Stina "Minty Poo" Ahmann Nevill

Christina "Stina" "Minty Poo" Ahmann Nevill went to be with the Lord two days ago after a long and gracefully-fought battle with cancer. Stina was my Resident Assistant my sophomore year of college, and we were RAs together my junior year of college and I adored her. Some memories:

When we were RAs together, she somehow got the nickname Minty Poo. I honestly am having trouble remembering how that happened. I think she told a story about minty poo, or she really liked someone's story about minty poo...can anyone help me out with this one? Wow, this is a terrible memory about Stina - it involves me not actually remembering. Fail. Oh, except I remember that Stina had such a great sense of humor that she thought it was hilarious to be called minty poo for an entire year.

She once made turkeys out of Nutter Butters and candy corn and then made a video of the turkeys falling in love.

Stina had a contagious smile and a contagious joy.

Her smile almost supersedes the fact that this might be the worst picture ever taken of me.

In my sophomore year of college, I heard some bad news one night and I could not stop crying. I did not want to talk about it. I could not talk about it. Stina happened to be stopping by our room and instead of plying me with questions or trying to fix things, she simply stood by my loft bed and laid her hand on my ankle until I cried myself to sleep. I'm certain she was praying. I will never forget that.

Stina was silly and totally inappropriate. She liked to play a game called BVB. I hated that game. She also liked to play "take video of residents while they're showering without showing any nudity, of course." I lived in fear of that. She never got me, but the girls who did get videoed got her back with a bucket of ice water dumped into her hot shower one morning. She took it in stride (by running out of the shower and tackling them).

Just some normal college kids...and Karl.

She played the violin beautifully, but I don't think I knew that until she was playing at a recital. It was like - surprise! She was humble about her skills.

Stina was fun. I only got to see her once after she graduated, at our RD's wedding in Oregon. She was my date - picked me up from my hotel and everything - and even though we hadn't seen each other in almost two years, it was like no time had passed. She was that kind of friend. You could just pick up where you left off and feel instantly comfortable.

At the end of my sophomore year, Stina held our last section meeting and told us that if we felt led, we could wash the feet of anyone who we wanted to serve in that way and pray for them. Two hours later, I think we had all washed each other's feet and we had just as much water as when we started because everyone was crying. (WOMEN. AmIright?!) Stina could facilitate community and worship. She could facilitate it something fierce.

Standing in a pond, like you do.

You know how when people pass away, we only remember how wonderful they were and we sweep the rest of their memory under the rug? Well, I know Stina wasn't perfect because she was human and all, but I cannot come up with one bad thought about her. She sought to glorify God in everything she did, she had a great sense of humor, she was loving and generous and kind and talented and beautiful. I hope to be more like her when I grow up.

I miss you, Stina.

Looking back, Looking forward

On New Years Day, in visiting a dear friend, we got to introduce our babies to each other. Except my baby isn't a baby any more, and her baby was truly a baby, only two weeks old at the time. What a blessing. What a joy life is. What a mystery, how life comes to be. All mixed together were my sympathies for a difficult labor, my ecstasy for the abundant love coursing between mother-child-husband-father-wife, my appreciation for a husband who cared so lovingly for my dear friend, my respect for a woman who cared so lovingly for her child, my comfort at seeing an old friend, and an intense sense of overwhelm in realizing that we were once there(ish) and are now in such a different place.


Somehow, for me, this picture [above] captured so much of what I was feeling. Sofia, neck firm, brain spinning with curiosity, eyes at attention, discovering, wondering, learning independently about this baby whose only volition is to absorb her mother's love and care and neck support. Were we ever there? New parents, just home with a newborn, minds still spinning from labor and sleep deprivation and joy and wonder and shock. Less than a year before that day, we were there, and yet I can barely fathom it, barely bring back that memory from the fog.


It occurred to me that throughout my whole pregnancy, I did no let myself believe there would actually be a baby at the end of the process. I was so fearful, no, so sure, that I would miscarry like my maternal grandmother. When we got past the point of miscarriage being possible, I became convinced I would deliver a still born like my paternal grandmother. When had to go to the hospital because the baby I was pregnant with was in distress, there was a real part of me preparing for leaving that hospital empty handed. But I did not. I walked out of that hospital with a fragile life-filled baby in arms. I hugged my nurse goodbye, and went home and filled my house with all that love I was witnessing a year later in my friend's cottage by the sea. But, I had thought, that was already more than I deserved. Certainly, it had all been too good to be true. Certainly, SIDS would find us, and it was only a matter of time before I lost my precious. (don't think the Lord of the Rings allusion in that term, and the desperation and idolatry that surrounds it wasn't lost on me each time I uttered it over my child)


But a year later, there I was, witnessing my lively daughter, witnessing another new life. At what point will I accept this gift? Why do I instead accept these shackles of fear so readily? When will I accept this life that has been given to me. When will I let myself look forward, to dream for her future, wonder what life holds for her? When will I stop holding my breath, paralyzed in the present moment, fearful that it will vanish like the air I refuse to exhale?


For a time I did not believe she'd ever smile at me. For a time, I couldn't imagine she would ever sit up on her own. I believed she would sleep swaddled in wings forever. I was convinced she would spend eight hours a day nursing for eternity. As each stage came, I settled into it as if it were my new, permanent way of life. Perhaps I'm so busy adjusting to each change, that this underlying shift is too much to grasp: life is forever changing. Certainly there is a sense in which this year has been nothing but a series of goodbyes. Gone are the days of supporting her neck, supporting her sitting, swaddling her arms,  and holding on tight with two hands while she tries to walk. Gone are the days of sleeping in, of spontaneous carefree choices about how to spend my time, long extended periods of quiet ended only by my own choice. It has been a year of endings. 


And the endings will continue to come, some possible and some certain. My fears are not fully irrational. But the problem has been that I have not been able to see beyond them. They have blocked my view. It is true. My daughter, our love, it is more than I deserve. 


And yet, it has also been a year of constant beginnings. Hello to the intimacy of three, not just two. Hello to new discovery, new laughter, new joy. Hello to a new me, less concerned with me. Hello to a new husband, exuding more love, more devotion. Hello to a new home, new friends, an entirely new way of life. 


My present is beautiful, it is precious. And still, I must learn to loosen my grasp, to hold it more lightly. Because without my hands open, I can not receive what the future holds, what my true Precious has in store for me. For He desires to give me every good gift. But when my fingers wrap tight, when my knuckles burn white, how can the gift come in? 


What if a year ago I refused to move forward into a future where she smiled at me? What if I didn't let her learn to sit up, roll, crawl, walk? What if I did not let her away from me, unclasped from my arms? Then she could not come running back into me, arms wide open, outstretched, to receive her smiling-giggling-leaping little self, crashing into me with a force of love I've never known. 

Life is perpetually coming to be. I need to open my arms to receive this. I need to open my mind; I need to humble my heart, realizing I don't know where the new joy might be coming from. It is only mine to release and to receive. I need to open my eyes, see past the fear, and allow myself to look forward to what new life is yet to come.   

Dear Sofia

Dear Sofia,

You just took a two hour nap. You haven’t been napping well for a couple weeks, so this was an incredible treat. While you napped, I was able to clean the house so that I can host my bible study tonight without feeling utterly shameful for making the disarray we live in so exposed. I also got to employ a fun home-design idea I saw on pinterest, instead of just dreaming of pretty things like usual. We now have a coffee and tea bar in our kitchen and I love it! I also got to spend time writing and working on the blog I run with Auntie Em. This time to catch up and be quiet alone was such a sweet blessing to your Mama. Thank you my sweetheart.

But now you are awake. I can hear you through the baby monitor. You are babbling away at who knows who. Is it the stuffed lobster in your crib? The little dolly I had when I was a little girl? Or are you talking to the baby figurines across the room that you love so much? What are you telling them? You seem so happy and peaceful and busy and pleased. Every now and then I hear you say, “mama mama” but you seem content enough to play by yourself. The tricklings of your voice are just the sweetest sound, second perhaps only to the sound of your little laugh. My quiet and solitude were refreshing, but your joyful noises fill my heart so fully that I think I might burst out into tears of happiness.

You are a miraculous creation. You used to be a fluttering in my tummy. And then you were a bundle, always in my arms. And then you were a flopping little fish wriggling around on the floor, never getting anywhere very fast. But these days you are a motion machine. Crawling and climbing and chasing or being chased all around the house. You grasp whichever set of hands you can get to first and then you are off like a freight train, always on a mission. To the bathroom! To the guest room! To the bedroom! To the kitchen! The other day, you crawled from the opposite end of the house all the way to your play room and plopped down to enjoy your toys. How do you know your way around so well? How can you be so capable? Where does all your curiosity and ingenuity come from? You always have a project,  a problem to solve, a skill to master. Always at work in your play.

What are you at work on now? As you make raspberries with your lips, as you utter such profound nonsense to inanimate objects? I can hear you bounce in your crib. Dancing to the music in your own heart. You have more energy than I can keep up with most days, my love. You amaze me beyond my mind’s comprehension. You are such a sweet blessing to my soul. I love you, my dear one. I love you so much.

Blessed to the brim,

Your Mama