Back in May, I posted about the importance of struggles in our lives, how they help us grow, if we let them. Now, after having a daughter for five months, I've been rethinking my perspective on it all.
I don't recant anything I wrote then. It's more of a shift in attitude.
Here's what I mean:
My daughter, N, cries in her cradle.
I know that she needs a nap; I can hear the sleep-need in her voice. But she sounds so sad. And then she gives that hiccupy sob that sounds like her heart is breaking - and it threatens to break mine.
I could go in, pick her up, cuddle her, comfort her, rock her to sleep, and hold her in my arms for her entire nap.
I want to.
Or
she fusses over tummy time.
She doesn't want to work on holding up her head anymore! She's tired, and she's tired of laying her face back on the blanket on the floor. The whole rolling-over thing is complicated, and it is a toss-up whether or not she might make it work, and it's a lot of work! "Mom!" she seems to yell, "come fix this!"
And I want to fix it.
Oh, how I want to take it all away and reassure her of my loving presence.
I have done so on occasion.
A lot of the time, I don't.
I have the power to remove that sorrow from her life, yet I opt not to.
Why? Why would a loving parent allow his child - the child he loves more than breath - to be sad, lonely, upset? How can a parent call himself loving when he could fix it, but doesn't? Why would a parent put himself through those tears and heartache when even he would like to swoop in with a rescue?
I know why I do.
I have a bigger picture in mind than little five-month-old N can imagine. I can see the results when I have given in too often. I have a goal of health and happiness in mind for N that allows me to push through discomfort - hers and mine - in order to reach it. (And, I have a stellar husband who is my biggest cheerleader, my fellow disciplinarian, and the foremost member of my support system!)
This all has been affecting my change of mind. I have always seen God as the loving but firm Father, the one who disciplines us à la Hebrews 12:3-11.
"God is treating you as sons," the passage says of times of discipline. "He disciplines us for our good. . . . For the moment all discipline seems painful . . . but later it yields the peaceful fruit of righteousness to those who have been trained by it."
How stoic those words can seem! How stiff and unbending we can make God appear when we toss out these words of "comfort" to someone in the midst of their struggle.
Is this God? Is this our heavenly Father? Is this His heart?
"[Do not] be weary" in times of discipline, the author urges, because "the Lord disciplines the one he loves." This, too, sounded condescending but firm to my childish heart. "Don't be sad about the hurt," I once heard, "It's all for your good in the end, so brush it off and have a good attitude."
But, not being a parent yet, I missed something.
12:3 begins, "Consider him who endured from sinners such hostility against himself." Who is this? Jesus, of course, whom 5:7 describes this way: "In the days of his flesh, Jesus offered up prayers and supplications, with loud cries and tears . . . " This is the same Jesus that 4:15 assures us "sympathize[s] with our weaknesses."
This is me with N. This is the sadness I experience with her. This is my heart, aching to fix things for her, able to fix things for her, yet knowing, because of my love for her, that I must not.
You know what that tells me?
God hurts with us.
Think of that! The Creator of the universe, the one with all power and all knowledge, the one who knows that the struggle is important, He feels our pain with us! He is not up there somewhere, smiling grimly or grinning gleefully over our misery. He hurts for our pain, so much so that He exchanged His only begotten Son for us adopted sons in order to put things to rights.
Of course, everything is not all put to right yet. We still feel the effects of a broken world and our own broken souls. We're in process still, and that means growing pains as we go, and it means sharp, piercing pains as the filth is dug out of us like infection out of a tooth.
But don't lose heart in the pain. This discipline - literally, disciple-making - has been carefully chosen, painstakingly vetted as the right tool for the task of producing a holiness like our big Brother's.
And, even more so, take comfort:
Those tears you've cried over that struggle in your life or in the life of your loved one - He's cried with you. That ache in your heart from the unresolved issue that constantly nags and threatens and circles back for more - He feels it, too.
He's your Daddy, and He hurts with you.
Friday, December 30, 2016
Friday, December 16, 2016
He Cared Enough to Give Us Christmas!
Having an infant gives me a whole new appreciation for Christmas.
I've believed for as long as I can remember that Jesus, the God-Man, came to earth as a baby about 2000 years ago. Now, though, as my own child nears five months old, I realize that at one time, Jesus, the Word of God through whom the galaxies burst into existence, was Himself nearing five months old. (How can the age of the Eternal be measured in mere months?)
His mother was young, younger than me. His world was chaotic and scary.
Was Mary frightened at times, raising a baby? I am. It is a vulnerable thing to have so much of my soul wrapped in such a helpless bundle. I hope the best for her, pray that she will seek the heart of God and be kept far from evil men and women, but I know she will feel pain in some form someday. No wonder Simeon told Mary that a sword would pierce her own heart; her son had a certain future of pain, far beyond what I might realistically expect for little N. (But who ever claimed a mother's ruminations are realistic?)
Every time I read a book or watch a movie where a child is endangered or suffering, I immediately see my child there, feel an inkling of the desperation I imagine I might feel if that were my baby there, going through that. (A vivid imagination can be both a blessing and a curse.)
Or I wonder if I may inadvertently hurt her; there are certainly enough ways to fear doing so. Sometimes it seems there are so many options for fear surrounding a child that it is hard to know which is the lesser: Do I fear vaccines, or do I fear not vaccinating? Do I fear co-sleeping? letting her sleep on her belly? creating a dependency by holding her while she sleeps? risking the health effects of her not getting adequate sleep? (I don't think the "experts" mean to be cruel or manipulative as they encourage parents to avoid or embrace certain behaviors, but it's hard not to hear, "If you don't do as we say, you are knowingly endangering the very life of that little person you love with every fiber of your being . . .")
Sorry if you're tired of my going on about fear lately . . . it's just what is on my mind lately.
I heard a pastor on the radio recently (I wish I could remember which one so I could give proper credit) who said that Satan wants us to live either in the past through our regrets or in the future via our worries, because we can only worship God in the present, and that is the last thing he wants us to do. (Obviously, I've been having more trouble with the one, lately.)
But look at young Mary: she sure had plenty of things she could have feared. She was young, unwed, and pregnant. Her intended was planning to divorce her, which was the better of the two most likely options for her, the other being death. Her world didn't value life, especially the lives of the most vulnerable. Her options as a single mother weren't good, poverty and disgrace at best.
And yet, this remarkable teen chose praise.
"May soul magnifies the Lord," she said, "and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."
She rejoiced? In her trouble? In her uncertainty? I would have expected her to feel forgotten or even picked on. But instead, "he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. . . . from now on all generations will call me blessed."
Now there's perspective for you. But she wasn't done yet.
"He who is mighty has done great things for me."
Is He mighty? Do I really believe that? Or is He really strong, but just not strong enough for this problem this time? Do I live like I think my problems - or potential problems - might just be the ones that surpass the limits of His abilities?
Yes, He has done great things for me. Why do I keep assuming His works are in my past but not for my future?
Maybe it's because I am forgetting to worship.
After all, this isn't just the God of the universe sitting upon His heavenly throne. He also isn't just the man who touched the untouchables. He is the One who inhabited the womb, the arms, the heart of a young mother.
He knows. He understands. He came with all the frailties and vulnerabilities of the baby sleeping across the room from me now.
Why? Who forced Him into this Christmas thing? What Being with that sort of power would simply hang it all up for the chance to go through diapers, learning language, puberty?
Someone who cares.
Someone who cares a lot.
Someone who cares a lot about me.
Someone who cares a lot about my life and my worries.
Someone who cares a lot about this precious little girl of mine.
Thank God that He cared enough to give us a Christmas.
I've believed for as long as I can remember that Jesus, the God-Man, came to earth as a baby about 2000 years ago. Now, though, as my own child nears five months old, I realize that at one time, Jesus, the Word of God through whom the galaxies burst into existence, was Himself nearing five months old. (How can the age of the Eternal be measured in mere months?)
His mother was young, younger than me. His world was chaotic and scary.
Was Mary frightened at times, raising a baby? I am. It is a vulnerable thing to have so much of my soul wrapped in such a helpless bundle. I hope the best for her, pray that she will seek the heart of God and be kept far from evil men and women, but I know she will feel pain in some form someday. No wonder Simeon told Mary that a sword would pierce her own heart; her son had a certain future of pain, far beyond what I might realistically expect for little N. (But who ever claimed a mother's ruminations are realistic?)
Every time I read a book or watch a movie where a child is endangered or suffering, I immediately see my child there, feel an inkling of the desperation I imagine I might feel if that were my baby there, going through that. (A vivid imagination can be both a blessing and a curse.)
Or I wonder if I may inadvertently hurt her; there are certainly enough ways to fear doing so. Sometimes it seems there are so many options for fear surrounding a child that it is hard to know which is the lesser: Do I fear vaccines, or do I fear not vaccinating? Do I fear co-sleeping? letting her sleep on her belly? creating a dependency by holding her while she sleeps? risking the health effects of her not getting adequate sleep? (I don't think the "experts" mean to be cruel or manipulative as they encourage parents to avoid or embrace certain behaviors, but it's hard not to hear, "If you don't do as we say, you are knowingly endangering the very life of that little person you love with every fiber of your being . . .")
Sorry if you're tired of my going on about fear lately . . . it's just what is on my mind lately.
I heard a pastor on the radio recently (I wish I could remember which one so I could give proper credit) who said that Satan wants us to live either in the past through our regrets or in the future via our worries, because we can only worship God in the present, and that is the last thing he wants us to do. (Obviously, I've been having more trouble with the one, lately.)
But look at young Mary: she sure had plenty of things she could have feared. She was young, unwed, and pregnant. Her intended was planning to divorce her, which was the better of the two most likely options for her, the other being death. Her world didn't value life, especially the lives of the most vulnerable. Her options as a single mother weren't good, poverty and disgrace at best.
And yet, this remarkable teen chose praise.
"May soul magnifies the Lord," she said, "and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."
She rejoiced? In her trouble? In her uncertainty? I would have expected her to feel forgotten or even picked on. But instead, "he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. . . . from now on all generations will call me blessed."
Now there's perspective for you. But she wasn't done yet.
"He who is mighty has done great things for me."
Is He mighty? Do I really believe that? Or is He really strong, but just not strong enough for this problem this time? Do I live like I think my problems - or potential problems - might just be the ones that surpass the limits of His abilities?
Yes, He has done great things for me. Why do I keep assuming His works are in my past but not for my future?
Maybe it's because I am forgetting to worship.
After all, this isn't just the God of the universe sitting upon His heavenly throne. He also isn't just the man who touched the untouchables. He is the One who inhabited the womb, the arms, the heart of a young mother.
He knows. He understands. He came with all the frailties and vulnerabilities of the baby sleeping across the room from me now.
Why? Who forced Him into this Christmas thing? What Being with that sort of power would simply hang it all up for the chance to go through diapers, learning language, puberty?
Someone who cares.
Someone who cares a lot.
Someone who cares a lot about me.
Someone who cares a lot about my life and my worries.
Someone who cares a lot about this precious little girl of mine.
Thank God that He cared enough to give us a Christmas.
Tuesday, November 8, 2016
A Foray into Fear
As a mother, I have stared down the throat of fear like never before.
It comes and goes, but when it comes, it's intense.
During our pregnancy, plenty of reasons to fear surfaced. What if something is wrong? We can't see the baby in utero, so what if his or her heart stops? We might not know for days. Or so-called mother's intuition - how do I know if something is just a worry or if something is actually awry? We were excited for the baby's birth if for no other reason than that we could see the rise and fall of that little chest for ourselves!
New fears took their place with N's birth: does her breathing sound normal? Do I dare let her sleep next to me? Should I worry about SIDS or not? Am I changing her diaper often enough?
Some fears come around daily; others, I've managed to release with time; some, though, come flying out of what seems like nowhere, and those are the hardest to prepare for.
I had an encounter with one of the third kind recently, and it had to do with vaccines.
P and I have been doing our research. We've read about each disease, its likelihood of occurrence, and its complications. We weighed that against each vaccine, the ingredients of each, and their side effects. We took into account our life situation and the circumstances surrounding N's likely childhood. Then, we made our decisions. I thought I was at peace with it all.
But then came the night before her first appointment.
Fear filled me as I watched our bright-eyed little girl laugh, chatter, and squirm. What if she was one of those rare cases who comes down with a horrendous side effect? What if our active, happy baby girl was irreparably changed - forever - within a matter of a few hours?
Thankfully, I had the good sense to talk to P about it before bed that evening.
"Are we doing the right thing? Did we make the right decisions?"
He looked at me levely and simply said, "We made the right decisions."
His confidence jolted me out of my tizzy of worry and gave me the reassurance I needed to fall asleep.
That's when the whole thing got strange.
I dreamed that he and I were trying to pray together when he suddenly started saying, "I'm just so afraid," over and over. A Bible verse flashed through my mind: "God has not given us a spirit of fear..." (2 Timothy 1:7). I realized that the unexplained fear couldn't be coming from God, which meant it had dark origins. I am not one to witch hunt, nor am I very comfortable talking about the presence of demonic forces, but, in my dream, that was the only thing to which I could contribute this oppressive fear.
Still, I hesitated to say anything. That's when we both began to be paralyzed. We couldn't move our limbs, breathing became difficult, and speaking was nearly impossible. I knew then that I couldn't stay silent and began gasping Jesus' name.
The paralysis began to wane, so I stopped speaking, only to have it then return, so I started calling on Jesus again. This time it receded for good.
That's when I woke up, or thought I did. I was back in my own bed, P sleeping beside me, and I could hear N softly babbling like she will at times. The thought occurred, what if the demonic oppression was there because it was trying to get at N?
I woke P and asked him to check, make sure she was okay.
She wasn't in her cradle; she was laying between us in the bed. She was fine.
But how did she get there? P said he hadn't put her there. "I must have walked in my sleep," was my conclusion, and we went back to sleep.
The next morning, I realized that none of the second part had actually happened. I had dreamt all of it, which P confirmed when I told him about it.
At first, I only shook my head over the weird things a brain can do while a body is at rest. I probably ate something that disagreed with me, right? Trust me, I do not get into interpreting my dreams - at all. I believe God can and does use dreams to minister to people, but the dream's message is always confirmed through Scripture. Besides, I really didn't see God using them in that way in my life. I figured that I'm too skeptical for Him to want to use them to speak to me.
Whether this was a divine message or not, as I ruminated upon it, I took comfort in a couple aspects of the dream. Firstly, that I knew where to turn to do spiritual battle. Secondly, that whatever it was that was going on, none of us were harmed in either section of the dream. Finally, that N not only was fine, but also that she showed up between us, in a place of protection.
P prayed with me before he left for work, and I made the trip to the clinic with far less trepidation than I had felt earlier.
After N's appointment, we made it in time for my Wednesday morning Bible study. We're studying Hebrews right now, and I am loving it! I had prepared by going through the material for the week, but two verses nearly leapt off the page as we read the passage that morning: "Since therefore the children share in flesh and blood, he himself likewise partook of the same things, that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and deliver all those who through fear of death were subject to lifelong slavery" (Hebrews 2:14-15).
Fear, specifically the fear of death, means slavery. We walked in that fear before salvation - were doomed to it for life.
But Jesus.
Jesus saw our frail composition and took it upon Himself.
He destroyed death's power by defeating its king.
When I made the decision to make Jesus my King, I left death's dominion. In the face of my impotence, however, I tend to totally forget God's omnipotence. In my weakness, I go back for visits into slavery to fear when I forget that He has all things under His control.
God's omnipotence means that all things work together into His plan (Romans 8:28).
All things.
Vaccines, diseases, life decisions.
Politics, elections, the fates of nations.
He isn't up there trying to figure out how to clean up our messes; He ordains every situation and every outcome, using them for the good of His Church and for His glory.
With a King like that, how can I fear?
It comes and goes, but when it comes, it's intense.
During our pregnancy, plenty of reasons to fear surfaced. What if something is wrong? We can't see the baby in utero, so what if his or her heart stops? We might not know for days. Or so-called mother's intuition - how do I know if something is just a worry or if something is actually awry? We were excited for the baby's birth if for no other reason than that we could see the rise and fall of that little chest for ourselves!
New fears took their place with N's birth: does her breathing sound normal? Do I dare let her sleep next to me? Should I worry about SIDS or not? Am I changing her diaper often enough?
Some fears come around daily; others, I've managed to release with time; some, though, come flying out of what seems like nowhere, and those are the hardest to prepare for.
I had an encounter with one of the third kind recently, and it had to do with vaccines.
P and I have been doing our research. We've read about each disease, its likelihood of occurrence, and its complications. We weighed that against each vaccine, the ingredients of each, and their side effects. We took into account our life situation and the circumstances surrounding N's likely childhood. Then, we made our decisions. I thought I was at peace with it all.
But then came the night before her first appointment.
Fear filled me as I watched our bright-eyed little girl laugh, chatter, and squirm. What if she was one of those rare cases who comes down with a horrendous side effect? What if our active, happy baby girl was irreparably changed - forever - within a matter of a few hours?
Thankfully, I had the good sense to talk to P about it before bed that evening.
"Are we doing the right thing? Did we make the right decisions?"
He looked at me levely and simply said, "We made the right decisions."
His confidence jolted me out of my tizzy of worry and gave me the reassurance I needed to fall asleep.
That's when the whole thing got strange.
I dreamed that he and I were trying to pray together when he suddenly started saying, "I'm just so afraid," over and over. A Bible verse flashed through my mind: "God has not given us a spirit of fear..." (2 Timothy 1:7). I realized that the unexplained fear couldn't be coming from God, which meant it had dark origins. I am not one to witch hunt, nor am I very comfortable talking about the presence of demonic forces, but, in my dream, that was the only thing to which I could contribute this oppressive fear.
Still, I hesitated to say anything. That's when we both began to be paralyzed. We couldn't move our limbs, breathing became difficult, and speaking was nearly impossible. I knew then that I couldn't stay silent and began gasping Jesus' name.
The paralysis began to wane, so I stopped speaking, only to have it then return, so I started calling on Jesus again. This time it receded for good.
That's when I woke up, or thought I did. I was back in my own bed, P sleeping beside me, and I could hear N softly babbling like she will at times. The thought occurred, what if the demonic oppression was there because it was trying to get at N?
I woke P and asked him to check, make sure she was okay.
She wasn't in her cradle; she was laying between us in the bed. She was fine.
But how did she get there? P said he hadn't put her there. "I must have walked in my sleep," was my conclusion, and we went back to sleep.
The next morning, I realized that none of the second part had actually happened. I had dreamt all of it, which P confirmed when I told him about it.
At first, I only shook my head over the weird things a brain can do while a body is at rest. I probably ate something that disagreed with me, right? Trust me, I do not get into interpreting my dreams - at all. I believe God can and does use dreams to minister to people, but the dream's message is always confirmed through Scripture. Besides, I really didn't see God using them in that way in my life. I figured that I'm too skeptical for Him to want to use them to speak to me.
Whether this was a divine message or not, as I ruminated upon it, I took comfort in a couple aspects of the dream. Firstly, that I knew where to turn to do spiritual battle. Secondly, that whatever it was that was going on, none of us were harmed in either section of the dream. Finally, that N not only was fine, but also that she showed up between us, in a place of protection.
P prayed with me before he left for work, and I made the trip to the clinic with far less trepidation than I had felt earlier.
After N's appointment, we made it in time for my Wednesday morning Bible study. We're studying Hebrews right now, and I am loving it! I had prepared by going through the material for the week, but two verses nearly leapt off the page as we read the passage that morning: "Since therefore the children share in flesh and blood, he himself likewise partook of the same things, that through death he might destroy the one who has the power of death, that is, the devil, and deliver all those who through fear of death were subject to lifelong slavery" (Hebrews 2:14-15).
Fear, specifically the fear of death, means slavery. We walked in that fear before salvation - were doomed to it for life.
But Jesus.
Jesus saw our frail composition and took it upon Himself.
He destroyed death's power by defeating its king.
When I made the decision to make Jesus my King, I left death's dominion. In the face of my impotence, however, I tend to totally forget God's omnipotence. In my weakness, I go back for visits into slavery to fear when I forget that He has all things under His control.
God's omnipotence means that all things work together into His plan (Romans 8:28).
All things.
Vaccines, diseases, life decisions.
Politics, elections, the fates of nations.
He isn't up there trying to figure out how to clean up our messes; He ordains every situation and every outcome, using them for the good of His Church and for His glory.
With a King like that, how can I fear?
Wednesday, October 12, 2016
A Grief Unexpected
Our elderly neighbor lady is dying.
We knew she had been having health issues, but the sudden diagnosis still shocked us. I didn't expect this level of grief when I rang her doorbell yesterday morning and asked after her when a family member answered. I was concerned that maybe she had fallen and broken a hip, or that she had a long recovery from a seasonal illness ahead of her.
I didn't expect the truth to keep me up tonight.
Yet, here I am. Composing this in my head, turning it over and over til I know I have to get it out.
I don't grieve for her. She is about to be reunited with the husband she lost over a decade ago, at the foot of the throne of God, rejoicing with the angels.
I grieve for me.
This woman, some sixty years my senior, touched my life in quiet, everyday ways.
She was the first in the neighborhood to welcome us when we moved in just two years ago. She introduced herself; I called her Mrs. D_____. She made sure I knew to call her by her Christian name. For some reason, her acceptance of me as an adult, as a peer, made me feel more like an adult than did marriage, home-ownership, or even birthing a child.
There was at least once she invited this lonely wife, new to the community, over for tea. I heard dusty life stories, saw pictures of birds she had cataloged and quilts she had made, and left feeling remembered.
She told us several times, in that sweet forgetful manner many elderly have, of her participation with the Minnesota Ornothologists. She derived so much pleasure from going on day trips to count bird species, or even just watching her backyard from the picture window in her dining room, that same window we sat by and sipped our tea.
There is a comfort knowing that the person who lives mere feet away isn't watching you, looking for fodder for gossip, or trying to fit you into their mold of expectations.
When the power was out that cold day last winter, my husband was at work, and she was home alone, we checked on each other. When my husband and I were detained at church and I was concerned about our casserole burning before we could get home, she came over and took it out of the oven for me. That winter day we were so merrily shoveling the walk and decided to do hers as well, she had such kind words of gratitude.
I remember one Sunday when we went to church in town, because obligations for that day didn't allow time for us to travel all the way to our church home. She made a point to invite us over for the lunch that is still customary in this Dutch town. We thought we had to decline since we were headed out. Now I wish we had stopped for those few minutes.
As we were waiting for Baby to arrive, I admired a lovely little baby quilt in a local shop. Its cheerful yellows and pinks made it far too feminine to risk buying when we didn't know if we were having a girl. Even after our daughter was born, I couldn't justify the purchase no matter how much I loved it: funds were too tight after our family expanded for me to buy it when we already had plenty of blankets and quilts for our little girl. It would have been too extravagant of a purchase for even me. To my shame, I never thought to ask God for it. Yet, He gave it to me, through the hands of our little neighbor lady. I will never forget the feeling I had when I saw it nestled in the bottom of the gift bag: the profound love of a God who notices. I see it now, making our fourth-generation bassinet both beautiful and cozy for our precious daughter, as a daily reminder, in a new way, that our extravagant God really does care about the little matters of our hearts, not just the large, weighty, "important" issues.
And so, as I grieve, I realize that, while there is great pain from losing a family member, there is also a closure that comes with that status, "bereaved granddaughter," for instance. There is the chance to disperse a household of worldly goods, to take home that favorite tea cup, that treasured picture, the sewing machine her hands touched so many times. I respect that close bond and want to give her family the space they need to pull together around her in these last days, hours.
I mourn from a distance, as her neighbor.
But she was my friend.
We knew she had been having health issues, but the sudden diagnosis still shocked us. I didn't expect this level of grief when I rang her doorbell yesterday morning and asked after her when a family member answered. I was concerned that maybe she had fallen and broken a hip, or that she had a long recovery from a seasonal illness ahead of her.
I didn't expect the truth to keep me up tonight.
Yet, here I am. Composing this in my head, turning it over and over til I know I have to get it out.
I don't grieve for her. She is about to be reunited with the husband she lost over a decade ago, at the foot of the throne of God, rejoicing with the angels.
I grieve for me.
This woman, some sixty years my senior, touched my life in quiet, everyday ways.
She was the first in the neighborhood to welcome us when we moved in just two years ago. She introduced herself; I called her Mrs. D_____. She made sure I knew to call her by her Christian name. For some reason, her acceptance of me as an adult, as a peer, made me feel more like an adult than did marriage, home-ownership, or even birthing a child.
There was at least once she invited this lonely wife, new to the community, over for tea. I heard dusty life stories, saw pictures of birds she had cataloged and quilts she had made, and left feeling remembered.
She told us several times, in that sweet forgetful manner many elderly have, of her participation with the Minnesota Ornothologists. She derived so much pleasure from going on day trips to count bird species, or even just watching her backyard from the picture window in her dining room, that same window we sat by and sipped our tea.
There is a comfort knowing that the person who lives mere feet away isn't watching you, looking for fodder for gossip, or trying to fit you into their mold of expectations.
When the power was out that cold day last winter, my husband was at work, and she was home alone, we checked on each other. When my husband and I were detained at church and I was concerned about our casserole burning before we could get home, she came over and took it out of the oven for me. That winter day we were so merrily shoveling the walk and decided to do hers as well, she had such kind words of gratitude.
I remember one Sunday when we went to church in town, because obligations for that day didn't allow time for us to travel all the way to our church home. She made a point to invite us over for the lunch that is still customary in this Dutch town. We thought we had to decline since we were headed out. Now I wish we had stopped for those few minutes.
As we were waiting for Baby to arrive, I admired a lovely little baby quilt in a local shop. Its cheerful yellows and pinks made it far too feminine to risk buying when we didn't know if we were having a girl. Even after our daughter was born, I couldn't justify the purchase no matter how much I loved it: funds were too tight after our family expanded for me to buy it when we already had plenty of blankets and quilts for our little girl. It would have been too extravagant of a purchase for even me. To my shame, I never thought to ask God for it. Yet, He gave it to me, through the hands of our little neighbor lady. I will never forget the feeling I had when I saw it nestled in the bottom of the gift bag: the profound love of a God who notices. I see it now, making our fourth-generation bassinet both beautiful and cozy for our precious daughter, as a daily reminder, in a new way, that our extravagant God really does care about the little matters of our hearts, not just the large, weighty, "important" issues.
And so, as I grieve, I realize that, while there is great pain from losing a family member, there is also a closure that comes with that status, "bereaved granddaughter," for instance. There is the chance to disperse a household of worldly goods, to take home that favorite tea cup, that treasured picture, the sewing machine her hands touched so many times. I respect that close bond and want to give her family the space they need to pull together around her in these last days, hours.
I mourn from a distance, as her neighbor.
But she was my friend.
Friday, September 9, 2016
One Question
I think that humans live their lives trying to answer a question.
I do not know if we all ask the same question as everyone else. I don't know if an individual keeps the same question his whole life. I think many are unaware that they live life asking their question, yet even without their knowledge it commands their decisions, decides their habits, jades their perspective, and even manipulates their emotions.
In 2011, I participated in a Christian book study with friends. During the soul-searching it involved, I stumbled across my question. Actually, I believe God pointed it out to me.
"Am I enough?"
What a treacherous question to have, unknowingly, as a driving force!
While it percolated unidentified through my life, I unwittingly asked those around me to answer it. Was I enough of a daughter to be acknowledged by my father and approved of by my mother? Was I enough of a friend for those I loved? Was I enough of a Christian as I played piano for offertory and volunteered in the church library and participated in church programs? Was I enough of a student while I maintained a 4.0 GPA? Was I enough of a human being as I worked two jobs, kept a daily devotional/prayer time, exercised, got my black belt, played hostess, served my friend as a bridesmaid?
And the answer kept coming back: No. No. No. No.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. You're not enough.
Is it any wonder that seeing others get by with less angered me? Is it any surprise that every time I was snubbed or reprimanded without my achievements also being appreciated, my temper took a dive? I was asking everyone around me, "Am I enough?", yet they didn't know I was asking - I didn't even know I was asking - and they were never meant to provide my answer.
It wasn't until I asked God my question - and then listened for an answer - that I finally started to get out from under its domination.
He gave me my answer:
No, I was not enough. I was hopeless, stuck, and unimpressive.
But Jesus.
Jesus brings hope. Jesus enables change and growth. Jesus makes all things new.
Jesus is enough!
When I am in Him, that means I don't have to be enough anymore. Because He is.
What a difference it makes to finally have my question answered: No, I am not enough, but I no longer need to be. Someone else has been enough, and He is enough for me, too.
Life has a whole lot more peace when a question is answered.
Yet, here I am, five years after I got my answer, and I forget that I still ask my question.
I fight with my husband on the days it catches me unaware as I silently ask him to answer it for me.
My baby girl cries in my arms, her eyes begging me to make her tummy stop hurting, and my heart breaks with the weight of my question again.
And I realize that this is my question probably for the rest of my years, in whatever circumstance life finds me. And I thank God I know my answer.
I do not know if we all ask the same question as everyone else. I don't know if an individual keeps the same question his whole life. I think many are unaware that they live life asking their question, yet even without their knowledge it commands their decisions, decides their habits, jades their perspective, and even manipulates their emotions.
In 2011, I participated in a Christian book study with friends. During the soul-searching it involved, I stumbled across my question. Actually, I believe God pointed it out to me.
"Am I enough?"
What a treacherous question to have, unknowingly, as a driving force!
While it percolated unidentified through my life, I unwittingly asked those around me to answer it. Was I enough of a daughter to be acknowledged by my father and approved of by my mother? Was I enough of a friend for those I loved? Was I enough of a Christian as I played piano for offertory and volunteered in the church library and participated in church programs? Was I enough of a student while I maintained a 4.0 GPA? Was I enough of a human being as I worked two jobs, kept a daily devotional/prayer time, exercised, got my black belt, played hostess, served my friend as a bridesmaid?
And the answer kept coming back: No. No. No. No.
Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. Not enough. You're not enough.
Is it any wonder that seeing others get by with less angered me? Is it any surprise that every time I was snubbed or reprimanded without my achievements also being appreciated, my temper took a dive? I was asking everyone around me, "Am I enough?", yet they didn't know I was asking - I didn't even know I was asking - and they were never meant to provide my answer.
It wasn't until I asked God my question - and then listened for an answer - that I finally started to get out from under its domination.
He gave me my answer:
No, I was not enough. I was hopeless, stuck, and unimpressive.
But Jesus.
Jesus brings hope. Jesus enables change and growth. Jesus makes all things new.
Jesus is enough!
When I am in Him, that means I don't have to be enough anymore. Because He is.
What a difference it makes to finally have my question answered: No, I am not enough, but I no longer need to be. Someone else has been enough, and He is enough for me, too.
Life has a whole lot more peace when a question is answered.
Yet, here I am, five years after I got my answer, and I forget that I still ask my question.
I fight with my husband on the days it catches me unaware as I silently ask him to answer it for me.
My baby girl cries in my arms, her eyes begging me to make her tummy stop hurting, and my heart breaks with the weight of my question again.
And I realize that this is my question probably for the rest of my years, in whatever circumstance life finds me. And I thank God I know my answer.
Saturday, August 27, 2016
I Must Be a Mom
Why?
Because . . .
I describe sleeping in four-hour increments as a "good night's rest."
The phrases "That was a good burp," and "You can do it! Fill that diaper!" have crossed my lips more times than I care to know.
Bodily excretions - even flying ones - no longer phase me.
I am more likely to catch vomit in my hand and then be pleased so little hit the carpet than be grossed out by it.
I lost my heart at the same time I lost my mind.
I eat like there is a deadline - because there usually is.
I am never so happy as when N finally goes to sleep . . . except when she wakes again.
My living room looks remarkably tidy when it is not clotted with waiting laundry baskets.
I am beginning to realize the virtues of a "mom hair cut."
I spend hours staring at one little face and it never gets old.
I smile when I see a crusty patch of dried drool on my chest because it marks the spot where my daughter slept.
People are extremely understanding when I arrive late or early with an explanation beginning, "The baby . . . "
I feel that knowing look come into my eyes when women start whipping out labor stories.
I speak in a high-pitched voice and refer to myself in the third person . . . a lot.
An exceptionally productive day means the dishes and laundry got done and I have a plan for supper.
I think the morning sunlight streaming through my bedroom window is put to shame by the brilliance of one little girl's smile.
Because . . .
I describe sleeping in four-hour increments as a "good night's rest."
The phrases "That was a good burp," and "You can do it! Fill that diaper!" have crossed my lips more times than I care to know.
Bodily excretions - even flying ones - no longer phase me.
I am more likely to catch vomit in my hand and then be pleased so little hit the carpet than be grossed out by it.
I lost my heart at the same time I lost my mind.
I eat like there is a deadline - because there usually is.
I am never so happy as when N finally goes to sleep . . . except when she wakes again.
My living room looks remarkably tidy when it is not clotted with waiting laundry baskets.
I am beginning to realize the virtues of a "mom hair cut."
I spend hours staring at one little face and it never gets old.
I smile when I see a crusty patch of dried drool on my chest because it marks the spot where my daughter slept.
People are extremely understanding when I arrive late or early with an explanation beginning, "The baby . . . "
I feel that knowing look come into my eyes when women start whipping out labor stories.
I speak in a high-pitched voice and refer to myself in the third person . . . a lot.
An exceptionally productive day means the dishes and laundry got done and I have a plan for supper.
I think the morning sunlight streaming through my bedroom window is put to shame by the brilliance of one little girl's smile.
Tuesday, July 12, 2016
Anticipation
Our due date draws near! Anticipation mounts!
I know it could be any day now, but I have just been so busy doing other things that I have been putting off some of the prep for baby. (S/he's not coming today after all!)
We have been meaning to paint and clean carpets and gather furniture for the nursery, but life has sort of gotten in the way. I mean, I know I'm about ready to pop, but we have been with family for various happy occasions, been involved with church events, been keeping up with friends . . . good things! We plan to be ready for baby, but there's surely plenty of time.
I can't see my toes anymore, but I can clean and arrange and all that right before baby arrives, right?
I know we will need diapers and wipes, onesies and blankets, a car seat and a diaper bag, but if I get too involved with all that now, I might miss time with people and chances to live life the way I want to.
After all, the baby isn't here yet! I can worry about choosing an attending physician and a hospital for the birth eventually. Why should I let a baby who isn't even here yet dictate my life choices any sooner than necessary? That will come, I know, but let's not rush into things.
We've got time!
Right?
"For you yourselves are fully aware that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. While people are saying, 'There is peace and security,' then sudden destruction will come upon them as labor pains come upon a pregnant woman, and they will not escape. But you are not in darkness, brothers, for that day to surprise you like a thief. For you are all children of light, children of the day. We are not of the night or of the darkness. So then let us not sleep, as others do, but let us keep awake and be sober."
1 Thessalonians 5:2-6 ESV
Note: The state of our preparations for baby's arrival as reported above is fictional. How foolish we would be to leave something so important until the last minute!
I know it could be any day now, but I have just been so busy doing other things that I have been putting off some of the prep for baby. (S/he's not coming today after all!)
We have been meaning to paint and clean carpets and gather furniture for the nursery, but life has sort of gotten in the way. I mean, I know I'm about ready to pop, but we have been with family for various happy occasions, been involved with church events, been keeping up with friends . . . good things! We plan to be ready for baby, but there's surely plenty of time.
I can't see my toes anymore, but I can clean and arrange and all that right before baby arrives, right?
I know we will need diapers and wipes, onesies and blankets, a car seat and a diaper bag, but if I get too involved with all that now, I might miss time with people and chances to live life the way I want to.
After all, the baby isn't here yet! I can worry about choosing an attending physician and a hospital for the birth eventually. Why should I let a baby who isn't even here yet dictate my life choices any sooner than necessary? That will come, I know, but let's not rush into things.
We've got time!
Right?
"For you yourselves are fully aware that the day of the Lord will come like a thief in the night. While people are saying, 'There is peace and security,' then sudden destruction will come upon them as labor pains come upon a pregnant woman, and they will not escape. But you are not in darkness, brothers, for that day to surprise you like a thief. For you are all children of light, children of the day. We are not of the night or of the darkness. So then let us not sleep, as others do, but let us keep awake and be sober."
1 Thessalonians 5:2-6 ESV
Note: The state of our preparations for baby's arrival as reported above is fictional. How foolish we would be to leave something so important until the last minute!
Tuesday, June 21, 2016
36 Weeks
I decided it is time for a lighter post, and, in anticipation of hitting the eight month mark later this week, thought to go through a bunch of old wives' tales regarding the baby's gender. Time will tell which are correct!
1. Sweet vs salty cravings? Sweet = girl
2. Morning sickness? No = boy
3. Glow or no? No = girl
4. Daddy's weight? Gaining = girl
5. Moody vs mellow? Mellow = boy
6. Baby's heart rate? Above 140 = girl
7. Legs swelling? Yes = boy
8. Eat ends of bread? Yes = boy
9. Chinese calendar = girl
10. Mom's complexion? Acne = girl
11. Dreams? Both (more boy dreams earlier in the pregnancy, more girl dreams recently)
12. Clumsy vs graceful? Clumsy = boy
13. Toddlers' interest? Yes = girl
14. Preferred side to rest on? Left = boy
15. Showing hands? I showed the tops = boy
16. Crave protein? No = girl
17. Temperature of feet? Warm = girl
18. Hair on legs? Not growing quickly = girl
19. Nose appear to be growing or widening? Yes = boy
20. Headaches? No = girl
21. Picking baby names? Picking a girl's name came easier = girl
22. Carrying height? High = girl
23. Carrying in front or on sides? In front = boy
24. Shape of mom's face? Rounder = girl
25. Key test? I pick up keys by the large end = boy
26. Mayan calendar = boy
So, there you go! Out of 26 tests, 14 claim we're having a girl, 11 say it's a boy, and one is inconclusive.
Oh! And I haven't struggled with heartburn, so our baby is bald (but I could have told you that anyway . . . ).
Practically science.
1. Sweet vs salty cravings? Sweet = girl
2. Morning sickness? No = boy
3. Glow or no? No = girl
4. Daddy's weight? Gaining = girl
5. Moody vs mellow? Mellow = boy
6. Baby's heart rate? Above 140 = girl
7. Legs swelling? Yes = boy
8. Eat ends of bread? Yes = boy
9. Chinese calendar = girl
10. Mom's complexion? Acne = girl
11. Dreams? Both (more boy dreams earlier in the pregnancy, more girl dreams recently)
12. Clumsy vs graceful? Clumsy = boy
13. Toddlers' interest? Yes = girl
14. Preferred side to rest on? Left = boy
15. Showing hands? I showed the tops = boy
16. Crave protein? No = girl
17. Temperature of feet? Warm = girl
18. Hair on legs? Not growing quickly = girl
19. Nose appear to be growing or widening? Yes = boy
20. Headaches? No = girl
21. Picking baby names? Picking a girl's name came easier = girl
22. Carrying height? High = girl
23. Carrying in front or on sides? In front = boy
24. Shape of mom's face? Rounder = girl
25. Key test? I pick up keys by the large end = boy
26. Mayan calendar = boy
So, there you go! Out of 26 tests, 14 claim we're having a girl, 11 say it's a boy, and one is inconclusive.
Oh! And I haven't struggled with heartburn, so our baby is bald (but I could have told you that anyway . . . ).
Practically science.
Thursday, June 16, 2016
WARNING: Rant Ahead
I don't know what it is about the figure of a woman great with child that makes near strangers lose all sense of propriety and decorum. It is as if the token phrases, "congratulations," "when are you due?" and "do you know if you are having a boy or a girl?" are suddenly, inexplicably insufficient.
For example, the approximately nine-year-old boy who asked me if I was going to have the baby right here, right now. Forgive me, but I am not prepared to discuss childbirth - mine or any other - with a sarcastic, pre-pubescent boy.
Or the older woman who loudly exclaimed from across a populated room about my swollen ankles, declaring that there is no way I am going to make it to my due date. (Just in case the pregnant lady isn't already self-conscious about her body's unfamiliar shape, her clumsy movements, or the extra twenty pounds she's lugging around, let's make sure she knows how awful her feet look, too. I mean, really.) What should I say when someone I do not even know tells me I will be lucky to make it to within two weeks of my due date? "Um, thank you"?
Now, if you are already an acquaintance, someone who has at least chatted with me about other aspects of life at times prior to becoming aware of my pregnancy, I am fine with a few questions or tidbits of helpful advice. I love to share the latest bits of progress on the nursery, or how active Baby has been lately; and if you really care, I will tell you about my latest ache or pain.
But, if you are a middle-aged man with a beer belly and you just happen to know my first name, do not imagine that it is clever - or even appropriate - to compare my growing circumference to yours. They are not the same.
--End of rant--
For example, the approximately nine-year-old boy who asked me if I was going to have the baby right here, right now. Forgive me, but I am not prepared to discuss childbirth - mine or any other - with a sarcastic, pre-pubescent boy.
Or the older woman who loudly exclaimed from across a populated room about my swollen ankles, declaring that there is no way I am going to make it to my due date. (Just in case the pregnant lady isn't already self-conscious about her body's unfamiliar shape, her clumsy movements, or the extra twenty pounds she's lugging around, let's make sure she knows how awful her feet look, too. I mean, really.) What should I say when someone I do not even know tells me I will be lucky to make it to within two weeks of my due date? "Um, thank you"?
Now, if you are already an acquaintance, someone who has at least chatted with me about other aspects of life at times prior to becoming aware of my pregnancy, I am fine with a few questions or tidbits of helpful advice. I love to share the latest bits of progress on the nursery, or how active Baby has been lately; and if you really care, I will tell you about my latest ache or pain.
But, if you are a middle-aged man with a beer belly and you just happen to know my first name, do not imagine that it is clever - or even appropriate - to compare my growing circumference to yours. They are not the same.
--End of rant--
Tuesday, June 14, 2016
A Letter
This is an open letter to a group of my Christian brothers and sisters whom I have never met, in a place I have never been. You see, you are receiving a blessing this week that has required a sacrifice from me and my family: my sister, B, and her husband, L, as your new pastor and pastor's wife.
Please understand from the beginning that I have every reason to think well of you. L & B had only good things to say about you all after their visit to candidate with you. I have only seen warmth, kindness, and welcome from your interactions with them on Facebook and on your website. But I have learned the hard way that people we love and think we know and who, we believe, love us in return can hurt us the most profoundly. No one is beyond the benefit of an encouraging word of exhortation. And so, I desire to spur you on to love and godliness in your interactions with my sister and brother-in-law because, while God can require hard - even painful - things of us at times, failing to walk in His ways always results in pain, even for innocent parties.
For this reason, I write to you.
Please remember that my big sister is not just a pastor's wife. She is, but she is so much more than that. She is a wife, a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a friend. She is a professional, a college graduate, and an aunt to my unborn child. She is the one who plunked out duets with me on the piano, who played dolls and dress-up with me, who introduced me to my favorite brand of makeup, who inspires me to read worthwhile books. She is well-read and has extensive knowledge about a variety of topics. She has spoken to a roomful of hundreds of collegues and has traveled to divers places. She has many strengths, but she has her fears and foibles as well. She isn't perfect, and moving into a parsonage will not make her so. Please, be kind in your words to and about her. Do not be shocked when she disappoints you or lets you down in an expectation. Get to know her as a real human, not just as your pastor's wife, or you will indeed miss out.
Please remember that L is not just your pastor. He is, but he is also so much more. L has hobbies and favorite books and places. He has quirks and preferences. He is not just learning to lead a church but also a wife. He will shepherd you in the ways of the Lord, but he himself is not infallible. There will be cultural differences as well (have you ever heard of Pizza Ranch or the Minnesota goodbye?). You will call him Pastor L, but do not let that title lull you into thinking that he is a pastor first (I say this because I am guilty of the same with my pastor). No, he is L. Please do not miss the richness of what that means by allowing the stereotypes and expectations of a title to suffice for actually getting to know him as a man.
Thank you for calling B & L. Thank you for extending this opportunity to a young couple fresh from seminary. I look forward to the opportunity to visit with you in person, to meet you and to begin to love the people and place that my sister and brother-in-law have chosen to love. I had never heard about you before a few months ago, and now it is my desire to make you friends as well as spiritual family. Please, in lieu of and agreement with their biological families who are separated by so many miles, wrap your arms - physically, spiritually, in prayer and in encouragement - around these our loved ones. As you do, may their absence from us be a gift to you. May you abound more and more in the riches of God's kindness, and may He strengthen you in the knowledge of our Savior Jesus Christ.
Peace be to you.
Please understand from the beginning that I have every reason to think well of you. L & B had only good things to say about you all after their visit to candidate with you. I have only seen warmth, kindness, and welcome from your interactions with them on Facebook and on your website. But I have learned the hard way that people we love and think we know and who, we believe, love us in return can hurt us the most profoundly. No one is beyond the benefit of an encouraging word of exhortation. And so, I desire to spur you on to love and godliness in your interactions with my sister and brother-in-law because, while God can require hard - even painful - things of us at times, failing to walk in His ways always results in pain, even for innocent parties.
For this reason, I write to you.
Please remember that my big sister is not just a pastor's wife. She is, but she is so much more than that. She is a wife, a daughter, a sister, a cousin, a friend. She is a professional, a college graduate, and an aunt to my unborn child. She is the one who plunked out duets with me on the piano, who played dolls and dress-up with me, who introduced me to my favorite brand of makeup, who inspires me to read worthwhile books. She is well-read and has extensive knowledge about a variety of topics. She has spoken to a roomful of hundreds of collegues and has traveled to divers places. She has many strengths, but she has her fears and foibles as well. She isn't perfect, and moving into a parsonage will not make her so. Please, be kind in your words to and about her. Do not be shocked when she disappoints you or lets you down in an expectation. Get to know her as a real human, not just as your pastor's wife, or you will indeed miss out.
Please remember that L is not just your pastor. He is, but he is also so much more. L has hobbies and favorite books and places. He has quirks and preferences. He is not just learning to lead a church but also a wife. He will shepherd you in the ways of the Lord, but he himself is not infallible. There will be cultural differences as well (have you ever heard of Pizza Ranch or the Minnesota goodbye?). You will call him Pastor L, but do not let that title lull you into thinking that he is a pastor first (I say this because I am guilty of the same with my pastor). No, he is L. Please do not miss the richness of what that means by allowing the stereotypes and expectations of a title to suffice for actually getting to know him as a man.
Thank you for calling B & L. Thank you for extending this opportunity to a young couple fresh from seminary. I look forward to the opportunity to visit with you in person, to meet you and to begin to love the people and place that my sister and brother-in-law have chosen to love. I had never heard about you before a few months ago, and now it is my desire to make you friends as well as spiritual family. Please, in lieu of and agreement with their biological families who are separated by so many miles, wrap your arms - physically, spiritually, in prayer and in encouragement - around these our loved ones. As you do, may their absence from us be a gift to you. May you abound more and more in the riches of God's kindness, and may He strengthen you in the knowledge of our Savior Jesus Christ.
Peace be to you.
Monday, May 2, 2016
The Struggle
Our little family is in the third trimester now.
Third trimester.
That sounds so much scarier than the first or second trimester did. Now, labor is impending. A birth is coming and coming soon. We are closer now to being honest-to-goodness parents than we are to our past of being just a couple.
All this has been brought forcefully to my full attention as I wait to hear from one of my dear friends who is laboring to bring their daughter into this outside world. I have been praying for the three of them in the silence between text updates, trying not to worry over long silences, practicing trusting that all is well when I so desperately desire that nothing go wrong for our dear friends.
All of which makes me think of the last time I worked in our church nursery.
It was a fairly full Sunday, but we volunteers were handling it well. I was cuddling and rocking a little boy who was sleepy/weepy, which lent me the chance to observe some of the others. There was the brother-sister duo who were playing with the plastic food, the little guy who wanted to read books, and one particular little girl who was on a mission of her own making.
She was attempting to climb up onto the Little Tykes slide, which, ordinarily would not have been much of a challenge for her. She had, for whatever reason, decided that today she wanted to take a a toy up there with her.
This was a good-sized toy, not too heavy, but cumbersome enough that she had to push and prod and shuffle it around while trying to get a leg up on the playset, cacthing it as it threatened to tumble from a precarious perch, adjusting it, and trying again.
My rocker was close to the playset, and I found myself ready to lean over and reach out a hand. One little push and it would be easily centered on the platform above the slide and all that would remain would be for her to follow it herself. Mission accomplished, right?
But before I could lean over and act on the impulse to rescue her, the thought flashed across my mind, "The struggle is important."
I sat back, wondering where the thought had come from, and just that quickly, she had pushed the toy to a secure position and crawled up after it.
The struggle is important.
Sometimes, it is simply important in the sense of accomplishment that follows knowing we persevered when it was hard and got it done anyway.
It is certainly important to the development of infants and toddlers as they learn to hold up their heads, roll over, crawl, run.
Children struggle to read or write or do simple sums but later go on to college and grad school where they have a whole new set of struggles to vanquish.
And parents get to go through their own struggles of pregnancy, birth, and child-rearing - and then they look back and wonder where the time went.
All these struggles are a prelude to learning more, doing more, being more. There is no growth where there is no struggle.
The struggle is important.
Of course, we have families - families of blood and families of Spirit - who gather around us, support us in our struggles, help us with the resources to make it through, and sometimes even remove the struggle from our lives. They are an important part of life, placed there by God's own loving hand of provision.
But we must not be too quick to pray for the removal of our struggles. We must not be so short-sighted as to assume that the faster an issue is resolved, the better it is for us or for our struggling friend.
Growth happens in the action of struggling. Yes, we can grow bitter, but if we truly believe that the struggle is important, we are more likely to lean into the pain, eager for the outcome that rewards at the end.
Sometimes, that outcome is one successful step.
Sometimes, we are rewarded by discovering a world of possibilities between the pages of a book.
And sometimes, after the struggle, we get to meet our very own flesh and blood.
Third trimester.
That sounds so much scarier than the first or second trimester did. Now, labor is impending. A birth is coming and coming soon. We are closer now to being honest-to-goodness parents than we are to our past of being just a couple.
All this has been brought forcefully to my full attention as I wait to hear from one of my dear friends who is laboring to bring their daughter into this outside world. I have been praying for the three of them in the silence between text updates, trying not to worry over long silences, practicing trusting that all is well when I so desperately desire that nothing go wrong for our dear friends.
All of which makes me think of the last time I worked in our church nursery.
It was a fairly full Sunday, but we volunteers were handling it well. I was cuddling and rocking a little boy who was sleepy/weepy, which lent me the chance to observe some of the others. There was the brother-sister duo who were playing with the plastic food, the little guy who wanted to read books, and one particular little girl who was on a mission of her own making.
She was attempting to climb up onto the Little Tykes slide, which, ordinarily would not have been much of a challenge for her. She had, for whatever reason, decided that today she wanted to take a a toy up there with her.
This was a good-sized toy, not too heavy, but cumbersome enough that she had to push and prod and shuffle it around while trying to get a leg up on the playset, cacthing it as it threatened to tumble from a precarious perch, adjusting it, and trying again.
My rocker was close to the playset, and I found myself ready to lean over and reach out a hand. One little push and it would be easily centered on the platform above the slide and all that would remain would be for her to follow it herself. Mission accomplished, right?
But before I could lean over and act on the impulse to rescue her, the thought flashed across my mind, "The struggle is important."
I sat back, wondering where the thought had come from, and just that quickly, she had pushed the toy to a secure position and crawled up after it.
The struggle is important.
Sometimes, it is simply important in the sense of accomplishment that follows knowing we persevered when it was hard and got it done anyway.
It is certainly important to the development of infants and toddlers as they learn to hold up their heads, roll over, crawl, run.
Children struggle to read or write or do simple sums but later go on to college and grad school where they have a whole new set of struggles to vanquish.
And parents get to go through their own struggles of pregnancy, birth, and child-rearing - and then they look back and wonder where the time went.
All these struggles are a prelude to learning more, doing more, being more. There is no growth where there is no struggle.
The struggle is important.
Of course, we have families - families of blood and families of Spirit - who gather around us, support us in our struggles, help us with the resources to make it through, and sometimes even remove the struggle from our lives. They are an important part of life, placed there by God's own loving hand of provision.
But we must not be too quick to pray for the removal of our struggles. We must not be so short-sighted as to assume that the faster an issue is resolved, the better it is for us or for our struggling friend.
Growth happens in the action of struggling. Yes, we can grow bitter, but if we truly believe that the struggle is important, we are more likely to lean into the pain, eager for the outcome that rewards at the end.
Sometimes, that outcome is one successful step.
Sometimes, we are rewarded by discovering a world of possibilities between the pages of a book.
And sometimes, after the struggle, we get to meet our very own flesh and blood.
Thursday, March 31, 2016
Settling for My Dream
Four years ago, I was a junior in college, signing up to take the GRE, starting to think about grad schools for my master's, enjoying life. Looked forward four years from then, I saw myself finishing my master's this spring, looking for jobs, ready to go out and pay off student debt, find a place of my own - maybe Boston or San Diego, travel (eventually) to Italy and Greece.
I didn't always want to be a career woman.
Once upon a time, my sole goal in life (other than being a missionary to China like Gladys Aylward or a horse rancher) was to be a wife and mother. The problem with my dream was that high school ended, and no requisite husband showed up.
I took a year off of school to become a licensed piano teacher.
Still no applicant for husband.
Then I took two years of college while dating a young man.
That didn't work, so I got a job for a year.
Still no man.
So I went off to school again. "Plan A didn't pan out," I thought, so I moved on to Plan B.
Then, life blew up (quite literally) three and a half years ago, catapulting me back to Plan A.
Now, here I am, preparing for my hugely anticipated promotion to the position of mother.
From the outside, it might look as if I've settled.
Instead of looking for promising career opportunities, I am looking for new recipes for supper.
Instead of driving to classes or a job every day, I walk a few blocks to a part-time job that doesn't pay much above minimum wage and busily page through books of prenatal and postnatal information in my down time.
Instead of writing research papers and reading peer-reviewed journal articles, I am writing grocery lists and researching the best way to contain dirty diapers until they can be washed.
Yeah, that might look like settling.
But to me, it's living my dream!
I didn't always want to be a career woman.
Once upon a time, my sole goal in life (other than being a missionary to China like Gladys Aylward or a horse rancher) was to be a wife and mother. The problem with my dream was that high school ended, and no requisite husband showed up.
I took a year off of school to become a licensed piano teacher.
Still no applicant for husband.
Then I took two years of college while dating a young man.
That didn't work, so I got a job for a year.
Still no man.
So I went off to school again. "Plan A didn't pan out," I thought, so I moved on to Plan B.
Then, life blew up (quite literally) three and a half years ago, catapulting me back to Plan A.
Now, here I am, preparing for my hugely anticipated promotion to the position of mother.
From the outside, it might look as if I've settled.
Instead of looking for promising career opportunities, I am looking for new recipes for supper.
Instead of driving to classes or a job every day, I walk a few blocks to a part-time job that doesn't pay much above minimum wage and busily page through books of prenatal and postnatal information in my down time.
Instead of writing research papers and reading peer-reviewed journal articles, I am writing grocery lists and researching the best way to contain dirty diapers until they can be washed.
Yeah, that might look like settling.
But to me, it's living my dream!
Wednesday, February 3, 2016
Stop and Feel the Roses
Do you ever think about what a boring place this world would be without texture?
I have pondered it lately due, in no small part, to a proclivity to nausea throughout the last several months (if you'received wondering why, read about the reason here). This seems especially relevant in the area of food.
Think of your favorite food for a moment. You can probably smell it, taste it, see it laid out in front of you, and feel it in your mouth. That "feel" may be the last thing I think of when it comes to food, but for some foods I avoid, I find that that is the primary reason for my dislike. It may looks nice, smell nice, and taste nice, but if that texture is too slimy, or grainy, or lumpy, it can completely overwhelm a dish's other positive attributes.
And textures in food are just a beginning!
I have a sweater I love, except that it itches when I wear it. My favorite around-the-house clothes look awful, but they feel so nice. When I bought sheets for our bed recently, I spent more time with my hand in among the cloth than I did picking a color.
Or the beauty of the outdoors? Imagine the green and brown of a tree - but without the fifty shades of each that textures give. It would look like a child's drawing: good enough for the refrigerator door, but a sorry excuse for a sweeping panoramic or idyllic pastoral.
And that is just a tree! There is the wonderful spiny texture of grass, the velvety curves of flowers, the soft bounce of clouds, the sweeping curve of sky, and the breath-taking undulations of a world covered in snow.
All that, and I haven't even touched on colors!
What a world of beauty and wonder we inhabit (yes, even those of us in a Midwestern winter)! There is a God I know, and I get my delight of texture from Him. How do I know? Because He did not have to make a world of textures. But He did. He made them, which tells me that He likes them, too.
So, take a moment, please, to stop and feel the roses.
I have pondered it lately due, in no small part, to a proclivity to nausea throughout the last several months (if you'received wondering why, read about the reason here). This seems especially relevant in the area of food.
Think of your favorite food for a moment. You can probably smell it, taste it, see it laid out in front of you, and feel it in your mouth. That "feel" may be the last thing I think of when it comes to food, but for some foods I avoid, I find that that is the primary reason for my dislike. It may looks nice, smell nice, and taste nice, but if that texture is too slimy, or grainy, or lumpy, it can completely overwhelm a dish's other positive attributes.
And textures in food are just a beginning!
I have a sweater I love, except that it itches when I wear it. My favorite around-the-house clothes look awful, but they feel so nice. When I bought sheets for our bed recently, I spent more time with my hand in among the cloth than I did picking a color.
Or the beauty of the outdoors? Imagine the green and brown of a tree - but without the fifty shades of each that textures give. It would look like a child's drawing: good enough for the refrigerator door, but a sorry excuse for a sweeping panoramic or idyllic pastoral.
And that is just a tree! There is the wonderful spiny texture of grass, the velvety curves of flowers, the soft bounce of clouds, the sweeping curve of sky, and the breath-taking undulations of a world covered in snow.
All that, and I haven't even touched on colors!
What a world of beauty and wonder we inhabit (yes, even those of us in a Midwestern winter)! There is a God I know, and I get my delight of texture from Him. How do I know? Because He did not have to make a world of textures. But He did. He made them, which tells me that He likes them, too.
So, take a moment, please, to stop and feel the roses.
Monday, January 18, 2016
Lemonade
Before you read today's post, I would like you to watch this video.
I appreciate how Chris Rice takes an old adage, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade," and turns it into a song of appreciation for all that God gives. As another year swings around, I am reminded of our daily blessings - blessings far more abundant than I have any right to expect. Gift after gift rolls to mind with only a few minutes' contemplation.
But, beyond the goodness of a lemonade-giving God, I am not even drinking it alone. I get to share a glass with a man who also thanks God for it as he drinks deeply of our life together.
And God isn't even finished yet.
We are announcing that we are going to need another straw!
I appreciate how Chris Rice takes an old adage, "When life gives you lemons, make lemonade," and turns it into a song of appreciation for all that God gives. As another year swings around, I am reminded of our daily blessings - blessings far more abundant than I have any right to expect. Gift after gift rolls to mind with only a few minutes' contemplation.
But, beyond the goodness of a lemonade-giving God, I am not even drinking it alone. I get to share a glass with a man who also thanks God for it as he drinks deeply of our life together.
And God isn't even finished yet.
We are announcing that we are going to need another straw!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)