Waking up on my 48th birthday and realizing one big thing

I spent part of my birthday teaching this crew how to skip rocks.

I was scrolling back through my memories of birthdays past, thinking about some of the particular January 29ths that really stand out. I thought I’d share some. 

1976 — On my 7th birthday in the wintry cold of Bend, Oregon, I broke the two middle fingers on my right hand shortly before my friends arrived for my birthday party. I snapped the tips of those fingers in an unfortunate incident involving a wheelbarrow full of firewood, a rickety ramp consisting of a single flimsy board and a big drop down some steps on our back patio. Oh, and my older brother was in the mix. I soon adapted by learning to write left-handed. So I guess you could say that on my 7th birthday I learned about overcoming adversity. And not to use your writing hand to try and hold up a ramp beneath the weight of a wheelbarrow full of firewood being driven by your brother, even when he tells you to hold the ramp up with your hand.

1985 — I would turn 16 this year and mark it later that summer by competing on an “All-Star” track and field team from Oregon and Washington that traveled to Hong Kong, South Korea and China. I discovered firsthand the meaning of “abject poverty” on our train ride through the rice paddies and villages of rural China and recall how hordes of Chinese people would crowd around in awe and touch the hair of a girl on our team who had blond hair that was nearly white. I competed in a 5,000-meter race in a rustic, dirt-track stadium in Guangzhou, China, finishing third in sweltering heat. I remember distinctly three things about that race: 1) I was sure I was going to either burn up or melt to death, perhaps both; 2) You couldn’t drink the water in China so after the race I “quenched” my agonizing thirst with the only liquid available, a warm, fizzy orange soda pop; 3) I was overjoyed that our second meet got canceled because I was sure I wouldn’t survive another race. After the race we traded trinkets and jerseys with our fellow Chinese competitors and I remember one tiny, rail thin guy wanted my beloved Nike Spiridon racing shoes. I turned him down. To this day I think about that poor kid who had literally nothing and rue my selfishness: Why didn’t I just give him the shoes?

1993 — I turned 24 in the frozen tundra of Ontario, Oregon, which at the time was gripped in a brutally long, cold, snowy winter. I was married to Julie and we had two boys with a third on the way — Imagine that! Julie was pregnant! — and I was working for $1,200 a month as a sportswriter at the daily Argus Observer covering high school sports. Often I would leave my 1986 diesel Volkswagen Jetta with Julie and run the mile or so to work through the campus of Treasure Valley Community College. I remember distinctly on one frigid night running home for dinner through the crusty snow and underestimating how bitterly cold it was, thinking someone might come across me frozen solid in mid-stride sometime the next day. It took me a month to thaw out from that jaunt and to this day I hate to be cold, perhaps partly because of that moment of idiocy. But I get the warm fuzzies thinking about Ontario as well. The farming outpost on the Snake River next to Idaho is where we discovered the Calvary Chapel movement at a church on the outskirts of town and where we learned about expository Bible teaching. It changed our church lives forever. We also made lifelong friends who taught us so much about raising children, homeschooling and a family where Jesus Christ is at the center. 

2001 — I turned 32 in a couple of finished rooms of an old dairy barn on a 3-acre patch of land at the edge of Corvallis, Oregon, where we were holed up while we built a big dream house. We had seven kids, an eighth on the way — yes, Julie was pregnant! — and it was a hard time. Very hard time. All I can say is that God carried us through it. I learned plenty in that season of life, like DIY and how to use power tools such as a compound mitre saw, how to kill skunks nesting under your barn (it’s ugly and smelly and I don’t wish it on anyone) and what true friends look like (thank you Jim Bass and many others). I remember the strength of Julie in those hard times. A gritty perseverance and a deep, abiding faith and belief that God in His power will get us through anything. I’ve never met another woman like her. Don’t think I ever will. I’m so thankful for her.

2009 — After living in Virginia for four years, we returned to Corvallis in fall of 2008 so I could attend Cornerstone School of Ministry. On my 40th birthday at school I remember how one of my classmates ornately and rather gaudily decorated my car in embarrassing fashion, writing passages drawn from Song of Solomon referencing my “abs of carved ivory” on it … except it wasn’t my car. It was someone else’s. Now THAT was funny and made for a memorable birthday. But from 2009 I learned many things, above all that God is in control. And that He is a very good and loving God.

2017 — I awoke on my 48th birthday next to my wife of 26 years, who’s not pregnant I might add, in a little house a few blocks from the York River where around Christmas time all 14 kids were home. It’s 15 kids when you add in Taylor’s wife, Bethany, then 16 kids when you count the wee little lad she’s carrying in her womb. (We’re so stoked to be grandparents this year!) Then you add another to make it 17 for when Ethan’s fiancee Mandi, was here, plus throw in another “kid” to make it 18 when Brenton’s — and ours too! — good friend from Oregon, Parker Smith, stopped in for several days to visit. Julie glowed because all her babies were home and the house was just so full of life. And a ton of food. Literally a ton of food. I remember thinking that, yes our house is small and there’s kids everywhere, but there’s so much laughing and joy and love and I’m so thankful for all the Lord has done in our lives. And then a few days ago I got this text from Evie, who’s out in Oregon studying at Cornerstone School of Ministry for the year: “Okay. We were in prayer yesterday and I remembered in It’s a Wonderful Life at the end when Harry toasts George and says, `To George Bailey, the richest man in town.’ I know this is really mushy but I always thought of you when we watched that movie.” So yes, Evie is right. On my 48th birthday I woke up as the richest man in town.

The World Record For One Woman Having Babies

Matt & Julie -- Relative minor-leaguers in the `kid' department

There's something I need to clear up. Some accusations, aspersions, and rumors that have come our way over the last several ways. It's been on my mind recently and I just want to clear the air. All those people who say we have a lot of kids? You're wrong. It's just not true. We're not even in the minor leagues when it comes to kids.

How can I say this? Pretty easily. And I'm not even comparing ourselves to the Duggars and however many kids they have at the moment. You see, I've done some research. I've asked the right questions. I've probed, nerded out, googled, whatever you want to say. And I'm here to tell you that the truth of the matter is that we might only have a starter set of kids when you compare us to the legend of baby-making. The woman with the womb in the Birthing Hall of Fame. The one whose maternity dresses we are not worthy to wear. (Especially me.)

Just out of curiosity, what do you think is the world record for one woman giving birth? Is it 24? Would you say 30? Can you imagine, gasp, 40? Let me just say, you're getting warm.

Friends, strangers and even Sabo blog stalkers, there is one woman who stands alone in recorded Western history for the fruitfulness of her womb. She put the `pro' in prolific. Let's just say she's pro-life like no one else.

Between the years of 1725-65 (Which, if my calculations are correct, is 40 years ... that's 40 years of giving birth ladies.) Ludmila, a Russian peasant woman and wife of Feodor Vassilyev,  gave birth to 69 children by 27 births. That is not a typo. That's 69 babies. Sixty-nine. Say it out loud for effect.

Yes, it's true. According to the Guinness Book of World Records, all the women put together reading this blog probably don't have enough kids between them to compare to Ms. Vassilyev. So how did she do it? Uh, let's rephrase that. How did she have so many kids? The key is multiple births. All you young mothers out there start taking notes.

She had four sets of quadruplets, seven sets of triplets and sixteen sets of twins. So there you go. It's all about multiple births. Got it? Not to mention the fact that she had babies over the course of 40 years. Does that mean she started cranking out wee lads and lasses at 14 years of age and finished at 54 years old? I'm not sure. Whatever the case, apparently she seemed to enjoy the whole child-birthing thing. God bless the woman, eh? Here's another thing: All but two of the children survived infancy. In 18th century rural Russia no less.

Take a minute to let this all sink in. Sixty-nine babies. No hospitals. No running water. No disposable diapers. No long, hot showers. No epidurals. No birthing rooms...no wipes, baby food in jars, formula, or anything else like it.

What a woman.

So I hope this encourages you all to rethink the whole child-rearing thing. Maybe recalibrate what constitutes having kids. And having lots of kids. While you're thinking about that, I'm going to go ask Julie when she's ready to start having kids.

When Ebola Strikes The Community: 15 Funerals A Day

Three orphans from a Sierra Leone family, led by a boy who is 17.

I confess, it was a hard day for me. It's one of those days I've been through before with Julie. A trip to the hospital for a surgical procedure after a tiny beating heart inside her was silenced for reasons that remain a mystery. Just two weeks ago that tiny heart beat strong. Then some bleeding, a trip to the doctor and a weaker beating heart. Then later, more bleeding and a devastating silence. We've been blessed abundantly, 14 times to be exact. We've held and caressed all the tiny little babies, each time with inexpressible joy. I've gazed mostly through tear-stained eyes at the new little miracle in my hands, always thankful for this perfect life I'm holding and equally relieved that Julie's ordeal has passed. I wonder as I hold the infant about the new life that's being forged ahead of us, how it's a birth of new dreams and hopes and above all else, love. A deep, abiding love.

Julie and I have been through mornings like this one five times. Each different, some much more difficult than others. None of them easy. I guess I endure a silent mourning, some sort of brave face. Things get bottled up inside and I imagine it's not healthy. I don't know. It's a flawed coping method, I recognize that. Anyway, I walked around the hospital grounds in Williamsburg this morning while Julie was in surgery and I found this fiery red maple leaf on the ground. It was strikingly beautiful and the thought crossed my mind that its beauty was perfected in its death. A thousand leaves had tumbled to the ground around it yet that one stunning leaf nestled among the mulch caught my eye. I snapped a photo and I would imagine it's burnished into my memory forever. I don't pretend to understand the hows and whys of mornings like this one, except that I know that it is God's will for us. That's where I rest and that's where I find peace.

And then amidst my personal struggles I get emails like these. From a man I've never met in person -- we connected from thousands of miles away through my missions work -- whose faith is tested every minute, every second. Rev. Samuel Kargbo is awash in a sea of death in Sierra Leone, a thousand lives around him at the mercy of a vicious disease. Ebola has cut a harvest of death through his neighborhood, his city, his country. "We see the number of deaths increasing by the day and fear is generated in us, except that we have the inner man to strengthen us," Kargbo writes.

The fear is so palpable that people are afraid to go to the hospital when they are sickened, for fear that they will be diagnosed with Ebola, he writes. "This tells you the other reason for the death of many people during this period. That is part of our responsibility to educate and sensitize people to go to the hospital."

If you look closely at the photo at the top of this post, behind the three orphans who sought food to carry them through the day, you will see a lady on the ground behind them. She has lost 13 members of her family. "It is only three of them that are surviving," Kargbo writes. "The lady lying down has not escaped the danger."

For Kargbo, death surrounds him. The nearest cemetery to his community is burying 15 people a day. "We do feel the terror of death hovering, but we are covered by the wings of our Lord," Kargbo writes. "Despite the numerous deaths, we are presently engaged in reaching out with love to the community, especially addressing the needs of the orphans."

A grandchild of his has a cough and running nose. His youngest daughter complains of general body pains and his family is taking precautions to not touch her. "With the first aid treatment, if she does not show improvement after three days, we will be left with no option but to get her to report to the hospital," Kargbo writes.

His emails are a window into a suffering I'm not familiar with and Lord willing never will be. I don't say that his words give me perspective on any grief I may be experiencing because what he has to say doesn't necessarily diminish what pain I feel. What I do know is that I have an overwhelming sense of empathy for Rev. Samuel Kargbo, his family and the people of Sierra Leone and surrounding countries. I can't fathom the fear, helplessness, weariness and host of other emotions he must experience every moment. Yet it's abundantly clear that this man has a deep, abiding faith in God that's unshakable. The fires of Ebola have forged an immovable faith. I am awestruck by it. I pray that God moves to contain this disease. I ask you to pray as well. So often as the world implodes around us, that's all we can do. 

"Once more," Kargbo writes, "I say many thanks for your prayers. We surely need those prayers."

"Once more," Kargbo writes, "I say many thanks for your prayers. We surely need those prayers."

The Government Estimates The Costs of Raising Kids. We're In Trouble!

                                          Seth, aka the `Quarter-Million Dollar Baby'

My friend and former Daily Press colleague Peter Frost, now with the Chicago Tribune, wrote an article recently on the government's estimate of what it costs to raise to the age of 18 a child born in 2013. The figure the government came up with was $245,340. You read that right. Two-hundred-forty-five-thousand-three-hundred-forty. Dollars.

Um, we're in trouble in the Sabo household. Now you know why I'm always scrounging around for change in the couch! I'm still trying to wrap my head around a quarter-million bucks. Per kid. Some quick math tells me that with 14 kids, my tab is/will be in the vicinity of 3.4 million. Dollars. I'm thinking my kids are going to have to pull their own weight on this one. I'm going to start charging rent. For everyone. (Pause.) I just broke the news to Seth. He looked ... puzzled.

As I'm trying to digest this news, some thoughts ran through my mind. For starters, I didn't know I am supposed to buy my kids a Ferrari when they turn 16. Another thing: My house that I bought earlier this year cost less than what I'm going to fork out for the latest edition of the Sabo family. At least, according to the government's estimate.

There is some good news, though. As I read the article more closely I saw that the $245,340 is for middle-class folks pulling down more than $61,300 a year. So raise your hand if you're "lower-income" folks making less than $60k a year. (My hand just shot up. Actually both hands. I guess that means I surrender.) If that's you with one or two hands up, then you're only on the hook for $176,550! Sweet! I only have to buy my 16-year-olds a Lexus now!

As I probed further into the article, going to the very depths of it, I found this gem of a paragraph: "Expenses per child decrease as a family has more children, the report said, as children share bedrooms, clothing and other items." True dat! We stack them up four and five to a bedroom in the Sabo house! I noticed last winter we had a kid's coat in the closet that we've had since Brenton was 2! That was 1991! Seth pretty much uses everyone else's toothbrush! Anything to save money in the Sabo household! (Just kidding!)

At the bottom was a link to the government calculator to calculate how much it's going to cost to raise your kids. I clicked on it. One problem cropped right up. You could only calculate 6 kids. So I had to do 2 calculations since now we "only" have 10 kids under the age of 18 living at home. Some figuring revealed I'm in it for $72,086 in child-rearing expenses. This year. Which could be a problem since that's waaaaaaayyyyyy beyond what I make.

There's some explanations of how the numbers are produced, but I can't help but think it's the same office producing these figures that comes up with the federal government's budget. All I know is that my kids are fed, clothed, bathed, taken care of and generally nurtured. How does it all work in the face of these frightening "costs" the government says we are forking out? As I say frequently, the Lord provides. We are in very good and capable hands. Even if the government might not think so.

Working At Home: Mr. Mom

I've worked at home since 1993. Back in the stone age of working remotely, I believe it was just after Al Gore invented the Internet, I was working in my bedroom of our 860-square-foot house in Prineville, Ore. I was a newspaper reporter for The Bulletin and every morning around 7 a.m. my wakeup call was my editor. We were an afternoon daily and our deadline was in the morning so I'd wake up to my phone ringing, roll out of bed, clear my voice and practice saying hello a few times so my voice wouldn't crack when I answered the phone and start my day. To give you an idea how long ago that was, it was back when we only had three little boys.

From The Bulletin, to The Oregonian as a correspondent in Corvallis, Ore., to the Daily Press as a bureau reporter in Gloucester, Va., through seven houses and one barn (the barn is another blog post ... or two or three) I've been working at home. I've seen it all. And done it all. I've interviewed people while changing diapers. It's kind of hard to take notes and, well, wipe bottoms, but you pick your spots and learn to drag out conversation while you're finishing you're duty and then get back to note taking when things are all cleaned up. I've cooked dinner while working, filed stories in between innings of Wiffle ball games and worked most days in casual Friday attire. Well, maybe even more casual unless you go to work in your pajamas.

I had flashbacks of 23 years of working at home today when I was in several hours worth of Skype phone calls. Typically I mute the audio to cut down on the background noise that's easily manufactured by a dozen or so kids inhabiting a 1,570-square-foot home. We had a heat index topping 100 degrees outside and the kids stayed inside mostly, but they were great. Midway through the afternoon Julie went to a local hospital to visit a friend who just had a baby -- with my blessing -- and so it was me and the kids and my Skype call with my boss. Now God bless our kids. They've learned to tiptoe around Dad when he's on the phone in conversation and the older ones try and keep the younger ones in check. There's been some interesting moments, such as the time I was talking to the District Attorney in Prineville about a criminal case I was covering. It was a really small 2-bedroom house we lived in and one of my kids was having a monster fit and emitting rather bloodcurdling screams and the D.A. casually inquired if there might in fact be a crime of child abuse being committed that very minute within the confines of my house. He was joking. I think.

If you work at home enough, there comes that moment -- sometimes frequently -- when in the interest of keeping peace you do something that proves to be regrettable. All parents face the moment of truth in varying stages, I guess, whether you are working at home, riding in the car, out in public, or even within the private confines of your house. It's that moment of weakness or weariness parents are all too familiar with when you know you shouldn't, but in the interest of sanity, general peacefulness, or to get your kid to pipe down, you give in to their demands. That moment occurred this afternoon when 18-month-old Seth wanted the Chapstik he eyed near my desk. I knew I shouldn't, I knew it would be trouble, but he was getting noisier and I couldn't distract him and I was trying to Skype ... and I caved.

He grabbed the Chapstik and toddled off while I resumed my conversation. When he returned several minutes later, let's just say he wasn't going to struggle with any chapped lips, or anything else for that matter. No chapped lips, no chapped cheeks, no chapped hair, hands or arms. I have no idea how that much Chapstik could be contained within one little tube. The dude was totally lubed up.

But here's the thing. Seth very well may be the caboose of the Sabo tribe. This may be the last Chapstik incident in Sabo children history. There will come a day, perhaps soon, when I will miss those days when Seth walked around looking like a cute little tube of cherry Chapstik.

Happy birthday to our `baby whisperer'

We're in a stretch where in just more than 2 months, we have 7 kids celebrate birthdays. I'm pretty sure I could name them all and get the dates right, but in the interest of brevity you'll have to take my word for it.

Today we celebrate MerriGrace's 16th birthday, even though she is AWOL. She's spending the week at high school camp at YDI in Head Waters, Va., and boy howdy do we miss her! Specifically, Judah misses her. When he discovered on Sunday afternoon after church that she was leaving for camp he wept openly. An anguished cry from the depths of his soul. From the time of his birth MerriGrace has been Judah's second mom. In the mornings when he wakes up he calls for her. She puts him to bed -- hauling him around for bedtime kisses for everyone -- and when he's troubled he calls for her. It's pretty cute. She's always been known as our "baby whisperer" because not only can we count on her to help with the babies, but she has a way with them. She's gentle but firm at the same time. She's loving and patient but she won't be taken advantage of. She's got it all when it comes to maternal instincts.

Today Judah was suffering angst of some sort and inconsolable and climbed up into her bed for comfort. What's significant about that is this is a guy that still sleeps in a pack-n-play -- admittedly we have a shortage of beds in the house -- and doesn't climb out. Yet this afternoon he can climb up to the top bunk in hopes of finding his sister. Last night I think he had MerriGrace on his mind because she usually keeps an eye on him. He came up to me and said I should keep an eye on him. I asked if there was any particular reason I should keep an eye on him. He said he might be up to something. MerriGrace will get a big kick out of that story when she hears it upon her return home.

Happy birthday MerriGrace! We love you!