When A Sister is Hurting

October 4, 2010

Lastnight we got a call from Julie, Chad’s sister, the newborn was worse, his nasal congestion was awful, Julie hadn’t slept, but no fever and he is eating and peeing. She asked for me. This sister, my sister, I was wanting to reach through the phone lines days prior, but big brother prays loud and demonstrative to the powers of sickness. I wring my hands for the little baby and the bend in the back of my little sister. I could feel my fist form as I wanted to know whether the doctors in a foreign land were doing everything possible. But I know our Father is listening to the prayers and to the plea’s. I join the praying, hoping that the baby’s body will fight. This time I heard her ask for me. I took the phone with a sigh, hearing the tearful cry of one of my own, it feels so unjust for some reason not to be able to do anything. Instead of crying with her I ask questions, the Martha takes over, what has been done, how is he breathing, and what is the plan. Then I hear her voice trail off… Almost like a second nature I tell her what I know to be true. That she is a good Mother, that she is doing everything she can, that she will get through this, that she needs to sleep when she can, and ask for more help. But I knew there was a hesitation in her voice. What was that? I went to bed only to be tormented and I prayed against guilt.

She feels guilty because she has had to make choices for herself that affect her child. These are the choices that twist and turn our insides out. Oh, the sanctification of child bearing, and she was getting a double shot. In a short amount of time she has had a baby, surgery, and now this sickness. I know how hard this is, the temptation to give up, to curse, to find blame, and I know that she is so familiar with her Father and His love for her. I am so confident in her. I prayed and prayed and when we awoke I felt tired, but I am sure not as tired as she is. I reach for the phone.

I can hear life, the going’s on of everyday child rearing, the oldest voicing her joy at the beauty in the day because the Moma already did so. I am thankful for this, the sorrow our children force us out of just because we are Moma’’s. There is no guilt here, no place for the enemy to swallow her up. She is the first Mary I ever really knew and came to love. The baby is still sick, our heads are still bowed, and the Lord is big enough to handle the small.

My gratitude list:

hike's with eager children

heart shaped rocks

the smell of the forest in autumn

pockets full of acorns

a friend that shares

a husband that takes teasing well

the anticipation of long Saturday morning runs

newlyweds

honeycrisp apples

my parents resolve to be missional

cigar muffled prayers

Had to push through that last one. Yup, I'm thankful.

Genetically Guilty

There are few mothers who don’t deal with guilt on some level or another. I have thought for awhile that moms are some of the most guilt ridden people on the planet. The children we are blessed with become mirror images of the things we do and don’t like about ourselves. Extended family loves to sit around at family events and point out who has what grievance or attribute. “She’s just like her Mother,” or “I’ve seen that before.” I’ve been wrestling for years with a raw place that has been a plague since childhood. Is it in my genetics? Is it just a series of personality traits and circumstance? I still don’t know. What I do know is that I am going to pray, not fear, not prevent, and not control the guilty trait from being passed on to my genetically ridden children. What if I could bless them, not curse them? What would that look like? What my flesh wants is to have the power to choose, but the spirit in me knows the blessing happens when I let go and let them breathe.

I took my two image bearers to the dentist this past week. We were hopeful for healthy clean teeth, but were worried about the verdict at the end of this trip. A beautiful woman was waiting in the ‘holding’ room while her young son let the ‘happy’ juice take affect. I’ve been through this recently as my radiant active child turned into a monster before my eyes. At one point he turned to me, leaned in real close and said, “I don’t like you, Mommy.” It was exhausting as his head seemed too heavy for him to carry on his shoulders and I had to keep him upright. Needless to say, her little one was having a hard time. The uniformed people came for him and she sat down next to me. I asked her if this was his first time to get the happy juice. She teared up and said no, he has been here often recently. The woman crumbled. “You see, he has gastric reflux and the acid that should remain in the deep caverns of his stomach rise and destroyed his back teeth. So, one by one the teeth were being extracted.” She went on to explain she had suffered with this disorder for so long as a young person, but not until she was twenty was it discovered and the healing medicine of Prevacid given to her. I felt the weight of her guilt as it was her fault he had this disorder. She spoke of her genetics, her erroneously made DNA, and I recognized despair. We discussed the happy side of his being able to receive the medicine now, and that the many surgeries and tissue repair would hopefully not await him. This didn’t seem to lift her. What do I say? I’ve felt this. Is it the code or is it just a bi-product of life on earth? This woman told me her husband had told her that God had made their boy. The words sat there between us, and I said it sounded like a truth she could believe. The unsaid was whether or not she is or is not going to trust the God that made the boy, which made the Mom, who knows the end, and will finish the story for each and every one of us. The door opened and a weepy little boy reached for her and she wrapped her arms around him. The gauze in his mouth gave him a crooked little smile, but he was at peace with her.

The door swung open again and my Crest sparkling little ones were peering out at me. Then the verdict, “We don’t have cavities!!!!” “Look how clean our teeth are.” “Mom, can we get a treasure out of the box? “ I love dentist treasure boxes as the sugar has been removed from the spelling of T-r-e-a-t. We made it to the waiting room where this Mom was struggling to hold the very asleep little one and pay her bill. I offered to help, but she was shouldering her genetic material, her guilt, her purse, and her pride all at once and well, she didn’t need any help. I sighed and said a prayer for the woman and the child.

And would you know not even one minute later, we are getting into the car and my kids are repeating the words of the dentist, about the space between their teeth, the room in their mouth, and about their ‘good’ teeth. Without thinking I said, “You have my side of the family to thank for that.” The words just hung there in my throat. You dumb, dumb, woman, what are you saying! Our parents have no control over what we do or do not get, this is not where the gratitude lays. But we thank the Lord for the good and the bad, right? Right? Say it Beth, say it… I hung my head at the heaviness I felt over my own reckless behavior. I have to undo this. Lord, help…

Our lunch was greeted with smiles and busy talk of the video games at the dentist’s office and the taste of the cleaning products. We bowed our heads to thank God for the verdict of healthy teeth, a place to have our teeth cleaned, and for making us just how we are. It didn’t seem like enough at the end of the prayer. I should have gone on about how He is the potter and we are the clay and we should not question why He made us so. I still felt guilty as I’m pretty good at recognizing it by now. While the veggie sticks crunched, and the plans for play were created, I managed a second prayer. “Forgive me Jesus, help me not feel guilt and help me to recognize quickly from whom all things come.”

The Secret to Clean Floors

Ok, I have to sum up what life is like just one of the four days when my husband travels.

August 5, 2010

I was enjoying a early morning snuggle with my little boy, who never wants me when my husband is around, when I heard my house guest and Purdy, the dog, on the steps. Thinking our guest was frustrated with me I went downstairs to take care of my dog duty. Our puppy was diagnosed with intestinal parasites three days ago, so I have been to the vet twice in three days. I fed the dog it's food, with it's medicine, and the yogurt, that the vet said would help, and it vomited it, and then played with it on the cement outside the back door.

The dog then plays in the mud, comes inside and jumps on the couch. My daughter locked eyes with me, wondering why I wasn’t screaming. Mostly because it’s before 7am and I was way too out of it.

I made biscuits and served them to the kids with my neighbor’s gift, Huckleberry jam from Montana.

David didn't like the jam. Said it was yucky. Into the trash went the biscuit.

I took the dog on a walk in 86 degree weather at 7:15. God, I ask, why do I live in Nashville, TN?

I washed the dog because it had played in it's vomit.

I washed the couch and clean the floor AGAIN.

The kids started fighting about what to do today. Anger because they couldn't go to the dentist as we all have colds that my pilgrim husband brought home to us. We decide on Paleta's, a really expensive popsicle joint, and the bookstore.

While in the car driving to our excursion David realizes that Paleta's is not the same as Gelato and insists that he is not going. In my sweetest Mommy voice I say, “Okay, you don't have to have any.”

We go to the bookstore where my easy going nine year old immediately picks out a 50% off Bible that she likes and David screams and throws Bible's on the floor because he cannot have the Bible that has a little door that opens like a Harry Potter book ($30). I commence to tell him that the cover is a gimmick, that this Bible doesn’t have pictures, and being as he doesn’t read, he’s going to want pictures. The store clerk follows me around the store picking up after me with the look of "Oh Brother". I check out and apologize for my children making a mess in her store.

Jesus would have apologized I am sure of it. Since there were WWJD paraphernalia everywhere I made sure I apologized.

We go to Paleta's where David gets the coconut strawberry and Sydney the cookie one. David ends up throwing his out the window because of the consistency of the Paleta is Yucky. I said I told you so, I told you 3 times to get the lime one. There went the $2.50 popsicle.

We go home and barely make it in the door when the storm came. Lost power and water. David is beyond the pale at this point because he was watching Starwars. David continues on his downward decline. He pulled the cat's leg in two and kicked Purdy in the stomach.

We go downstairs to the cool basement and I have a hot cup of tea when David jumps on me, which I then spill all over my front and have blisters on my chest. My daughter locks eyes with me again wondering, "what’s it going to take for my Mom to crack?" David decides he wants me to read him a book, thank God, however he decides to trap the cat in his stealth hands and strangle it to get it to stay. Okay, that’s it!!!!

I loose it with David and remove his little self to his room, where it’s 100 degrees because the A/C is not working . I don't know exactly what I said and I know a ruler was involved on his greater end, but he was a changed man.

FINALLY the kids make a tent and get distracted, I make their snack supper (the power is out), and take it downstairs where David breaks the glass cup that the smoothie was in all over the floor.

I clean it up, and come up and eat my dinner when Sydney somehow finds the one piece of glass I missed and cuts her foot, and bleeds all over the floor. I clean the floor for the 4th time today. Every-time I bend over with a head cold I feel like my brains are going to come out of my head.

After this I have to drag Purdy home out of the neighbors yard.

Make a new tent for David as I had to go hunting for glass. Then they beg me over and over to sleep downstairs under the new tent, I decide to be a 'yes' Mom.

By this point my body is just moving and the head is no longer attached. I drag Purdy's kennel up the stairs and set up the kids bedding.

I turn and smile as Sydney and David are reading their Bible's together in the lantern light like little Angel's. Remember, David can’t read, but he is looking at the pictures.

Now I have Chad's cat on my bed giving itself a bath and I would really like for it to take it's affectionate little fur ball self somewhere else, but he will Meow without Syd in the room across from me. So, after kicking it off my bed twice and chasing the cat out from under the bed, I extend my grace to the cat and it’s litter box onto the back porch. Where I give him my best goodnight you “b-e-e-p”.

Exhaustion!!!! And why do I feel tense? This is God's idea of testing? Perseverance? I don't know? I do know that I am not sure what curse words I said in front of the kids today. I will apologize tomorrow.

We love Sugar

We lost our dog Sugar on Monday morning, and we don't totally understand what happened. She got overheated on a walk, collapsed, and stopped breathing. Oh, my heart just aches over this four-legged companion. Why did I suggest she go for a walk? Why did this happen? Knowing full well that the Lord has all things under control, nothing is out of his hand.

We went through our pictures, trying to find the picture to remember her by. There are videos of David, then in a diaper, riding Sugar. Sugar just set real still, until David tried to pull her tail and then she went round and round with him, as is she knew he didn't know any better about tails.

The first week Sugar came to live with us Sydney accidentally dropped her and she spent the night sleeping on my belly, atop the little boy who would soon pull her tail. This dog was so much more than a dog, she ran thousands of miles with me, looking up as if to ask, "Are we done yet?" But she would plod on, bounding into the tide pools of the Puget Sound by the end of our run. She became apart of my mothering, "Okay, you play with Sugar while Mommy deals with your brother." Sugar would follow commands to follow one child at the beach while I went after the other. I was completely confident in her, much like the character Nana in Peter Pan, the dog governess. Then there are the countless nights she kept watch and knew I needed her right beside me to be the eyes and ears while mine went to sleep. She could play tether ball by herself at the park, and draw a crowd. She loved to catch bubbles with the kids. And her complete focus on any ball, stick, toy that was to be retrieved would have brought a chuckle to the hardest cat lover. My neighbors knew Sugar before they knew me, "Oh, your Sugar's owner, nice to meet you." Recently I found out that she knew just how to nose her way into my neighbors kitchen especially when bacon was on the menu.

How do we replace such a sweet friend? We don't. My kids don't understand that this dog was special and that it's hard to move on. David said, "We just go to the chocolate lab store and get one and bring it home. I want a dog Mom."

Yeah, I know buddy, just want her back too.

What I learned about Motherhood from my Dad

There are few men quite like my Dad. He can pound nails, cut down trees, diagnose cars and people, and manhandle just about anything, but there is a tender nurturing side to him. He has been a steady compass for me in my adult years, he has by-passed his own principle’s and particularities to maintain a voice in my life. When my daughter was two I spent most of my days solo, without husband or Daddy around to take the edge off. On a much-needed trip to visit my parents I arrived rigid, absolute, ‘Darth Mom’ as my brother calls it. My Dad is discerning, a gift from the giver of good things, and openly rebuked me for smothering, which I thought was mothering. It hurt, I cried, couldn’t stop and never can after my Daddy corrects me. However, during the heart stripping crying before my Dad, I told him he had no idea what it was like to be a Mom alone all the time and that I kept my life orderly and secure so that nothing ‘bad’ would happen. The look on his face was compassion, his voice was silent, and thus began a trust between us. I talked and he began to listen.

When my son was six month’s old he refused to be cared for by anyone but me. I felt frustrated and resentful that I could not have one evening out or take a bath for that matter without his little demands. I never in all my life thought I would be the Mother of a ‘Mama’s Boy’. I never talked about my feelings with anyone, no complaints, but I wear my emotions on my sleeve, I know it. After several sleepless nights and naps resigned for the two of us my Dad put his hand on my shoulder and said, “You know it’s because your such a good Mom that he’s like that.” I was not thinking about the circumstances in that light whatsoever, I was trying to figure out what I had done wrong, how had I spoiled this boy? Dad said, “Yeah, he feels safe with you, your giving him what he needs right now, and it’s a good thing, honey.” I remember thinking that yet again my Dad had not a clue what Motherhood was all about and I should send him a parenting book. Then it sunk in, I was doing what God had ordained for me, for some reason my little son needed to know I was with him. He needed a Mom who would hold him in the night, talk to him softly, and smile at him not scold him when he just couldn’t get to sleep. How did my Dad know?

What my Dad knows is that children need a place to land, and in the presence of their parents is often that place. Children need to be able to speak in earnest, to rest peacefully, and to hear the thoughts of one who has walked longer than they have. I do not always provide my children with the attention, position, and dignity that these little image bearers need. I do ask Jesus to keep me close, to remember how I stray and how I need mercy.

Most recently I overheard my daughter telling my son about Papa, my Dad, and how Papa can do this, and Papa can do that… I laughed to myself as I might have exaggerated a few stories here and there. No harm done I figure, he is my hero, why shouldn’t he be theirs too? Dad would deny it all, correct me promptly for making him out to be more than he is, and I would hang my head. The reason is that I do want to please him, but I like to revert to childhood wonder where there really are good guys and they always win. There is hope in seeing a pilgrim make his way through this life and stay the course. I find encouragement in giving witness to a brother in faith continuing to change and mold himself late in life instead of masking himself behind individual beliefs. Mostly, I want to model his behavior that the person is more important than the plan and the people in our lives are what makes life worth it.

There is no hiding that I love my Dad. This is a great Father’s Day, a time to rejoice in the idea of Father’s and their children.

Kickstart Monday

Mondays are gratitude days.

For someone who is so good at counting (bricks on the church wall, miles completed, panels on the ceiling, nutritional requirements, days of incubation, days until, days since, etc), I am not so great at counting and writing what I am thankful for.
So, who's counting? Me...

burdens shifted

siblings that play constantly even though there are 4 years that separate them

the squeakuel (chipmunk music can really make me thankful for other music)

pastor's of providence

the Exodus story

my little warrior's hugs

homemade play-dough

sewing machines

women like Abigail Adams

my mother's ability to improvise (and her instruction)

faith

attentive husband

snotty noses and tears at church

twelve year old girls' Birthday parties

Southern thunderstorms

breathe in, breathe out

http://www.aholyexperience.com/

Hidden Romance

February has been cold, really cold, I have felt cold from the inside out and cold from the inside in. I have seen more varied types of snow than I ever thought possible. My kids started the month ecstatic over the first sign of falling snow yet have now retreated indoors with a soft blanket versus trotting outside with their sleds. I have tried to think "happy" thoughts, but every time I head out for a run on the slick streets I end up muttering something under my breath that I have to repent for half way through my run. To make matters worse I have been reading the "weeping prophet," Jeremiah. Although there are numerous encouraging verses the overall picture of this book has been painted severe. I have ruminated about how does God put up with us, how we so quickly fall out of love with Him and how I am just as bad as 'those people' He is dealing with in the scriptures. It has been a hard, passionless month, oh and throw Valentine's Day in to the gloom blender and this natural cynic begins to produce mass loads of unbelief. I cover it up rather nicely with a steadfast exterior and a cast iron glaze over my true self. Lately I have felt a surge of panic as I realize I don't feel anything; apathy. I really don't like me when I get like this.

Then I pray, "Lord please have mercy, fill me afresh, I don't know how I got like this, but You and I both know where this leads."

Leave it to my precious kids. Today I was really stretched with a fragile four year old, there was nothing I could do right. Every attempt I made towards peace was thwarted by this cloud of "not enough," hanging over his eyes. I was exhausted by noon, ready to give up and fall prey to depression and discouragement all over again.

I sat down with my daughter to read today's "The Holy Experience," post by Ann Voskamp only to find myself getting choked up. My voice was wavering and tears were stinging my eyes as I thought about God keeping a record of my laments. My daughter smiled at me and said, "Awe Mom, enough of this romance stuff." A little perturbed at her, I asked her what romance she was talking about, she snickered and said, "You know, you and Jesus." I was taken back because I struggle with intimacy with Jesus, and how she saw me sniffle a little and knew that there is a romance between me and Jesus that I rarely have eyes to see. I felt encouraged. I am not passionless, I am not cold and heartless, I do love Jesus, He lives in my soul and even though I am not a riot of expression my daughter knows my true self.