so I pulled these still-floppy babies into my lap as best I could. Sure enough, the minute they touched each other, they turned their heads together and began sniffing in each other’s direction like inquisitive puppies. They tried to suck on each other’s heads and quieted down immediately, breathing each other’s air. Katy says she’s found one of them sucking on the other’s nose on several occasions, with both the sucker and suckee lost in contentment.

Might there be something unusual about this preferred togetherness? They spent nine months up close and personal before they were born, the last few weeks quite squished. No doubt there was some nose-sucking going on in that environment, also. It’s possible that being born produces extra stress on multiples due to the separation imposed on them at that time. Maybe Evelyn and Thomas are longing for each other’s company in a way the rest of us can’t understand. When they come face-to-face or front-to-back it might be a mock-return to a blissful memory.

Today while handling our twins, my thoughts went to the first biblical twins, Jacob and Esau, multiples who squabbled from the get-go. They never really appreciated each other and fell into a competition that was almost deadly. I’m sure God has a different plan for twins. Their togetherness is a marvel, an unusual gift from him, and I can’t help but think he wants them to take advantage of it.

I’m anxious to see if Evelyn and Thomas remain close pals as the months and years roll by. Thomas may gravitate toward his older brother, Nicholas, both being boys. But something tells me he’ll always look out for his twin sister. Having spent nine months and four weeks in pleasant togetherness, they’ve got a healthy head start on living their lives in one accord.

“Be likeminded, having the same love, being of one accord, of one mind. Let nothing be done through strife or vainglory; but in lowliness of mind let each esteem the other better than themselves.” (Philippians 2:2-3)

The day our Klaus Fredrik was born, Nate was out of town. He had taken Nelson and Lars on a father-son retreat and hadn’t returned yet, when I realized I was in labor. Mary was on hand, excited to fill in as my delivery coach, but just as we were ready to drive the 45 minutes to the hospital, Nate and the boys drove in. Since he’d been part of birthing the three older children, it would have been a disappointment if he’d missed the fourth. We left Mary and the children at our house around 7 pm, and Klaus debuted in a photo finish at 8:07 pm.

Later, as Nate and I sat in my low-lit hospital room that evening, our prize cradled in Nate’s gowned arms, we tried to decide on a name. Nate loved the name Klaus, but I preferred the name Hans. “My choice means ‘gift of God’,” I said, in an effort to pull his vote my way. “What does yours mean?”

“I’m not sure,” he said, “but I recall it’s something very positive. I tell you what. When I get home tonight, I’ll look it up and call you. If it’s a really good meaning, can we name him Klaus?”

I was thrilled our new baby’s father was passionate about naming him, and agreed. In those days, the hospital switchboard didn’t allow calls to come to the maternity floor after 10:00 pm, so Nate arranged to call the nurse’s station. They promised to notify me then, after which I could phone him back from my room.

“Guess what!” he said, when we finally connected at midnight. “’Klaus’ is a great name to have! It originates from ‘Nicholas’, and if we spell it the Swedish way [which we’d been doing with our other children’s names], it’s spelled ‘Ni-klaus’. It means ‘victorious in battle.’ Isn’t that a great way to start life, knowing your name means victory?”

I had to hand it to him. Thinking of life’s inevitable battles, ‘Klaus’ would be a fabulous name to bear. And that was that.

Klaus was born with optimism on his face, finding something positive in every situation.  He expresses his joy in life through writing and singing music and in upbeat conversation focused on life’s blessings. A student of people, he looks for the good in everyone, making friends with ease.

 Children gravitate toward Klaus. He’s got that certain something kids love, and he knows just how to fascinate them. If there’s a child in the room, Klaus is in front of him or her, working hard to win a smile. If some day he is fortunate enough to be a father, his children will be greatly blessed to have him as their dad. Little ones know no greater joy than that their father genuinely loves to be with them and chooses them over other things he could do instead.

Good times follow Klaus, and he is skilled at dispelling inertia and organizing people. But even better than a happy evening are the times when he gains new insight through his growing relationship with the Lord, a friendship he is eagerly pursuing daily. And on his birthday, this brings immense joy to his mother, who in her heart is celebrating with him from across the Atlantic Ocean.

God was good to us on May 16, 1981!

“Those who trust in the Lord are as secure as Mount Zion. They will not be defeated but will endure forever. O Lord, do good to those who are good, whose hearts are in tune with you.” (Psalm 125:1,4)

(… continued from yesterday)

Although I’d forgotten to count my children, that eventually translated to a valuable parenting discovery: mothering is a marathon, not a sprint. Thankfully, my mistake didn’t disqualify me from the race.

The marathon principle is difficult to appropriate, since everyone around us seems to be sprinting. We’re all in a rush. Haven’t we stood in front of a microwave muttering, “C’mon… Hurry up!” I was raised watching parents heat leftover coffee in a sauce pan, but today 50 seconds is too long. Letters have picked up speed by morphing into email, which has condensed into Facebook, which has distilled into Twitter, symbols of life at zoom-speed.

So what’s a mother to do? She can’t run any faster or spread herself any thinner. She’s already meeting her husband’s needs, raising her children, serving in church, managing a home and going to work. Isn’t that enough?

Her question, born of frustration, can be answered with good news. She doesn’t have to get the motherhood project finished any time soon. What she says and does matters, but no single event is the end-all or be-all. Tomorrow will bring a new beginning, followed by another one after that. God’s mercies (and stores of endurance) are in fresh supply for moms, every single morning.

It’s comforting to know we don’t have to hurry up in our loving, serving or influencing of children. As in a marathon, we should pace ourselves for the long haul. Our finish line isn’t even in view. Actually, we can’t see it at all until we’re on our own death beds. We spend 8,760 hours raising a child to the age of 21, and though our hands-on care diminishes during those years, we’ll be mothers till the very end.

My own mom was still mothering her kids as she took her last breath, teaching us how to die without fear, and pointing us to “the bottom line,” her certainty about eternity. Minutes before she died, Mary was reading from a favorite Scripture passage, John 14. She paused at important words to see if Mom could fill in the blanks. By way of quiet whispers, she got them all. Although her body was lying in a bed, the rest of her was still running the mothering marathon.

It took me five children to learn (and be grateful for) the marathon truth, but in recent years I’ve made an additional discovery, that it’s pure delight to be the mom of adult children. As we fight against speed while raising kids through the growing-up years, we can take comfort in knowing the marathon continues, and the best is yet to come.

Granted, the job description changes radically after children leave home, but I had no idea that such satisfying friendships would be mine. Nate and I talked often about this phenomenon, marveling at the pleasure of being with our adult kids. And as he was approaching the parenting finish line before leaving this world, his children rushed to lavish love and care on their father, which he received with deep joy.

Nate isn’t marathon-ing next to me anymore, but I’m beginning to see there’s still more “best” to come as I mother my grands. Only 20 months into the grandmothering stretch of my marathon, I’ve already been amazed by the wonder of it all.

But better than all these mothering perks is the parenting promise the Lord has given directly to us ….

(… to be concluded tomorrow)

“Days should speak, and multitude of years should teach wisdom.” (Job 32:7)

It was November of 1982. Wrestling five children into winter wear for a trip to the park district had exhausted me, and no one was even in the car yet. As I was readying the last, the first was pulling off his coat. “I’m hot,” he said.

This was my first outing with all five since baby Hans had been born a month earlier. “Help me, Lord,” I breathed while strapping one year old Klaus into his car seat. “Poor kid,” I thought. “Still a baby, but he already has a baby brother.”

Once at the park district, I busied myself filling out paperwork for four year old Linnea’s gymnastics class, proud of myself for remembering the checkbook. Suddenly I went cold. Where was the new baby?

“Where’s Hans?” I screeched to no one in particular. Nelson and Lars stopped rough-housing and began looking all over the floor of the lobby. “Is he still in the car?” I asked.

Leaving my checkbook on the counter, I ran for the door. The children followed. Finding Hans’ car seat empty, I shouted, “Get in! Everybody in! Hurry up!”

My tires squealed as we flew out of the parking lot toward home. How could I be so irresponsible? I was this child’s mother, for goodness sake! As we raced home, that verse from Isaiah popped into my mind: “Even if a woman forgets her nursing child, I will not forget you.”

“You’re right,” I thought. “I forgot… What kind of a mother am I?”

Leaving the car running in the driveway (more incompetence), I took the porch steps two at a time. Where had I last seen him? When had I last touched him?

Zipping his snowsuit… in our bedroom… on our bed… and there he was, still sound asleep in the center of the mattress, unaware of the crisis. The older children rushed in behind me, relieved to see the lost baby had been found, and their mother had calmed down.

Scanning the line-up for my one year old, in an instant I felt nauseous. “Where’s Klaus?” I asked. “Is he still in the car?”

“No,” said the six year old. “He never got in the car.”

“What?”

“You left him at the park district.”

“Back in the car!” I was screeching again. “Hurry! Hurry!” Soon we were squealing tires again. And sure enough, there was Klaus, sitting on the park district counter next to my checkbook, securely encircled by the arms of the office secretary. He hadn’t even missed us.

“I knew you’d be back,” she grinned.

“Oh God,” I said out loud. “Please make me count my children!”

Sadly, that’s just one of many such incidents in my mothering past, but raising young children is difficult. The days are micro-chopped into minute-long pieces, punctuated by one interruption after another. At any one of those junctures, sanity is uncertain.

Thankfully, no single event defines a mother or shapes a childhood. The day of my park district debacle I didn’t receive a brand on my forehead that said “Bad Mother.” But I did realize something very important that day….

(to be continued)

“Can a woman forget her nursing child and have no compassion on the son of her womb? Even these may forget, but I, the Lord, will not forget you.” (Isaiah 49:15)