I work in a trauma-rich environment. That's the actual phrase they use to describe my workplace. My work is not specifically "trauma-rich"--I'm the Business Manager. I handle Human Resources and budgeting and accounts payable and such. So it's not my job per se that is trauma-rich. It's the place where I work.
We provide services for children who have been sexually abused.
And here's the thing. Nationally, over 90% of children are sexually abused by someone they know, love, or trust. In my county, in the nearly 10 years I've tracked these stats, it's closer to 99%. Think on that for a minute. Ninety-nine percent of children are sexually abused by someone they know. Someone they trust. Someone they love. It might be a family member or a family friend, but it isn't a stranger hiding behind a bush to nab them. It's someone their parents have let into their lives. Or it's the parent him or herself.
That's trauma-rich for you.
Because of the nature of our workplace, and the space our therapists and interviewers and family advocate and intake coordinator hold for our children to tell their stories, we've been talking about self care. Self care really looks different for everyone . . . and most of us are better at declaring what it's not. At a recent staff meeting, we talked about how proper self care is built on a foundation of entering in. It's a foundation of feeling what there is to feel and then handling it appropriately (i.e. not drinking too much, swearing, yelling at everyone around you, or eating. I know, right?).
Entering in.
Experiencing the feelings.
Not numbing them.
Because numbing them means you aren't feeling them. And the drinking, swearing, yelling, eating, and escaping is all about numbing.
Well, great. Now what? Entering in feels very, very scary. And very painful. And the opposite of what I really want to do.
So I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then I feel a bit better for a while. And then I go back to work or I have to "Mom" again or I somehow start to feel . . . and then I eat too much, or I yell, or I swear. And then the whole cycle starts over again.
And none of that is real or right or healthy or even all that helpful.
But there's a bigger problem. And the bigger problem is that when you numb what hurts you also numb what heals. Because numbing isn't self selective. You can't numb the bad without numbing the good. You can't escape the pain without also escaping the pleasure. At least that's what this TEDTalk lady said. She says humanity is about allowing yourself to be vulnerable. It's about entering in and sitting in the hurt and being honest about it. And she says it's impossible to connect without that.
As I sat there in our staff meeting and thinking about what she said (and how much I really wished someone had brought doughnuts to that staff meeting), I realized something. In the past I've written about my sensory processing disorder, and I've talked often about my own journey through postpartum depression and the meds and therapy that got me through that. What I maybe haven't mentioned is that for over a year I also took an antidepressant prescribed by my doctor simply because my sensory issues don't really lend themselves to having children and momming. Nice, right? So I dutifully took those pills, and I could make it through my days with work and kids and school and schedules.
And I made it through. And I didn't cry so much. And then I realized I didn't cry at all. And I didn't really laugh that much either. And I didn't really have a desire to write anymore or even the words to write. And I panicked when I realized I couldn't even really daydream. So I quit taking them. In my head I said, "Well, most writers are crazy. I'd rather have that crazy if it means I can create." But the truth was that I just wanted to cry again. I wanted to feel.
{Now I'm in no way advocating that everyone should get off their medication for depression or anxiety. I'm not even positive it was the right decision for me--and I definitely gained about 20 pounds, so one could argue I'm just doing a different kind of medicating--but it is something I needed to do. I needed to feel. BUT if you can't make it through your day and you can't enter in because you can't get out of bed, then you need to take something. If you can't enter in because all you can think about is hurting yourself or total escape, then you need to take something. If you can't enter in because you can't quiet your mind down enough to focus and breathe, then you need to take something. Please keep taking your something, but do it under a doctor's care and with a therapist who can help you safely enter in. And don't take yourself off your something without your doctor and your partner or close friends. Please.}
Our pastor is currently preaching through a series on The Lord's Prayer. A couple of weeks ago his message was on "Give us this day our daily bread." Our daily bread. What we need for today. He read Exodus 16 to us and preached about that manna. That "what is it?" That literal daily bread. Just enough for the one day.
I have so, so much. And I still want more. But He gave me Enough. Because that's who He is.
Enough.
Not more than I need. Not less than I need. Enough.
During the message, our pastor asked, "What do you complain about the most? What do you ask God for? A life of ease? A life of plenty? Or for your daily needs to be met?"
That really hit me.
Do I complain about not having enough? Do I complain about disappointment? Do I complain about discomfort? Or do I ask for my daily bread? Do I ask for justice? Do I ask for God's will? Do I simply ask for more God?
Do I ask for Ease?
Or do I ask for Enough?
When I ask for enough rather than ease or escape then I find that I had enough to begin with. That God, in His wisdom and knowing-all about my life, has already given me everything I need to enter in and rest in His enough.
Oh, it won't be easy. And I'll have to stop overeating or self medicating in whatever way is right in front of me. There will be pain, because that's what it means to be human. There will be vulnerability, and there will be times when it is so awful I want to stop. But when I enter in I will find that I have everything I need to make it through that day.
And I will laugh.
And I will cry.
And I will write.
And I will live.
(And hopefully I'll lose those 20 pounds.)
Showing posts with label blessing. Show all posts
Showing posts with label blessing. Show all posts
Monday, July 25, 2016
Friday, July 01, 2016
B: for Blessing; C: for Car
Admittedly, those are strange words to put together. But "B" and "C" come right by each other, and both played key roles in our last two weeks.
A few weeks ago Meg, who sits in the far back corner of our van on the passenger side, told me she would prefer not to ride in our car anymore if the tires were going to make so much squeaking noise every time we stopped--and she certainly wouldn't be going on our vacation with that racket. So I took the hint and brought the van in to the shop.
B is also for Brakes, and that was the problem. I needed new calipers. And, because I told the mechanic we were going on an Out West Trip and asked him to "kick the tires" to see if there were any problems, I also needed a new intake manifold gasket. Whatever that thing is. I authorized him to fix the calipers right away and set the intake thingy appointment. He fixed the van while I was at work, I picked the van back up, and I went on my merry way.
That was Tuesday. Friday I was in Traverse City with the ladies in my family, and I got a text message from my husband:
What did they do to your van?
Um . . . they fixed it. Why?
Nope. The front tires smelled of burning rubber, and smoke was billowing from the front passenger tire. Oi.
That Monday the van was back in the shop. The caliper had seized up--bad from the box--and would be replaced. The next day I walked back into the shop and picked up my van, with a fresh new caliper and that new intake thingy. And then three days later we were off.
My husband and I took our three girls on a week long vacation to the Black Hills of South Dakota and then to visit "family" on the East side of South Dakota--with an overnight at a covered wagon on the Ingalls family homestead in De Smet in between. Everything went well for the first hour. Then we had our first potty break. This was going to be a long trip, we could feel it.
Our first night we made it to Cedar Falls, IA. I totally screwed up on a non-refundable Orbitz room reservation for the Super 8 that night (turns out it was the 17th, not the 24th), but the staff at the Super 8 went above and beyond their jobs and settled it all. And took another $10 off our bill for good measure. Apparently everything is refundable if you have a tired face, cute kids, and an apologetic attitude. We slept well and were off on another day of making sandwiches in rest areas, searching for radio stations amidst the static, and playing the alphabet game.
An hour down the road Addie realized she left her blanket, "Dottie," behind at the hotel.
I called, they didn't find it, Addie cried then and again at bedtime that night. We were tucked into our little cabin at Mystery Mountain Resort in Rapid City, SD, by then. We decided she probably left Dottie at home and talked her into sleeping while snuggling my soft body pillow. I'll be honest. It didn't really work. Not that night or the next three.
The next two days were filled with the beauty of God's creation. We kept our Sabbath that day celebrating Daddy Beau with a hike through Wind Cave and a ride from Hill City to Keystone aboard the 10-mile-per-hour 1880's train. We saw prairie dogs and deer and Crazy Horse and craned our necks for a glimpse of a bighorn sheep like the crossing signs promised. The pool at our resort was lovely for the girls, and the tow truck driver who let Beau back in the keys-locked-inside van at the local Walmart was quite friendly. Monday was a trip to Wall Drug (have you dug it?), a journey through the Badlands National Park with several stops for hiking and "I think I heard a rattle snake" (and a big horn sheep sighting!), and a S-L-O-O-O-W van ride through Custer State Park. Our animal count increased to several antelope, a mama burro who scratched her neck on our side mirror (my window was definitely rolled up) while her baby nursed, 300 buffalo grazing in a field, and a million more prairie dogs. The hairpin turns and uphill climbs up Iron Mountain Road to Mt. Rushmore led us around a blind curve and apparent traffic jam . . . a herd of buffalo--papas, mamas, and babies. It was so cool. We made it to Mt. Rushmore for the very impressive lighting ceremony and back to bed by midnight "home" time.
Our last day there was meant to be a rest day. We talked about eating at a favorite restaurant, maybe taking in a few shops, and swimming a lot. Once we'd woken up though, Beau said, "Hey, do you want to take a quick drive on the Needles Highway through Custer?"
Yes. Yes, I do.
So we did. And it was one of the most incredible things I've ever seen. The hairpin turns and narrow tunnels through rocks and views were some of the most amazing things God has created. And right up until we coasted into the town of Custer, it was a perfect morning.
We first smelled the burning rubber when we stopped at the public restroom for one of the girls. Still, we thought, "Eh, that was hilly. It's fine." It wasn't fine. Beau switched with me to see if I noticed anything, and I couldn't get the van to go over 5 MPH. When I took my foot off the gas, we immediately stopped.
"This isn't fine," I said. Beau Googled repair shops, and we limped our way the two blocks back to the station. Where we learned that not only had the calipers seized up (again!), the tires were locked up too. Forty miles from all of our things. We went to Subway with a list of potential car rental places and sick stomachs. Nobody answered their phones except those who had nothing good to tell us . . . and the car place reported the tires had unlocked but the heat was so bad that the rotors had turned blue so we'd need new calipers again, new rotors again, and new pads again. Oh, and the outstanding news was that the calipers wouldn't be in until noon the next day. Two hours after we were supposed to check out and leave Rapid City. And the repairs wouldn't be done for two hours after that.
But wait. How were we even going to get back to Rapid City? There were no cars to rent in Custer. The cars to rent in Rapid City weren't going to get us from Custer to Rapid. We were stuck. My sandwich sat untouched on the table as I frantically texted my family and dear friends back home and on the East side of SD--Pray. Please pray.
"I didn't mean to overhear you," the man said as he sat down next to me. "But my wife and I were talking--it sounds like you need to get the five of you from here to Rapid City?"
I nodded, because it's all I had.
"We're headed there. We'd like to take you, if you'll let us."
I burst into tears, because it's all I had.
We rode back to Rapid City with perfect strangers, because sometimes God's blessings come in the form of angels embodying South Dakota hospitality. So the girls spent the afternoon in the pool at the resort, and we found a rental car, and we packed up our cabin ready to leave in the morning . . . still praying our van would be fixed on time, and we would get to our covered wagon five hours and one earlier time zone away before everyone fell asleep.
God works, friends. In real life. His blessings come in strangers and in resort owners who say, "take a late checkout--and feel free to leave here in storage whatever you can't fit in the car, pick it up whenever," and in car shops where parts arrive on time and the work gets completed on schedule. And then He even sends blessings in children not arguing or needing to stop for bathroom breaks and a 5 hour drive taking only fifteen minutes longer (because we had to get gas). He also sends blessings in a beautiful sunset over a corn field just before we pulled in to the Homestead and found our covered wagon before the light was gone. And then His blessings appear in stars visible in 360 degrees around us and a full fire moon and shooting stars above our heads and peaceful time enjoying it all.
We had a lovely visit with our dear South Dakota family where we were reminded that friends who became family 30 years ago are one of God's greatest blessings. Our time there was too short and will happen again many, many times over the years to come. Our Des Moines visit with our friends and former seminarian and his wife was treasured time as well, and our trip home involved two brief stops, and then home, sweet, home. Because time away is always blessed by returning home and sleeping in your own bed.
Two days ago, I pulled into the garage at our house, and I smelled burning rubber. And the tires were burning hot. One more trip to Chuck's Auto, and today I have a new master cylinder in my van. And a mechanic who is making sure the repairs in Custer are fully covered under warranty and that we are taken care of. Because sometimes God's blessings come through car repairs and mechanics who go the extra mile.
Our vacation was wonderful. And memorable. And we saw God's blessings in our every mile.
Oh! And the highlight started on the sofa at the farm, just a bit past bedtime, nearly a week after we left Cedar Falls.
"I left Dottie in the drawer under the TV," a sweet and tired little voice said. So I called the Super 8. And yesterday a box arrived for the sweet and still tired little girl. She ripped it open just enough to pull Dottie out, and she sniffed Dottie--"It's even washed, Mommy!"--and she draped Dottie over her head and spent the day snuggling the blanket she'd slept with every night of her life up until that night after Cedar Falls.
Because sometimes God's blessings are found in quick mail service and a thoughtful hotel . . . and a pink fuzzy blanket with brown polka dots.
A few weeks ago Meg, who sits in the far back corner of our van on the passenger side, told me she would prefer not to ride in our car anymore if the tires were going to make so much squeaking noise every time we stopped--and she certainly wouldn't be going on our vacation with that racket. So I took the hint and brought the van in to the shop.
B is also for Brakes, and that was the problem. I needed new calipers. And, because I told the mechanic we were going on an Out West Trip and asked him to "kick the tires" to see if there were any problems, I also needed a new intake manifold gasket. Whatever that thing is. I authorized him to fix the calipers right away and set the intake thingy appointment. He fixed the van while I was at work, I picked the van back up, and I went on my merry way.
That was Tuesday. Friday I was in Traverse City with the ladies in my family, and I got a text message from my husband:
What did they do to your van?
Um . . . they fixed it. Why?
Nope. The front tires smelled of burning rubber, and smoke was billowing from the front passenger tire. Oi.
That Monday the van was back in the shop. The caliper had seized up--bad from the box--and would be replaced. The next day I walked back into the shop and picked up my van, with a fresh new caliper and that new intake thingy. And then three days later we were off.
My husband and I took our three girls on a week long vacation to the Black Hills of South Dakota and then to visit "family" on the East side of South Dakota--with an overnight at a covered wagon on the Ingalls family homestead in De Smet in between. Everything went well for the first hour. Then we had our first potty break. This was going to be a long trip, we could feel it.
Our first night we made it to Cedar Falls, IA. I totally screwed up on a non-refundable Orbitz room reservation for the Super 8 that night (turns out it was the 17th, not the 24th), but the staff at the Super 8 went above and beyond their jobs and settled it all. And took another $10 off our bill for good measure. Apparently everything is refundable if you have a tired face, cute kids, and an apologetic attitude. We slept well and were off on another day of making sandwiches in rest areas, searching for radio stations amidst the static, and playing the alphabet game.
An hour down the road Addie realized she left her blanket, "Dottie," behind at the hotel.
I called, they didn't find it, Addie cried then and again at bedtime that night. We were tucked into our little cabin at Mystery Mountain Resort in Rapid City, SD, by then. We decided she probably left Dottie at home and talked her into sleeping while snuggling my soft body pillow. I'll be honest. It didn't really work. Not that night or the next three.
The next two days were filled with the beauty of God's creation. We kept our Sabbath that day celebrating Daddy Beau with a hike through Wind Cave and a ride from Hill City to Keystone aboard the 10-mile-per-hour 1880's train. We saw prairie dogs and deer and Crazy Horse and craned our necks for a glimpse of a bighorn sheep like the crossing signs promised. The pool at our resort was lovely for the girls, and the tow truck driver who let Beau back in the keys-locked-inside van at the local Walmart was quite friendly. Monday was a trip to Wall Drug (have you dug it?), a journey through the Badlands National Park with several stops for hiking and "I think I heard a rattle snake" (and a big horn sheep sighting!), and a S-L-O-O-O-W van ride through Custer State Park. Our animal count increased to several antelope, a mama burro who scratched her neck on our side mirror (my window was definitely rolled up) while her baby nursed, 300 buffalo grazing in a field, and a million more prairie dogs. The hairpin turns and uphill climbs up Iron Mountain Road to Mt. Rushmore led us around a blind curve and apparent traffic jam . . . a herd of buffalo--papas, mamas, and babies. It was so cool. We made it to Mt. Rushmore for the very impressive lighting ceremony and back to bed by midnight "home" time.
Our last day there was meant to be a rest day. We talked about eating at a favorite restaurant, maybe taking in a few shops, and swimming a lot. Once we'd woken up though, Beau said, "Hey, do you want to take a quick drive on the Needles Highway through Custer?"
Yes. Yes, I do.
So we did. And it was one of the most incredible things I've ever seen. The hairpin turns and narrow tunnels through rocks and views were some of the most amazing things God has created. And right up until we coasted into the town of Custer, it was a perfect morning.
We first smelled the burning rubber when we stopped at the public restroom for one of the girls. Still, we thought, "Eh, that was hilly. It's fine." It wasn't fine. Beau switched with me to see if I noticed anything, and I couldn't get the van to go over 5 MPH. When I took my foot off the gas, we immediately stopped.
"This isn't fine," I said. Beau Googled repair shops, and we limped our way the two blocks back to the station. Where we learned that not only had the calipers seized up (again!), the tires were locked up too. Forty miles from all of our things. We went to Subway with a list of potential car rental places and sick stomachs. Nobody answered their phones except those who had nothing good to tell us . . . and the car place reported the tires had unlocked but the heat was so bad that the rotors had turned blue so we'd need new calipers again, new rotors again, and new pads again. Oh, and the outstanding news was that the calipers wouldn't be in until noon the next day. Two hours after we were supposed to check out and leave Rapid City. And the repairs wouldn't be done for two hours after that.
But wait. How were we even going to get back to Rapid City? There were no cars to rent in Custer. The cars to rent in Rapid City weren't going to get us from Custer to Rapid. We were stuck. My sandwich sat untouched on the table as I frantically texted my family and dear friends back home and on the East side of SD--Pray. Please pray.
"I didn't mean to overhear you," the man said as he sat down next to me. "But my wife and I were talking--it sounds like you need to get the five of you from here to Rapid City?"
I nodded, because it's all I had.
"We're headed there. We'd like to take you, if you'll let us."
I burst into tears, because it's all I had.
We rode back to Rapid City with perfect strangers, because sometimes God's blessings come in the form of angels embodying South Dakota hospitality. So the girls spent the afternoon in the pool at the resort, and we found a rental car, and we packed up our cabin ready to leave in the morning . . . still praying our van would be fixed on time, and we would get to our covered wagon five hours and one earlier time zone away before everyone fell asleep.
God works, friends. In real life. His blessings come in strangers and in resort owners who say, "take a late checkout--and feel free to leave here in storage whatever you can't fit in the car, pick it up whenever," and in car shops where parts arrive on time and the work gets completed on schedule. And then He even sends blessings in children not arguing or needing to stop for bathroom breaks and a 5 hour drive taking only fifteen minutes longer (because we had to get gas). He also sends blessings in a beautiful sunset over a corn field just before we pulled in to the Homestead and found our covered wagon before the light was gone. And then His blessings appear in stars visible in 360 degrees around us and a full fire moon and shooting stars above our heads and peaceful time enjoying it all.
We had a lovely visit with our dear South Dakota family where we were reminded that friends who became family 30 years ago are one of God's greatest blessings. Our time there was too short and will happen again many, many times over the years to come. Our Des Moines visit with our friends and former seminarian and his wife was treasured time as well, and our trip home involved two brief stops, and then home, sweet, home. Because time away is always blessed by returning home and sleeping in your own bed.
Two days ago, I pulled into the garage at our house, and I smelled burning rubber. And the tires were burning hot. One more trip to Chuck's Auto, and today I have a new master cylinder in my van. And a mechanic who is making sure the repairs in Custer are fully covered under warranty and that we are taken care of. Because sometimes God's blessings come through car repairs and mechanics who go the extra mile.
Our vacation was wonderful. And memorable. And we saw God's blessings in our every mile.
Oh! And the highlight started on the sofa at the farm, just a bit past bedtime, nearly a week after we left Cedar Falls.
"I left Dottie in the drawer under the TV," a sweet and tired little voice said. So I called the Super 8. And yesterday a box arrived for the sweet and still tired little girl. She ripped it open just enough to pull Dottie out, and she sniffed Dottie--"It's even washed, Mommy!"--and she draped Dottie over her head and spent the day snuggling the blanket she'd slept with every night of her life up until that night after Cedar Falls.
Because sometimes God's blessings are found in quick mail service and a thoughtful hotel . . . and a pink fuzzy blanket with brown polka dots.
Sunday, December 13, 2015
A: for Advent
I don't write enough. I don't write enough to finish my novel or blog all my ideas. I don't write enough to appease my sister, my mom, my husband, or my closest friends. I don't write enough to be faithful to a calling on my life. And I don't write enough to feed my soul.
A while back I came across a fun idea to blog through the alphabet. I wanted to give it a go, but then I didn't. And I didn't for so long that I wondered if I ever would. Then an idea to write a post about something I read popped into my head, and in church this morning it dawned on me that it's an advent post, and advent starts with A. So here we go. (Hopefully you can read a post on zebras or zoology or ziplock baggies in December of 2016. We'll call that a win.)
This has been a hard advent.
Family members have given up watching the news. Eyes are regularly filled with tears threatening to spill. People are dying, hate is filling the news . . . I met a woman who said she and her husband were talking about their children growing up and wondering what world would be here for the children they might have some day . . . and whether they should even have those children. Life is hard. And this advent doesn't feel much like a season of joyous anticipation.
Some advents are. Some years the air is bursting with excitement as we count down the weeks until the Christ candle is lit and all the presents are ripped open. It's more of a "Hey, you guys! One more week down! Only three to go! Can you hardly wait?!"
But this year. This year it's more of a pleading. A "How long do we have to wait? I don't know if I can do this another day, let alone another week. Come, Lord Jesus. Why are you taking so long?"
My oldest daughter and I just finished reading the Harry Potter series together. I loved them even more this time, reading them with her. The 7th book was especially meaningful, and I love that we read it during advent. There is a scene that caused those close tears to fall and my voice to catch so much I had to pause. My daughter looked at me when I did, both of us lying there in my bed. She just looked up at me, and I smiled while the tears fell and said, "This is life. This is what keeps us going." She smiled and nodded, and we read on.
A hundred dementors were advancing, gliding toward them, sucking their way closer to Harry's despair, which was like a promise of a feast . . .
He saw Ron's silver terrier burst into the air, flicker feebly, and expire; he saw Hermione's otter twist in midair and fade; and his own wand trembled in his hand, and he almost welcomed the oncoming oblivion, the promise of nothing, of no feeling . . .
And then a silver hare, a boar, and a fox soared past Harry, Ron, and Hermione's heads: The dementors fell back before the creatures' approach. Three more people had arrived out of the darkness to stand beside them, their wands outstretched, continuing to cast their Patronuses: Luna, Ernie, and Seamus.
"That's right," said Luna encouragingly, as if they were back in the Room of Requirement and this was simply spell practice for the D.A. "That's right, Harry . . . come on, think of something happy . . ."
"Something happy?" he said, his voice cracked.
"We're all still here," she whispered, "we're still fighting. Come on, now . . ."
There was a silver spark, then a wavering light, and then, with the greatest effort it had ever cost him, the stag burst forth from the end of Harry's wand . . . {Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, p649}
This has been a year, friends. Mine started with my dad in surgery to remove cancer from his body. Along the way between then and now, friends' parents have been lost, jobs have been taken, pregnancies have been deemed "high risk," Beirut, Paris, San Bernadino, Colorado, Oregon, airplanes have been blown out of the sky, and, just last week, a friend's 17-year-old daughter committed suicide.
Life is wearying, and this advent feels like more of a lament than a joy.
As the pastor said during last week's funeral, this in between is a hard place to live.
It is, isn't it? This in between when Jesus was born and died and resurrected and ascended and when Jesus comes again to set everything right can feel like hell on earth. It feels never ending, and I worry sometimes that it may be all consuming. This might be the death of us.
At least that's how it feels.
But then, there's someone there. Someone who stands next to me and whispers, "Did you see God right there?" Someone who lifts me up and helps me stand. Someone who says, "We're still here. And we're still fighting."
And then there's Hope.
I was asked on Friday what is my happiness. "If you really knew me, you would know my happiness is . . ."
And my answer was, "Hope."
My happiness is Hope. This year, in the midst of all this darkness and fighting and lamenting and crying I quit taking my antidepressant. The main reason was crazy, foolish even perhaps. But I also wanted to see if I could do it. And so far I have. Because my happiness is Hope. It's seeing a glimmer of God, of His people fighting, of all of us together lamenting His advent.
On Friday I was also challenged to share my happiness. So . . . I give you Hope. I wish for you, in whatever your lament, Hope. Deep-seated, rooted somewhere you can't even see Hope.
Monday, April 30, 2012
Strange Whom He Chooses to Use
This morning was a rough time. Ellie and I really struggle in the morning--she's too much like me for me to handle in a mature manner, and she's too much like her dad to be a morning person. That combination leads to most mornings beginning with a fight and tears from at least one of us. This morning it ended up being both of us.
As I cried my way through most of my morning shower--alternating between complaining to God and pleading with Him--it dawned on me (again) how hard it is to be a parent. Many days I'm not even positive that I enjoy parenting, and most days I'm confident that I don't have what it takes. I think most mornings I allow the arguing and the nagging and the crying and yelling (all of which come from both of us most days) to settle into my brain with a resounding, "Beka, you are a shitty mom." Forgive the language, but that's where I settle. Today was one of those days. I prayed that God would help me love my job of mothering His precious girls and that He would help me figure out how to be good at it.
After searching for shoes, getting stuck combs out of hair, and reminding everyone that there isn't really time to chat while we're brushing our teeth, we left the house a bit late. The rain made it clear we wouldn't arrive to school on time (every tardy Ellie gets is a reflection on my ineptitude as a mother, you know), so I was still grumbling in my spirit. Then, traffic slowed to a standstill on the highway, and my battery light popped on. No. Time. For. This. I pulled off at the next exit, drove around for a couple of minutes, and the light went off. Deciding not to drive on the highway in monsoon conditions, I opted to take the back roads. As we stopped at our first traffic light, the battery light popped on again. I said a quick prayer that we'd make it to both of the girls' schools before the van stalled completely and continued on with our morning routine.
After we dropped Meg off, Addie and I headed to AutoZone to get the battery tested and replaced. I was still feeling like a royal failure at everything and felt on the verge of tears. We've discussed Addie's obsessive question-asking in the past, so it should surprise no one that she had to touch every item in the display under the cash register and ask--several times--what each item was. I can't count the number of deep breaths I took as I patiently attempted to answer each question with both the identification and an example of use in our lives (only because she asked for it, mind you--my high school Geometry teacher could have used my question-answering skills!).
As I handed my debit card to Tony, the kind AutoZone man, he said, "You're a great mom, by the way."
Me? A great mom? How did you know I needed to hear that? He went on to explain that most parents just tell their kids they don't need to know the answer and swat their hands away. So there was his answer. The world's answer. But I know that he could just as easily have said, "Huh. Most parents don't answer their kids' questions in here. Good work, Mom." Instead, he used the exact words I needed to hear: "You're a great mom, by the way."
Thank you, Tony. God used you to answer the cry of my heart.
And thank you, God. For both the message through Tony and for the reminder that I, too, could be the person You use to answer the cry of a mother's--or a father's or a teenager's or a stressed-out worker's--heart around me.
As I cried my way through most of my morning shower--alternating between complaining to God and pleading with Him--it dawned on me (again) how hard it is to be a parent. Many days I'm not even positive that I enjoy parenting, and most days I'm confident that I don't have what it takes. I think most mornings I allow the arguing and the nagging and the crying and yelling (all of which come from both of us most days) to settle into my brain with a resounding, "Beka, you are a shitty mom." Forgive the language, but that's where I settle. Today was one of those days. I prayed that God would help me love my job of mothering His precious girls and that He would help me figure out how to be good at it.
After searching for shoes, getting stuck combs out of hair, and reminding everyone that there isn't really time to chat while we're brushing our teeth, we left the house a bit late. The rain made it clear we wouldn't arrive to school on time (every tardy Ellie gets is a reflection on my ineptitude as a mother, you know), so I was still grumbling in my spirit. Then, traffic slowed to a standstill on the highway, and my battery light popped on. No. Time. For. This. I pulled off at the next exit, drove around for a couple of minutes, and the light went off. Deciding not to drive on the highway in monsoon conditions, I opted to take the back roads. As we stopped at our first traffic light, the battery light popped on again. I said a quick prayer that we'd make it to both of the girls' schools before the van stalled completely and continued on with our morning routine.
After we dropped Meg off, Addie and I headed to AutoZone to get the battery tested and replaced. I was still feeling like a royal failure at everything and felt on the verge of tears. We've discussed Addie's obsessive question-asking in the past, so it should surprise no one that she had to touch every item in the display under the cash register and ask--several times--what each item was. I can't count the number of deep breaths I took as I patiently attempted to answer each question with both the identification and an example of use in our lives (only because she asked for it, mind you--my high school Geometry teacher could have used my question-answering skills!).
As I handed my debit card to Tony, the kind AutoZone man, he said, "You're a great mom, by the way."
Me? A great mom? How did you know I needed to hear that? He went on to explain that most parents just tell their kids they don't need to know the answer and swat their hands away. So there was his answer. The world's answer. But I know that he could just as easily have said, "Huh. Most parents don't answer their kids' questions in here. Good work, Mom." Instead, he used the exact words I needed to hear: "You're a great mom, by the way."
Thank you, Tony. God used you to answer the cry of my heart.
And thank you, God. For both the message through Tony and for the reminder that I, too, could be the person You use to answer the cry of a mother's--or a father's or a teenager's or a stressed-out worker's--heart around me.
Wednesday, January 18, 2012
Learning from Job and Tripp
I love the book of Job. It ends with the most beautiful images of creation. It includes sassy responses from God. It shows a strong man standing up to his friends. And it provides a stunning glimpse of joy in the midst of suffering.
Late last week, the book of Job was brought to mind again as I was introduced to Tripp Roth. A friend on Facebook posted the link to Courtney Roth's blog about being a mommy to her son, Tripp. This is a young woman in the prime of her life--enjoying being a wife and excited about the arrival of her son. I encourage you to check out her blog, starting with Tripp's Story. Within hours of his birth, Courtney and her husband, Randy, were told that he suffered from Epidermolysis Bullosa. Basically his skin was so thin that any contact with it would result in painful blisters to form. After discussing his case with various doctors and running numerous tests--all of which caused Tripp's skin to blister and tear--it became apparent that Tripp had a fatal case of EB and would be lucky to reach his 2nd birthday.
Tripp died on January 14, at 2 years and 8 months old. A recent visit to an expert revealed that with less care than his mother had given him, he would likely have died around his first birthday. He should have died then. Instead, his mother, who had never held her son skin to skin in her arms, never crushed him into her hug, never played tickle games, never smothered his face in kisses, committed her life to caring for her son. Her marriage to Tripp's father suffered and ended. She moved in with her parents, where her mother could help her with full time care. She spent 2 years and 8 months wrapping her son in a blanket, coaxing him to eat, sedating him to give him baths because the pain was so intense, watching her son's eyes fuse shut. She spent 2 years and 8 months knowing her son was in constant pain and knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it. And she spent 2 years and 8 months thanking God for every breath her son took, every drum beat she listened to him play, every smile he offered.
Her blog and Facebook page have allowed us a glimpse into her pain and inspiration from the care that she took of a little boy medical professionals and others told her she would be justified to leave in a hospital bed where she would visit from time to time. Or nurses could have bathed him in her home. She could have saved her marriage--after all, she knew her son's condition was fatal. Instead, she stayed by his side. Why? Because he was her son. She was his mother. He was her gift from God.
By the time that I discovered her blog and met Tripp, Courtney knew that his short life was ending. She rejoiced that he would soon be pain free, that his first skin to skin contact would be with Jesus Christ, God made flesh. God with torn flesh. And she asked that the ending would be peaceful--for Tripp, for her, and for her family. That's what we prayed for.
On Saturday, shortly after her only son took his final breaths wrapped snugly in a blanket in her arms, she wrote that heaven had a new drummer boy. She wrote of her broken heart and her grief. And then she wrote, "Please don't forget to thank God for the PEACE we prayed to him for."
Who does that? So few of us even remember to thank God for answered prayer in the best of times. Yet, here was a grieving mother, reminding us to thank God for answering our prayers. Courtney understood--and shared in her 2011 Christmas card to all of her blog followers--what Job knew. I can only pray that I know it, too. Especially when it matters most.
Late last week, the book of Job was brought to mind again as I was introduced to Tripp Roth. A friend on Facebook posted the link to Courtney Roth's blog about being a mommy to her son, Tripp. This is a young woman in the prime of her life--enjoying being a wife and excited about the arrival of her son. I encourage you to check out her blog, starting with Tripp's Story. Within hours of his birth, Courtney and her husband, Randy, were told that he suffered from Epidermolysis Bullosa. Basically his skin was so thin that any contact with it would result in painful blisters to form. After discussing his case with various doctors and running numerous tests--all of which caused Tripp's skin to blister and tear--it became apparent that Tripp had a fatal case of EB and would be lucky to reach his 2nd birthday.
Tripp died on January 14, at 2 years and 8 months old. A recent visit to an expert revealed that with less care than his mother had given him, he would likely have died around his first birthday. He should have died then. Instead, his mother, who had never held her son skin to skin in her arms, never crushed him into her hug, never played tickle games, never smothered his face in kisses, committed her life to caring for her son. Her marriage to Tripp's father suffered and ended. She moved in with her parents, where her mother could help her with full time care. She spent 2 years and 8 months wrapping her son in a blanket, coaxing him to eat, sedating him to give him baths because the pain was so intense, watching her son's eyes fuse shut. She spent 2 years and 8 months knowing her son was in constant pain and knowing there was nothing she could do to stop it. And she spent 2 years and 8 months thanking God for every breath her son took, every drum beat she listened to him play, every smile he offered.
Her blog and Facebook page have allowed us a glimpse into her pain and inspiration from the care that she took of a little boy medical professionals and others told her she would be justified to leave in a hospital bed where she would visit from time to time. Or nurses could have bathed him in her home. She could have saved her marriage--after all, she knew her son's condition was fatal. Instead, she stayed by his side. Why? Because he was her son. She was his mother. He was her gift from God.
By the time that I discovered her blog and met Tripp, Courtney knew that his short life was ending. She rejoiced that he would soon be pain free, that his first skin to skin contact would be with Jesus Christ, God made flesh. God with torn flesh. And she asked that the ending would be peaceful--for Tripp, for her, and for her family. That's what we prayed for.
On Saturday, shortly after her only son took his final breaths wrapped snugly in a blanket in her arms, she wrote that heaven had a new drummer boy. She wrote of her broken heart and her grief. And then she wrote, "Please don't forget to thank God for the PEACE we prayed to him for."
Who does that? So few of us even remember to thank God for answered prayer in the best of times. Yet, here was a grieving mother, reminding us to thank God for answering our prayers. Courtney understood--and shared in her 2011 Christmas card to all of her blog followers--what Job knew. I can only pray that I know it, too. Especially when it matters most.
"Should we indeed accept good from God and not accept adversity?" Job 2:10
Thursday, January 05, 2012
You Are Blessed
Today's readings came from Genesis, Joshua, Psalms, and Matthew. I'm pleased to be reading in The Message, because Peterson's phrasing brings ancient words to life in ways that make me feel I'm reading them for the first time. Some of these passages are otherwise so familiar that I don't even actually absorb the words I'm reading. His phrasing in two of today's passages have really given me something to chew on today. First, from Psalm 4:6-8:
I have friends who are fighting a fight that I've never fought and hope I never have to. Just over one year ago, their lives were flipped upside down--they'd lost what was most dear to them: the security of health for one of their children. Through this year, as they've fought beside their nine-year-old son as he fights the negative effects of the chemo and radiation that are needed to fight his brain tumor, I've been encouraged and inspired.
After high school ended, I went to a college outside of West Michigan and away from nearly everyone with whom I'd attended high school. Through our different circumstances, the miles, and my inability to keep in touch, all of those friendships that had carried me through high school ended. Including friendships with my closest friends. I suppose this is normal, and something that happens to many of those relationships. With the advent of Facebook, I've been able to at least get back in touch, if not rekindle old friendships, with many of those important people. With Mitchell's family, that has come through their battle with cancer.
I don't know why that little boy, and that family. I don't know why any family, really. But I do know that I'm blessed to have known Mitchell's parents when I was younger (couldn't have made it through middle school and paper routes without his mom and dad!), and I'm blessed to walk alongside them now, even at a distance. Because I have never known a family that is more blessed.
Surely this has been a hard year for them. Surely this has been a year from hell for them. Surely there have been tears and yelling at God and wanting to give up and being afraid to not fight and being afraid to fight. Surely there has been more than they can imagine. But, Mitchell is almost done with his treatments now. He's on his last cycle and scheduled to be done on Februrary 15. They can see the finish line, and by God's hand, they are in the lead. Mitchell's mom shared all of this with us in her most recent Carepages post. And then she talked about all they've gained. She talked about how they've changed. She quoted Laura Story's song, "Blessing":
Why is everyone hungry for more? "More, more," they say.And, from Matthew 5, the Sermon on the Mount:
"More, more."
I have God's more-than-enough,
More joy in one ordinary day
Than they get in all their shopping sprees.
At day's end I'm ready for sound sleep,
For you, God, have put my life back together.
You're blessed when you're at the end of your rope. With less of you there is more of God and his rule.
You're blessed when you feel you've lost what is most dear to you. Only then can you be embraced by the One most dear to you.
You're blessed when you're content with just who you are--no more, no less. That's the moment you find yourselves proud owners of everything that can't be bought.
You're blessed when you've worked up a good appetite for God. He's food and drink in the best meal you'll ever eat.
You're blessed when you care. At the moment of being 'care-full,' you find yourselves cared for.
You're blessed when you get your inside world--your mind and heart--put right. Then you can see God in the outside world.
You're blessed when you can show people how to cooperate instead of compete or fight. That's when you discover who you really are, and your place in God's family.
You're blessed when your commitment to God provokes persecution. The persecution drives you even deeper into God's kingdom.
I have friends who are fighting a fight that I've never fought and hope I never have to. Just over one year ago, their lives were flipped upside down--they'd lost what was most dear to them: the security of health for one of their children. Through this year, as they've fought beside their nine-year-old son as he fights the negative effects of the chemo and radiation that are needed to fight his brain tumor, I've been encouraged and inspired.
After high school ended, I went to a college outside of West Michigan and away from nearly everyone with whom I'd attended high school. Through our different circumstances, the miles, and my inability to keep in touch, all of those friendships that had carried me through high school ended. Including friendships with my closest friends. I suppose this is normal, and something that happens to many of those relationships. With the advent of Facebook, I've been able to at least get back in touch, if not rekindle old friendships, with many of those important people. With Mitchell's family, that has come through their battle with cancer.
I don't know why that little boy, and that family. I don't know why any family, really. But I do know that I'm blessed to have known Mitchell's parents when I was younger (couldn't have made it through middle school and paper routes without his mom and dad!), and I'm blessed to walk alongside them now, even at a distance. Because I have never known a family that is more blessed.
Surely this has been a hard year for them. Surely this has been a year from hell for them. Surely there have been tears and yelling at God and wanting to give up and being afraid to not fight and being afraid to fight. Surely there has been more than they can imagine. But, Mitchell is almost done with his treatments now. He's on his last cycle and scheduled to be done on Februrary 15. They can see the finish line, and by God's hand, they are in the lead. Mitchell's mom shared all of this with us in her most recent Carepages post. And then she talked about all they've gained. She talked about how they've changed. She quoted Laura Story's song, "Blessing":
'Cause what if Your blessings come through raindropsAnd then she reminded all of us that when we give our whole selves to Him--when we have nothing left to give, when He has broken our hearts--He gives His whole self back to us. He puts our lives back together again. We're changed, but we're blessed.
What if Your healing comes through tears
What if a thousand sleepless nights
Are what it takes to know You're near
What if trials of this life are Your mercies in disguise
Thursday, November 05, 2009
Happy Unbirthday, Baby!
Today is the day we originally assigned as the birthday of our youngest children. When your labors are as predictable (short and late) as mine, you get to do just that: assign a birthday. Seems like this entire pregnancy had ideas other than predictable, though.
As we approached our due date--and assigned induction day--I had severe moments of anxiety, wondering what the initial unpredictability would bring. What would it be like to deliver twins, knowing that only one of them would leave the hospital with us? How would the birth certificate for the live child look? How would we explain it all to Ellie, to Meggie, to Addie? So many questions, all saved for the 5th of November.
The unpredictability deepened when my doctor said he would like to induce at 39 weeks instead of just after 40. That bumped the assigned birthday to October 27 and took 10 days from my predetermined timeline. I came to terms with that and busied myself with the laundry, nursery set up, and other little projects around the house.
Then, as unpredictability would have it, my water broke at midnight on October 21. As we rushed to the hospital (after about ten minutes of disbelief and confusion about the next step), we forgot so many things. The camera, last kisses for the girls, my pillow, pens for the scrapbook, anxiety about delivery . . . so much was brushed aside by the confusion of not knowing what was going on. As the night would dawn into morning and realization that the moment was here and Addie would pick their birthday after all, all that we had forgotten made itself known.
I wish I could put words to the matter-of-fact feelings mixed with deep sadness as I delivered Addison's placenta and Baby Zion all at once, with no effort and almost no awareness. Then to hear that Baby Zion's body had been absorbed and to watch them seal my beloved child--Addie's twin--into a plastic container to be sent in for testing . . . but there are no words. Just feelings as mixed as they were the day we learned that there had been two.
Today there were three beautiful girls in the van on the way to Addie's two-week checkup. There were three loud girls in the waiting room and three crying girls during the shot-giving portion of the checkup (H1N1 vaccines for the older two and Mommy). Addie slept through our shots, and the tears were mine at both Ellie's reaction and the awareness that though there were three, there should have been four. Forever there should have been four where there are three. This is our life. And it is a blessed life even when it doesn't make sense.
Today my third of four children is finally "full term." She is 7 lbs. 13 oz. and 20 inches long. She is healthy and growing and beautiful. And her life is richer for the time she spent with Baby Zion.
As we approached our due date--and assigned induction day--I had severe moments of anxiety, wondering what the initial unpredictability would bring. What would it be like to deliver twins, knowing that only one of them would leave the hospital with us? How would the birth certificate for the live child look? How would we explain it all to Ellie, to Meggie, to Addie? So many questions, all saved for the 5th of November.
The unpredictability deepened when my doctor said he would like to induce at 39 weeks instead of just after 40. That bumped the assigned birthday to October 27 and took 10 days from my predetermined timeline. I came to terms with that and busied myself with the laundry, nursery set up, and other little projects around the house.
Then, as unpredictability would have it, my water broke at midnight on October 21. As we rushed to the hospital (after about ten minutes of disbelief and confusion about the next step), we forgot so many things. The camera, last kisses for the girls, my pillow, pens for the scrapbook, anxiety about delivery . . . so much was brushed aside by the confusion of not knowing what was going on. As the night would dawn into morning and realization that the moment was here and Addie would pick their birthday after all, all that we had forgotten made itself known.
I wish I could put words to the matter-of-fact feelings mixed with deep sadness as I delivered Addison's placenta and Baby Zion all at once, with no effort and almost no awareness. Then to hear that Baby Zion's body had been absorbed and to watch them seal my beloved child--Addie's twin--into a plastic container to be sent in for testing . . . but there are no words. Just feelings as mixed as they were the day we learned that there had been two.
Today there were three beautiful girls in the van on the way to Addie's two-week checkup. There were three loud girls in the waiting room and three crying girls during the shot-giving portion of the checkup (H1N1 vaccines for the older two and Mommy). Addie slept through our shots, and the tears were mine at both Ellie's reaction and the awareness that though there were three, there should have been four. Forever there should have been four where there are three. This is our life. And it is a blessed life even when it doesn't make sense.
Today my third of four children is finally "full term." She is 7 lbs. 13 oz. and 20 inches long. She is healthy and growing and beautiful. And her life is richer for the time she spent with Baby Zion.
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