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.

Happy Unbirthday, Baby!

Today is the day we originally assigned as the birthday of our youngest children. When your labors are as predictable (short and late) as mine, you get to do just that: assign a birthday. Seems like this entire pregnancy had ideas other than predictable, though.

As we approached our due date--and assigned induction day--I had severe moments of anxiety, wondering what the initial unpredictability would bring. What would it be like to deliver twins, knowing that only one of them would leave the hospital with us? How would the birth certificate for the live child look? How would we explain it all to Ellie, to Meggie, to Addie? So many questions, all saved for the 5th of November.

The unpredictability deepened when my doctor said he would like to induce at 39 weeks instead of just after 40. That bumped the assigned birthday to October 27 and took 10 days from my predetermined timeline. I came to terms with that and busied myself with the laundry, nursery set up, and other little projects around the house.

Then, as unpredictability would have it, my water broke at midnight on October 21. As we rushed to the hospital (after about ten minutes of disbelief and confusion about the next step), we forgot so many things. The camera, last kisses for the girls, my pillow, pens for the scrapbook, anxiety about delivery . . . so much was brushed aside by the confusion of not knowing what was going on. As the night would dawn into morning and realization that the moment was here and Addie would pick their birthday after all, all that we had forgotten made itself known.

I wish I could put words to the matter-of-fact feelings mixed with deep sadness as I delivered Addison's placenta and Baby Zion all at once, with no effort and almost no awareness. Then to hear that Baby Zion's body had been absorbed and to watch them seal my beloved child--Addie's twin--into a plastic container to be sent in for testing . . . but there are no words. Just feelings as mixed as they were the day we learned that there had been two.

Today there were three beautiful girls in the van on the way to Addie's two-week checkup. There were three loud girls in the waiting room and three crying girls during the shot-giving portion of the checkup (H1N1 vaccines for the older two and Mommy). Addie slept through our shots, and the tears were mine at both Ellie's reaction and the awareness that though there were three, there should have been four. Forever there should have been four where there are three. This is our life. And it is a blessed life even when it doesn't make sense.

Today my third of four children is finally "full term." She is 7 lbs. 13 oz. and 20 inches long. She is healthy and growing and beautiful. And her life is richer for the time she spent with Baby Zion.