Steel Will
Staff Sgt (RET) Shilo Harris with Robin Overby Cox
Shilo Harris is one of the many veterans of the Iraq and Afghanistan wars who have come home with scars from wounds that anyone who comes across them can easily see. In fact, his scars are hard to avoid. Harris was riding in a Humvee that was blown up by an IED while he and his men were clearing a road referred to as Metallica. The blast caused his ears, part of his nose, and some of his fingers to be blown off, and the heat and flames from the ensuing fire burned much of his body. Due to the nature of these wars, wounds like this are nothing new. Harris and Cox detail many of them--all horrifying to imagine, but some gut wrenching to endure through Cox's almost too-vivid descriptions--in Steel Will.
What makes Staff Sgt. (RET) Shilo Harris different from many veterans is that he has chosen to talk about his journey. Steel Will is subtitled "My Journey Through Hell to Become the Man I was Meant to Be." This is an accurate description for the road he walked--he describes the flames and the heat so intense it caused ammunition in the Humvee to discharge and his uniform to melt into his body--and a figurative one as well. Harris doesn't shy away from sharing his own growing pains and mistakes as he grew up in the home of a Vietnam vet suffering from undiagnosed and self-medicated PTSD. He also doesn't shy away from his own selfishness as a young adult and the pain those choices caused for the people around him. So it's no surprise that he doesn't sugar coat the realities of living through his medically-induced coma as his body struggled to heal, the impact of his new life on his family, his guilt over surviving, the cost of his activism, and his children's desire to protect him from stares while they are together in public.
And, through it all, the missteps, the pain, the hell on earth, the hell in his mind, the suicidal thoughts, Harris credits God with helping him endure. I expected faith to play a bigger, more active role in the story Harris and Cox lay out in Steel Will. Instead, it is sort of an underlying theme. And, true to his willing transparency, the faith often belongs to Harris's wife. When he doesn't have his own, he draws on hers. When he can't draw on hers, he humbly draws on his young daughter's. In the end, the steel will to endure might not belong to Shilo Harris. It might belong instead to Kathreyn and Elizabeth Harris.
As the daughter of a former National Guard chaplain who survived my father's deployment to Iraq--a deployment that brought home a different father than he brought over--I can recognize that there are no unwounded soldiers. And there are no unwounded soldiers' families. Being one of those, this was a hard book to read. I read portions of it to my husband, and he asked me to stop. The descriptions turned his stomach. But you know what? Those are the costs of freedom. When we don't have family members or friends or neighbors who serve, it gets easy to debate the merits or horrors of war as theory. When we read a book like Steel Will we are forced to confront them. I think that even though it's hard, this is a book well worth reading. It's worth it to understand just a bit about where our soldiers and their families are and what they endure. It's also worth it to see that in our own ways, God brings each of us through a hell in order to make us into the people we were meant to be. And when it gets too hard to endure, He gives us the steel will of the faith of those around us to help us make it.
Disclosure: I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Books Bloggers program. The opinions I have expressed are my own, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission’s 16 CFR, Part 255.
Wednesday, October 22, 2014
Wednesday, September 17, 2014
Reviewing: The First Time We Saw Him
The First Time We Saw Him: Awakening to the Wonder of Jesus
Matt Mikalatos
Mikalatos begins The First Time We Saw Him with a disclaimer: "Remember, the point is not to breathe new life into the Scriptures. It's to remind us that they're already alive." And, boy, are they ever!
Let me also include a disclaimer: I have been a Christian my entire life. There have been moments that I have "taken off" my WWJD bracelet (or attitude), but there is no possible way for me to separate myself from Christ. I know that. BUT . . . I find that the stories, the parables, can get a bit stale. I've read them so many times that I feel like I know them by heart. There's a danger then in hearing what they are saying to you . . . or even listening long enough to believe they might have anything to say.
The truth is, that I'm exactly the kind of person for whom Mikalatos was writing this book. Awakening to the wonder. That's what so many of us need. Not adding wonder, or uncovering wonder. Awakening to it. Because the wonder is there. It's in every word, and every story Jesus told.
Using modern language, names, and situations, Mikalatos retells Jesus' story as recounted in the Gospels. From Jesus' birth to a young girl named "Miryam" ("Mary" in Aramaic), through the miracles and signs and wonders, to his resurrection and ascension, each story comes alive with beauty and wonder. And conviction. Mikalatos writes lovely prose, and he captures the heart of the reader, bringing us in to the story where we eavesdrop on the lessons and can even nearly glimpse the eye of Jesus Himself as He looks deeply into our hearts, piercing our souls with conviction and grace. When needed, he adds his own thoughts and narration. When that will get in the way, he simply lets the retelling of Jesus' story speak for itself.
As he is wrapping up this short book, Mikalatos retells the Great Commission. For his purposes, he refers to it perhaps more accurately as "The Great Thing Entrusted to Us," where he suggests Jesus' commission to us is more than that. It's a command and a blessing and a promise and an invitation, all rolled in to one. This was perhaps my favorite chapter in the book. It was the heaviest on author narration, because I think we often misunderstand what Jesus was saying and doing as He stood on the mountain with his closest followers. Where often this message gets bogged down in guilt, Mikalatos reminds us there is no condemnation in Christ Jesus. This isn't an order or a guilt-driven demand. This is an invitation. It's an empowering. It's a gift that we get to share.
I began my review with a quote from the beginning of the book, and I'll end it with two from the end:
Mikalatos is talking about Thomas and the missionary work he did following the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. But he could as easily have been describing how I felt about this book--and what we, as believers, are invited to share in our love and spreading of the Gospel. Stories of what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at, and what our hands have touched.
One last note. When Mikalatos closes the Epilogue, he subtly addresses Communion in one of the most beautiful ways I can imagine.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
Matt Mikalatos
Mikalatos begins The First Time We Saw Him with a disclaimer: "Remember, the point is not to breathe new life into the Scriptures. It's to remind us that they're already alive." And, boy, are they ever!
Let me also include a disclaimer: I have been a Christian my entire life. There have been moments that I have "taken off" my WWJD bracelet (or attitude), but there is no possible way for me to separate myself from Christ. I know that. BUT . . . I find that the stories, the parables, can get a bit stale. I've read them so many times that I feel like I know them by heart. There's a danger then in hearing what they are saying to you . . . or even listening long enough to believe they might have anything to say.
The truth is, that I'm exactly the kind of person for whom Mikalatos was writing this book. Awakening to the wonder. That's what so many of us need. Not adding wonder, or uncovering wonder. Awakening to it. Because the wonder is there. It's in every word, and every story Jesus told.
Using modern language, names, and situations, Mikalatos retells Jesus' story as recounted in the Gospels. From Jesus' birth to a young girl named "Miryam" ("Mary" in Aramaic), through the miracles and signs and wonders, to his resurrection and ascension, each story comes alive with beauty and wonder. And conviction. Mikalatos writes lovely prose, and he captures the heart of the reader, bringing us in to the story where we eavesdrop on the lessons and can even nearly glimpse the eye of Jesus Himself as He looks deeply into our hearts, piercing our souls with conviction and grace. When needed, he adds his own thoughts and narration. When that will get in the way, he simply lets the retelling of Jesus' story speak for itself.
As he is wrapping up this short book, Mikalatos retells the Great Commission. For his purposes, he refers to it perhaps more accurately as "The Great Thing Entrusted to Us," where he suggests Jesus' commission to us is more than that. It's a command and a blessing and a promise and an invitation, all rolled in to one. This was perhaps my favorite chapter in the book. It was the heaviest on author narration, because I think we often misunderstand what Jesus was saying and doing as He stood on the mountain with his closest followers. Where often this message gets bogged down in guilt, Mikalatos reminds us there is no condemnation in Christ Jesus. This isn't an order or a guilt-driven demand. This is an invitation. It's an empowering. It's a gift that we get to share.
I began my review with a quote from the beginning of the book, and I'll end it with two from the end:
[The new believers] are watching [Thom], leaning forward, eager to hear what he might say. He smiles and begins another story of what he has heard, what he has seen with his eyes, what he has looked at, and what his hands have touched.
And they stay with him until long after dark, gathered around the great light and enveloping warmth of his stories.
Mikalatos is talking about Thomas and the missionary work he did following the outpouring of the Holy Spirit. But he could as easily have been describing how I felt about this book--and what we, as believers, are invited to share in our love and spreading of the Gospel. Stories of what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at, and what our hands have touched.
One last note. When Mikalatos closes the Epilogue, he subtly addresses Communion in one of the most beautiful ways I can imagine.
Pete lifts his wine glass. "In his memory," he says, and we toast together, and we drink, and we tell stories long into the night, and there is raucous laughter and there are tears and comforting arms and hymns and on the way home we link arms and hold car doors for one another and there are kisses on cheeks and warm hugs and we tuck into our beds warmed by our memories and, when the sun wakes us, we rise to make another day of memories together with him, here, in the real world, where he lives.This, friends, is our world. The place where we live, and the place where He lives, and the place where we still get to make memories together. Thank you, Matt Mikalatos, for awakening me to the wonder of that gift.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
Monday, August 25, 2014
#alsicebucketchallenge
So our day came. Our middle daughter and I were challenged by two separate people to participate in the ALS Ice Bucket Challenge. If you aren't familiar with it, go to YouTube and search ALS Ice Bucket Challenge, and you can watch for days.
Working in fundraising as I have for the past 13 years, this is a tricky thing for me. I resent gimmicks as fundraising tools. I also think it's easy to get caught up in the emotion or excitement of the "challenge" and not understand the purpose or the mission. And, I get the concerns of people saying this is wasting water while people around the world struggle for clean water and California is in the middle of a record drought.
Still, what if only half of the people who do the challenge donate their $10 to ALS? What if only a quarter of the people do it? Reports this morning are that the ALS Association has raised $79.7 million to fight ALS and research to find a cure. That's $77.2 million more than during the same period last year. So what if those are pledges and not actual donations and only 1/4 of them come in (which is far worse than normal pledge to donation ratios)? That's still $19.3 million MORE than they raised during that time last year. It also surpasses their entire revenue from FY12. Just in the last month or so since this challenge started. And if half of those pledges are actually donated . . . or the closer-to-average 75%. Wow.
In addition, I spoke with three of our neighbors when we were in the process of completing our challenge. One of them didn't know what ALS was. Neither did my 8-, 6-, and 4-year-old daughters. And now they do. So if each of us who participates donates $10 and tells 4 people about ALS, then maybe this is more than just dumping a bucket of ice water on our heads.
So we did it:
And then we challenged Marianne Boykin, Nancy Bierenga, Amanda TeKrony, Beau McDowell, Addison McDowell, Ellie McDowell, Abbie Schalk, Tressa Meyer, Danielle Meyer, Sara Meyer, Josh Schalk, and Kate Schalk.
So if each of them donates $10 and tells four people about ALS, then that's another $120 and 48 people. That's nothing to complain about.
Haven't been challenged but still want to learn more and donate? Here's your chance!
P.S. I really did get soaked.
Working in fundraising as I have for the past 13 years, this is a tricky thing for me. I resent gimmicks as fundraising tools. I also think it's easy to get caught up in the emotion or excitement of the "challenge" and not understand the purpose or the mission. And, I get the concerns of people saying this is wasting water while people around the world struggle for clean water and California is in the middle of a record drought.
Still, what if only half of the people who do the challenge donate their $10 to ALS? What if only a quarter of the people do it? Reports this morning are that the ALS Association has raised $79.7 million to fight ALS and research to find a cure. That's $77.2 million more than during the same period last year. So what if those are pledges and not actual donations and only 1/4 of them come in (which is far worse than normal pledge to donation ratios)? That's still $19.3 million MORE than they raised during that time last year. It also surpasses their entire revenue from FY12. Just in the last month or so since this challenge started. And if half of those pledges are actually donated . . . or the closer-to-average 75%. Wow.
In addition, I spoke with three of our neighbors when we were in the process of completing our challenge. One of them didn't know what ALS was. Neither did my 8-, 6-, and 4-year-old daughters. And now they do. So if each of us who participates donates $10 and tells 4 people about ALS, then maybe this is more than just dumping a bucket of ice water on our heads.
So we did it:
And then we challenged Marianne Boykin, Nancy Bierenga, Amanda TeKrony, Beau McDowell, Addison McDowell, Ellie McDowell, Abbie Schalk, Tressa Meyer, Danielle Meyer, Sara Meyer, Josh Schalk, and Kate Schalk.
So if each of them donates $10 and tells four people about ALS, then that's another $120 and 48 people. That's nothing to complain about.
Haven't been challenged but still want to learn more and donate? Here's your chance!
P.S. I really did get soaked.
Wednesday, August 06, 2014
Reviewing: Dynamic Women of the Bible
Dynamic Women of the Bible: What We Can Learn from Their Surprising Stories
by Ruth A. Tucker
This text from the back cover is intriguing to me. Because I think that's what is lost about the women in the Bible. I grew up in the church, and when I wasn't there or at Sunday School I was playing church, baptizing my dolls, wearing my grandmother's fur collars over my play clothes, having fake conversations with the ladies while our imaginary children ran around sneaking cookies. I know the stories. Eve brought sin into the world. Rahab sneaked the spies out of town over the wall. Esther saved her people. Bathsheba was an unwitting victim of King David's lust while Potipher's wife, Delilah, and Jezebel made victims of their own. And then the new testament. Mary is the sweet, innocent mother of Jesus. The other Mary followed him around, learning from him and believing in him, even when his other friends didn't. As I grew up and heard the stories I began to understand they were a bit more complicated than I originally thought--Adam is just as guilty, right? Rahab was a what?! Couldn't (shouldn't?) Bathsheba turned down the king's advances? And how did Mary actually love Jesus (hey, I adore "Jesus Christ Superstar" and can sing nearly every word)?
But how real have these women ever really been to me?
Obviously Sunday School needs to quiet things down and make its subjects rather one-dimensional. I mean, five year olds can barely sit still and listen, let alone understand who Rahab was when she wasn't aiding and abetting spies. And then, when you get a little older, and you start sitting through sermons and your own readings of the text, the writers of both testaments give too little time or space to these women to make them any more than two-dimensional characters.
Tucker takes those two-dimensional women who lived and died so long ago and breathes life into them. Yes, it's conjecture. It has to be. There is no one living today who sat with Bathsheba and talked with her about the pros and cons of getting involved with the king while her husband was away at war (but wouldn't that be an interesting conversation?!). So Tucker looks at what the Bible does give us about fifty Biblical women--both the commonly known and the obscure--and asks the "what if" questions. In the introduction, she wisely notes that this book isn't about the hows or the whys of the decisions they made and the lives they lived. There are no real answers here. Like 17th-century philosopher Spinoza writes (and Tucker quotes in her introduction), "the purpose of the Bible 'is not to convince the reason, but to attract and lay hold of the imagination.'" So there are a lot of questions about what makes these women real--and how that relates to us as women today.
Dynamic Women isn't perfect. I found the sidebars confusing and disruptive to my reading. Tucker includes those and questions--fluffy and more intentional--that can guide a small discussion group. There were several chapters I found myself wishing I could talk about with my friends, if only to ask the "what if" questions with them. But many of the chapters have stuck with me, and I look forward to rereading these women's stories in the Bible with new eyes that long to see beyond the few verses they are given and imagine what depth those women have.
As Tucker writes, "The Bible is a big book, but brevity is too often the rule . . . [these women] are far more . . . than what the Bible tells us." And, Tucker would have us believe that by considering what more they are, by allowing the wonderings to lay hold of our imaginations, we can learn more about their stories, about ourselves, and about God. I think she's right.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
by Ruth A. Tucker
They were wives, mothers, daughters, and friends. They were faithful and faithless. They were benevolent and they were brutal.
But always, they were real.
This text from the back cover is intriguing to me. Because I think that's what is lost about the women in the Bible. I grew up in the church, and when I wasn't there or at Sunday School I was playing church, baptizing my dolls, wearing my grandmother's fur collars over my play clothes, having fake conversations with the ladies while our imaginary children ran around sneaking cookies. I know the stories. Eve brought sin into the world. Rahab sneaked the spies out of town over the wall. Esther saved her people. Bathsheba was an unwitting victim of King David's lust while Potipher's wife, Delilah, and Jezebel made victims of their own. And then the new testament. Mary is the sweet, innocent mother of Jesus. The other Mary followed him around, learning from him and believing in him, even when his other friends didn't. As I grew up and heard the stories I began to understand they were a bit more complicated than I originally thought--Adam is just as guilty, right? Rahab was a what?! Couldn't (shouldn't?) Bathsheba turned down the king's advances? And how did Mary actually love Jesus (hey, I adore "Jesus Christ Superstar" and can sing nearly every word)?
But how real have these women ever really been to me?
Obviously Sunday School needs to quiet things down and make its subjects rather one-dimensional. I mean, five year olds can barely sit still and listen, let alone understand who Rahab was when she wasn't aiding and abetting spies. And then, when you get a little older, and you start sitting through sermons and your own readings of the text, the writers of both testaments give too little time or space to these women to make them any more than two-dimensional characters.
Tucker takes those two-dimensional women who lived and died so long ago and breathes life into them. Yes, it's conjecture. It has to be. There is no one living today who sat with Bathsheba and talked with her about the pros and cons of getting involved with the king while her husband was away at war (but wouldn't that be an interesting conversation?!). So Tucker looks at what the Bible does give us about fifty Biblical women--both the commonly known and the obscure--and asks the "what if" questions. In the introduction, she wisely notes that this book isn't about the hows or the whys of the decisions they made and the lives they lived. There are no real answers here. Like 17th-century philosopher Spinoza writes (and Tucker quotes in her introduction), "the purpose of the Bible 'is not to convince the reason, but to attract and lay hold of the imagination.'" So there are a lot of questions about what makes these women real--and how that relates to us as women today.
Dynamic Women isn't perfect. I found the sidebars confusing and disruptive to my reading. Tucker includes those and questions--fluffy and more intentional--that can guide a small discussion group. There were several chapters I found myself wishing I could talk about with my friends, if only to ask the "what if" questions with them. But many of the chapters have stuck with me, and I look forward to rereading these women's stories in the Bible with new eyes that long to see beyond the few verses they are given and imagine what depth those women have.
As Tucker writes, "The Bible is a big book, but brevity is too often the rule . . . [these women] are far more . . . than what the Bible tells us." And, Tucker would have us believe that by considering what more they are, by allowing the wonderings to lay hold of our imaginations, we can learn more about their stories, about ourselves, and about God. I think she's right.
{I received this book free from Baker Books through the Baker Book Bloggers program. I have expressed my own opinions, and I was not required to write a positive review. I am disclosing this in accordance with the Federal Trade Commission's 16 CFR, Part 255.}
Friday, July 18, 2014
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.
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.{"Always," Kristian Stanfill}
My refuge and strength, always.
I will not fear, His promise is true.
My God will come through, always. Always.
Thursday, July 10, 2014
Processing a Processing Disorder
My pastor recently sent me an interesting article questioning whether Sensory Processing
Disorders are a true medical diagnosis. It's a condition I have talked about before, and one
that my husband and I are seeing in our middle daughter as well.
The article is worth reading, even if it raises a point that ruffles some
feathers, including mine. Sensory Processing Disorders are not widely
recognized, and I have a friend who had to fight for a while to get her child
diagnosed. Even then, insurance may do little or nothing to treat its symptoms,
and there is no cure.
Thankfully our doctor does recognize it and has worked with us on free or very inexpensive ways to cope with it--Meg "snuggles" with a medicine ball, I made a "sensory jar" she can stare at to calm herself down, I've learned deep tissue compressions, etc.--and we haven't needed to try to find therapy which is, indeed, not covered by insurance. Gratefully, Meg's Kindergarten teacher also recognizes Sensory Processing Disorders and worked hard to make sure Meg transitioned well into full-time schooling. Meg was fine at school, but her teacher wanted to be sure we were coping at home, too. And she saved us. She really did.
So, obviously, I disagreed with the title of the article. I believe Sensory Processing Disorders are real. And totally a medical condition.
Right?
Still, I found this interesting:
While I do think it's apparent that I have something more than just normal reactions to things, and I can see that Meggie does too, I'm not prepared to say it's not linked to autism or ADHD. I believe autism is a spectrum--ranging from ADD to savantism--and that spectrum includes a range of functioning. It's all sensory processing difficulties--an inability to concentrate on any given task, an inability to control oneself to sit still, an inability to function in social settings, an inability to express oneself in any way other than playing the piano. In fact, when I describe it to other people, I just say, "It's on the autism spectrum." And Meg isn't as far down the spectrum as Asperger's, but she is closer to that than just ADHD or ADD. So am I, though I'm also coming to terms with the fact that I might have ADD. So do I have an extreme case of ADD manifested in a constant flight or fright state? Or does a place on the spectrum closer to autism mean I have everything to the left as well, including the ADD? And someone with Asperger's would have the ADD and the flight/fright state AND trouble in social settings/gathering social cues? Hence the problem.
Thankfully our doctor does recognize it and has worked with us on free or very inexpensive ways to cope with it--Meg "snuggles" with a medicine ball, I made a "sensory jar" she can stare at to calm herself down, I've learned deep tissue compressions, etc.--and we haven't needed to try to find therapy which is, indeed, not covered by insurance. Gratefully, Meg's Kindergarten teacher also recognizes Sensory Processing Disorders and worked hard to make sure Meg transitioned well into full-time schooling. Meg was fine at school, but her teacher wanted to be sure we were coping at home, too. And she saved us. She really did.
So, obviously, I disagreed with the title of the article. I believe Sensory Processing Disorders are real. And totally a medical condition.
Right?
Still, I found this interesting:
In 2012, the American Academy of Pediatrics claimed it is unclear whether children with sensory problems have a distinct disorder or whether their challenges are linked with other disorders such as autism, ADHD, and anxiety. It urged doctors to caution parents that the effectiveness of sensory integration treatments are "limited and inconclusive."
While I do think it's apparent that I have something more than just normal reactions to things, and I can see that Meggie does too, I'm not prepared to say it's not linked to autism or ADHD. I believe autism is a spectrum--ranging from ADD to savantism--and that spectrum includes a range of functioning. It's all sensory processing difficulties--an inability to concentrate on any given task, an inability to control oneself to sit still, an inability to function in social settings, an inability to express oneself in any way other than playing the piano. In fact, when I describe it to other people, I just say, "It's on the autism spectrum." And Meg isn't as far down the spectrum as Asperger's, but she is closer to that than just ADHD or ADD. So am I, though I'm also coming to terms with the fact that I might have ADD. So do I have an extreme case of ADD manifested in a constant flight or fright state? Or does a place on the spectrum closer to autism mean I have everything to the left as well, including the ADD? And someone with Asperger's would have the ADD and the flight/fright state AND trouble in social settings/gathering social cues? Hence the problem.
What I
do know is that the therapies we've tried DO generally work, and it IS a matter
of finding what works for yourself or your child. But, boy oh boy, it's
easy to be overstimulated in this fast-paced world. I can't imagine
trying to diagnose this or get insurance companies to determine what or how
much to pay for it. It's rather like diagnosing post-traumatic stress
disorder. Each of us is capable of handling different stressors . . . and
we all have bad days. So is someone with PTSD weak or depressed or just dramatic? Or is it real and does it deserve disability payments and therapy? How do you measure that degree and then assign a
dollar value to treating it or compensating for it?
I understand why the psychiatric establishment isn't ready to rewrite the DSM just yet. But I hope they're investing the time and the research dollars to explore it and helping families who haven't yet found what it takes to cope.
Thursday, June 26, 2014
When We Last Left Our Heroes . . .
We used to be a bit more innocent. A bit more naive. A bit more trusting. And we used to own a different laptop and have a shady back door or two. Oh, and we had a piggy bank I painted when I was first pregnant, before anyone but Beau and I knew.
My last post was in May. Early May. That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down. I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party. We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family. It was busy, and it was fun.
And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail. It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone. He asked me to call him back right away.
My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car. So I prepared myself for that.
Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."
Robbed. Awesome.
Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken. We also determined our back doors were both toast. And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.
So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen. We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done. And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door. And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them. We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers. And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.
Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace. There are also emotional ones. There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing. There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police. There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank. And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids. Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.
We've installed a security system. And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects. And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.
But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson. Or maybe relearned it. There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God." (Ps 20:7)
And I know He won't let us down. Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal. I trust in the name of the LORD my God.
My last post was in May. Early May. That's because May is always a crazy month for me, and I barely have time to think any thoughts, let alone write them down. I did manage to squeeze many wonderful events into the last five weeks of school--a visit from my wonderfully-amazing cousin, a chance to meet his super-cool boyfriend, the last preschool graduation, a fun mix-it-up lunch at my daughter's school, a Kindergarten field trip, cheering on my 3rd grader in the school talent show, turning 37, celebrating 16 years of marriage, enjoying "Jesus Christ Superstar" on stage, and a Kindergarten party. We also worked in a vacation to three of the houses lived in by Laura Ingalls and her family. It was busy, and it was fun.
And then, on our last day of vacation, after we'd enjoyed a day of pretending to be homesteaders in DeSmet, SD, I checked my phone to find a voicemail. It was from our neighbor, who was feeding our cat while we were gone. He asked me to call him back right away.
My first thought was that our cat had escaped and been hit by a car. So I prepared myself for that.
Instead, he answered my hello with, "Beka, I'm sorry, but you were robbed."
Robbed. Awesome.
Several long-distance phone calls--to my husband, who was in Montana for work; back to my neighbor; and to the police--later, we assessed that very few things had been taken. We also determined our back doors were both toast. And that it takes a very long time to get home from vacation when all you want to do is hug your husband and make sure your favorite things really are still in your house.
So now, nearly three weeks after we were broken into, my kitchen is a disaster while our builders work to replace our back doors and repair the frame around the door in the kitchen. We'll have to repaint the frame when they're done. And repair and repaint some chips in the plaster around the door. And then scrub up the floor from the grease and dirt work boots bring with them. We also had to clean up the fingerprint dust from my jewelry box and other doors and drawers. And we're waiting to hear what our insurance will reimburse for the doors, my work laptop, our personal laptop, and that piggy bank which our oldest daughter and I will recreate together more than nine years after I painted that first one.
Those are the physical damages we'll repair and replace. There are also emotional ones. There were neighbors who saw the people who broke into our house--before they had broken in--and said nothing. There were other neighbors who saw the people too and still said they wouldn't talk to the police. There's an almost-nine-year old who doesn't understand why someone would steal her piggy bank. And there's a six year old who is afraid to sleep in her room and had to receive reassurances from her daddy that the bad guys who break in and take things are not the same bad guys who break in and take kids. Like I wanted my kids to learn that right now.
We've installed a security system. And we've delayed the listing of our house for sale by a couple weeks so we can repair these damages in addition to finishing last-minute "fix-it" projects. And we still have those Laura Ingalls Wilder memories.
But so far on our summer break we've also learned another lesson. Or maybe relearned it. There's a verse that keeps going through my head: "Some trust in chariots and some in horses, but we trust in the name of the LORD our God." (Ps 20:7)
And I know He won't let us down. Even in the middle of a break-in . . . or a job ending, or a church closing, or health concerns, or a broken marriage, or a friend's betrayal. I trust in the name of the LORD my God.
Tuesday, May 06, 2014
Epic Mommy Moments
In my ongoing effort to cultivate a healthy (ie. generous but realistic) self-esteem in my three daughters, I regularly talk to them about what they have to offer the world and all the things that make them special. My mom started this with my oldest niece. From the time each of my mom's five granddaughters was born, she would tell them a special "I love you" followed by a question: "And why do I love you so much?" The girls have been conditioned from their earliest words to shout, "Just because I'm ME!" in response. It has caused many laughs, see the "Just because I'm YOU!" and "Just because you're ME!" phases, but it has also grown to include the same response to others who ask a similar question, like when I asked my youngest daughter the other day. I said, "Do you know why I love you like crazy, forever and ever, no matter what?" Her answer warmed my heart, because she nailed it.
I also want to teach my girls to be awesome to each other because life is hard. There are enough dream stompers in the world. I want my girls to be dream builders, dream encouragers, dream deliverers, dream followers. So sometimes when they get out of the van in the morning, I say, "Be great today!" I don't mean "Be well-behaved," or "Do really well in school." I mean, "Be great for someone else--be your best you."
My favorite song is Jennifer Knapp's "Martyrs and Thieves," and even though I know they probably will I still hope they won't ever have "ghosts from their pasts that own more of their souls than they thought they had given away."
Because I have those ghosts. And I spend days telling them to shut up and working to convince them that their voices aren't the loudest in my ears. And it's exhausting. So I'd like to avoid that wherever possible.
To that end, the other day my two oldest and I had a "Martyrs and Thieves" conversation where I got to ask them the most important question I know for my own life: "Could it be that my worth should depend on the crimson-stained grace on a hand?"
And I told them the same is true for them. Their worth depends on the crimson-stained grace on a hand. There's freedom and confidence in that.
There's also permission to be awesome to other people and to yourself. To be great. And to be a dream builder, a dream encourager, a dream deliverer. A dream follower.
So that was a win. Even when they asked about the "crimson-stained" part and looked a little squeamish when I told them that was Jesus' blood.
I also want to teach my girls to be awesome to each other because life is hard. There are enough dream stompers in the world. I want my girls to be dream builders, dream encouragers, dream deliverers, dream followers. So sometimes when they get out of the van in the morning, I say, "Be great today!" I don't mean "Be well-behaved," or "Do really well in school." I mean, "Be great for someone else--be your best you."
My favorite song is Jennifer Knapp's "Martyrs and Thieves," and even though I know they probably will I still hope they won't ever have "ghosts from their pasts that own more of their souls than they thought they had given away."
Because I have those ghosts. And I spend days telling them to shut up and working to convince them that their voices aren't the loudest in my ears. And it's exhausting. So I'd like to avoid that wherever possible.
To that end, the other day my two oldest and I had a "Martyrs and Thieves" conversation where I got to ask them the most important question I know for my own life: "Could it be that my worth should depend on the crimson-stained grace on a hand?"
And I told them the same is true for them. Their worth depends on the crimson-stained grace on a hand. There's freedom and confidence in that.
There's also permission to be awesome to other people and to yourself. To be great. And to be a dream builder, a dream encourager, a dream deliverer. A dream follower.
So that was a win. Even when they asked about the "crimson-stained" part and looked a little squeamish when I told them that was Jesus' blood.
Then a while back I read a blog post written from a father to his daughter. It really was great, and one of the things he said there is that he works hard to help his girls understand that while they are pretty and should try to take care of themselves, the most important beauty they possess comes from within. It's in their hearts.
I like that question he asks when he tucks his daughter in at night. "Honey, where are you the most beautiful?"
Well, what kind of mom would I be if I didn't take that opportunity? So the other day I talked to my girls about that too. And it was an epic conversation that went a little something like this:
Me: "Girls, where do you think you are the most beautiful?"
Oldest daughter: "Um, my hair is nice."
Middle daughter: "My eyes?"
Oldest daughter: "No! My smile!"
Me: "Those do look nice. But really it's on your insides."
Oldest and middle daughters look at each other with disgusted expressions.
Middle daughter: "In our guts?!"
Me: "Well, not exactly. I mean in your heart."
Oldest daughter: "Not too much better. That's really gross and bloody."
Me: "Well, not your heart, really. Not, like, the heart that beats your blood around. But your inside. You know, how you treat people and stuff."
Middle daughter: "Well, we are pretty nice. So I guess we have beautiful guts."
You guys, they're 8 and 6 and 4. And they get it! They've figured out their worth depends on bloody hands, and they're most beautiful in their guts. And the whole reason they are loved is because they are themselves. They really get it! My work here is done.
Oldest and middle daughters look at each other with disgusted expressions.
Middle daughter: "In our guts?!"
Me: "Well, not exactly. I mean in your heart."
Oldest daughter: "Not too much better. That's really gross and bloody."
Me: "Well, not your heart, really. Not, like, the heart that beats your blood around. But your inside. You know, how you treat people and stuff."
Middle daughter: "Well, we are pretty nice. So I guess we have beautiful guts."
You guys, they're 8 and 6 and 4. And they get it! They've figured out their worth depends on bloody hands, and they're most beautiful in their guts. And the whole reason they are loved is because they are themselves. They really get it! My work here is done.
Monday, May 05, 2014
A Letter to My Daughter
Dear Daughter,
Last night I crawled in bed with you. Well, I suppose it was actually this morning, as it was about 12:30 on your clock. I moved your big bear, a gift to you "from" your new baby sister more than six years ago. I moved the bear, and I laid down in its spot. I didn't wake you up, but I did brush your beautiful brown hair out of your face, and you snuggled up to me. I wrapped my arm around you. And I cried.
It's been years since I crawled into your bed while you were sleeping. Every night I peek at you, often I kiss my finger, and I rub it down your nose. Many nights I turn your music down. Sometimes I turn it off. I close your curtains or I open your window. I check your alarm to make sure it's on, though I know you'll just turn it off in the morning and roll over to go back to sleep like the teenager you will too soon become. But last night, I crawled in bed with you.
You see, I read the most terrifying book*. It took me a few days, but last night I laid awake in bed reading, long after I should have fallen asleep. I just had to finish it, because I couldn't read it for another day. Don't get me wrong, Sweetheart. It was a good book. It was beautifully written, but it was terrifying. I read the last third of the book with my jaw dropped in disbelief and tears of horror mixed with sadness about to spill from my eyes. Then, finally, in the last three pages, they did spill. And I knew I needed to go to you and hold you and whisper a prayer over you.
There are many truths I want to impart to you while you are mine to mold and shape. And there are truths I want to hide from you while you are mine to protect. Last night I crawled in bed with you because I needed to tell you one of each. First, one I wish you didn't know, though I suspect one day you will. In fact, I imagine one day you will grow and marry and have children of your own. And then you will need to know it, because it will be true for you, too.
Dear one, I am terrified you will learn that I have absolutely no clue how to be your mother. I started a journal for you--and any future siblings--on the first break I took from you after you were born. The first time I left you out of my care. I was terrified then, too. ee cumings has a poem that is apparently nothing about having a new baby, but I discovered it when you were mine. The first lines read
But there's another truth, too. This is one you must know. You simply must. And I will whisper it to you and I will shout it to you and I will write it for you and I will pray that it is tucked into your heart and your beautiful mind and that you live it every day. You are worth more than gold. You are beautiful. You are treasured. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. And the only reason I am not a bundle of anxiety every moment you are out of my sight--and every second you are in it, because remember I have no idea how to be a mom--is because you are never, not for one breath of a second, out of the care of the One who knit you together in my womb. The One who knew you before the dawn of creation. The One who died on a cross and fought against death so you can live forever. He won't keep everything bad from happening to you. I know that. But He will keep you together. He will keep me and the world from breaking you. I know that to be true, and I need that to be true.
And so, last night, as you slept peacefully, and I held you with tears streaming down my face and memories of bullies and pain and harassment and mean girls and lies and nightmares of everything bad that could happen to you flooding my mind, I took a deep breath. And I whispered a promise to you. And my promise was also a prayer to God, a desperate plea that I need Him to hear.
My beautiful, beautiful daughter. I am here for you. I am here. And I am not too busy. I will never again be too busy to hear you and to see you. I want to know you, Love. Like I knew you when I carried you inside me. When my heart beat with yours. Everything I did then, I did knowing I needed to protect you. I was your safe place then. I want to be your safe place forever, Heart of mine. I am here, with ears to listen to you and eyes to see you. With a heart that is open to whatever you have to share and whomever you are. I want to hear what you say. I want to hear about your day and your dreams and your fears and your joys. And I want to hear what you don't say. See what you don't want to show anyone. My darling girl, I love being your mother. Even when it's hard. Even when I need a break. Even when we fight. Even when I'm hard on you. So, give me grace enough to help me see you when I'm blinded by what is happening around us. I want to ask the questions you need me to ask, but, Baby, I'm scared I won't know them. So, please, give me a hint. Give me a chance. Because you are too important to me to lose . . . even for a moment. I love you, my beautiful girl.
With all my heart,
Your Mom
* Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight
If you have children, read it. If you love children, read it. It's hard to read. It's not tidy. The language is bad, and there are many, many hard moments. But our kids are worth it.
Last night I crawled in bed with you. Well, I suppose it was actually this morning, as it was about 12:30 on your clock. I moved your big bear, a gift to you "from" your new baby sister more than six years ago. I moved the bear, and I laid down in its spot. I didn't wake you up, but I did brush your beautiful brown hair out of your face, and you snuggled up to me. I wrapped my arm around you. And I cried.
It's been years since I crawled into your bed while you were sleeping. Every night I peek at you, often I kiss my finger, and I rub it down your nose. Many nights I turn your music down. Sometimes I turn it off. I close your curtains or I open your window. I check your alarm to make sure it's on, though I know you'll just turn it off in the morning and roll over to go back to sleep like the teenager you will too soon become. But last night, I crawled in bed with you.
You see, I read the most terrifying book*. It took me a few days, but last night I laid awake in bed reading, long after I should have fallen asleep. I just had to finish it, because I couldn't read it for another day. Don't get me wrong, Sweetheart. It was a good book. It was beautifully written, but it was terrifying. I read the last third of the book with my jaw dropped in disbelief and tears of horror mixed with sadness about to spill from my eyes. Then, finally, in the last three pages, they did spill. And I knew I needed to go to you and hold you and whisper a prayer over you.
There are many truths I want to impart to you while you are mine to mold and shape. And there are truths I want to hide from you while you are mine to protect. Last night I crawled in bed with you because I needed to tell you one of each. First, one I wish you didn't know, though I suspect one day you will. In fact, I imagine one day you will grow and marry and have children of your own. And then you will need to know it, because it will be true for you, too.
Dear one, I am terrified you will learn that I have absolutely no clue how to be your mother. I started a journal for you--and any future siblings--on the first break I took from you after you were born. The first time I left you out of my care. I was terrified then, too. ee cumings has a poem that is apparently nothing about having a new baby, but I discovered it when you were mine. The first lines read
See, I was terrified that I would break you. I didn't know how to protect you, and I was certain I would break you. So here is the secret: I still am. I don't know how to protect you, my beautiful daughter, and I am certain I will break you. And if I don't, if I manage somehow to maintain a relationship with you (that I'm not even sure we have now), and I don't damage you, I know this world can. Girls are mean, honey. Boys can be selfish and cruel and demeaning. Pressures for sex and drugs and giving more of your heart away than you can afford to someone who doesn't deserve it . . . I want to shelter you from all of it, and I can't. I don't know how. And, you being brand new and you know consequently a little stiff and fragile and precious and beautiful--I want to be careful of you and I want the world to be careful of you. Because I'm terrified you will break.she being Brand-new;and you
know consequently a
little stiff I was
careful of her . . .
But there's another truth, too. This is one you must know. You simply must. And I will whisper it to you and I will shout it to you and I will write it for you and I will pray that it is tucked into your heart and your beautiful mind and that you live it every day. You are worth more than gold. You are beautiful. You are treasured. You are fearfully and wonderfully made. And the only reason I am not a bundle of anxiety every moment you are out of my sight--and every second you are in it, because remember I have no idea how to be a mom--is because you are never, not for one breath of a second, out of the care of the One who knit you together in my womb. The One who knew you before the dawn of creation. The One who died on a cross and fought against death so you can live forever. He won't keep everything bad from happening to you. I know that. But He will keep you together. He will keep me and the world from breaking you. I know that to be true, and I need that to be true.
And so, last night, as you slept peacefully, and I held you with tears streaming down my face and memories of bullies and pain and harassment and mean girls and lies and nightmares of everything bad that could happen to you flooding my mind, I took a deep breath. And I whispered a promise to you. And my promise was also a prayer to God, a desperate plea that I need Him to hear.
My beautiful, beautiful daughter. I am here for you. I am here. And I am not too busy. I will never again be too busy to hear you and to see you. I want to know you, Love. Like I knew you when I carried you inside me. When my heart beat with yours. Everything I did then, I did knowing I needed to protect you. I was your safe place then. I want to be your safe place forever, Heart of mine. I am here, with ears to listen to you and eyes to see you. With a heart that is open to whatever you have to share and whomever you are. I want to hear what you say. I want to hear about your day and your dreams and your fears and your joys. And I want to hear what you don't say. See what you don't want to show anyone. My darling girl, I love being your mother. Even when it's hard. Even when I need a break. Even when we fight. Even when I'm hard on you. So, give me grace enough to help me see you when I'm blinded by what is happening around us. I want to ask the questions you need me to ask, but, Baby, I'm scared I won't know them. So, please, give me a hint. Give me a chance. Because you are too important to me to lose . . . even for a moment. I love you, my beautiful girl.
With all my heart,
Your Mom
* Reconstructing Amelia by Kimberly McCreight
If you have children, read it. If you love children, read it. It's hard to read. It's not tidy. The language is bad, and there are many, many hard moments. But our kids are worth it.
Thursday, April 24, 2014
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 anygood 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.
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
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.
Tuesday, April 15, 2014
A Dying Man, Giving Up the Fight
My blog takes its title from a song by Sarah Hart (Amy Grant also covered it). I find the song beautiful, and it truly captures my heart--sometimes, perhaps always, honesty is the best hallelujah we can offer. It's the strength and beauty of a crocus popping through the spring snow. It's the mother crying her baby back to sleep in the middle of the night. It's the husband laying his wife of 50 years to rest. It's broken. But it's honest, and it's beautiful. And that broken honesty is better than a hallelujah.
In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.
We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make. And our tears were better than a hallelujah.
We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that. But we still walked. One foot in front of the other. A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh. And then a whispered prayer. And then a sob.
And then the phone rang.
My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years. One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack. Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me. He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had. Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq. You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do. So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad. Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life. This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great. We'll take it. And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.
Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq. We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch. For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay. He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well. But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.
We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son. A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost. As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death. Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did. And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers. There was a rifle salute and taps. The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body. He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.
And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can." We did. We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.
But the memories . . . we can carry those further. There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack. Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared. None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva. And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself. I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him. Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.
Because that was Zack. He was beautiful, and he was broken. And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight." He was tired, so he went Home. And he was greeted with arms open to catch him. To hold him while he rests. And it is better than a hallelujah.
In January, my family was in the middle of that broken and beautiful hallelujah.
We were two months into a long journey that led to decisions we weren't ready to make. And our tears were better than a hallelujah.
We didn't like where we were, and we let God know that. But we still walked. One foot in front of the other. A deep breath and then a quavering one and then a sigh. And then a whispered prayer. And then a sob.
And then the phone rang.
My dad was a chaplain in the National Guard for nearly 23 years. One of those years took him to Iraq with a man named Zack. Zack was his assistant, and he was a bit younger than me. He was a bit immature and goofy, and he quickly became like the younger brother my sister and I never had. Among other things, Zack's job as my dad's assistant meant that he was tasked with protecting my father in Iraq. You see, chaplains don't carry weapons, but their assistants do. So Zack's job was to use his weapon and, if it came to that, his body to protect my dad. Now, I can tell you that something like that bonds you to someone for life. This immature, goofy kid was the guy who would save my dad . . . great. We'll take it. And we'll tuck Zack into a place in our hearts that no one could ever take away.
Zack suffered from PTSD after his time in Iraq. We didn't see him much after they came home, but we did keep in touch. For the past five years, there were ups and downs, but we all thought Zack was doing okay. He and my dad talked on Christmas--also Zack's birthday--and it seemed like things were going well. But that call in early January was to let my dad know that Zack had taken his own life.
We traveled to Detroit where my dad presided over the funeral service of a young man who was like his adopted son. A young man at one time tasked with protecting his own life--no matter what the cost. As my dad stood next to Zack's flag-draped casket, I thought about how this was yet one more war death. Combat didn't kill Zack, but the war did. And, fittingly, Zack's body was attended by many soldiers. There was a rifle salute and taps. The soldiers laid poppies and saluted his body. He is buried in a military cemetery where his body was accompanied by his brothers and sisters in uniform and his sisters, his dad and step-mother, his mom, and so, so many friends.
And, just before they played the taps in that chilly cemetery in early January, one of the men from his first company said words I hope to never forget: "We have carried our brother as far as we can." We did. We carried Zack as far as we could, and it was time to let his body go. Together we carried Zack's body to the cemetery, and we carried Zack to the feet of our Savior.
But the memories . . . we can carry those further. There's a Facebook group dedicated to remembering Zack. Every couple of days someone posts another picture they found or a memory they shared. None of us can eat Godiva chocolate without thinking about Zack, because when he and my dad were prepping to go to Iraq, Zack pronounced it Go Diva. And he made everyone laugh, and he laughed at himself. I also think of him every time certain songs come on the radio, and I tearfully remember the night we tested Zack's reflexes by throwing tennis balls at him. Tears and laughter mix together a lot for the people in that group.
Because that was Zack. He was beautiful, and he was broken. And, as the song says, he was a "dying man, giving up the fight." He was tired, so he went Home. And he was greeted with arms open to catch him. To hold him while he rests. And it is better than a hallelujah.
Sunday, April 13, 2014
Fame
The Festival of Faith & Writing is over. I learned a lot, heard a number of good speakers, settled on a new acceptance of who I am . . .
And I got to hear Anne Lamott speak.
That catches quite a few people. When I mention I was at the Festival, the first question people who know about it ask is, "Did you get to hear Anne?!"
And I did. And it was wonderful. And that, coupled with a few other experiences, have made me do some thinking.
One of the speakers, Julia Spencer-Fleming, said, "One of the things that surprised me was the quasi-fame you get when you publish a novel."
I saw that over my three days at Calvin College. I had a woman interrupt her conversation with me to say, "Is that Anne Lamott walking in the door?" (I probably would have done the same to myself if it had been. But the woman didn't even look a bit like Anne . . . beyond being a woman.) People applauded when Anne walked on stage, but they didn't do that for James McBride--winner of the National Book Award. Hundreds of people waited hours to get autographs in books purchased just for the occasion. Readers spent hundreds of dollars for a chance to hear their favorite authors speak or (gasp!) have a chance to say hello.
Don't get me wrong. It was an amazing experience to run into a new favorite author at another session--he was there to learn, to observe, just like I was. While my dad and I were speaking with an old friend, Hugh Cook, Miroslav Volf, and Scott Cairns walked past at separate times. And I got to hear Anne Lamott, James McBride, Rachel Held Evans, Miroslav Volf, and a dozen other authors speak about their trade and how faith intersects to create art. It was an incredible experience.
But it was also incredible to catch up with our old friend, there on the sidewalk outside the Prince Conference Center. And it was amazing to hear Anne speak about grace and the collision of joy and grief and mourning and celebration while she spent her birthday at the funeral home of a young man who was like a son to her. And the best part of all was hearing--and remembering and realizing for the first time--that Anne is just like me. And you. And all of us.
So that was on my mind when I sat in a hard church pew next to my husband this morning. That was on my mind when the offering started and the worship team led us in praising God, "The Famous One."
Chris Tomlin nailed it, and he brought everything home for me in a way that shocked me and humbled me and gave me chills.
God is the famous one. He is known throughout the earth and beyond it; He is seen in the stars and the rain falling outside my window and the three little girls sleeping upstairs in their beds. And He is my friend. He speaks to me daily, and He desires to know me and be known by me. Amazing.
I had the chance to wait in line to have Anne sign my copy of Traveling Mercies. I chose not to, because . . . the line was long, she's just a person, it was late, I was tired. Because I didn't need her scribble in my book to remind me that I had seen her and heard her and learned from her. Because why? She's just another person, a sinner, used by God because she was faithful to His call on her life.
Then, when I was sitting in church, lifting my hand in the presence of the Famous One, He impressed something amazing on my heart.
"Beka," His inaudible voice said to my heart. "YOU are my autograph. You are my scribble. I'm tucked there inside you."
And I am. I'm God's scribble in the cover of a work of His creation, purchased just for this occasion. And so are you. Be His scribble. Live that reality. And let us never forget how special that makes us.
(Full disclosure: I did get William Kent Krueger's autograph in my copy of Ordinary Grace. But I call that connections.)
And I got to hear Anne Lamott speak.
That catches quite a few people. When I mention I was at the Festival, the first question people who know about it ask is, "Did you get to hear Anne?!"
And I did. And it was wonderful. And that, coupled with a few other experiences, have made me do some thinking.
One of the speakers, Julia Spencer-Fleming, said, "One of the things that surprised me was the quasi-fame you get when you publish a novel."
I saw that over my three days at Calvin College. I had a woman interrupt her conversation with me to say, "Is that Anne Lamott walking in the door?" (I probably would have done the same to myself if it had been. But the woman didn't even look a bit like Anne . . . beyond being a woman.) People applauded when Anne walked on stage, but they didn't do that for James McBride--winner of the National Book Award. Hundreds of people waited hours to get autographs in books purchased just for the occasion. Readers spent hundreds of dollars for a chance to hear their favorite authors speak or (gasp!) have a chance to say hello.
Don't get me wrong. It was an amazing experience to run into a new favorite author at another session--he was there to learn, to observe, just like I was. While my dad and I were speaking with an old friend, Hugh Cook, Miroslav Volf, and Scott Cairns walked past at separate times. And I got to hear Anne Lamott, James McBride, Rachel Held Evans, Miroslav Volf, and a dozen other authors speak about their trade and how faith intersects to create art. It was an incredible experience.
But it was also incredible to catch up with our old friend, there on the sidewalk outside the Prince Conference Center. And it was amazing to hear Anne speak about grace and the collision of joy and grief and mourning and celebration while she spent her birthday at the funeral home of a young man who was like a son to her. And the best part of all was hearing--and remembering and realizing for the first time--that Anne is just like me. And you. And all of us.
So that was on my mind when I sat in a hard church pew next to my husband this morning. That was on my mind when the offering started and the worship team led us in praising God, "The Famous One."
You are the Lord
The Famous One
The Famous One
Great is Your name in all the earth
You are the Lord
The Famous One
The Famous One
Great is Your fame beyond the earth
Chris Tomlin nailed it, and he brought everything home for me in a way that shocked me and humbled me and gave me chills.
God is the famous one. He is known throughout the earth and beyond it; He is seen in the stars and the rain falling outside my window and the three little girls sleeping upstairs in their beds. And He is my friend. He speaks to me daily, and He desires to know me and be known by me. Amazing.
I had the chance to wait in line to have Anne sign my copy of Traveling Mercies. I chose not to, because . . . the line was long, she's just a person, it was late, I was tired. Because I didn't need her scribble in my book to remind me that I had seen her and heard her and learned from her. Because why? She's just another person, a sinner, used by God because she was faithful to His call on her life.
Then, when I was sitting in church, lifting my hand in the presence of the Famous One, He impressed something amazing on my heart.
"Beka," His inaudible voice said to my heart. "YOU are my autograph. You are my scribble. I'm tucked there inside you."
And I am. I'm God's scribble in the cover of a work of His creation, purchased just for this occasion. And so are you. Be His scribble. Live that reality. And let us never forget how special that makes us.
(Full disclosure: I did get William Kent Krueger's autograph in my copy of Ordinary Grace. But I call that connections.)
Friday, April 11, 2014
Day One in the books, or On Being a Writer
I was asked an interesting question today. It was the first day of Calvin College's Festival of Faith & Writing, my first official writing conference. A friend of a friend leaned over to me while we were waiting for James McBride to deliver his plenary talk, and she said, "So Wendy tells me you're a writer."
I guess it wasn't a question in its true interrogative form, but there were many questions loaded into that one statement she directed at me. She was giving me a chance to refute it. She was giving me the opportunity to say no or that I hope to be or that I'm working to be. In that statement she was giving me the chance to disagree.
I made a face and didn't answer right away.
And then I decided I wanted to answer her unspoken question with the cry of my heart for almost as long as I've wanted to be a doctor (age 3). And nearly as long as I've wanted to be a student at the University of Notre Dame (age 6).
Yes, I said. I'm a writer.
She didn't ask me if I was a doctor or a student at Notre Dame. She said she was told I was a writer, and she gave me a chance to deny or confirm.
I confirmed. And when I tried to say I was an unpublished writer, I was reminded of the poems I had published when I was in elementary school. And the article in Women's Lifestyle about the year my dad was in Iraq.
So I confirmed. I am a writer. I am a published writer, and I wrote my first novel when I was in middle school. Now I have a novel which I am 1/3 of the way through. And I have a series idea I'm excited about and a collection of essays started and a devotional idea to flesh out and two other novels tucked in my brain.
I'm a dreamer. That's nothing new. But, for the first time in my life I'm not just a dreamer. I'm a doer. I'm a writer.
Friday, December 28, 2012
Book Twenty
The Next Chapter
by Bryn Jones
Bryn Jones started following me on Twitter, so I started following him back and checking out some of the books he's written. All are available on Kindle, generally for quite an affordable price. The Next Chapter is the third and first full-length story of his that I've read.
The premise, as stated in the Amazon summary, is that an author who has recently endured a family tragedy has become embroiled in a kidnapping and probable murder of a young girl. The kidnapper forces Sal to write the next chapter, ultimately ending (the kidnapper hopes) in murder. At the same time, a police officer, fresh from tragic events of his own, is slowly tying the kidnapping to kidnappings from decades earlier--as the bodies of those young women begin appearing, staged to match Sal's novels.
Jones writes Christian fiction in a subtle way. His books are certainly not "Amish fiction," nor are they pretty and all tied up in the end. While some of them have allegorical elements, most seem to match the every-day struggles many Christians face as they try to live out faith in a world that poses more questions than answers. The Next Chapter is certainly one of these. And, while some portions felt trite or "neat" or a bit far fetched, I think Jones wrote a clever story with a fast pace and characters for whom I wanted to root.
by Bryn Jones
Bryn Jones started following me on Twitter, so I started following him back and checking out some of the books he's written. All are available on Kindle, generally for quite an affordable price. The Next Chapter is the third and first full-length story of his that I've read.
The premise, as stated in the Amazon summary, is that an author who has recently endured a family tragedy has become embroiled in a kidnapping and probable murder of a young girl. The kidnapper forces Sal to write the next chapter, ultimately ending (the kidnapper hopes) in murder. At the same time, a police officer, fresh from tragic events of his own, is slowly tying the kidnapping to kidnappings from decades earlier--as the bodies of those young women begin appearing, staged to match Sal's novels.
Jones writes Christian fiction in a subtle way. His books are certainly not "Amish fiction," nor are they pretty and all tied up in the end. While some of them have allegorical elements, most seem to match the every-day struggles many Christians face as they try to live out faith in a world that poses more questions than answers. The Next Chapter is certainly one of these. And, while some portions felt trite or "neat" or a bit far fetched, I think Jones wrote a clever story with a fast pace and characters for whom I wanted to root.
Book Nineteen
Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter
by Tom Franklin
In Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter, Franklin writes with what can only be the authenticity of someone who grew up in the south and, in spite of its complicated history and equally-complicated present, loves that land. While Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter is, on one level a mystery, on a much deeper level, I feel like it is a love letter to the complexity of growing up in the racially-tense south.
Where Silas (a black boy) and Larry (a white boy) and Cindy (a white girl) interact as children and again as adults, Franklin's prose carefully details a world where right isn't always right and wrong is certainly just as hard to understand. This is a novel of mistakes and consequences and hatred and love and friendship and family and redemption. It was a quick read, and I loved every word of it.
by Tom Franklin
In Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter, Franklin writes with what can only be the authenticity of someone who grew up in the south and, in spite of its complicated history and equally-complicated present, loves that land. While Crooked Letter, Crooked Letter is, on one level a mystery, on a much deeper level, I feel like it is a love letter to the complexity of growing up in the racially-tense south.
Where Silas (a black boy) and Larry (a white boy) and Cindy (a white girl) interact as children and again as adults, Franklin's prose carefully details a world where right isn't always right and wrong is certainly just as hard to understand. This is a novel of mistakes and consequences and hatred and love and friendship and family and redemption. It was a quick read, and I loved every word of it.
Friday, December 14, 2012
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.
And I'll conclude as Max Lucado did. Because it seems most fitting as long as we travel through this world.
Hopefully . . .
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"Come, Thou Long-Expected Jesus" by Charles Wesley (arranged by Chris Tomlin)
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
And I'll conclude as Max Lucado did. Because it seems most fitting as long as we travel through this world.
Hopefully . . .
Monday, November 26, 2012
Overexposed
This is me. Baring my soul. It's easier to do when I'm sitting at Starbucks and you're wherever you are, and I don't need to look at you.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other randommental disorders diseases conditions, a lot of people don't think I'm telling the truth or think it's just an excuse or something everyone lives with.
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
For a while now I have been thinking about writing this. Many of my friends have heard me share bits and pieces, and they take it with varying degrees of acceptance, humor, and belief. I love them anyway. Because it's weird. Like face blindness and other random
Here's my reality: It hurts to cut my toenails. I can't wear nylons. When headlights shine in my eyes when I'm driving at night, I want to hit something. I don't like the taste of the candy coating on brown M&Ms. When my kids are poking me and people are whispering and the overhead light is flickering and someone behind me is tapping his foot and my necklace is laying wrong on my neck, I feel like someone is inside me clawing to get out. I have a sensory processing disorder.
Most of my life was spent in the dark about it. I thought I was just sensitive. My parents thought I was just being dramatic. People saw me and thought I was fine, but I knew that I wanted to run and hide. Or hit someone. Or throw up. Or just sit down and cry.
Several years ago, my husband bought a book for me. It is called Too Loud, Too Bright, Too Fast, Too Tight. He bought it for me because he loves me and because he thought it sounded exactly like me. I read it. And I cried. For the first time, I discovered that it was real, that I was real. That I could trust what I was feeling. And I learned that while I couldn't cure it, I could cope with it. And I could tell people about it.
I've spent the last several years doing that. Telling people. Often it's in an apologetic way: "I'm sorry, but I can't eat that--it's too spicy for me." Sometimes it's in a defensive way: "Well, it's spicy to me." Other times it's in a pleading way: "Please. I'm overwhelmed right now. I need a break." For the most part, people are kind, and usually they want to learn more about it or say that maybe that's the same thing their nephew has. Some people even want to know how they can help. But there are others (of course there are) who say, "Yeah--those things bother me too. I just shut them out." or "Well, if you try hard enough you can get over it." or even "Right. You just always need things to be your way."
Listen, that's hurtful. I didn't choose to be this way, and I promise you that I would change it if I could. I wish I could eat spicy things or onions. It would make me feel like less of a problem. I wish I could sit in a hot tub. I wouldn't miss out on the fun or wreck other people's plans for the evening. I wish I could "tune out" the nylons or the necklace or the pretty sweater. I would be able to wear the latest fashions then. I wish I could be around my kids when they're "just being kids" and not feel overwhelmed. I would feel like a better mother.
At the same time, there are things about it that I would never give up. Did you know that Asiago Cheese Bread from D&W has so much flavor that it doesn't need butter or anything else? Do you know that the red M&Ms are actually a bit sweeter than any of the other colors? Do you recognize the smell of snow on the air days before it falls? Can you smell spring when the first thaw begins? Are you able to picture exactly where you set something down or the song that was playing the last time you were in this spot? Can you (almost always) notice when someone gets a haircut or new glasses?
When people ask me what it's like to have a sensory processing disorder, I never know what to say. I never know how to compare my response to a "normal" response, because I've never had a normal response. Everyone has days when they're overwhelmed, and Disney World puts everyone over the edge at some point in their stay. All I've ever known to say is that it's real, I have it, and I need a break.
Then I read The Lifeboat by Charlotte Rogan. Without knowing it, she gave me the words to explain--to myself and to the people around me--exactly what a sensory processing disorder does. On page 64, Grace Winter is recalling the Empress Alexandra and the passengers she met aboard. She writes about memory and refers to a scientific explanation for why memory is faulty. Then she suggests that "sometimes . . . the failure to remember is not so much a pathological tendency as a natural consequence of necessity, for at any one moment there are hundreds of things that could take a person's attention, but room for the senses to notice and process only one or two."
Ah. There you have it. That is normal. The senses notice and process only one or two of the things happening around them. But, in my "abnormal" brain, my disordered sensory processing system notices all of the hundreds and tries to process all of them at once. Then I have to shut down or explode or melt down.
It's real. And lately I've been overstimulated 99% of the time. Today I'm wearing my lightest necklace, and I still feel a bit panicky. My skin itches and my shoes feel like they're cutting off my circulation. Something burned in the kitchen at Starbucks and the coffee has been sitting in the carafe for too long. The guy next to me is wearing a cologne that doesn't suit me, and there's a drip in the sink. It would be helpful if they turned the music down and if the girls at the table over there stopped their chatting. The bathroom door needs to be oiled, and I wish the only open seat when I arrived didn't have windows on both sides of it. Oh, and to top it all off, the people waiting in line are kissing. Loudly. I'll manage--one of the open tabs on my browser will give instructions for a friend and me to make a weighted blanket to help me center again, and I found really great perfume that seems to get me back to zero--but it's a daily battle.
I nearly called this post "Living in This 'Too Loud Too Bright Too Fast Too Tight' World," but in the end I chose something even more appropriate. Overexposed--that's how my nerve endings and my brain feel every day. And that's especially how I feel now that I've shared all of this. I'm telling you it's hard to be a mom with a sensory processing disorder. It's hard when I recognize it in my middle daughter and when our responses clash. But I'm learning to cope. And I'm learning to share it with others just like I would tell them if I couldn't hear well and needed them to speak up. There's no cure for what I have, but if you'll be patient with me and if you'll believe me when I share my heart and if you'll ask me before you hug me, then maybe we'll both discover that there are so many wonderful things that my disordered brain can offer.
Book Eighteen
The Lifeboat
Charlotte Rogan
The premise of The Lifeboat reminds me of one of those moral dilemmas that often come out when people are around a campfire or in a car together for too long: imagine you're in a lifeboat with a priest, a doctor, a mother, and it will sink unless you get rid of one person. Whom do you choose?
While the book ends up differently than that, it does present the same underlying question: are you a murderer if you survive at the cost of other lives? Set in the summer of 1914, The Lifeboat is, in part, the diary of Grace Winter as she recalls the days following the sinking of the ocean liner upon which she and her brand new husband were passengers. Grace finds herself in a lifeboat along with 38 other passengers. It quickly becomes clear that the boat, while "built for 40" was in fact not meant to hold more than 30 or so people. As she writes from a prison cell where she awaits her trial and verdict for murdering one of the passengers, she recounts the storms, power struggles, lives, and deaths of the others aboard the small vessel.
Interspersed with these chapters, the reader learns about Grace's husband and their elopement to London and a bit about Grace's life before that. Beyond that background knowledge about Grace, Charlotte Rogan does not give the reader any insight--beyond gossip shared by the other passengers--into the lives of the others hoping for rescue and fighting for survival. Thus, the reader is left to pass judgement and draw conclusions about the motives and justifications of the others. I closed The Lifeboat on its final page without answering many of the questions about those very judgements and conclusions, which, I suppose, is where Grace was left as well.
At its heart, this is a story about survival. It's about Grace's survival on the lifeboat, but it's also about our very own survival. What would you do if your boat is over capacity and dangerously close to sinking and you see a child in the water, close enough to reach and pull into your boat? What would you do if you know the boat will sink unless someone gets off and the "captain" asks for volunteers? What would you do if the most powerful person on the boat--the very person who would help you survive--told you to throw someone who endangered that survival overboard? How far would you go to survive? And, once you had, could you live with what you had done?
Charlotte Rogan
The premise of The Lifeboat reminds me of one of those moral dilemmas that often come out when people are around a campfire or in a car together for too long: imagine you're in a lifeboat with a priest, a doctor, a mother, and it will sink unless you get rid of one person. Whom do you choose?
While the book ends up differently than that, it does present the same underlying question: are you a murderer if you survive at the cost of other lives? Set in the summer of 1914, The Lifeboat is, in part, the diary of Grace Winter as she recalls the days following the sinking of the ocean liner upon which she and her brand new husband were passengers. Grace finds herself in a lifeboat along with 38 other passengers. It quickly becomes clear that the boat, while "built for 40" was in fact not meant to hold more than 30 or so people. As she writes from a prison cell where she awaits her trial and verdict for murdering one of the passengers, she recounts the storms, power struggles, lives, and deaths of the others aboard the small vessel.
Interspersed with these chapters, the reader learns about Grace's husband and their elopement to London and a bit about Grace's life before that. Beyond that background knowledge about Grace, Charlotte Rogan does not give the reader any insight--beyond gossip shared by the other passengers--into the lives of the others hoping for rescue and fighting for survival. Thus, the reader is left to pass judgement and draw conclusions about the motives and justifications of the others. I closed The Lifeboat on its final page without answering many of the questions about those very judgements and conclusions, which, I suppose, is where Grace was left as well.
At its heart, this is a story about survival. It's about Grace's survival on the lifeboat, but it's also about our very own survival. What would you do if your boat is over capacity and dangerously close to sinking and you see a child in the water, close enough to reach and pull into your boat? What would you do if you know the boat will sink unless someone gets off and the "captain" asks for volunteers? What would you do if the most powerful person on the boat--the very person who would help you survive--told you to throw someone who endangered that survival overboard? How far would you go to survive? And, once you had, could you live with what you had done?
Sunday, November 04, 2012
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
God's stockpiles of loyal love are immense. Believe it, dear friends. And even if you don't believe it, believe that I do.
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.
Wednesday, September 26, 2012
I Almost Missed It Too
No doubt about it! God is good--Psalm 73:1-5, The Message
good to good people, good to the good-hearted.
But I nearly missed it,
missed seeing his goodnesss.
I was looking the other way,
looking up to the people
At the top,
envying the wicked who have it made,
Who have nothing to worry about,
not a care in the whole wide world.
What a reminder, early this morning, as I sat on the too-small front porch of a house I want to sell as I looked out at two vans that just aren't quite as cool as the Land Rovers I see every day and listened to my too-close neighbors begin their days while their dogs bark incessantly.
Maybe it's a first-world problem, or maybe it's an American one, but I'm certain it's not just mine. Isn't it easy to envy other people who seemingly have it made? Isn't it easy to be discontent with the car I drive or the house I call home or the neighborhood where I live or the gifts and talents I have or everything else about my life that just isn't good enough? Isn't it far too easy to feel like other people "have it made, piling up riches" while we are "stupid to play by the rules" (vs. 12 in The Message)?
I have often said that the greatest disservice my mother ever did me was to teach me that I wasn't any more important than anyone else. It makes me wait in line longer than other people do, it makes me give money to church and to other people who need it, it makes me spend some of my free time working for others. It forces me to be a little bit less selfish.
Yet, I still forget. I still look at other people and all that they have and wonder if--how--I can get my hands on some of it.
And then I'm reminded. Whether it's by a blown call in a football game, giving a touchdown to someone who must know he didn't score one, or an artist selflessly offering to create something to benefit other people, or a few verses from a Psalm that I've read many times before. I'm reminded.
"No doubt about it! God is good . . . But I nearly missed it."
God, today, please open my eyes. Let me focus on the higher purpose. Let my focus be You and Your goodness.
You're all I want in heaven!Psalm 73:25-28, The Message
You're all I want on earth!
When my skin sags and my bones get brittle,
God is rock-firm and faithful.
Look! Those who left you are falling apart!
Deserters, they'll never be heard from again.
But I'm in the very presence of God--
oh, how refreshing it is!
I've made Lord God my home.
God, I'm telling the world what you do!
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