If I thought I didn't post very often before a child landed smack-dab in the middle of my life, I had another thought coming.
I wish I had posts niggling away in the back of my mind, just itching to run through my fingers into the computer keys, but I don't. It's as if I've not only lost the time but also the contemplative power to post.
Is my mind too full of to-dos and what-ifs to ponder anything beyond/above myself and my day? Or maybe I've allowed my mind to snack on diversions rather than dig into a feast of actual thought.
Or maybe this parenting thing is just completely all-encompassing.
Parenting isn't something a body can do halfway. A person really has to be all in - or not at all. Good parenting, bad parenting, that's another topic entirely; but if you're going to raise a little ankle-biter, it's going to completely revamp your life.
After N was born, someone told us that having a child was the most unselfish decision a couple could make. I'm still thinking having the SECOND child is least selfish, because then you have an idea of what you're giving up:
the right to your own glass and plate;
the ability to do a task from beginning to finish without interruption;
the possession of your own bed;
the luxury of using the bathroom by yourself;
the chance to sleep through the night;
the pursuit of hobbies, reading, and other interests;
and on and on and on . . .
N and I were at the town kiddie pool yesterday. It's a little wading area set off from the main pool, starts at 0" and gets to 1' 6" at the "deep" end. It comes complete with nine little fountains of water, three sets of three, spraying, bubbling, and shooting in their respective places. A favorite activity of the young patrons is to step on one of the fountains in a set, causing the others to spray further than normal.
N, taking everything in as she does, saw the "big" kids doing this and decided she would get in on that action.
She pulled herself out of the 4" section, hurried her way to the deep end, and flopped her toes down on the first fountain she came to.
Surprise!
The water shot between her toes and, rerouted by her interference, squirted right up into her face!
Shocked and a utterly perplexed, she backed up, furiously wiping water from her eyes. I wanted to laugh, but instead put on my compassionate face and helped her dry her face.
"Did the water squirt you?" I asked.
"Uh-uh," she answered with quivering lip.
"Here, use your whole foot, like this," I demonstrated.
And she did! She was so proud! Stepping on the fountain like the big kids!
She just had to go all in.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Thursday, June 28, 2018
Friday, December 30, 2016
The Struggle, Reviz
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.
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 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.
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, 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.
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 12, 2015
An Open Letter to Parents
Dear Parents:
Parent your children.
Please.
I'm the cashier in the grocery store, or the girl stocking the shelves.
I'm your librarian, your piano teacher, your babysitter.
I care for your kids at summer camp, at church, in the youth group.
I don't have children, but I love kids!
And I consider myself privileged to care for and interact with yours.
Just don't make me do your job.
I don't want to teach your child manners: that's your job. I shouldn't have to tell them to respect my position as a lady, as their elder, or as an authority (if they are old enough to mouth off they are old enough to learn better). Don't expect me to calm your child's tantrums while you are present; I would not want to disrespect your position in their life by stepping into your shoes inappropriately - even if I represent an office of authority.
I realize that not having my own child means that I can't possibly understand the difficulties the parent/child relationship encounters in our world. But you can parent successfully!
I know because of the families who do.
I know it's possible because of the children who say "please" and "thank you" and who look me in the eye and smile when I say hello. I know because of children I see respect their parents - and me. I know it anew every time I gladly anticipate interacting with a family of pleasant, well-behaved youngsters.
Yes, every good child has her lesser moments.
Yes, every bit of proper training can dissolve in a particularly intense moment.
But what are the patterns? what is the pervading typicality?
You can do this.
You can raise a child to be a young adult.
You can cultivate your self-centered progeny to be caring and compassionate, individuals prepared with grace and poise for the slights and obstacles the rest of life will throw in their way.
I'm cheering for you!
Sincerely,
Me
Parent your children.
Please.
I'm the cashier in the grocery store, or the girl stocking the shelves.
I'm your librarian, your piano teacher, your babysitter.
I care for your kids at summer camp, at church, in the youth group.
I don't have children, but I love kids!
And I consider myself privileged to care for and interact with yours.
Just don't make me do your job.
I don't want to teach your child manners: that's your job. I shouldn't have to tell them to respect my position as a lady, as their elder, or as an authority (if they are old enough to mouth off they are old enough to learn better). Don't expect me to calm your child's tantrums while you are present; I would not want to disrespect your position in their life by stepping into your shoes inappropriately - even if I represent an office of authority.
I realize that not having my own child means that I can't possibly understand the difficulties the parent/child relationship encounters in our world. But you can parent successfully!
I know because of the families who do.
I know it's possible because of the children who say "please" and "thank you" and who look me in the eye and smile when I say hello. I know because of children I see respect their parents - and me. I know it anew every time I gladly anticipate interacting with a family of pleasant, well-behaved youngsters.
Yes, every good child has her lesser moments.
Yes, every bit of proper training can dissolve in a particularly intense moment.
But what are the patterns? what is the pervading typicality?
You can do this.
You can raise a child to be a young adult.
You can cultivate your self-centered progeny to be caring and compassionate, individuals prepared with grace and poise for the slights and obstacles the rest of life will throw in their way.
I'm cheering for you!
Sincerely,
Me
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