E: for Entering In (also, for Enough)

I work in a trauma-rich environment.  That's the actual phrase they use to describe my workplace.  My work is not specifically "trauma-rich"--I'm the Business Manager.  I handle Human Resources and budgeting and accounts payable and such.  So it's not my job per se that is trauma-rich.  It's the place where I work.

We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.

And here's the thing.  Nationally, over 90% of children are sexually abused by someone they know, love, or trust.  In my county, in the nearly 10 years I've tracked these stats, it's closer to 99%.  Think on that for a minute.  Ninety-nine percent of children are sexually abused by someone they know.  Someone they trust.  Someone they love.  It might be a family member or a family friend, but it isn't a stranger hiding behind a bush to nab them.  It's someone their parents have let into their lives.  Or it's the parent him or herself.

That's trauma-rich for you.

Because of the nature of our workplace, and the space our therapists and interviewers and family advocate and intake coordinator hold for our children to tell their stories, we've been talking about self care.  Self care really looks different for everyone . . . and most of us are better at declaring what it's not.  At a recent staff meeting, we talked about how proper self care is built on a foundation of entering in.  It's a foundation of feeling what there is to feel and then handling it appropriately (i.e. not drinking too much, swearing, yelling at everyone around you, or eating.  I know, right?).

Entering in.

Experiencing the feelings.

Not numbing them.

Because numbing them means you aren't feeling them. And the drinking, swearing, yelling, eating, and escaping is all about numbing.

Well, great. Now what? Entering in feels very, very scary. And very painful. And the opposite of what I really want to do.

So I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then I feel a bit better for a while. And then I go back to work or I have to "Mom" again or I somehow start to feel . . . and then I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear.  And then the whole cycle starts over again.

And none of that is real or right or healthy or even all that helpful.

But there's a bigger problem.  And the bigger problem is that when you numb what hurts you also numb what heals.  Because numbing isn't self selective. You can't numb the bad without numbing the good.  You can't escape the pain without also escaping the pleasure.  At least that's what this TEDTalk lady said.  She says humanity is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable.  It's about entering in and sitting in the hurt and being honest about it.  And she says it's impossible to connect without that.

As I sat there in our staff meeting and thinking about what she said (and how much I really wished someone had brought doughnuts to that staff meeting), I realized something.  In the past I've written about my sensory processing disorder, and I've talked often about my own journey through postpartum depression and the meds and therapy that got me through that.  What I maybe haven't mentioned is that for over a year I also took an antidepressant prescribed by my doctor simply because my sensory issues don't really lend themselves to having children and momming. Nice, right?  So I dutifully took those pills, and I could make it through my days with work and kids and school and schedules.

And I made it through.  And I didn't cry so much.  And then I realized I didn't cry at all.  And I didn't really laugh that much either. And I didn't really have a desire to write anymore or even the words to write.  And I panicked when I realized I couldn't even really daydream.  So I quit taking them.  In my head I said, "Well, most writers are crazy. I'd rather have that crazy if it means I can create."  But the truth was that I just wanted to cry again.  I wanted to feel.

{Now I'm in no way advocating that everyone should get off their medication for depression or anxiety. I'm not even positive it was the right decision for me--and I definitely gained about 20 pounds, so one could argue I'm just doing a different kind of medicating--but it is something I needed to do.  I needed to feel.  BUT if you can't make it through your day and you can't enter in because you can't get out of bed, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because all you can think about is hurting yourself or total escape, then you need to take something.  If you can't enter in because you can't quiet your mind down enough to focus and breathe, then you need to take something.  Please keep taking your something, but do it under a doctor's care and with a therapist who can help you safely enter in.  And don't take yourself off your something without your doctor and your partner or close friends.  Please.}


Our pastor is currently preaching through a series on The Lord's Prayer.  A couple of weeks ago his message was on "Give us this day our daily bread."  Our daily bread.  What we need for today.  He read Exodus 16 to us and preached about that manna.  That "what is it?"  That literal daily bread.  Just enough for the one day.

I have so, so much.  And I still want more.  But He gave me Enough.  Because that's who He is.

Enough.

Not more than I need.  Not less than I need.  Enough.

During the message, our pastor asked, "What do you complain about the most?  What do you ask God for?  A life of ease?  A life of plenty?  Or for your daily needs to be met?"

That really hit me.

Do I complain about not having enough?  Do I complain about disappointment?  Do I complain about discomfort?  Or do I ask for my daily bread?  Do I ask for justice?  Do I ask for God's will?  Do I simply ask for more God?

Do I ask for Ease?

Or do I ask for Enough?

When I ask for enough rather than ease or escape then I find that I had enough to begin with.  That God, in His wisdom and knowing-all about my life, has already given me everything I need to enter in and rest in His enough.

Oh, it won't be easy.  And I'll have to stop overeating or self medicating in whatever way is right in front of me.  There will be pain, because that's what it means to be human.  There will be vulnerability, and there will be times when it is so awful I want to stop.  But when I enter in I will find that I have everything I need to make it through that day.

And I will laugh.

And I will cry.

And I will write.

And I will live.

(And hopefully I'll lose those 20 pounds.)

A: for Advent

I don't write enough.  I don't write enough to finish my novel or blog all my ideas.  I don't write enough to appease my sister, my mom, my husband, or my closest friends.  I don't write enough to be faithful to a calling on my life.  And I don't write enough to feed my soul.

A while back I came across a fun idea to blog through the alphabet.  I wanted to give it a go, but then I didn't.  And I didn't for so long that I wondered if I ever would.  Then an idea to write a post about something I read popped into my head, and in church this morning it dawned on me that it's an advent post, and advent starts with A.  So here we go.  (Hopefully you can read a post on zebras or zoology or ziplock baggies in December of 2016.  We'll call that a win.)

This has been a hard advent.

Family members have given up watching the news.  Eyes are regularly filled with tears threatening to spill.  People are dying, hate is filling the news . . . I met a woman who said she and her husband were talking about their children growing up and wondering what world would be here for the children they might have some day . . . and whether they should even have those children.  Life is hard.  And this advent doesn't feel much like a season of joyous anticipation.

Some advents are.  Some years the air is bursting with excitement as we count down the weeks until the Christ candle is lit and all the presents are ripped open.  It's more of a "Hey, you guys!  One more week down! Only three to go! Can you hardly wait?!"

But this year.  This year it's more of a pleading.  A "How long do we have to wait?  I don't know if I can do this another day, let alone another week.  Come, Lord Jesus. Why are you taking so long?"

My oldest daughter and I just finished reading the Harry Potter series together.  I loved them even more this time, reading them with her.  The 7th book was especially meaningful, and I love that we read it during advent.  There is a scene that caused those close tears to fall and my voice to catch so much I had to pause. My daughter looked at me when I did, both of us lying there in my bed.  She just looked up at me, and I smiled while the tears fell and said, "This is life. This is what keeps us going."  She smiled and nodded, and we read on.

A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, sucking their way closer to Harry's despair, which was like a promise of a feast . . .

He saw Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione's otter twist in midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling . . .

And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past Harry, Ron, and Hermione's heads: The dementors fell back before the creatures' approach.  Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.

"That's right," said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry . . . come on, think of something happy . . ."

"Something happy?" he said, his voice cracked.

"We're all still here," she whispered, "we're still fighting. Come on, now . . ."

There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the stag burst forth from the end of Harry's wand . . .                                    {Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p649}

This has been a year, friends.  Mine started with my dad in surgery to remove cancer from his body.  Along the way between then and now, friends' parents have been lost, jobs have been taken, pregnancies have been deemed "high risk," Beirut, Paris, San Bernadino, Colorado, Oregon, airplanes have been blown out of the sky, and, just last week, a friend's 17-year-old daughter committed suicide.

Life is wearying, and this advent feels like more of a lament than a joy.

As the pastor said during last week's funeral, this in between is a hard place to live.  

It is, isn't it?  This in between when Jesus was born and died and resurrected and ascended and when Jesus comes again to set everything right can feel like hell on earth.  It feels never ending, and I worry sometimes that it may be all consuming.  This might be the death of us.

At least that's how it feels.

But then, there's someone there. Someone who stands next to me and whispers, "Did you see God right there?" Someone who lifts me up and helps me stand. Someone who says, "We're still here. And we're still fighting."

And then there's Hope.  

I was asked on Friday what is my happiness. "If you really knew me, you would know my happiness is . . ."

And my answer was, "Hope." 

My happiness is Hope.  This year, in the midst of all this darkness and fighting and lamenting and crying I quit taking my antidepressant. The main reason was crazy, foolish even perhaps.  But I also wanted to see if I could do it.  And so far I have.  Because my happiness is Hope.  It's seeing a glimmer of God, of His people fighting, of all of us together lamenting His advent.

On Friday I was also challenged to share my happiness.  So . . . I give you Hope.  I wish for you, in whatever your lament, Hope.  Deep-seated, rooted somewhere you can't even see Hope.

A Letter of Apology

A letter of apology, to my oldest daughter--

Dear one, I owe you an apology.  And I am very, very sorry.

There are so many places where I fall short in the eyes of the world or in the eyes I see in the mirror.

I am afraid when I should be brave.  I don't write enough.  Our house gets messy, and I fall behind on the laundry.  You know I hate to cook, so we eat out too much.  I have trouble saving our money, and we have more debt than we should.  I don't work out enough.  I eat too much ice cream.  I stay up too late.  And I sleep in too long.  I watch more TV than is healthy, and I let you do the same.  I don't spend as much time with Daddy as he deserves.  I choose other things over spending time in prayer and reading my Bible.  I yell at you for crazy things.  I have a hard time controlling my temper.  I don't like vegetables.

But somewhere along the line I did you a disservice.  Somewhere, somehow, I let you believe that those things are how I see myself.  I let you believe that I don't think I'm enough.  And then, that translated into you believing you aren't enough.

And, oh, my precious one.  You are.

You.

Are.

Enough.

You have those beautiful blue eyes and a great smile that makes them disappear.  I love your apple cheeks everyone says are mine.  You are smart and funny and caring.  You live up to your name because, like grace, you can make beauty out of ugly things.

I still remember when your preschool friend Lily's baby brother died right after he was born.  You waited for Lily to come back to preschool, and when she did, you held her hand and sat by her.  Because she needed you.  You were three, Baby.  Three.  But that shouldn't be a surprise, because I remember how you looked at Jerry lying in his casket when you were less than one year old.  You probably thought he was sleeping, except you looked at him like you saw him differently than the rest of us did.  And then you turned to Miss Nancy, and you reached for her to give her the love you had tucked in your tiny baby heart.  And, just last month, I watched you work through your frustration to figure out how to draw an elephant just in case you needed to remind our family that you have their backs.  Nobody loves more than you do, honey.

I love how much you love Ivy and your friends and reading and messy rooms and Marie Grace and Trixie Belden and sleeping in and riding your bike and Paris and not working hard.  I love that you don't like to fly but you still want to see the world and go to France some day.  I love getting to know the beautiful young woman you are becoming.

And I am sorry for not telling you that enough.  Because I am proud of who you are.  I am proud of you.  And I am proud to be your mom.

You are enough, Baby Girl.  Enough.  And you always will be, no matter what.

I wish I could see myself through your eyes, and I wish you could see yourself through mine.  Then you would sit up tall.  And you would take on the world like a mighty warrior.  Like a beautiful, mighty warrior.  Like a girl who loves like no one else can.  And you would proud to be you.

Empowered Through Pain

It's been an interesting 14 months for the Bierenga family.  I've alluded to some of our family's journey here and here and again here.  I have wrestled over the last year with how much to write, whether to write, and what to really say.  In the end, I still haven't written.  I know I will, because that's what I do.  But I still need a little more space to really climb into it.

At the same time, something settled in my brain on Monday that I have to share.  Then it will feel real, and public, and permanent (remember, that's true about the internet).

Monday dawned dark and early, and I was in a bed at my parents' house.  My parents were on their way out the door.  I needed to shower so my sister and I could join them in a curtained room in the surgical prep area of Hackley Hospital in Muskegon.  The morning was freezing cold, and we shivered our way to the hospital before the sun was even considering breaking the horizon.  We found my parents in the last "room" on our left.  Dad was lying in the bed, and Mom was sitting on a chair next to him.  We spent our time there together, just the four of us, for the first time in years really, now that Sara and I are married and have five kids between us.  We were together while the nurse prepped Dad, while the anesthesiologist talked with him, while Sara prayed for Dad and the surgeons and the cancer to go away, while the surgeon checked in with him, while the surgeon prayed for the surgery team, while I read a sad note from a friend whose battle with cancer is nearing its final days, while we laughed and took pictures and read comments from friends who are praying.

And then it was time for the team to walk him to the Operating Room.  Nearly eight years ago, my dad left for Iraq.  That goodbye was hard.  That goodbye was for 400 days and thousands of miles and time zones and bombs and war.  That was the hardest goodbye I've ever had with my dad.  This one nestled right up against it.  So much was riding on that bed.  My daddy was riding on that bed.  And how do you kiss him goodbye hoping and uncertain and wishing and dreaming and desperately loving?  We did it.

While we were waiting in the Family Waiting Area (while "The 700 Club" played on TV, so that wasn't super helpful), we all tried to occupy ourselves.  Sara worked on a training for work.  Mom read Facebook and played Candy Crush and Words with Friends.  I read a book for the Baker Bloggers Program.  And while I was reading, while the surgeons were collecting samples of my dad's insides for biopsy, while hundreds of people around the country were praying, while we were trying to distract ourselves, it hit me.

I was reading the section entitled "Experiencing God's Presence in Suffering, Loss, and Pain."  Kevin Harney wrote:

Suffering is suffering.  It is ours as we walk through it.  It invariably leads to tears, sorrow, heartache, and struggle.  It usually comes unannounced and we rarely know when it will leave.
Most of all, suffering can crush our faith or strengthen it.  The decision is ours.  Will I cling to Jesus through my pain and with tears streaming down my face?  Or will I turn my back and walk away from the only One who can carry me through?  Will I curse God or bless his name even if my teeth are clenched in agony as I worship?  Will I let the presence and power of God fill me to overflowing when I have nothing left to give, or will I seek to make it through in my own strength?
Powerful people seek to face suffering by relying on their own reserve of strength and tenacity.
The powerless throw in the towel as soon as the winds shift, long before the roof comes crashing down.
But the empowered hold the hand of Jesus and let his strength and presence carry them through the tempest of suffering, loss, and pain.  The empowered know that they can't weather the storms life will bring, but that the Maker of heaven and earth can place them under his wings and shelter them no matter what comes their way.

I read that, and then I looked up at my mom and my big sister, and I said, "I'm empowered.  And I'm empowered because we're empowered.  That's what you and Dad taught us."  And it's true.

Our faith isn't perfect.  My grandparents made their mistakes, but they instilled in my mom a faith that is her own.  And through their own struggles and journeys and heartaches my parents have given me a faith in the Maker of heaven and earth and His shelter and peace.

Just over 19 years ago, I left home.  I moved to a secular college because I wanted to forget my parents' faith and find my own.  During that time I made mistakes, and I said and did some hurtful things in my "enlightenment."  But I worked hard to build my faith.  And now there I was.  Sitting in a nondescript and uncomfortable waiting room while my dad underwent cancer surgery, and I realized that the faith I have is now my own, but it's also my parents'.   I'm empowered by the presence of God in the midst of my pain and suffering.  But every single day of the journey we have walked since November 2013 I have seen the same empowering written in my parents' words.  It's been in their strength, in their hope, in their peace, in their prayers.  That didn't change when Zack died.  It didn't change when my dad was pushed into retirement.  It didn't change when our house was broken into.  It didn't change when Dad was told he had cancer.  It didn't change while we waited in that room together.  It didn't change today when we were told that my dad's lymph nodes and all margins of his prostate are clear of cancer.  And I know without a doubt that it wouldn't have changed if we had been told his body was riddled with the disease.

Harney goes on to talk about being "propelled onward by the call and mission of God."  He says that our journey of faith is not really any different than Abraham's when he was still called Abram and he followed an unknown God from the land of his family into a new land where God would build His kingdom.  "Who follows God like this?" Harney writes.  "Abraham and Sarah.  Peter and Andrew.  You and me.  We hear his call.  He leads us on a mission day-by-day and moment-by-moment.  We go, not knowing where it will lead us but trusting the God who calls us to follow him."

And we do.  The journey might lead us through betrayal.  It might lead us through the valley of the shadow of death.  It might lead us through cancer or job loss or the breakdown of a family.  But through all of that, the good and the bad, through the pain and the joy, we live with a tenacious faith that knows "God can see the end of the road even when [we] can't."

Thanks, Mom and Dad.  Thanks for lending me your faith when I was a little girl.  Thanks for letting me go off and try to build my own faith.  And thanks for letting me find a faith that was yours all along.

Everything We Need to Know We Learned While Training Dragons

I meant to share this a while ago, when I first took my three daughters (and my dad) to see "How To Train Your Dragon 2" over the summer.  But then life happened (or laziness ensued or distraction set in or insert any other excuse here), and I didn't get around to it.  Then my nieces watched it during our family Christmas celebration, and news events happened in our country, and I was reminded.

So, in the theme of things as I close out 2014, better late than never.

While I was watching "How to Train Your Dragon 2," two themes kept coming to mind.  They, coupled with something I listened to myself whisper as I held my frightened four-year-old daughter on my lap, made up three truths about life I've learned over the last several years.  And, as I watch the news each day, I see how essential it is that I teach them to my girls.

It's been too long for me to give specific references to the film, and maybe they aren't even as important as real-life examples, so here goes nothing.

1) Talking and getting to know new people is better than fighting.
Our country is on the cusp of something major.  In college I studied the Civil Rights Movement, and in the cry of silent protesters and angry crowds I see so much history being repeated.  On another front there are lines being drawn about gay rights and transgender individuals and what is Christian and what is right. Then there is addiction--both the addicts themselves and the people who desperately love them and want to be enough for them . . .

We're in a mess of hurting people, and "we" as the Church are too often stepping up to the wrong side of those lines.  Yes.  There is right and there is wrong.  But God never asked us to judge the heart of man.  He asked us to love His children.  If I insist on pointing out the right and the wrong and ignore the brokenness and desperation, am I doing that?  No.  So.  Talking and getting to know people is better than fighting.  We need each other.  We need each other for what we can learn from people who are different than us, and we need each other for what we can share with people who are different than us.  And, most importantly, we need each other because without each other I'm not sure we can ever see a true picture of the God who created each of us.

2) Work together to fight the bullies.
Maybe this lends itself to #1 up there.  We. Need. Each. Other.  Period.  There's nothing more to it than that.  There are bullies in this world.  Some of them are big and physically violent.  Some of them are small and insidious.  Some of them are in the pews next to us in our churches.  Some of them stand in our capitol buildings.  Some of them wear a badge and carry a gun.  Some of them work on our news stations or in a cubicle next to us.

But, it's important to remember that not all of the people in those roles are bullies.

As I'm involved in a Global Learners' Initiative through my daughters' school district I have learned one important lesson: NEVER go alone.  Find a friend.  A buddy.  Someone who has your back.  Because here's the thing.  The bullies are tough.  Their insecurities and ignorance and hatred make them formidable, and their desperation makes them dangerous.

So don't go alone.

Let's join together.  Alone we can get killed.  Alone we can bend and break under the pressure.  Alone we can get laughed out of the room.

If you see a bully who needs to be fought, ask a friend to join you.  If you see a friend who's fighting a battle, join in.  Don't quarrel about differences in technique or philosophy or theology or interpretation.  Just fight alongside someone who needs it.

Fight the bullies with truth and goodness.  Maybe we'll get beaten in this battle.  But we'll win the war.

3) "It might get scary, but it will be okay."
This one is my favorite.  During the great battle scene at the end of the moview, my youngest daughter crawled onto my lap and whispered that she was scared.  I wrapped my arms around her, squeezed her tightly, and whispered back, "Baby, it will be okay.  It might get scary, but it will be okay."

There is truth to this, I realized as I heard my words.  That's life, friends.  It gets scary sometimes.  But it will be okay.

What a year my family had closing out 2013 and throughout 2014.  We were betrayed by friends--publicly.  Lies were told.  Tears were shed.  Curse words were uttered.  Truth is still taking its time stepping into the light.  In the middle of all of it, a brother ended his fight with PTSD.  And now, at the end of it (we thought), my dad has been diagnosed with prostate cancer.  His prognosis is good, though the cancer is aggressive.  Still, it's cancer.  There will be surgery and, depending on what the doctors find, maybe treatments.

It might get scary, but it will be okay.

We have faith.  And we have God.  And we have each other.  And we have grace.  And we know that in the end, it will all be okay.


Let these three lessons carry us into the new year, friends.  Let this be the year that the Church stops caring about semantics and starts caring about the heart of Christ.  Let this be the year that the bullies are fought against and that the bullied find us standing with them.  Let this be the year of hope in the midst of the fear that everything really will work out in the end.  And, in the middle of it all, let us find grace and love and joy.

Finding Hope

I just finished reading The Hour I First Believed by Wally Lamb.  It is a book that had long been on my "To Read" shelf on Goodreads, and I was excited to walk past it on the shelf at the library while I was stocking up on vacation reading . . . for my daughter.  (I'm not sure how looking for books in the Young Adult section led to me being in the adult fiction section, but those sorts of things happen to me.  Any time I'm around books.)

It's a long, long book.  Possibly the longest work of fiction I've ever read.  Some of the reviews on Goodreads point to the fact that Lamb touches on five or six plot lines in this book, and he certainly covers everything from the Civil War to Columbine to PTSD to women's prisons to the current war in Afghanistan and Iraq to infidelity to . . . nearly everything else.  At first glance it really is a disjointed conglomeration that makes the reader wonder why we have held on for so long.  And then he says it.  On page 685, Lamb has a character say, "Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

And that's it.

That's what all these things have in common.

And that's what they have in common with me reading it right now, finishing it yesterday, the day a group of people accidentally shot down a plane full of innocent passengers.  Passengers who included three infants and a hundred men and women who had dedicated their lives to saving the lives of others through HIV/AIDS research.  And the day Israel sent ground troops into Gaza.  Shortly after a local Christian radio host was arrested and charged with the sexual trafficking of a young boy.

"Life is messy, violent, confusing, and hopeful."

I have two friends whose families endured terrible and violent shooting tragedies over the past several years.  The devastation has been horrible, and it has changed everything about their worlds.  But they have hope.

I also have a friend who died following his battle against PTSD.  He fought willingly in a war against bullies and tyrants, because that's who Zack was.  But he was baptized, and he loved God, and we have hope that he is finally at peace.

For some reason Columbine has always stayed with me.  It has been tucked in my mind since it happened, and I continue to be impacted by it.  Perhaps it was the timing--I was a senior in college, so I was aware and had the time to watch the coverage and read about it.  Perhaps it was the fact that I joined my friends in taking a group of high schoolers to Columbine just one year after the shootings.  Or maybe it was standing in a church there, worshiping with my friends and those high schoolers, just miles from Columbine High School.  We sang "Better Is One Day," there in the shadow of the Rocky Mountains alongside Columbine students who knew and loved the children who died.  And we sang, with all our hearts and voices, "Better is one day in Your courts than thousands elsewhere."  Because even in that mess, that violence, that confusion . . . there was hope.

As I wrote following our break in, I have friends and family members who have lost jobs, been betrayed by friends, been abandoned by spouses who vowed to always stand by them, and have their families continually ravaged by addiction.  And all I have to offer them is this.

Life is messy.

Life is violent.

Life is confusing.

But, at the end of all this, life is hopeful.

Oh, my God.  He will not delay.
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always.  Always.

{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}

Theology from Veggie Tales

The other night our two youngest girls asked if they could watch a "show" instead of read a story for bedtime.  It was sort of a hectic night (our oldest, my husband, and I were just sitting down to eat supper at 7:00 p.m.), so I said yes.  I fired up the Wii, searched Netflix and Amazon Prime for the requested "Charlie Brown."  Nothing for less than $1.99.

I draw the line at paying for bedtime stories, when I'm already paying for the subscriptions to online movie channels, so I searched for something else.  Aah, Veggie Tales.  Most of the episodes were over an hour long or had been watched ad nauseam, so I settled on something about Snoodles.  Whatever.  Like a good mom I wasn't going to watch it with them.

Now, in my defense, it should be noted that I know how long it takes to read a novel when working nearly full time outside the home; being an at-home mom to a preschooler; staying involved as a volunteer in my Kindergartener's and 3rd grader's classes; trying to write a novel; and keeping up with my responsibilities as a wife, daughter, sister, friend, and church member.  (I was told recently via a blog post I didn't have the time to read that we should stop highlighting how busy we are, because it's neither healthy nor helpful.  So pretend none of that just happened.)  Anyway, here's how long it takes: more than nine weeks.  I know that because I'm one week from my library book being due--after my allotted two renewals--and I'm still only half way through the sucker.  You don't get to read through it very quickly when you only read a chapter at a time . . . on a good day.

So, like any good mom  normal mom sane person I took the Snoodles time to eat my dinner and read my book.  One sandwich and five pages in I felt that all-too-familiar feeling.  Cue the guilt.  Cue the "here's your chance to be an involved parent while expending almost no energy, and you're sitting here reading."  Cue the self-imposed judgement.

I put in my bookmark and crawled onto the sofa with three of my family members (four, since the youngest always insists on including the cat), took a deep breath, and started watching the Snoodles.

I'll be honest, my mind was on my book, so I wasn't paying the closest attention through most of it.  All I noted was that the story sounded a lot like a Dr. Seuss book (so did Larry, apparently, because at the end he told Bob he was thinking he wanted to eat some green eggs).  And then the littlest Snoodle who'd been carrying around all these drawings people had given him of what they saw when they looked at him showed up at a little shack.  Inside, he found a stranger.  The little Snoodle told him how upset he was and how weighed down he was by the artwork he carried.  So the stranger said, "Let me paint what I see."

"Oh, great," thought Little Snoodle.  One more person to point out how I don't measure up.  How my dreams are silly.  How my clothes don't fit and they don't match and no one likes me anyway.  How nothing about me is right or will ever be right.

The stranger painted.  And he painted.  And then he unveiled his painting with a flourishing withdrawal of the cloth and an, "It's time that you learned what you really look like!"

Little Snoodle saw a boy who was older and strong.  He had wings that would help him fly.  His eyes showed courage and freedom.

And Little Snoodle said, "I'd like to believe it, but I'm afraid to."

What was the stranger's response?  "I know who you are, for I made you."

I.  Made.  You.

Friend, there is Someone who made you too.  So He knows who you are.  Those people handing you pictures of who you are, what you're good at, what they see when they look at you . . . they don't know.  They.  Don't.  Know.

He knows.  He made you.

As the stranger, no, the Creator, says to Little Snoodle, "I gave you those wings so you can soar."  Little Snoodle replied that the picture from the Creator was too big, and it would weigh him down like the others had done.  Instead he was told that if he carried that picture, if he remembered what it showed about who he really was, he would find it actually made him lighter.

And, lo and behold, he looked down and saw that he was flying.

God gave each of us wings, too.  And He wants us to soar.

It takes more than nine weeks for me to read a book.  I often park my kids in front of the television because I'm exhausted.  We have eaten out more times this week than anyone should.  We haven't had guests in our home in too long, and I haven't spoken to my best friends--more than a quick wave and a stolen chat from a car idling in the middle of the road--in weeks.  I so often feel like I am failing at everything I'm trying to do.  But none of those things are the picture of what the Creator made me to be.  He made me brave.  And free.  And He wants me to soar.

In Response to Another Tragedy

On my way home from picking my daughter up from school this afternoon, I felt compelled to sit down when I got home and put some thoughts on paper.  As I opened my computer, I came across something a friend had posted on his Facebook page.  I have to say, Max really got it right with "A Christmas Prayer."  It sort of took away everything that I even dreamed of writing.  Because I just didn't think I could add anything.

So I was going to write, "What he said."  I know some people who read this don't read Facebook links to articles that people post.  I hope you'll read this one.  Because he's dead on.  We need Jesus to be born anew in us this Christmas.  Our world is in desperate straights and needs Him.

But then I thought a bit more about it.  I thought about how as I was watching the news this afternoon, while my little ones napped for the first time all week and my oldest was safe in her classroom in a community very similar to Sandy Hook, CT, my chest hurt, and I couldn't breathe well.  I thought about how it felt like September 11, 2001, all over again.  I thought about how the only thing I wanted was to hold my girls in my arms every day for the rest of my life.  And I thought about how when my daughter was in Kindergarten two years ago, there were only 21 kids in her class.  That would have left three survivors.  And then I thought about the survivors in that Kindergarten class at Sandy Hook Elementary and wondered if they could really be called survivors.  And I thought about that mom and how it felt to see her son walk into the classroom and open fire on her and the little ones in her care.  I hope she didn't see him.  I hope he caught her with her back turned.

So, in light of all of that, I wanted to share something after all.  I wanted to beg, along with the Church and children of God way back in the time of Isaiah, God for something.  Father God, send our salvation.  Rescue us.  Bring us Home.

Come, Thou long expected Jesus
Born to set Thy people free
From our fears and sins release us
Let us find our rest in Thee

Israel's strength and consolation
Hope of all the earth Thou art
Dear desire of every nation
Joy of every longing heart

Born Thy people to deliver
Born a child and yet a king
Born to reign in us forever
Now Thy gracious kingdom bring

By Thine own eternal Spirit
Rule in all our hearts alone
By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne

By Thine own sufficient merit
Raise us to Thy glorious throne

"Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus" by Charles Wesley (arranged by Chris Tomlin)

And I'll conclude as Max Lucado did.  Because it seems most fitting as long as we travel through this world.

Hopefully . . .

For When Your Hope is Gone

A while back, I read a series of books called The Chaos Walking. 

It wasn't a series that I loved, but I did find some good "nuggets" in it.  One of those I have wanted to share in its a blog post all by itself.  Then life happened.  While I've spent the past couple of months trying to catch up with my life (how is it November already?!), I have also spent the past couple of months being too busy to be a friend to some of the important people in my life.  This post is for them, with my apology for neglecting to share this sooner or enough.  But it's also a reminder that while I may not have asked or hugged or listened as much as I wish I had, I never stopped believing.

There is a key to friendship and to being a true friend.  It is, quite often, the only key that I can offer to my friends.  For those of you who are Bible readers--or who have spent much time with me when we're sharing our stories--please think back to the story of the quadriplegic man who was carried on a mat by his four friends.  Remember that they climbed up a ladder to the roof of a house that was crowded with people following Jesus.  The friends carried their paralyzed buddy to the roof, broke through the roof, and lowered their friend to Jesus' feet.  They loved their friend, so they bore the burden of taking him to the feet of the only One who could remove his burden.  Nothing could stop them, because they loved their friend.  All the friend had to do was lie there.

Now that can be difficult, and much can be said about that important role, but for today I need to focus on the friends.  That's the role I'm privileged to be in for now, especially with two dear friends.  So, for them, I am sorry that I haven't carried fast enough or far enough.  But I want you to know that when your hope is gone, I will carry you.  When your hope is gone, I will bear your burden and carry you to the feet of the One who can ease your burden.  Who can hold you close.  Who longs to embrace you.  And I will count it a blessing.

Two messages for you, for when your hope is gone:

But there's one other thing I remember,
and remembering, I keep a grip on hope:
God's loyal love couldn't have run out,
his merciful love couldn't have dried up.
They're created new every morning.
How great your faithfulness!
I'm sticking with God (I say it over and over).
He's all I've got left.

...The "worst" is never the worst.
Why? Because the Master won't ever
walk out and fail to return.
If he works severely, he also works tenderly.
His stockpiles of loyal love are immense.
(Lamentations 3:22-24 and 31-33, The Message)

AND

“Hope,” he says, squeezing my arm on the word.  “It’s hope.  I am looking into yer eyes right now and I am telling you that there’s hope for you, hope for you both.”  He looks up at Viola and back at me.  “There’s hope waiting for you at the end of the road.”

“You don’t know that,” Viola says and my Noise, as much as I don’t want it to, agrees with her.

“No,” Ben says, “But I believe it.  I believe it for you.  And that’s why it’s hope.”

“Ben—“

“Even if you don’t believe it,” he says, “believe that I do.”

(The Knife of Never Letting Go, p376, Patrick Ness)

God's stockpiles of loyal love are immense.  Believe it, dear friends.  And even if you don't believe it, believe that I do.

Hope, Despair, and The Dark Knight Rises on the night after the shootings

Hope is a funny thing.  So is seeing a movie the night after a horrific shooting at its premiere.

Obviously we are half a country away from Aurora, CO.  We're not in the suburb of a major city.  And we were safe, because we were at the movies.  And nothing bad happens at the movie theater, right?  Especially in West Michigan.

Still, we had a plan.  We knew how we were getting out of the theater if there was a fire (thanks for the plan, Leah.  And Steve offered to be last.).  We also knew that if someone came into the theater and started shooting we were not going to run.  We were going to drop to the ground and hide under our seats.  (Once in the theater we weren't sure how that would work since there isn't really a lot of room under those seats.  Especially once we were all tucked under them.  We would have made it work.)  I said my "I love yous" to my family and was glad that my husband was home with my girls, just in case.

As horrific as the shooting was to read about, and as many tears as I shed for those who sent their kids or spouses or parents to a midnight movie only to have them never return home, it still felt surreal.  I still felt completely safe watching The Dark Knight Rises at 10:30 p.m. the night after the shooting.  Sure, I had my "just in case" plans in place, but I never really thought anything would happen.

Until the movie started, and I kept checking the Exit doors.  And during the first shooting scene, when it's reported that the gunfire began in Theater 9 in Aurora, and I closed my eyes against the tears that tried to fall.  And then, when that guy tripped walking up the aisle and there was a loud thud and every single person in the theater began murmuring, and adrenaline began pumping through my veins and I thought about throwing myself on top of Leah and Amy to protect them.  I can honestly say that I have never had a movie experience like that one.

This morning, after my husband let me sleep in, and I sat reading Entertainment Weekly's review of The Dark Knight Rises, I noticed a quote that struck me as ironic.  Not the funny kind of irony, but the eerie kind that makes you think there's something deeper within certain events.  They quoted Bane, the film's villain, as saying, "There can be no true despair without hope."

Hope.  In the midst of the shooting in Aurora and the reminder it immediately brings of the shootings at Columbine, there is still that word: hope.

But there's also the ironic fact that what Holmes stole from moviegoers throughout the country--maybe even the world--is the hope that at a movie theater we can escape our lives for a while.  The hope that we can be safe.  That senseless shootings happen only on the big screen.  That spiraling downward into the darkness of despair is reserved for fictional characters.  Until the characters come off the screen and erase all of that hope with one pull of the trigger.

Bane's belief is shared by all who embrace chaos and terrorism: There can be no true despair without hope.  Without hope, the chaos is expected.  Safety is a dream, so senseless shootings aren't the nightmare.  But when hope creeps in, when I can believe for one second that there might be peace, then Bane, the Joker, shootings at the movies--they are true horror.

I didn't stay home from the movie theater last night, and I won't do so in the future.  I refuse to let someone who wants to destroy my hope dictate my life.  Because I believe something else about hope.  I believe that while it is true that there can be no true despair without hope, the opposite is also true. 

There can be no true peace or joy without hope.

Maybe just call me Robin.

Enduring Injustice

I recently had a conversation with a friend about something that happened more than a year ago.  As is often the case in broken relationships, there was misunderstanding, heartache, and injustice.  And a lot of pain.  But, at the same time, there is a glimmer of God working.

There are times in our lives when we have to endure injustice.  Life isn't fair.  Relationships hurt.  We get blamed for things we didn't do.  Our relationships end, and our hearts break.  We want to rise up and defend ourselves.  We want to make it right again or at least make sure people know we aren't who or what we've been accused of being.

Surely there are times when we are allowed to do that.  We get to defend ourselves in court--with integrity--and we can certainly speak to our motives or explain the reasons behind our actions. 

But there are perhaps more times when we are called to endure injustice with grace and courage.

For it is better, if it is God’s will, to suffer for doing good than for doing evil. For Christ also suffered once for sins, the righteous for the unrighteous, to bring you to God.  (I Peter 3:17b-18)

And that's what it all comes down to.  When you have done the right thing, when you have spoken the truth in love, when you are taking the fall so that someone else doesn't have to . . . when it's God's will.  That's the point where you endure. 

It hurts to be wrongfully accused.  It hurts like hell to lose relationships that matter.  But when you can see that good is happening, that God is still in control, that He is moving, then it's all worth it. 

May I always be more than willing to suffer injustice for the greater good of God's master plan. 

May I see that in those times I have the opportunity to be Christ to those around me.  He suffered the ultimate injustice--His death--for the greater good--our lives. 

And may I never stop praying for reconciliation and healing in broken relationships . . . all in His good time.

Thoughts On Saying Goodbye

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He suffered a massive heart attack last Saturday and was never really responsive again after that.  His children made the hard decision to remove him from the machines keeping his body alive on Thursday, and around 1:30 a.m. on Friday, June 8, 2012, he died.  He was 67.  He is a father and a grandfather and a friend.

I saw him on Wednesday night when a couple of friends and I went to the hospital after worship practice to visit him, but really to support his son who sings with us on the worship team and, with his wife and children, is in our Family Fellowship Group.  Before that I saw Bruce at church at 8:30 a.m. a couple of weeks ago when I last sang on the worship team.  I smiled when I saw him, and his son, Ken, and I talked about how Bruce always got there at 8:30 for the 9:30 service, because he didn't like to be late.  The funny thing about death is that I didn't know that was the last time he would return my smile and tell me hello.  Because most of the time you just don't know.

As I was falling asleep on Wednesday night, praying for Bruce and for his son and two daughters and their families, I wondered how we slipped into this stage of life.  At Christmas of 2010, our dear friends lost their mother after years of living with a brain tumor and its effects.  In January of 2007, we grieved with another good friend over the loss of her father in a car accident.  In between, there have been other days of bearing the burden of grief as other friends and church family members have said goodbye to their fathers.  How did we get here, to this place where we are starting to say goodbye to our parents?  It's tricky, because many of us still have grandparents living . . . and yet somehow we have reached an age where our parents' days are truly numbered, and we are starting to count them.

There is a paradox for Christians around the world and throughout history.  We know, with great certainty, where our loved ones have gone.  We know, with great certainty, that God is holding them in His hands; they have reached their final Home, have heard the "Well done, my good and faithful servant," and have entered into the joy of our Lord.  And yet, we also know, with great certainty, that we miss them.  That life shouldn't have to include death, and that our lives are forever changed by this death.  We are reminded that this world is not our Home, and that we are merely pilgrims on a sojourn in this land.  So we grieve, even while we celebrate.  When we grieve, we grieve with hope.  But we still grieve.  And it sucks.

I know that Bruce died this morning, but when I saw him Wednesday night, his son said, "He's there, but he's not there."  I wonder when Bruce really did die.  I wonder if he died on Saturday and spent a week in eternity asking Jesus to give his family peace as they said goodbye to him and as they held his dying body.

Many in my group of friends have said goodbye to our unborn babies who have slipped from our wombs into the arms of Jesus.  I don't know well anyone who has buried a child, but I do know of fathers who have cradled the caskets containing their babies' bodies as they walked into the funeral service or released their children for burial.  That is a pain that cannot be matched.  Life shouldn't include death.  But, as a daughter, I wonder if there is anything more heartbreaking than seeing a grown woman become again a little girl as she kisses her daddy goodbye for one of the final times.  I saw that Wednesday night, and my heart broke, because I realized that one day that would be me.

Saying goodbye is a funny thing.  We know that to live is Christ and to die is truly gain.  I'm not afraid of it, but I don't know how I got to this stage where my friends and I are saying goodbye to our grandparents and our mommies and our daddies . . . and sometimes our children too.  This is a tender time.  And I imagine I'll cry at 8:30 Sunday morning when we're practicing our songs for the service and Bruce doesn't come in to sit in his normal seat an hour before the service starts. 

Bruce Coeling died this morning.  He was only 67 years old.  But he liked to get there a little bit early, because he never wanted to be late.

Why Am I Watching This?!

Beau thinks I have too many TV shows on our DVR (it's possible that's true, but it should be noted that there is still 79% remaining space, so he can record 334 hours of TV), so I'm working hard to watch what I have there.  This is all happening while another show is recording, so I'm positive I'm defeating the purpose here, but it's the thought, right?

Tonight's show of choice: Killer Kids on Bio.  This particular episode is "Family Killers," and I recorded it several weeks ago.  For obvious reasons, I have been putting off watching it--mostly I just didn't feel like ending the day with such a heavy subject.  I have no idea what made me turn it on tonight, but I did.  And now I'm glued to it.

True crime is my favorite genre of book, film, and television show.  I've always been fascinated by the glimpse into the mind of the criminals and the motives behind the crime.  I think there is never just one motive, and I think that very few crimes happen with absolutely no warning signs.  In the murder cases that they have featured on this show, all of that is true.  But warning signs are always easy to see in the rear view mirror.

Teenagers are some of my favorite people, too.  I love the angsty, sullen attitudes they adopt at that age.  I love their honesty.  I love them.  They make my heart sing, and they make my heart break.

Killer Kids.  What a horrific thought.  These kids are all teenagers--12, 13, 16--who snapped on a given afternoon or evening and murdered their families, always beginning with their parents.  Obviously that's wrong.  I'm not going to dispute that--there comes a point where you have to take ownership of your actions, and I think you can begin to do that at a very young age.  These kids were all out of line, and they needed to be punished.

But what makes a kid a killer?  Sometimes there is a psychiatric break, but for these kids that wasn't the case.  For these kids there was a premeditated moment where they decided the best option would be to kill their parents, "driven by mindless rage . . . disconnected from himself and with no feelings for those he is mowing down" (taken from the narrator's remarks in the show).  The show goes on to ask that same question: if there isn't any mental break, how can we make sense of why this happened?  I'm just not sure we can.

The only thing I can see is that none of these kids had a good relationship with their parents.  At least one of their parents is overly controlling.  There isn't a lot of grace.  There isn't room to be themselves, to be creative, to make mistakes, to be kids. 

God, it is hard to be a parent.  It is hard to lay down rules for safety and to teach children responsibility.  It is hard to be gracious and forgiving, especially in the middle of the daily frustrations of being disobeyed and disrespected.  It is hard to love unconditionally in the midst of angsty, sullen attitudes and hurtful raging.  But they need us to do it.  They need us to love them and forgive them and give them rules and discipline them and hold them and cry with them and talk to them.  Give us the strength to do it.

And, man, I am glad these murders took place in Canada and Norway, and kids in the United States don't do stuff like this.

Arriving Home

I recently had a conversation with some teenagers and young adults about heaven.  Even more than heaven, we were talking about one of the final parts of The Apostles' Creed: "From there he will come to judge the living and the dead."

We talked about that judgement, and what it might mean.  (Because they're teenagers, we also talked about whether "judgement" is spelled "judgement" or "judgment."  And, because they're teenagers, we had plenty of smart phones to use to determine that it is considered correct either way.  We all liked it better with the "e.")  We talked about how for Christians, when we arrive at the Judgement Day, we will be judged based on Christ's actions and His sacrifice for us.  We also talked briefly about how nonChristians will be judged by their own actions when they stand before Christ, because they haven't come under His righteousness.  And then we talked about why, if Christians have already been judged (and found worthy), there would be a second judgement.  Our curriculum explained that it is so that Christ will be officially and finally and completely glorified for His sacrifice by looking at us and proudly declaring us worthy.

With that "final" thought, I told the students to keep this in mind as we say The Apostles' Creed together in church.  I also told them that we could all take comfort from being reminded that we have been declared eternally worthy when we feel inadequate in life.  And then I was about to send them on their way.

Before I could do that, one of the young adults said, "But don't you think that judgement will still be scary?  I mean, when you get to heaven, and you're looking at Jesus' face, don't you think you'll be freaking out?"

The question sort of caught me off guard, but it didn't take long for a smile to spread on my face and tears to spring into my eyes.  "No," I whispered.  "No.  I think when I get there it will be like arriving home, and I've never been afraid to walk into my house.  I belong there, and my parents are there."

Maybe that's why the command from heaven to not be afraid truly is repeated in scripture more than any other command.  Surely God commands a holy fear.  We are to fear the Lord, in fact.  But that fear isn't the fear that is defined in most American dictionaries.  It's not a "distressing emotion" brought on by "impending danger."  It's an awe.  A reverence for this holy, holy God.  When I think of that "fearing the Lord," I'm reminded of the passage from The Lion, the Witch, and the Wardrobe by C.S. Lewis when the Pevensie children are asking the beavers about whether Aslan is safe.  "Safe?" they are asked.  "Who said anything about safe?  'Course he isn't safe.  But he's good.  He's the King, I tell you."

We have that same comfort in approaching our God.  Of course He isn't safe.  And of course we should fear Him.  But we shouldn't fear Him, and we shouldn't dream for even one moment that walking into our final judgement or standing in front of His throne at our deaths should be scary.  Because He's good.  Because He's the King.  Because those of us who are found in Him have been saved and made perfect by Him.  And because when we get there, we're Home.  And it should never feel scary to walk into your Home.  You belong there, and your Father is there.

Becoming More Than Yourself

I have recently begun to enjoy watching golf on television.  During that time, I've gotten to "know" a few of the golfers on the PGA tour and enjoy following them.  Typically my favorite golfers seem to develop a curse once I admit to liking them, and they don't do well, but then again I do like to root for the underdog.  That made it especially fun to see Bubba Watson and his pink driver win the Masters on Easter Sunday.

What made it the most fun, perhaps, isn't the way he won or even the fact that he never had a professional golf lesson growing up.  It is summed up in this simple statement: "I never got this far in my dreams, so this isn't a dream come true."

That really got me thinking.  I have a lot of dreams.  But I can't even begin to dream where I'll really end up in my life, what is actually in store for me. 

Several weeks ago, I entered a contest to get a devotional printed in a new Moms' Devotional Bible that Zondervan is publishing.  I never expected to make it through to the final round, and I burst into tears when I got the email from them telling me that I was a finalist.  Now, there are two days left until I hear whether my devotional or the other entry is the winner.  I've gone through several emotions since learning I was a finalist, and I keep thanking God for taking it this far--and asking Him to prepare me for when if I don't win.  I don't want to be too disappointed.  And, to be honest, like Bubba Watson, I never got there in my dreams.  I never dreamed about being published in a devotional Bible.  I never really dreamed about being a Christian author.  I have dreams that involve my stories, but the truth is that I have no clue what my future really looks like. 

When I start to get cocky about my writing or about my teaching or about any work that I'm doing, there's a voice that reminds me of the reality of who I am.  I'm a child of God.  He has given me the talent that I have.  Thomas Kincaid's mother told him when he was young that his talents were God's gift to him.  She went on to say that what he did with his talents was his gift to God.  That's what I need to remember, too.  So when I live out what I think are my dreams, instead I need to just live out my love for God.

In my Bible reading this morning, I came across these words of Jesus (as recounted in The Message in Luke 14:11): "What I'm saying is, If you walk around with your nose in the air, you're going to end up flat on your face.  But if you're content to be simply yourself, you will become more than yourself."

I need to cut that out and hang in on my music stand when I sing on the worship team on Sunday morning, on the mirror in my bathroom, on my computer, on my dashboard . . . I need to write it on my heart and engrave it on my hand.  Whether being simply myself is using a pink driver in my golf game or writing from my heart or singing loudly, that's who I need to be.  Because that's who God made me.  And, when I give it to Him--do it for Him--it's more than enough.  And He will make me more than myself.

Four Small Roses

Sunday, January 10, 2010.  Baptism Day.

It was a special day on its own.  The day that we would present our newest daughter to God, acknowledging that we are sinners, vowing that it is only Jesus' blood that makes us clean, and committing ourselves to raise our little one in that Truth.  A day when we are reminded that God chooses us, not for anything that we can offer, but simply because we are His.  It would have been a beautiful day any way you looked at it.

It became much more than that.

Since I learned that I would deliver two children, one living and one truly alive, I have wondered what baptism would bring.  And I wanted it to be about three children--the one who is living, the one who is truly alive, and the One who is the Life.  I wanted to celebrate Addie Maye and her place in His world, in His heart.  I wanted to celebrate Zion and that baby's place in our eternal Home.  And I wanted to celebrate Jesus, His birth, His death, and His life, as the hope that we can give Addie that she will one day know her beautiful twin again.  I talked a bit about it, but I never mentioned "memorial service."  That's what I wanted, though.

And, because God knows my desires and can do all things, that's exactly what I got.

We placed a single pink rose, in a vase bought just for the occasion, on the organ.  It stood in front of the screen displaying the words to "Precious Lord, Take My Hand" (on my "play at my funeral" list) and "In Christ Alone."  We saw it as we beseeched God to help us stand in His power from life's first cry to final breath when He takes our hands and leads us Home.  That was Zion's rose, and it is Addie's vase.  It will hold a rose on every birthday and all of Addie's special days, and it will remind us of what we have lost and also what lies ahead for us.

I also asked our pastor to say a simple prayer for Zion when he prayed for Addie after my dad finished baptizing her.  His words brought tears to our eyes.  As he said, "We also think of Zion, this silent twin who is anything but silent in Your presence," Meggie saw my tears and climbed into my arms to dry them.  Seeing that she couldn't, she nestled in to my neck to hold me.  Precious one.

That was what we planned, though both meant more than we could have dreamed.  What we didn't plan was even more beautiful in a way.  And it came in two parts.

The bulletin had a note about the rose, which I requested.  But it went on from there:

We give thanks to God for his grace as we celebrate this opportunity to baptize Addison Maye.  The rose on the organ is in memory of Addison's twin, Zion, who passed away in utero.  The sprinkled water of baptism is God's prescribed visible expression of his assurance that we are cleansed through the scandalous wounds, shed blood, and death of Jesus on the cross.  God knows and chooses us long before we are coneceived.  He told Jeremiah, 'Before I formed you in the womb I knew you, before you were born I set you apart.'  Scripture makes it clear that God delights in children, especially pre-born children.  Could there be special grace for those who are taken home to their heavenly Father before they are born?  John Newton, an eighteenth-century Anglican and the author of hymns such as 'Amazing Grace,' wrote, 'I cannot be sorry for the death of infants.  How many storms do they escape!  Nor can I doubt, in my private judgment, that they can be included in the election of grace.  Perhaps those who die in infancy are the exceeding great multitude of all people, nations, and languages mentioned [in Revelation 7:9] in distinction from the visible body of professing believers who were marked on their foreheads and openly known to be the Lord's.'  The gospel, made visible through the sacraments and heard through preaching, is God's gracious provision for the storms that Beau, Beka, and every one of us will not escape.

Then there was Tuesday.  We came home from a long day of work to flowers on our front porch.  There were from someone in our church, someone we know but don't really know well.  And they were a beautiful gift from the Body of Christ, which grieves when we grieve and rejoices when we rejoice.  The card said it so simply and so profoundly at the same time:

Four small roses in your hearts: three will bloom here, and one will bloom in Heaven. 

Indeed.  And amen.

First Birthday

Today I started (and brought up to date) Addie's first year calendar. I'm late on it because my mom bought it for her "for Christmas" (even the newborns are not exempt from calendar gifts!), and she gave it to me on Thanksgiving. So today I dated the undated pages, placed stickers to mark each month's aging and first holidays, and wrote all that we have accomplished in just under six weeks.

Six weeks is surprising to me. I feel like she's always been here. I also feel like I've been on maternity leave for months and months, rather than just six weeks. In fact, six weeks from tomorrow I was busily finishing our website edits thinking I still had another week. Funny how one day can change everything.

For now her only calendar notes are growth and new visitors. Her "firsts" consist of bottles, babysitters, and church services.

Oh, how that will change in the months to come. I have stickers to mark her first time rolling over, her first attempts at food (which will mostly result in her 80th-100th baths), her first waves, her first words, and her first steps. Oh, the changes between now and her first birthday.

As I filled in the dates and noted the holidays and family birthdays, I found myself longing for a place to note Baby Zion. To prove that the baby existed for more than just those first few weeks with Addison. But there isn't room on the calendar. We received a beautifully hand-decorated photo album for Addie, and the woman who made it thoughtfully left space for the few pictures we have to show that there were twins. There is room in the album. But the days and weeks and holidays and firsts aren't there. No stickers are needed to detail fourteen and a half weeks of existence, despite the lifetime of missing they created.

Oh, the changes between now and Addison's first birthday, which is also the first birthday of the day that we really had to say goodbye to Baby Zion. God willing, there will be many birthdays for Dear Addison. She'll count them down on a calendar and celebrate them all with pictures that she can put in an album filled with her memories. And somewhere, tucked away in our hearts, there will still be room for Baby Zion.

Surreal Wednesday

ESPN Radio's Mike & Mike in the Morning (Mike Golic and Mike Greenburg) don't have the Detroit Lions on their "4 Totally Hopeless Teams in the NFL" list. Why?

Because they see a glimmer of hope.

Your feet will touch the soil of many countries.

Some time ago, another lifetime, really, my husband and a friend's husband got the crazy idea that we should pack up and move to South Africa. A dream come true. And yet, the dreamer friend and I knew it wasn't right. So we didn't. And it hurt.

Because God will use anything in front of us to speak to us, I got a good fortune to end my lovely dinner of Orange Chicken the night I knew we couldn't move. "Your feet will touch the soil of many countries." Peace. I knew that I knew that I knew. And it hurt.

It's time again to be a dreamer whose dreams get closed behind doors of reality and "not yet." But the dream doesn't have to die. I'll close it behind the door, and I'll extinguish the flame, leaving only an ember. When the time is right, perhaps He will fan the flames . . . because sometimes the dream never dies.

So, yes. My feet will touch the soil of many countries. And maybe some day I'll be the one packing up to move and explore a new city. Maybe some day I'll be the one visiting grad schools and making a different life for myself. Maybe some day I'll be the one on the book tour. For now, though, those dreams join South Africa behind a door that I can't afford to open.

Sometimes it still hurts.
But when I know, it doesn't matter that I can't see.

Isn't it just like the Lord to invite me
To put all my dreams in His hands
Forever releasing the grip that once held them
Forever surrendering my plans
And then when He's certain it's not born of man
He calls for the fire to rekindle again
And he askes me to know with my heart
What's not seen with my eyes
So the dream never dies.
-"When the Dream Never Dies," Child of the Promise