I went to the post office today, which of course conjures up all kinds of nightmarish thoughts it being December 14th and all. But, I had a box to mail to the husband of a friend who is stationed overseas in the Army and so I sucked it up and headed over there. It actually wasn't too bad and the people were generally in a good mood, so even though I had the wrong forms filled out it went fine, until the clerk asked me if I wanted the box back if it was "undeliverable", or if I wanted it donated to the chaplain. Now, as my sweet husband tried to console me with, there are lots of reasons a package would be undeliverable. Loads in fact, especially considering we are talking about the US Postal service. But, all I could see in my mind are the countless families sending packages to their loved ones serving in the armed forces and waiting and praying for their return. I barely kept it together until I got to the parking lot.
When I got in the car and turned it on all I heard were Christmas songs, which are so common in December on the radio anymore that I tend to treat them like white noise. I occasionally turn up a particularly loved tune, but for the most part it's just background "filler". But today the song "Mary Did You Know" came on", and although I've heard it lots of times, today it really made an impact on me. It made me really stop and consider the gift of sacrifices.
I started wondering if Mary really knew the impact of her Son being born, if she really understood the sacrifice that would be required of Him, and also of her. It says in Luke 2:19 "But Mary kept these things and pondered them in her heart". But, did she ponder *that*? Did she sit there and realize that this infant she bore, that she loved, would willingly give Himself not only for her, but for all mankind? How could she ever have considered that? It's at once a terrible and awesome thing to reconcile.
Clearly nobody whose loved ones voluntarily put themselves in harm's way spend too much time thinking about that. I mean, really, how could you and continue to function every day? I doubt my friend whose husband is in the Army does, she's too busy trying to care for 3 young children. And how about the rest of us; those of us who just wander around every day filling our lives with "important" duties? Do we ever really stop to "ponder these things in our hearts"? When is the last time you *truly* thought on the topic of sacrifice?
As you go about these last days in preparation for the holidays spend some time thinking about it. What would *you* be willing to sacrifice for?, What, or who do you think is worthy of sacrifice? Contemplating those questions could prove to be very enlightening not only on how we view those who serve us here on earth, but also in how we relate to the One who gave it all.
Tuesday, December 14, 2010
Thursday, December 2, 2010
Thanksgiving in the midst of grief
I am not a fan of Thanksgiving. There, I said it. I know I am probably not the only one who feels that way, but I am most definitely in the minority. I love the *idea* of Thanksgiving and I am appreciative for my many blessings, but on the actual day itself the feeling of gratitude eludes me. Quite honestly the holiday has been spoiled for me. The year before Chloe was born I had a miscarriage on Thanksgiving and that day has just never, ever been the same since.
Losing a baby is a uniquely awful experience. The unborn are not uniformly considered "living entities", and as such are often considered expendable. In addition, the loss of something intangible is especially difficult to reconcile. The death of a "living" child engenders all kinds of sympathy from friends and family, while a miscarriage generally goes unmentioned, as if the hurt will be less if it's all just forgotten.
The problem is, it can't just be forgotten. I remember an encounter a while back, earlier in our marriage, not long after we had moved into our house in Ohio. I was a young mom of two and was blissfully innocent of loss. I was talking to my new neighbor Julie, who had shared with me that she had just recently miscarried a child. She described the difficulty in mourning that loss because people just encouraged her to "move on and get over it". "You'll have another" was something she heard over and over again, as if getting pregnant soon would instantly fix everything. I had no idea what to say to her, I recognized she was hurting, but was woefully ignorant of how I should respond. Finally I just said what, at the time, seemed like common courtesy. I replied "Well, it must be hard because once you know you're pregnant, it's a real baby to you". I'm not sure that's an exact quote, but I do remember vividly what she said in reply. She said "It's so nice that you said that, it means a lot to me". I didn't think about it much at the time, the moment was over and I had no real connection to the event. Many years later I remembered those words and I longed to have someone say them to me.
We had discovered I was expecting a couple of weeks before visiting my in-laws for Thanksgiving. Looking back, I was apprehensive about the pregnancy and traveling, I had experienced extreme nausea and vomiting with my first two babies and this pregnancy was surprisingly illness free. My doctor reassured me that all pregnancies are unique, but deep down I was anxious. It turned out my fears were realized and I started bleeding not long after we arrived in Georgia, a drive of 16 hours from our home. I spent most of the week in and out of the emergency room at the local medical center. As I lay in the hospital listening to the nurse ask me why I was crying (no, I'm not kidding), I remembered that long past conversation with Julie. What I would have given for someone, anyone to validate my loss, to comfort my pain, to understand that the hurt of losing a baby is like having the most wonderful gift waved in front of your face and promised to you, only to have it snatched away just as you reach for it. A miscarriage isn't just the tangible loss of a loved one, it is the loss of a dream, of all the hopes and plans for an unknown child. It is involuntarily relinquishing the lifelong opportunity of love, both given and received. And through it all, having almost no one acknowledge or legitimize your grief.
Looking back I see now that most people are woefully unskilled at intentional comfort. The majority of people shy away from grief and will do anything to avoid confronting it. I recognize now that Andre had absolutely no idea how to give me solace in the midst of his own loss. My in-laws said nothing beyond their frustration that we decided to leave on Thanksgiving Day and drive the 16 long hours back home to familiar doctors. To this day all they have expressed is the disappointment that their holiday was "ruined". The baby, their lost grandchild, has not once been mentioned.
And so, as I continue to struggle with mixed emotions, I condemn myself for not moving past this loss, wondering if I will ever enjoy Thanksgiving again, and discovering that sometimes it's most difficult to extend grace to yourself. After a lot of prayer and journaling, I realized my reluctance to completely give my pain and anger to God is due to my belief that, once it is gone, it will be like the pregnancy never happened at all, as if the baby, our child, never even existed.
Of course God stands ever ready to receive my pain, to offer His merciful grace whenever I am ready to accept that gift. Somehow I need to learn a way to relinquish my grief to Him, and yet hold dear the memory of a promise never realized. Only then will I be able to truly celebrate with thanksgiving again.
Losing a baby is a uniquely awful experience. The unborn are not uniformly considered "living entities", and as such are often considered expendable. In addition, the loss of something intangible is especially difficult to reconcile. The death of a "living" child engenders all kinds of sympathy from friends and family, while a miscarriage generally goes unmentioned, as if the hurt will be less if it's all just forgotten.
The problem is, it can't just be forgotten. I remember an encounter a while back, earlier in our marriage, not long after we had moved into our house in Ohio. I was a young mom of two and was blissfully innocent of loss. I was talking to my new neighbor Julie, who had shared with me that she had just recently miscarried a child. She described the difficulty in mourning that loss because people just encouraged her to "move on and get over it". "You'll have another" was something she heard over and over again, as if getting pregnant soon would instantly fix everything. I had no idea what to say to her, I recognized she was hurting, but was woefully ignorant of how I should respond. Finally I just said what, at the time, seemed like common courtesy. I replied "Well, it must be hard because once you know you're pregnant, it's a real baby to you". I'm not sure that's an exact quote, but I do remember vividly what she said in reply. She said "It's so nice that you said that, it means a lot to me". I didn't think about it much at the time, the moment was over and I had no real connection to the event. Many years later I remembered those words and I longed to have someone say them to me.
We had discovered I was expecting a couple of weeks before visiting my in-laws for Thanksgiving. Looking back, I was apprehensive about the pregnancy and traveling, I had experienced extreme nausea and vomiting with my first two babies and this pregnancy was surprisingly illness free. My doctor reassured me that all pregnancies are unique, but deep down I was anxious. It turned out my fears were realized and I started bleeding not long after we arrived in Georgia, a drive of 16 hours from our home. I spent most of the week in and out of the emergency room at the local medical center. As I lay in the hospital listening to the nurse ask me why I was crying (no, I'm not kidding), I remembered that long past conversation with Julie. What I would have given for someone, anyone to validate my loss, to comfort my pain, to understand that the hurt of losing a baby is like having the most wonderful gift waved in front of your face and promised to you, only to have it snatched away just as you reach for it. A miscarriage isn't just the tangible loss of a loved one, it is the loss of a dream, of all the hopes and plans for an unknown child. It is involuntarily relinquishing the lifelong opportunity of love, both given and received. And through it all, having almost no one acknowledge or legitimize your grief.
Looking back I see now that most people are woefully unskilled at intentional comfort. The majority of people shy away from grief and will do anything to avoid confronting it. I recognize now that Andre had absolutely no idea how to give me solace in the midst of his own loss. My in-laws said nothing beyond their frustration that we decided to leave on Thanksgiving Day and drive the 16 long hours back home to familiar doctors. To this day all they have expressed is the disappointment that their holiday was "ruined". The baby, their lost grandchild, has not once been mentioned.
And so, as I continue to struggle with mixed emotions, I condemn myself for not moving past this loss, wondering if I will ever enjoy Thanksgiving again, and discovering that sometimes it's most difficult to extend grace to yourself. After a lot of prayer and journaling, I realized my reluctance to completely give my pain and anger to God is due to my belief that, once it is gone, it will be like the pregnancy never happened at all, as if the baby, our child, never even existed.
Of course God stands ever ready to receive my pain, to offer His merciful grace whenever I am ready to accept that gift. Somehow I need to learn a way to relinquish my grief to Him, and yet hold dear the memory of a promise never realized. Only then will I be able to truly celebrate with thanksgiving again.
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Christmas Card 2010
Oh Holy Night Religious Christmas Card
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Thursday, November 18, 2010
Identity Theft
Every day it seems like there is an article about identity theft, what it is, how pervasive it is, how to avoid it etc. What they don't always mention is that parents can be the biggest perpetrator of it. In our youth ministry we've been talking a lot about helping the kids find their identity in God. It's a difficult concept even for adults, since we live in a society ready made to label and define us within a worldly context, which is very different from who we *really* are as created by God.
I wish I could say that as a mother I was a completely intentional parent, but in truth this post will probably read more as a "do as I say, not as I do" type of thing. It's much easier with my core group kids to keep perspective and look beneath all the labels their teachers, friends, and yes, even parents give them. With my own I tend to fall victim to my ideas of who my kids are, rather than to see them as God created them. I'm too close, I see them too often as a part of my own worldly identity.
My youngest, Chloe is a perfect example. She is simultaneously my easiest, and most difficult child. Easiest because she is so flexible and accepting, and difficult because she is also disorganized, inattentive and fairly impulsive. On the surface, as I judge her with human eyes I see her as irresponsible, unable to pay attention, and careless. But what God sees is completely different. By His measure she is loving, tolerant, and nonjudgmental, and she never sweats the small stuff. She sees the good in every situation and in every person.
The challenge as her parent is to hold her accountable for any misdeeds, while treasuring the person God created her to be. And that is very, very hard in a world that views successful parenting as producing well paid, college graduates. Those are of course good things, but isn't it a bigger blessing to raise a child who knows and loves Jesus and through Him cares for others? In the larger picture, what is *really* most important?
Psalm 139 states "You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb . You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in Your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed." That passage speaks of a knowledge and devotion greater than anything humanly possible. And, if God has taken that much care in our creation and that of our children, don't we owe it to them to invest in that? To try and see what God saw as He so perfectly formed them and us?
In this way we can see that shyness becomes gentleness, stubbornness is viewed as determination, a gullible child is seen as trusting, a wary child discerning. It's all in your perspective, a perspective that I am finally starting to get. This reminds me of a common phrase people use about child rearing. It states that children don't come with instruction manuals. But really, maybe they do. We just don't take the time to read them. Perhaps we need to take the time to reassess our children's gifts and resist the temptation to label our children as we view them, to keep us from committing our own version of identity theft.
I wish I could say that as a mother I was a completely intentional parent, but in truth this post will probably read more as a "do as I say, not as I do" type of thing. It's much easier with my core group kids to keep perspective and look beneath all the labels their teachers, friends, and yes, even parents give them. With my own I tend to fall victim to my ideas of who my kids are, rather than to see them as God created them. I'm too close, I see them too often as a part of my own worldly identity.
My youngest, Chloe is a perfect example. She is simultaneously my easiest, and most difficult child. Easiest because she is so flexible and accepting, and difficult because she is also disorganized, inattentive and fairly impulsive. On the surface, as I judge her with human eyes I see her as irresponsible, unable to pay attention, and careless. But what God sees is completely different. By His measure she is loving, tolerant, and nonjudgmental, and she never sweats the small stuff. She sees the good in every situation and in every person.
The challenge as her parent is to hold her accountable for any misdeeds, while treasuring the person God created her to be. And that is very, very hard in a world that views successful parenting as producing well paid, college graduates. Those are of course good things, but isn't it a bigger blessing to raise a child who knows and loves Jesus and through Him cares for others? In the larger picture, what is *really* most important?
Psalm 139 states "You watched me as I was being formed in utter seclusion, as I was woven together in the dark of the womb . You saw me before I was born. Every day of my life was recorded in Your book. Every moment was laid out before a single day had passed." That passage speaks of a knowledge and devotion greater than anything humanly possible. And, if God has taken that much care in our creation and that of our children, don't we owe it to them to invest in that? To try and see what God saw as He so perfectly formed them and us?
In this way we can see that shyness becomes gentleness, stubbornness is viewed as determination, a gullible child is seen as trusting, a wary child discerning. It's all in your perspective, a perspective that I am finally starting to get. This reminds me of a common phrase people use about child rearing. It states that children don't come with instruction manuals. But really, maybe they do. We just don't take the time to read them. Perhaps we need to take the time to reassess our children's gifts and resist the temptation to label our children as we view them, to keep us from committing our own version of identity theft.
Tuesday, November 9, 2010
What you *show* your children is more important than what you tell them.
I am so blessed. Why, you ask? Because I have enjoyed 23 years of not wedded bliss. Yep, you heard that right, and no, I'm not saying that I'm *unhappily* married. I just think that it would be lying to imply that we've been blissful for the entire 23 years. As a matter of fact it's been a lot of work, sometimes it seemed like more work than it was worth, which also is a lie. Marriage is *never* more work than it's worth.
The blessing that I referenced has trickled down to more than just me. Our marriage has been an incredible gift to our children, who, as point of fact, would not even be here without said marriage. It's been a boon to my children not just because Andre is a good father, or good provider, but because he's such a good husband.
You see, a child's best example for a future partner and relationship is modeled by their parents. It doesn't matter what you *tell* them to look for, or to do, it matters what the two of you *show* them. And, you don't need to have a perfect marriage to be a good example. Sometimes displaying tenacity and loving commitment in the midst of tension and anxiety is even more valuable than being lovey dovey when things are going well. It's important for them to witness that love is more often a choice than a feeling. Trust me, our kids get far too many examples of how to cut and run when things are bad, and believe me, children are intuitive, they know when things are bad.
Which brings me back to my family, and my marriage, which is thankfully, blessedly sound. We've had some rocky times in our 23 years together, but it has only served to remind us what is really worth fighting for. Because the reality is, if you want to nurture your children, you must first nurture your marriage.
The blessing that I referenced has trickled down to more than just me. Our marriage has been an incredible gift to our children, who, as point of fact, would not even be here without said marriage. It's been a boon to my children not just because Andre is a good father, or good provider, but because he's such a good husband.
You see, a child's best example for a future partner and relationship is modeled by their parents. It doesn't matter what you *tell* them to look for, or to do, it matters what the two of you *show* them. And, you don't need to have a perfect marriage to be a good example. Sometimes displaying tenacity and loving commitment in the midst of tension and anxiety is even more valuable than being lovey dovey when things are going well. It's important for them to witness that love is more often a choice than a feeling. Trust me, our kids get far too many examples of how to cut and run when things are bad, and believe me, children are intuitive, they know when things are bad.
Which brings me back to my family, and my marriage, which is thankfully, blessedly sound. We've had some rocky times in our 23 years together, but it has only served to remind us what is really worth fighting for. Because the reality is, if you want to nurture your children, you must first nurture your marriage.
Tuesday, October 5, 2010
When your "crappies" outweigh your "happies"
We have this little ritual in my core group, which for those of you who aren't familiar with the core group concept, is a small group of teens, who along with a couple of adult leaders, meet weekly to share their walk with God, among other less serious things. We always start off our meetings with our "happies and crappies" for the week after our social time has ended. The kids like it, and their stories range from horrible tests, to worries about friends and family, and sometimes it goes even deeper than that. Every week as Wednesday rolls around I consider what I'm going to share when it's my turn, which lately, has been a whole lot of "crappy" with very little "happy".
I am in a funk, it's been coming on for a while, but it's evolving into a state where I'm considering hiring an industrial strength tow truck to haul me out. There's no shortage of reasons for this mood of mine, honestly 2010 has dished out more than her share of hurts to me and mine, and I've had about all that I can take, which leads me to this week's "happy and crappy" evaluation.
I was running it through my mind as I prepared our lesson for the week, and started feeling really guilty. Guilty about my mood, for my low tolerance for frustration, for my lack of "get up and go". I mean, what kind of good Christian struggles like this? And that's when I heard the little voice in my head, (the one that keeps me on track and reminds me of what is *actually* true), say "Rebecca, you are as I made you. I'm not looking for "good" Christians, I'm looking for "real" ones." Huh. Well, that made me stop and think.
And what did I learn from this "conversation" you ask? Well, I think the real value in sharing a Christian walk with someone is not in seeing how well they handle the good times, but how they deal with all the "crappies". We all can be happy and faithful to God when things are going well, but how many of us continue to give thanks and praise and wait patiently when things, to put it bluntly, really stink? That's the real lesson in Christianity, continuing to put one foot in front of the other while keeping faith that things, while not great right now, are being done for His glory and in His perfect timing.
So, I will continue to soldier on and try to wait faithfully for some resolution to the problems and hurts I'm facing, and in it all I will look around me with hope and expectation of seeing His work and His blessings even when they look very small in comparison. And I will take comfort in the knowledge that, in all of this, while I'm not the "best" Christian, I remain very real.
I am in a funk, it's been coming on for a while, but it's evolving into a state where I'm considering hiring an industrial strength tow truck to haul me out. There's no shortage of reasons for this mood of mine, honestly 2010 has dished out more than her share of hurts to me and mine, and I've had about all that I can take, which leads me to this week's "happy and crappy" evaluation.
I was running it through my mind as I prepared our lesson for the week, and started feeling really guilty. Guilty about my mood, for my low tolerance for frustration, for my lack of "get up and go". I mean, what kind of good Christian struggles like this? And that's when I heard the little voice in my head, (the one that keeps me on track and reminds me of what is *actually* true), say "Rebecca, you are as I made you. I'm not looking for "good" Christians, I'm looking for "real" ones." Huh. Well, that made me stop and think.
And what did I learn from this "conversation" you ask? Well, I think the real value in sharing a Christian walk with someone is not in seeing how well they handle the good times, but how they deal with all the "crappies". We all can be happy and faithful to God when things are going well, but how many of us continue to give thanks and praise and wait patiently when things, to put it bluntly, really stink? That's the real lesson in Christianity, continuing to put one foot in front of the other while keeping faith that things, while not great right now, are being done for His glory and in His perfect timing.
So, I will continue to soldier on and try to wait faithfully for some resolution to the problems and hurts I'm facing, and in it all I will look around me with hope and expectation of seeing His work and His blessings even when they look very small in comparison. And I will take comfort in the knowledge that, in all of this, while I'm not the "best" Christian, I remain very real.
Friday, September 17, 2010
Despite what a Boy Scout will tell you, you can never be fully prepared
The motto of the Boy Scouts of America is "Be Prepared", and damn I would have made an excellent Boy Scout. I mean I was the one who was always planning and making sure that I had whatever I needed to accomplish any task, a trait that I apparently did *not* pass on to any of my children, but that is another blog. Even when I found myself in a situation where I was at a loss, I could always count on my resourcefulness to pull me through. I am nothing if not prepared and resourceful, except, unless you see me handle a death.
To be fair, I've come to realize that none of us is fully prepared. On a personal level I witnessed it with the deaths of my grandfather and my friend Michelle. I *knew* they were dying, everyone did, but somehow at the moment of their passing it just seemed like such a surprise. To have such a real, *living* part of your life taken away is profoundly shocking.
I had the great fortune to attend a "Women of Faith" conference last year with some friends and it was very moving. There were many wonderful, truthful things spoken during that weekend, but one speaker particularly comes to my mind. Marilyn Meberg was talking and she said that the reason that none of us handle pain, sickness, and death very well is that we weren't created to have to cope with that. I remember at the time that her statement rang so true for me and I'm sure God intended it that way. Thinking about it now I see exactly what she means. It is so completely wrong, in every sense of the word to watch someone whither and die in excruciating pain, and anything wrong, cannot be of God. We were created as His children to live with Him and each other in community forever, and anything that does not further that goal will bring us nothing but misery and grief. Of course the reality is that, because of sin, we live in an imperfect world, and sickness is a visible sign of that imperfection.
All of which brought me to yesterday when my friend took her last breath on this earth and when her husband and 3 children had to say goodbye. Can anything be more *un*natural? Can anyone looking at that scene *not* see how innately wrong that is? A friend and I were fortunate enough to have been able to spend the morning with her and her suffering was glaring. So, while I was not prepared, and I was not ready for her to leave us, I am glad that she is no longer in pain.
I will close this out with some words. I know a lot of people say that words are cheap, but I have never experienced that. I like words, they are very powerful. They can be clever, and thoughtful, full of nuance and truth, and they can be crafted in a myriad of ways that convey *exactly* what I'm feeling about almost any subject if I consider it long enough (and have my thesaurus handy). And, although you can never sum up a person in entirety with words, you can define to a certain extent what they meant to you. So, here, in a list of words is how I experienced Tracy: friend, confidant, mother, wife, sister, daughter, avid volunteer, faithful, strong, loving, open, engaging, vibrant, caring, gifted, bright, funny, giver of parties, kind, outgoing, beautiful, and fair.
Oh, and I will include 3 last words too: loved, missed, remembered.
To be fair, I've come to realize that none of us is fully prepared. On a personal level I witnessed it with the deaths of my grandfather and my friend Michelle. I *knew* they were dying, everyone did, but somehow at the moment of their passing it just seemed like such a surprise. To have such a real, *living* part of your life taken away is profoundly shocking.
I had the great fortune to attend a "Women of Faith" conference last year with some friends and it was very moving. There were many wonderful, truthful things spoken during that weekend, but one speaker particularly comes to my mind. Marilyn Meberg was talking and she said that the reason that none of us handle pain, sickness, and death very well is that we weren't created to have to cope with that. I remember at the time that her statement rang so true for me and I'm sure God intended it that way. Thinking about it now I see exactly what she means. It is so completely wrong, in every sense of the word to watch someone whither and die in excruciating pain, and anything wrong, cannot be of God. We were created as His children to live with Him and each other in community forever, and anything that does not further that goal will bring us nothing but misery and grief. Of course the reality is that, because of sin, we live in an imperfect world, and sickness is a visible sign of that imperfection.
All of which brought me to yesterday when my friend took her last breath on this earth and when her husband and 3 children had to say goodbye. Can anything be more *un*natural? Can anyone looking at that scene *not* see how innately wrong that is? A friend and I were fortunate enough to have been able to spend the morning with her and her suffering was glaring. So, while I was not prepared, and I was not ready for her to leave us, I am glad that she is no longer in pain.
I will close this out with some words. I know a lot of people say that words are cheap, but I have never experienced that. I like words, they are very powerful. They can be clever, and thoughtful, full of nuance and truth, and they can be crafted in a myriad of ways that convey *exactly* what I'm feeling about almost any subject if I consider it long enough (and have my thesaurus handy). And, although you can never sum up a person in entirety with words, you can define to a certain extent what they meant to you. So, here, in a list of words is how I experienced Tracy: friend, confidant, mother, wife, sister, daughter, avid volunteer, faithful, strong, loving, open, engaging, vibrant, caring, gifted, bright, funny, giver of parties, kind, outgoing, beautiful, and fair.
Oh, and I will include 3 last words too: loved, missed, remembered.
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