This may come as a surprise to many of you who read this blog regularly...I am a terrible, terrible evangelist. There are those people who can't talk for longer than five minutes without their enthusiasm for Christ and the gospels bursting out of them. Those who do this well do so in a way that makes you smile and feel their enthusiasm, even if you are not a believer. Remember, please, that I have not always been a Christian. I know what I'm talking about here. Even when I was my angriest and at my most doubtful about the existence of a kind, loving God of any kind, much less the divinity of Jesus Christ, I encountered people whose belief and love for Jesus was loud and infectious. Those people have a gift.
Unfortunately the kind of "evangelist" I normally come across is a different breed. We'll call him The Awkward Evangelist. You've all met him in one form or another. The one who comes to your door and refuses to leave no matter how politely you try to encourage him to move to the next house. I had one of these evangelical encounters recently at the train station in downtown Dallas. My husband and I had struck up a conversation with the gentlemen waiting next to us. He was carrying an instrument case and we started talking music. He showed us his tenor saxophone, a beautiful instrument, black inlaid with gold, mother of pearl accents on the keys. He pointed out the golden cross gracing one of those pearl keys, letting us know by that simple act that he was a Christian. A few moments later, we were approached by a man holding water bottles out to my children and asking if they would like a drink. After checking to make sure the tamper-proof lids were still intact, I thanked him. He then asked if we would accept the religious flyers he was passing out. We agreed happily and thanked him again. He walked away.
At this point, I am fine. The tracts had a simple breakdown of the gospel citing Scripture, an invitation to become a Christian, and information about his church. My husband and I glanced over it, chatted a bit about the church's location, then put them away in our pockets and purse. We continued to chat with our musical neighbor. A few minutes later, our evangelizing friend was back, asking us if we'd had time to look over the information he'd given us and what we thought. We said it looked great to us (or something to that effect) and told him we were already Christians. There was an awkward silence. He then turned to the man with the saxophone and said, terribly, awkwardly, "So!"
Let me pause right there. If you ever, ever, ever have to preface your conversational direction with a loud and falsely enthusiastic "So!," just shut your mouth, walk away, and try again later. It comes across strange, awkward, and not genuine. I would never approach a jury in final arguments and say, "So! What'd you think about that case? I was pretty persuasive, don't you think?" No, no, no, no, no!
Anyway, he asked our neighbor a few questions about the tract then he went in for what, clearly, he had been trained was the kill-shot. "So," (AGAIN WITH THE "SO!") he said, "if you died today, do you think you'd go to heaven or hell?" The saxophone player answered calmly, "Oh, I think I'd go to heaven." The next word out of the evangelist's mouth was a dubious, "Really?" I don't know what he planned to say next because I couldn't take it anymore. I piped in, "Dude," (yes, I say "dude" a lot; I still say it's better than "so!"), "that guy has a gold cross on his saxophone! I'm sure Jesus can't wait to hear what he has to play on that thing."
I have the feeling some people are reading this and saying to the screen, "but, but, but!" I know. We, as Christians, are all under Jesus' directive to make disciples of all men. I think how we go about this, however, is a varied process. If I were a non-believer, the musician's simple act of showing me the cross on his instrument would have touched me. Because he was a groovy guy, laid back and peaceful with an easy manner and attractive style. My conversation with him, coupled with the receiving of a religious tract, might have made me check out a church, probably even the church the evangelist was working for. But what happened next would have pushed me far, far away. Back to thinking Christians were judgmental, creepy, and wrong.
Matthew 5:17 teaches that we are supposed to let our lights shine before men so that they would see our good deeds and follow God. People should see our joy and our peace and wonder what we have that makes us that way. To put it a different way, we should be about attraction rather than promotion. Because God is calling everyone to himself; everyone, regardless of their background, their past or their present. Everyone has a seed of longing for a relationship with the loving God who made them and we, as Christians, can either nurture that seed by our actions or add another layer of distrust, anger or misunderstanding. And walking around telling people that they are going to hell, either because they aren't Christians at all or they aren't Christian "enough," doesn't really help our cause.
When our train arrived, I told our evangelical friend, "God bless you" and I meant it. He is trying, God love him, and I am sure God will bless him for it. I hope that someone he hands a tract to goes to church and finds out that God is real and God is love. I hope some of his conversion conversations went a little better than the one I witnessed. But he did not spread the gospel to me that day. I did not see Christ reflected in him. I saw Christ reflected in the kind eyes and easy smile of the saxophone player with a cross emblazoned on the instrument he loved. God can use us, all of us, to reach people. We need to trust Him to have us at the right place at the right time, using words the Spirit tells us to use in a spirit of genuine concern, interest, and love for our fellow man. So let your little light shine (please note the proper use of the word "so") and, as much as it lies within you, live at peace with all men. Let's set aside the awkward side-hug of a judgment-based evangelism. There is no better way to spread the good news of Christ's love than to be loving, no better way to show His peace than to be peaceful yourself. I pray God's blessings over every single person who reads this blog post and I hope it reads as it is meant: to make you smile, to make you laugh, to make you think, and to let you know that you are loved, completely and with a warm embrace.
Monday, August 13, 2012
Friday, August 3, 2012
Promises, Promises
I make promises to my kids. Not just the regular kind of promises borne from constraints on time and/or budget ("We can't go to Chuck E Cheese today but I promise we'll go Friday") but big, important promises too. Like, "I promise that I will always love you no matter what" and "I promise I will always be proud of you."
My promising habit started with Eddie. It started even before he was born. I was tremendously overcome with the awesomeness of being the incubator to a brand new life and I started straight away promising him and myself all kinds of things. I wrote them down. I promised to remember that he was a privilege and a blessing. That he was here to teach me just as much as I was here to teach him. I promised to listen to him, to respect his spirit, to love him enough to allow him to follow his own path and not try to force my ideas of what it should look like onto him. I promised to remember that God made him just the way he was and not to try to change him.
Those promises ended up being harder to keep than I had anticipated in those giddy days of pregnancy. Because he was born sick and wanted him healed. It was hard to remember that God made him just the way that he was, that his body was flawed for a purpose. Instead I wanted to just to freak out, pray and fight to fix it. But I reflected on those promises I'd made and I changed my mind and waited for my heart to catch up. I respected him just as he was, I praised God for him just as he was, and I celebrated him. I told him I would fight with him as long as he wanted to fight but, if he ever wanted to let go, that this was going to be okay too. It wouldn't change anything, not how much I loved him, not how indescribably proud I was to be his mother, nothing. And I kept making promises.
I promised if he would fight through those first crazy weeks and months, those days of hardship, surgeries, chest tubes and IVs, poking, prodding, and heart-wrenching pain, that I would make it worth his while. I told him about the beautiful world God had made, outside of the NICU walls. I showed him videos of the sun and the sky, of grass and trees, animals and bicycles and I promised him we would see all of it. That if he would just stick it out, keep fighting even when it was all too much, when it hurt too badly, when he was just exhausted, that I would do everything in my power to make the rest of his life beautiful. I whispered this promise to him on the days I was able to hold him and even more fervently on the days that I was not, when he was forced to be motionless, hooked to what seemed a million machines, swollen and sick with infection. I would rub the tiny stress lines that appeared between his eyes, kiss his knees and toes, and tell him I would do it all for him if I could but that, since I couldn't, I would make up for it later, anyway that I could. I told him that he was Superman. And he was.
Eddie made it out of NICU and I did my best to make good on my promise to him. I showed him God's beautiful world and worked to make sure he saw me laugh much more than he ever saw me cry. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I did it. Not perfectly. There were bad moments and hard days. But he had fun. He saw grass, trees and bicycles. He went to the zoo and the circus. He smiled and laughed. We picked out fruit from the farmer's market together, played on the playground, danced in the kitchen, and celebrated silly everyday moments, everyday. He ate chicken nuggets, popsicles, and crayons. He lived his life and he saw that it was beautiful.
I was making plans for his second birthday celebration when he died. The assumption people make that I was in some way prepared for his death isn't entirely true. In the few days before the day of death itself, I felt it. Felt a finality in my spirit, an urging toward seeking God's peace. I don't know if that makes any sense to those reading this, but I can think of no other way to describe it. But on this day, five years ago, I did not know that my little superman had only a week left to live. That he was exhausted after the long, hard fight and ready to go home and rest. That I would be called upon to fulfill my promise, respect the path that God had laid out for him, and let him go.
I did it, somehow, impossibly, and by the grace of God. That chapter of my life drew to a close. Life didn't stop though. There were still promises to be made and kept, no less important. I didn't get to bury my son, crawl in a hole and stop living, literally or figuratively. Because there was another brilliant, beautiful Baby Boy on the way and, soon on his heels, a magical pixie-like Baby Girl. And they deserve no less than their big brother. I have promised to show them this beautiful world that God has made and I'm going to do it even when it feels like it is going to kill me. Sometimes, especially around this time of year, it would be so much easier to turn on the television and parent in cruise control, wallowing in loss and self-pity. I choose differently, because I promised them better; they deserve better.
So these days are filled with sprinklers and roly-polies, paint and petting zoos. Trips to the Asian market to buy fish served whole, silver and shiny, watching with wonder as the man slices off heads and opens bellies. With life: mushy, messy, smelly, sticky and wonderful. Because life is no less beautiful without Eddie in it; it is more beautiful for his having been here. And I am going to experience and enjoy every single moment of it. I promise.
My promising habit started with Eddie. It started even before he was born. I was tremendously overcome with the awesomeness of being the incubator to a brand new life and I started straight away promising him and myself all kinds of things. I wrote them down. I promised to remember that he was a privilege and a blessing. That he was here to teach me just as much as I was here to teach him. I promised to listen to him, to respect his spirit, to love him enough to allow him to follow his own path and not try to force my ideas of what it should look like onto him. I promised to remember that God made him just the way he was and not to try to change him.
Those promises ended up being harder to keep than I had anticipated in those giddy days of pregnancy. Because he was born sick and wanted him healed. It was hard to remember that God made him just the way that he was, that his body was flawed for a purpose. Instead I wanted to just to freak out, pray and fight to fix it. But I reflected on those promises I'd made and I changed my mind and waited for my heart to catch up. I respected him just as he was, I praised God for him just as he was, and I celebrated him. I told him I would fight with him as long as he wanted to fight but, if he ever wanted to let go, that this was going to be okay too. It wouldn't change anything, not how much I loved him, not how indescribably proud I was to be his mother, nothing. And I kept making promises.
I promised if he would fight through those first crazy weeks and months, those days of hardship, surgeries, chest tubes and IVs, poking, prodding, and heart-wrenching pain, that I would make it worth his while. I told him about the beautiful world God had made, outside of the NICU walls. I showed him videos of the sun and the sky, of grass and trees, animals and bicycles and I promised him we would see all of it. That if he would just stick it out, keep fighting even when it was all too much, when it hurt too badly, when he was just exhausted, that I would do everything in my power to make the rest of his life beautiful. I whispered this promise to him on the days I was able to hold him and even more fervently on the days that I was not, when he was forced to be motionless, hooked to what seemed a million machines, swollen and sick with infection. I would rub the tiny stress lines that appeared between his eyes, kiss his knees and toes, and tell him I would do it all for him if I could but that, since I couldn't, I would make up for it later, anyway that I could. I told him that he was Superman. And he was.
Eddie made it out of NICU and I did my best to make good on my promise to him. I showed him God's beautiful world and worked to make sure he saw me laugh much more than he ever saw me cry. It was one of the hardest things I've ever done, but I did it. Not perfectly. There were bad moments and hard days. But he had fun. He saw grass, trees and bicycles. He went to the zoo and the circus. He smiled and laughed. We picked out fruit from the farmer's market together, played on the playground, danced in the kitchen, and celebrated silly everyday moments, everyday. He ate chicken nuggets, popsicles, and crayons. He lived his life and he saw that it was beautiful.
I was making plans for his second birthday celebration when he died. The assumption people make that I was in some way prepared for his death isn't entirely true. In the few days before the day of death itself, I felt it. Felt a finality in my spirit, an urging toward seeking God's peace. I don't know if that makes any sense to those reading this, but I can think of no other way to describe it. But on this day, five years ago, I did not know that my little superman had only a week left to live. That he was exhausted after the long, hard fight and ready to go home and rest. That I would be called upon to fulfill my promise, respect the path that God had laid out for him, and let him go.
I did it, somehow, impossibly, and by the grace of God. That chapter of my life drew to a close. Life didn't stop though. There were still promises to be made and kept, no less important. I didn't get to bury my son, crawl in a hole and stop living, literally or figuratively. Because there was another brilliant, beautiful Baby Boy on the way and, soon on his heels, a magical pixie-like Baby Girl. And they deserve no less than their big brother. I have promised to show them this beautiful world that God has made and I'm going to do it even when it feels like it is going to kill me. Sometimes, especially around this time of year, it would be so much easier to turn on the television and parent in cruise control, wallowing in loss and self-pity. I choose differently, because I promised them better; they deserve better.
So these days are filled with sprinklers and roly-polies, paint and petting zoos. Trips to the Asian market to buy fish served whole, silver and shiny, watching with wonder as the man slices off heads and opens bellies. With life: mushy, messy, smelly, sticky and wonderful. Because life is no less beautiful without Eddie in it; it is more beautiful for his having been here. And I am going to experience and enjoy every single moment of it. I promise.
Tuesday, July 10, 2012
Silence
For those of you who follow the blog regularly, let me begin by apologizing for my lack of posting. It's not that I don't think about the blog or that I don't have enough time in a day to stop and write (though sometimes this feels as if it is true). I have pulled it up several times, chosen to start a new post and then stared at the blank page... mentally hearing crickets chirp. Nothing. I've had nothing. Nothing to say, nothing to offer... nothing.
If you know me personally, you know that me having nothing to say is a rare and strange life event. I ALWAYS have something to say and I am more than happy to shout you down in order to say it. I'm downright annoying (it's okay, you can agree; I live by the motto "know thyself"). I have literally had friends hold up their hands, classroom style, in order to get a word in. I live to talk.
That being said, I know that there is much to be gained by silence. By listening. I don't have all the answers and the longer I live the more I realize the less I know (wow...that's a sentence to be reckoned with...). The only way to learn more is to listen more. I know that in order to "Be still and know that I am God," I need to shut up. I agree with the theory that we should all spend a portion of our day in complete silence, mental and physical, if we are going to draw near to God, if we are going to be spiritually open to all that we have to be taught that day. I just don't do it.
For one thing, I get bored. Really bored. I am envious of those people who can spark up some incense and hum softly to themselves for an hour. They seem to be so refreshed and, well, deep. I have tried on more occasions than I could possibly name to meditate in this way. I've been successful... twice, maybe? I keep cracking my eyes open to see how much time has passed and usually it is somewhere in the range of 30 seconds to 2 minutes. I'd make a terrible Buddhist.
Some people get their quiet time in while exercising and, you would think, that as a runner I would fall into this category. I never, never, never, never, never go on a run longer than ten minutes, however, without my iPod and earbuds. My running mix is several hours long and filled with up-tempo, pounding beats intended to keep my feet moving and my mind off the pain. I end long runs feeling proud, exhilarated, even euphoric but not exactly spiritually grounded.
It is not only a poor attention span that accounts for my lack of quality quiet time, however. To be honest, silence scares me. Distractions keep it interesting, keep it all moving and keep me from having to think about things I don't want to think about. Not that those things go away; they are always lurking, ready to pounce on me at the most inopportune time possible. But I still operate under the mistaken impression that if I can just keep busy, maybe I will never have to go there again. Never have to walk down the dark corridors, never feel the lurking pain of sorrow, of loss. It doesn't work, but as an addict I am particularly fond of doing the same things over again and expecting different results.
So it was with great horror that one day, in the middle of a six mile run, my trusty iPod ran out of battery. One second I had Eminem blaring his encouragement, the next moment... nothing. Just me, the sound of my feet striking pavement, and my thoughts. There was no way around it. I was three miles from my car any which way I looked at it. I was going to have to face my fear and be quiet.
An amazing thing happened. Nothing. No sudden deluge of thought and feeling that I could not control. No three miles of embarrassing ugly-crying. I thanked God for the run, for the beauty of His creation that surrounded me, for the health of my body, and prayed for the health of my mind and spirit. Then I stopped praying and focused my mind on being still. On being quiet. Any errant thought that drifted in, I gently excused and cleared it away.
At the end of my run, I felt different. Stronger. Surer of myself. I still don't know that I would want to extend it to a two hour run or even an hour, but I think I would do well to incorporate at least one quiet run into my training schedule. It does very little good to have a fit body and a sick soul. If I'm going to do this life thing right, I need to start with the foundation and build up, not keep ignoring the cracks and hoping they aren't as bad as they look. I'm going to try to wake up earlier than my kids (this is a very ambitious goal) so that I can spend even ten minutes in the morning practicing silence. Until I get good at it. Until it comes naturally. Because I know I don't need to fear it any longer. And, strangely enough, I think the more time I spend in silence, the more I'll find that I have something to say. Something of quality, something pure and true, to share with you.
Tuesday, June 19, 2012
Good Grief
This is a difficult post to write. It's one I've started countless times and abandoned. It involves a truth that I strongly believe in but I know that I'm going to step on some toes. Quite frankly I've been approaching this whole blog thing with a "first do no harm" attitude, but I need to get this out there so, with all apologies, here goes.
The five stages of grieving is a crock of doo doo. There I said it. Whew. I'm really, really tired of myself and anyone else being given permission to wallow around and misbehave because we have suffered a loss, no matter how great or how small. Do I think the science/psychology/sociology behind the grieving "stages" is faulty? Nope. Do I think it gives a fair representation of how most people deal with death and loss? Sure. Do I think it should apply to followers of Jesus Christ? That would be a firm and emphatic no.
I'm not out on a limb here scripturally. 1 Thessalonians 4:13 says, "Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those that fall asleep or to grieve like the rest of men who have no hope." That is pretty straightforward to me. There are Christians and then the "rest of men." We are allowed to grieve but not like those without hope. Those five stages and such are for the other fellers.
Even with that scripture hanging out there for all to see, I've found that this is actually a revolutionary idea, even in Christian circles. I attended a secular support group for parents who have lost children for a while. I loved the people there, loved the shared laughter and tears, and loved being able to share with people my message of joy despite, of hope even though. After a while, I decided to try the Christ-based grief support group at church. I only went three times.
On the third (and probably final) time I went to this particular group, the topic was whether or not it was okay to be angry at God. The bottom line of the video and of the discussion was that it is okay, expected, and acceptable to shake your fist heavenward when you suffer a loss. I listened, praying that I was not supposed to speak up, as person after person talked about how unfair it was that their loved one had died, how it wasn't how it was supposed to be that way, and other variations thereof. It quickly became obvious that God was not going to let me hold my tongue and, prayerfully, I said what I believe.
I think it is natural to feel anger at God when a loved one dies. But what comes naturally to us as human beings is not necessarily, or even usually, right or the truth. We are not to be ruled by our feelings. And by giving into them and raging at our Lord, at our Creator, at the One who gave us the loved one who has gone on in the first place, we are separating ourselves from the very Source of peace, comfort, and joy. In other words, of course you can be mad at God. It won't affect His love for you or your salvation. But you will finally only be hurting yourself. You will be separating yourself from His side when He most wants to draw you near. You might be interfering with the plan He has laid out before you, denying yourself the blessings that He so freely wants to give.
I used to be quite the existentialist. I read a lot of Sartre and was nauseatingly self-important and struggled with Prufrock's "overwhelming question." What was my purpose or anyone else's? Why were we here? What was the meaning of life? The Bible actually answers these questions very succinctly. The purpose of our lives on earth is sanctification. To try and be as much like Christ, who was fully man and fully God and therefore the perfect example to mankind, as we possibly can be. To do this we have to do two things: Love the Lord Our God with all our hearts, souls and minds and love our neighbors as ourselves. If you are raging at God, you are epically failing at #1.
I don't like to glorify suffering. I'm not a Christian who lets out heavy sighs and says things like "this is just a cross I have to bear." But there is great value in suffering if we allow God to work through it. It is a short-cut to sanctification. It strips us down and teaches us, if we are willing to be taught. Just like strenuous, painful exercise tones and strengthens our bodies, suffering strengthens our souls, if we will let it. That is why we are supposed to rejoice in our sufferings, whether we feel like it or not. Because if we will, we will have peace that passes understanding and unshakeable joy no matter what.
So, I said most of that in shorter form to the grief group. One woman was cheering me on the whole way with "Hallelujahs!" and "Amens." Some were looking at me and nodding, others were unreadable. I ended by quoting the scripture from Thessalonians cited above and saying that the world tells me that I have to be sad for the rest of my life because my baby died, but God says differently. He says I get to have peace, joy, and hope. The moderator jumped in immediately and said, "Or not!" She then proceeded to assure everyone that it was perfectly fine to be angry with God, citing Job as an example, and saying in what really was a pretty snarky tone that everyone couldn't be an "enlightened" as me. I held my tongue, as I felt was appropriate. At the end of the session, I spoke up again only to say that I was not enlightened or special in any way. I was just a Christian and did my best to live surrendered to God.
Several people came up to me before I dashed out the door, including a woman who was newly widowed, to tell me that they had appreciated what I said and found encouragement in it. I was glad. Because I don't want to be judgmental or preachy and that is why it has taken me this long to share this story. I don't want to say people are doing something wrong. But I do want people to stop believing that just because something bad happens to you, be it the death of a child, a divorce, infertility, whatever, that it's really never going to be okay. I'm tired of watching people feel sorry for themselves, act poorly toward God and their neighbor, fail to rise to the calling God has placed on their lives, and use grief as an excuse.
You cannot love someone more than I loved Eddie. You cannot miss someone more. He was and is my heart, just like his little brother and sister. It's never going to be the same. That's true. But that is no excuse for me to be disobedient to God. To have the audacity to rail against the One who made me and who gifted me a beautiful, wonderful child to be mine for twenty two months on this earth and an eternity in the next. To fail to love my neighbor because I'm too busy focusing on my self. Life will never be the same, but it is still going to be awesome if I will continue to let God take charge by surrendering it all to Him and giving thanksgiving.
As I mentioned, Jesus came to earth in part to be our example. He experienced grief and suffering in gigantic measures. His cousin, John the Baptist, was cruelly imprisoned, beheaded, and his head served to a dancing girl on a platter. When Jesus is told this news, He withdraws to grieve. The crowd follows Him, not allowing Him the dignity of solitude to mourn the loss of one He loved. It would be natural to send them away. I tell them He needed some time, that He would get back to them later. Remember, He was fully man. But instead he "looked upon them with compassion and healed their sick." Then he fed them, all five thousand of them, with two loaves of bread and three fish. That evening He sent His disciples ahead of Him and dismissed the crowd before He again withdrew... and prayed. Then He walked on water. It was a busy day.
Okay, granted. He's God. But at the same time, we are assured that we can be like Him, through Him, if we devote our hearts and lives to it. So here it is. We need to grieve. We need to withdraw, weep, and pray. We can even ask "why?" We just have to accept that He may not answer or that we may not like it. At the end of the day, we have jobs to do. Miracles to perform in God's name, even if it is just showing a kindness to someone in need. And we've got to be close to God to do it. We've got to have the heart to say "thy will be done," even if His will involves pain, suffering and death, if we want to live free. If we want to have hope.
I'm not suggesting you stuff your feelings and pretend they aren't there. I'm suggesting you take them to God in love. Force your lips to say "thank you" and then pour your heart out to Him and ask Him to get your head in line. Ask Him to help you to be grateful for what you had and what you have, not angry at what you lost. You can't be grateful and angry at the same time and gratitude, thanksgiving, is the key to peace. It is the key to a life lived in joy and contentment. It is the key to hope.
The five stages of grieving is a crock of doo doo. There I said it. Whew. I'm really, really tired of myself and anyone else being given permission to wallow around and misbehave because we have suffered a loss, no matter how great or how small. Do I think the science/psychology/sociology behind the grieving "stages" is faulty? Nope. Do I think it gives a fair representation of how most people deal with death and loss? Sure. Do I think it should apply to followers of Jesus Christ? That would be a firm and emphatic no.
I'm not out on a limb here scripturally. 1 Thessalonians 4:13 says, "Brothers, we do not want you to be ignorant about those that fall asleep or to grieve like the rest of men who have no hope." That is pretty straightforward to me. There are Christians and then the "rest of men." We are allowed to grieve but not like those without hope. Those five stages and such are for the other fellers.
Even with that scripture hanging out there for all to see, I've found that this is actually a revolutionary idea, even in Christian circles. I attended a secular support group for parents who have lost children for a while. I loved the people there, loved the shared laughter and tears, and loved being able to share with people my message of joy despite, of hope even though. After a while, I decided to try the Christ-based grief support group at church. I only went three times.
On the third (and probably final) time I went to this particular group, the topic was whether or not it was okay to be angry at God. The bottom line of the video and of the discussion was that it is okay, expected, and acceptable to shake your fist heavenward when you suffer a loss. I listened, praying that I was not supposed to speak up, as person after person talked about how unfair it was that their loved one had died, how it wasn't how it was supposed to be that way, and other variations thereof. It quickly became obvious that God was not going to let me hold my tongue and, prayerfully, I said what I believe.
I think it is natural to feel anger at God when a loved one dies. But what comes naturally to us as human beings is not necessarily, or even usually, right or the truth. We are not to be ruled by our feelings. And by giving into them and raging at our Lord, at our Creator, at the One who gave us the loved one who has gone on in the first place, we are separating ourselves from the very Source of peace, comfort, and joy. In other words, of course you can be mad at God. It won't affect His love for you or your salvation. But you will finally only be hurting yourself. You will be separating yourself from His side when He most wants to draw you near. You might be interfering with the plan He has laid out before you, denying yourself the blessings that He so freely wants to give.
I used to be quite the existentialist. I read a lot of Sartre and was nauseatingly self-important and struggled with Prufrock's "overwhelming question." What was my purpose or anyone else's? Why were we here? What was the meaning of life? The Bible actually answers these questions very succinctly. The purpose of our lives on earth is sanctification. To try and be as much like Christ, who was fully man and fully God and therefore the perfect example to mankind, as we possibly can be. To do this we have to do two things: Love the Lord Our God with all our hearts, souls and minds and love our neighbors as ourselves. If you are raging at God, you are epically failing at #1.
I don't like to glorify suffering. I'm not a Christian who lets out heavy sighs and says things like "this is just a cross I have to bear." But there is great value in suffering if we allow God to work through it. It is a short-cut to sanctification. It strips us down and teaches us, if we are willing to be taught. Just like strenuous, painful exercise tones and strengthens our bodies, suffering strengthens our souls, if we will let it. That is why we are supposed to rejoice in our sufferings, whether we feel like it or not. Because if we will, we will have peace that passes understanding and unshakeable joy no matter what.
So, I said most of that in shorter form to the grief group. One woman was cheering me on the whole way with "Hallelujahs!" and "Amens." Some were looking at me and nodding, others were unreadable. I ended by quoting the scripture from Thessalonians cited above and saying that the world tells me that I have to be sad for the rest of my life because my baby died, but God says differently. He says I get to have peace, joy, and hope. The moderator jumped in immediately and said, "Or not!" She then proceeded to assure everyone that it was perfectly fine to be angry with God, citing Job as an example, and saying in what really was a pretty snarky tone that everyone couldn't be an "enlightened" as me. I held my tongue, as I felt was appropriate. At the end of the session, I spoke up again only to say that I was not enlightened or special in any way. I was just a Christian and did my best to live surrendered to God.
Several people came up to me before I dashed out the door, including a woman who was newly widowed, to tell me that they had appreciated what I said and found encouragement in it. I was glad. Because I don't want to be judgmental or preachy and that is why it has taken me this long to share this story. I don't want to say people are doing something wrong. But I do want people to stop believing that just because something bad happens to you, be it the death of a child, a divorce, infertility, whatever, that it's really never going to be okay. I'm tired of watching people feel sorry for themselves, act poorly toward God and their neighbor, fail to rise to the calling God has placed on their lives, and use grief as an excuse.
You cannot love someone more than I loved Eddie. You cannot miss someone more. He was and is my heart, just like his little brother and sister. It's never going to be the same. That's true. But that is no excuse for me to be disobedient to God. To have the audacity to rail against the One who made me and who gifted me a beautiful, wonderful child to be mine for twenty two months on this earth and an eternity in the next. To fail to love my neighbor because I'm too busy focusing on my self. Life will never be the same, but it is still going to be awesome if I will continue to let God take charge by surrendering it all to Him and giving thanksgiving.
As I mentioned, Jesus came to earth in part to be our example. He experienced grief and suffering in gigantic measures. His cousin, John the Baptist, was cruelly imprisoned, beheaded, and his head served to a dancing girl on a platter. When Jesus is told this news, He withdraws to grieve. The crowd follows Him, not allowing Him the dignity of solitude to mourn the loss of one He loved. It would be natural to send them away. I tell them He needed some time, that He would get back to them later. Remember, He was fully man. But instead he "looked upon them with compassion and healed their sick." Then he fed them, all five thousand of them, with two loaves of bread and three fish. That evening He sent His disciples ahead of Him and dismissed the crowd before He again withdrew... and prayed. Then He walked on water. It was a busy day.
Okay, granted. He's God. But at the same time, we are assured that we can be like Him, through Him, if we devote our hearts and lives to it. So here it is. We need to grieve. We need to withdraw, weep, and pray. We can even ask "why?" We just have to accept that He may not answer or that we may not like it. At the end of the day, we have jobs to do. Miracles to perform in God's name, even if it is just showing a kindness to someone in need. And we've got to be close to God to do it. We've got to have the heart to say "thy will be done," even if His will involves pain, suffering and death, if we want to live free. If we want to have hope.
I'm not suggesting you stuff your feelings and pretend they aren't there. I'm suggesting you take them to God in love. Force your lips to say "thank you" and then pour your heart out to Him and ask Him to get your head in line. Ask Him to help you to be grateful for what you had and what you have, not angry at what you lost. You can't be grateful and angry at the same time and gratitude, thanksgiving, is the key to peace. It is the key to a life lived in joy and contentment. It is the key to hope.
Saturday, May 26, 2012
The Reluctant Gardener
I'm not a gardener. This is one of the many things that make me something of a black sheep in my family. My mother is blessed with a green thumb. One of my sisters is a pro with tomatoes and any number of vegetable and herb gardens. The other sister... I swear, as she walks along, little green shoots spring up from the earth from the path upon which she has passed. And they aren't weeds. Those ladies can grow a garden.
I, on the other hand, can kill a cactus. Or a chia pet. These two things are proven facts. Honestly, I think I could kill Astroturf. When I moved into our house, I was gifted a thriving, beautiful garden in our backyard and an impeccable lawn out front. It terrified me. For the past two years, I have watered but done precious little else. No planting, no weeding, no pruning. I gave the plants a drink, dollar weed and trumpet vine alike, and hoped for the best.
Bad things have happened. The front lawn has strange dead patches. I have no idea how that happened. The back yard has thriving vines and a beautiful rose bush, but a fair crop of Johnson grass and various other weeds as well. This fall I decided enough was enough. I was going to conquer my fear and become a gardener.
Because it was fear, more than laziness, that kept me from donning a pair of nubbly gloves and attacking Mother Nature. I have always been terrified of making mistakes. And when you are new to something, it is virtually guaranteed that you are going to screw up. I was afraid I would pull up the crape myrtles mistaking them for a weed or a "trash tree." Afraid that in my ignorance I would kill all the good and nurture all the bad.
This fall, however, I decided to be brave. I looked at my front lawn, wished it was pretty, and realized it wasn't going to get there without me. Collaborating with my husband, we planted some winter rye and I dug up some weeds. It improved. I was inspired. We went to a nursery where I purchased several flats of winter-friendly bedding plants. Some shriveled up and died. But others made it. And looked pretty. Nothing like the arboretum-esque gardens I drool over in magazines and that my family can replicate, but nice. Intentional. Like somebody loved that little flower bed.
So now that spring is waning and summer quickly approaching, I turned my attention to the wild, overgrown garden that surrounds our pool. Most of it is the vines that were planted there intentionally and look gorgeous. But they are intermingled with undesirables: baby trees far too close to the fence line, unsightly knee-high weeds, fantastically healthy dandelions. With a deep breath, I grabbed the clippers and went for it. With my limited horticultural knowledge I was fairly sure I would destroy something nice.
And I did. While my children splashed happily in the pool, I stared with no small amount of dismay at an area of Virgina Creeper that was drooping dangerously. By this evening, I have had to admit... that part's dead. In my zeal to clear the debris, I over-pruned and destroyed.
But I'm not going to despair. I'm going to take the advice I give my own children: you have to fail sometimes if you are ever going to learn. It's a tough pill to swallow and, no, my kids do not believe me on this one yet. It doesn't make it any less right. My garden still looks intentional, like somebody loves it. It's just somebody who got a little clipper happy.
The Virginia Creeper is going to be fine, I think. It is still thick and healthy further down the fence and it should do its job and creep along, covering up my mistake by summer's end. In the meantime, I moved my husband's gas grill in front of the bald spot so it looks like maybe I meant to do that for fire safety reasons or something. Maybe I'll hang a bird feeder. It'll be alright. And the important thing is, I'm trying. I'm not letting it fall to the slow decay of neglect out of fear that I might be less than perfect. I'm failing and I'm learning and remembering that, really, that's what life is all about.
I, on the other hand, can kill a cactus. Or a chia pet. These two things are proven facts. Honestly, I think I could kill Astroturf. When I moved into our house, I was gifted a thriving, beautiful garden in our backyard and an impeccable lawn out front. It terrified me. For the past two years, I have watered but done precious little else. No planting, no weeding, no pruning. I gave the plants a drink, dollar weed and trumpet vine alike, and hoped for the best.
Bad things have happened. The front lawn has strange dead patches. I have no idea how that happened. The back yard has thriving vines and a beautiful rose bush, but a fair crop of Johnson grass and various other weeds as well. This fall I decided enough was enough. I was going to conquer my fear and become a gardener.
Because it was fear, more than laziness, that kept me from donning a pair of nubbly gloves and attacking Mother Nature. I have always been terrified of making mistakes. And when you are new to something, it is virtually guaranteed that you are going to screw up. I was afraid I would pull up the crape myrtles mistaking them for a weed or a "trash tree." Afraid that in my ignorance I would kill all the good and nurture all the bad.
This fall, however, I decided to be brave. I looked at my front lawn, wished it was pretty, and realized it wasn't going to get there without me. Collaborating with my husband, we planted some winter rye and I dug up some weeds. It improved. I was inspired. We went to a nursery where I purchased several flats of winter-friendly bedding plants. Some shriveled up and died. But others made it. And looked pretty. Nothing like the arboretum-esque gardens I drool over in magazines and that my family can replicate, but nice. Intentional. Like somebody loved that little flower bed.
So now that spring is waning and summer quickly approaching, I turned my attention to the wild, overgrown garden that surrounds our pool. Most of it is the vines that were planted there intentionally and look gorgeous. But they are intermingled with undesirables: baby trees far too close to the fence line, unsightly knee-high weeds, fantastically healthy dandelions. With a deep breath, I grabbed the clippers and went for it. With my limited horticultural knowledge I was fairly sure I would destroy something nice.
And I did. While my children splashed happily in the pool, I stared with no small amount of dismay at an area of Virgina Creeper that was drooping dangerously. By this evening, I have had to admit... that part's dead. In my zeal to clear the debris, I over-pruned and destroyed.
But I'm not going to despair. I'm going to take the advice I give my own children: you have to fail sometimes if you are ever going to learn. It's a tough pill to swallow and, no, my kids do not believe me on this one yet. It doesn't make it any less right. My garden still looks intentional, like somebody loves it. It's just somebody who got a little clipper happy.
The Virginia Creeper is going to be fine, I think. It is still thick and healthy further down the fence and it should do its job and creep along, covering up my mistake by summer's end. In the meantime, I moved my husband's gas grill in front of the bald spot so it looks like maybe I meant to do that for fire safety reasons or something. Maybe I'll hang a bird feeder. It'll be alright. And the important thing is, I'm trying. I'm not letting it fall to the slow decay of neglect out of fear that I might be less than perfect. I'm failing and I'm learning and remembering that, really, that's what life is all about.
Friday, May 25, 2012
Don't Feel Like Dancing
Wednesday was one of those errand running kind of days. Before one of these days it is always best if I can take several deep breaths, imbibe a half gallon or so of coffee, practice Zen meditation, and spend an hour in prayer. Because my errand days involve a rambunctious three year old and four year old. Getting in and out of the car, negotiating parking lots, and practicing our "store manners" is an exhausting and patience-trying practice. I have done it often enough now that I know it is best not to panic, not to be in a hurry, and to at least drink a cup of coffee and read a quick devotional before we head out the door.
On Wednesday, my two darlings were in particularly high spirits. I bribed them with frozen yogurt to get through the first half of our day and they managed to keep it together enough to earn their reward. While at the yogurt shop, I got a phone call from my husband (who has been working all kinds of overtime) with what I'm sure seemed to be a reasonable request: would I stop by the bank and get a cashier's check so he could drop off his truck payment the next day? I took a deep breath, trying not to envision the possible disasters of standing in line at the bank lobby along with the two giggling balls of energy currently slurping up their sugary treats across the table from me, and did the right thing. I put on my most cheerful tone and said, "Ok!"
Outside of the bank, I gave a pep talk. "Okay guys," I said, "this is the bank. So we need to have our best manners. That means no running, no climbing, no jumping around and no screaming." There was a moment of silence. Then Baby Boy asked me in his most outraged tone of voice, "No dancing?" I laughed and, oddly enough, relaxed. "You can dance," I said. "Just dance slowly." So while I talked to the teller (by an act of God there was no line) and took care of my business, my lovely, crazy children stood behind me and did a slow, quiet boogie to a soundtrack only they could hear.
I love how God uses my children to get my attention and realign my priorities. And sometimes re-realign them. I'm glad He keeps me laughing and grateful. I hope I'm never so stressed out or irritable that I would actually tell one of my babies that they couldn't dance. They can always dance and I hope that they always want to. I hope that they are downright infected by that kind of joy for their entire lifetimes. And I'm so grateful that they pass it along to me.
One of my favorite songs is "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters (it's written by Elton John which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous; sorry, music geek moment). It's peppy and fun. It is very nearly impossible to be in a bad mood when you listen to this retro-disco gem and, ironically, equally difficult not to dance. Even the most stoic of individuals would be hard pressed not to get a little bootie shake going while listening.
So to tie my kids cuteness and Elton John's fabulousness to scripture (not an easy trick), I was thinking about all of this in the context of Philippians 4:4. One of my favorite verses (written by the apostle Paul which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous), it says simply, "Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!" It seems like too much to ask. Too much when there are errands to run, bills to pay, children to raise, others to grieve for. But I think if we let Christ set the soundtrack to our lives, we can't help but move to the beat. If we let Him be the conductor, we will find ourselves dancing even when we don't feel like it. We won't be able to help ourselves. The idea of not dancing, of not rejoicing, will seem ridiculous and oppressive. Sometimes we will leap and shout and laugh out loud. Sometimes our dance will be slow, quiet, and set to music that no one else seems to hear. But we should be, we can be, always dancing, always rejoicing. Even in line at the bank.
On Wednesday, my two darlings were in particularly high spirits. I bribed them with frozen yogurt to get through the first half of our day and they managed to keep it together enough to earn their reward. While at the yogurt shop, I got a phone call from my husband (who has been working all kinds of overtime) with what I'm sure seemed to be a reasonable request: would I stop by the bank and get a cashier's check so he could drop off his truck payment the next day? I took a deep breath, trying not to envision the possible disasters of standing in line at the bank lobby along with the two giggling balls of energy currently slurping up their sugary treats across the table from me, and did the right thing. I put on my most cheerful tone and said, "Ok!"
Outside of the bank, I gave a pep talk. "Okay guys," I said, "this is the bank. So we need to have our best manners. That means no running, no climbing, no jumping around and no screaming." There was a moment of silence. Then Baby Boy asked me in his most outraged tone of voice, "No dancing?" I laughed and, oddly enough, relaxed. "You can dance," I said. "Just dance slowly." So while I talked to the teller (by an act of God there was no line) and took care of my business, my lovely, crazy children stood behind me and did a slow, quiet boogie to a soundtrack only they could hear.
I love how God uses my children to get my attention and realign my priorities. And sometimes re-realign them. I'm glad He keeps me laughing and grateful. I hope I'm never so stressed out or irritable that I would actually tell one of my babies that they couldn't dance. They can always dance and I hope that they always want to. I hope that they are downright infected by that kind of joy for their entire lifetimes. And I'm so grateful that they pass it along to me.
One of my favorite songs is "I Don't Feel Like Dancing" by the Scissor Sisters (it's written by Elton John which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous; sorry, music geek moment). It's peppy and fun. It is very nearly impossible to be in a bad mood when you listen to this retro-disco gem and, ironically, equally difficult not to dance. Even the most stoic of individuals would be hard pressed not to get a little bootie shake going while listening.
So to tie my kids cuteness and Elton John's fabulousness to scripture (not an easy trick), I was thinking about all of this in the context of Philippians 4:4. One of my favorite verses (written by the apostle Paul which is one of the reasons it is so fabulous), it says simply, "Rejoice in the Lord always. I will say it again: Rejoice!" It seems like too much to ask. Too much when there are errands to run, bills to pay, children to raise, others to grieve for. But I think if we let Christ set the soundtrack to our lives, we can't help but move to the beat. If we let Him be the conductor, we will find ourselves dancing even when we don't feel like it. We won't be able to help ourselves. The idea of not dancing, of not rejoicing, will seem ridiculous and oppressive. Sometimes we will leap and shout and laugh out loud. Sometimes our dance will be slow, quiet, and set to music that no one else seems to hear. But we should be, we can be, always dancing, always rejoicing. Even in line at the bank.
Sunday, May 13, 2012
Mother's Day
Mother's Day was never really a big deal in our house. While my mom appreciated any cards and gifts we came home with from school, she made it clear as we got older that a simple "Happy Mother's Day" or a phone call home were really sufficient. I grew up considering it a Hallmark holiday, nothing to make a big to-do about, and I carried that feeling along as I became a mother myself. A nice word or card from my husband, step-daughters, and other family and friends was nice but I didn't need anything dramatic.
So it is odd to me that Mother's Day has turned out to be tricky in the years since Eddie made me an "official" mother. Don't get me wrong; step-mothers are definitely mothers. I love my "wicked" step-daughters very, very much and would throw myself in front of a bus for them. But I'm not their mommy; someone else has that privilege and that fact is and will always be totally fine with me. In fact, it shouldn't be any other way. And there is something indescribably wonderful about the moment when YOU are the mommy. The great and powerful Wizard of Mom.
Eddie's labor was crazy and in retrospect a little funny. Scary, painful and topsy-turvy in almost every way, when the time came for me to push him into this world I was way more focused on getting the whole ordeal over with than on the reality that I was about to meet, face-to-face, the little man responsible for all the wiggles, thumps and heartburn I'd been experiencing in the previous months. Immediately after he was born, I experienced a rush of endorphins unlike any other, and had to be reminded by my doula, between my giggles, to sit up enough to catch a glimpse of him before he was whisked away to be surrounded by a crowd of doctors and nurses preparing him for his surgery and trip to NICU. I remember smiling at him, those bird-like, dark brown eyes that shone with righteous anger and indignation at being so rudely brought from his warm, womb-world into the bright florescent glare of "reality." A few moments later, as he was being rolled away in his little incubator to surgery, the ob/gyn called out, "Don't forget to show him to mom."
They paused beside my bed and I got a really good look at him. He was swaddled up to his nose and wearing a tiny hat, but looking at that fussy inch and a half of exposed face, something happened in my heart. It opened up, gained a dimension, broke in two and doubled in size all in one instant. I wasn't able to hold him or even kiss him, but I reached through the circle "window" and touched his forehead. I made the sign of the cross there and said the only words that came to my mind. Nothing profound. With more emotion than I knew how to deal with pouring through me, I whispered, "Hi, baby!"
I would get two Mother's Days with Eddie but I don't remember anything about either of them. They came and went like any other day back then I would guess, with desperate hope and gratitude that my baby boy was alive. I didn't prepare for the coming of my first Mother's Day without him because it had never been a significant celebration so I was surprised when I cried inconsolably the day before. I found on the day itself that I was pregnant with Baby Girl, so I blamed hormones for the tears.
I've got no excuse this Mother's Day. No pregnancy hormones to blame. And, still, unexpectedly, it was a rough one. One where my longing for the one I had lost threatened to overtake the gratitude I have for his life and the life of the two who are still with me. I put on a good face, went to church, worshipped and cried, but dried my tears in time to talk to friends and go to lunch afterward. I enjoyed a warm, sunny afternoon watching Baby Boy run crazy through a local splash-park while Baby Girl clung to my skirts and avoided the water at all costs. But when we came home, I needed to lay down, exhausted by a day of simply carrying on.
I dreamed of Eddie, lying in a hospital bed, the size he was at around eighteen months. He was sleeping, his central line and sterile dressing visible on his bare chest, the thin flannel of a hospital blanket covering him to the waist. I was explaining to a nurse that he was going to need TPN (his intravenous nutrition) and she was going to make sure they got the orders for it soon. He looked good, as he had on his best days when his skin was plump and healthy, his color a nice bronze but not yellow. The nurse was pleased at his liver numbers. It was a good "day in the life." I kissed his hairline, those beautiful, soft little curls, while he slept and waited for... something. I don't know what it was.
When I woke up I felt peaceful. Blessed to have been able to visit him, if only in a dream. To have been able to kiss him and remember with startling clarity what life was like back then. Hope triumphing over anxiety; peace in the midst of turmoil. Beyond my bedroom door I could hear my children laughing, big loud raucous giggles and I smiled. But I didn't want to go out there yet. I wasn't ready to leave the warm, womb-world of my bed and face the harsh florescent light of reality without my Eddie. The one who changed my heart. Who made me "mommy." So I lay there for a little while and thanked God for him. For holding me in the palm of His hand and giving me comfort. I closed my eyes, feeling close to God and close to Eddie, and breathed for a little while. Then I got up. Because life was waiting for me beyond that door. Hope was waiting. Joy was waiting. And two beautiful, smiling faces whose first words upon seeing me walking down the hall toward them was an excited and exuberant, "Mommy!"
So it is odd to me that Mother's Day has turned out to be tricky in the years since Eddie made me an "official" mother. Don't get me wrong; step-mothers are definitely mothers. I love my "wicked" step-daughters very, very much and would throw myself in front of a bus for them. But I'm not their mommy; someone else has that privilege and that fact is and will always be totally fine with me. In fact, it shouldn't be any other way. And there is something indescribably wonderful about the moment when YOU are the mommy. The great and powerful Wizard of Mom.
Eddie's labor was crazy and in retrospect a little funny. Scary, painful and topsy-turvy in almost every way, when the time came for me to push him into this world I was way more focused on getting the whole ordeal over with than on the reality that I was about to meet, face-to-face, the little man responsible for all the wiggles, thumps and heartburn I'd been experiencing in the previous months. Immediately after he was born, I experienced a rush of endorphins unlike any other, and had to be reminded by my doula, between my giggles, to sit up enough to catch a glimpse of him before he was whisked away to be surrounded by a crowd of doctors and nurses preparing him for his surgery and trip to NICU. I remember smiling at him, those bird-like, dark brown eyes that shone with righteous anger and indignation at being so rudely brought from his warm, womb-world into the bright florescent glare of "reality." A few moments later, as he was being rolled away in his little incubator to surgery, the ob/gyn called out, "Don't forget to show him to mom."
They paused beside my bed and I got a really good look at him. He was swaddled up to his nose and wearing a tiny hat, but looking at that fussy inch and a half of exposed face, something happened in my heart. It opened up, gained a dimension, broke in two and doubled in size all in one instant. I wasn't able to hold him or even kiss him, but I reached through the circle "window" and touched his forehead. I made the sign of the cross there and said the only words that came to my mind. Nothing profound. With more emotion than I knew how to deal with pouring through me, I whispered, "Hi, baby!"
I would get two Mother's Days with Eddie but I don't remember anything about either of them. They came and went like any other day back then I would guess, with desperate hope and gratitude that my baby boy was alive. I didn't prepare for the coming of my first Mother's Day without him because it had never been a significant celebration so I was surprised when I cried inconsolably the day before. I found on the day itself that I was pregnant with Baby Girl, so I blamed hormones for the tears.
I've got no excuse this Mother's Day. No pregnancy hormones to blame. And, still, unexpectedly, it was a rough one. One where my longing for the one I had lost threatened to overtake the gratitude I have for his life and the life of the two who are still with me. I put on a good face, went to church, worshipped and cried, but dried my tears in time to talk to friends and go to lunch afterward. I enjoyed a warm, sunny afternoon watching Baby Boy run crazy through a local splash-park while Baby Girl clung to my skirts and avoided the water at all costs. But when we came home, I needed to lay down, exhausted by a day of simply carrying on.
I dreamed of Eddie, lying in a hospital bed, the size he was at around eighteen months. He was sleeping, his central line and sterile dressing visible on his bare chest, the thin flannel of a hospital blanket covering him to the waist. I was explaining to a nurse that he was going to need TPN (his intravenous nutrition) and she was going to make sure they got the orders for it soon. He looked good, as he had on his best days when his skin was plump and healthy, his color a nice bronze but not yellow. The nurse was pleased at his liver numbers. It was a good "day in the life." I kissed his hairline, those beautiful, soft little curls, while he slept and waited for... something. I don't know what it was.
When I woke up I felt peaceful. Blessed to have been able to visit him, if only in a dream. To have been able to kiss him and remember with startling clarity what life was like back then. Hope triumphing over anxiety; peace in the midst of turmoil. Beyond my bedroom door I could hear my children laughing, big loud raucous giggles and I smiled. But I didn't want to go out there yet. I wasn't ready to leave the warm, womb-world of my bed and face the harsh florescent light of reality without my Eddie. The one who changed my heart. Who made me "mommy." So I lay there for a little while and thanked God for him. For holding me in the palm of His hand and giving me comfort. I closed my eyes, feeling close to God and close to Eddie, and breathed for a little while. Then I got up. Because life was waiting for me beyond that door. Hope was waiting. Joy was waiting. And two beautiful, smiling faces whose first words upon seeing me walking down the hall toward them was an excited and exuberant, "Mommy!"
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)