If I communicate in witicisms and with impeccable grammar, but have not the love to speak respectfully to my family, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal. And if I know exactly what my child wants, and understand all her moods and can read her non-verbals, and if I have all faith, so as to provide for her every need, but have not the love that listens to her soul, I am nothing. If I give away all my free time and give up my hobbies, and if I deliver up my body to stretch marks and spit up, but have not love and so complain every step of the way, I gain nothing.
Love is patient and kind in the tempest of an unreasonable baby; love does not envy another mom's stage of life or boast about a clean house; it is not arrogant in expectations or rude in private. It does not insist on its own way when it is clearly the "right" way; it is not irritable with the fourth wake-up call of the night or resentful of a husband who needs to sleep before going to work; it does not rejoice in self-pity, but rejoices with the truth of God's bigger picture. Love bears the weight of a child's utter dependence, believes the best when there is no reason to, keeps hope for a child's future when the world goes crazy, endures when the unendurable days come around.
Love never ends. As for cheerios on the floor, they will pass away; as for diapers, they will cease; as for baby talk, it will pass away. For we know what we're doing in part and we clean bits of the house in part, but when adulthood comes to our offspring, the scattered toys will pass away. When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a woman, I gave up childish ways, but now I need to forbear with my daughter's childish ways. For now we see God's plan dimly, but then as clearly as face to face. Now I know in part what God has done for me in His love; then I shall know fully of His sacrifice and His provision, even as I have been fully known by Him during every moment of my life.
So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.
*Mom Standard Version, as adapted from the English Standard Version
Friday, March 31, 2017
Sunday, February 12, 2017
The Perks of Being a Girl
After N was born, some very kind persons gifted me with a certificate for service at a nail salon. I decided to double the fun and take my mom, so we both got mid-winter pedis last month.
Pros: it's January, so we could try a color we wouldn't normally get, because no one is going to see our feet. Plus, nothing beats the winter blues and gets you thinking summer like a pedi!
Cons: it's January, so no one is going to see our feet. Plus, once you're in the summer mood, you get to go outside to your car and it's still winter.
I loved the chance to pamper Mom and myself, since this isn't normally something I do/make the time to do. I would definitely recommend this gift idea for the new mom in your life!
And while we're on the topic, here are a few other less traditional ideas for gifts for mothers of new babies:
Pros: it's January, so we could try a color we wouldn't normally get, because no one is going to see our feet. Plus, nothing beats the winter blues and gets you thinking summer like a pedi!
Cons: it's January, so no one is going to see our feet. Plus, once you're in the summer mood, you get to go outside to your car and it's still winter.
I loved the chance to pamper Mom and myself, since this isn't normally something I do/make the time to do. I would definitely recommend this gift idea for the new mom in your life!
And while we're on the topic, here are a few other less traditional ideas for gifts for mothers of new babies:
- Gift certificate for a massage or haircut
- Postage stamps (for all those thank you notes or baby announcements)
- Meals after 3 weeks post-partum
- Cleaning
- Promo codes for shutterfly.com or other photo sites
 |
| N charming the salon ladies |
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.
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.
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