Pages

Thursday, July 19, 2012

Friday's Coming Soon




I live in loud, crazy, hyperactive, controlled chaos.  Summer is a mad celebration of creativity and growth in this house.  It feels a little like a roller coaster these days.  One minute I laugh with joy, The next, I scream at inanimate objects that do not cooperate with my frazzled cries.

I LOVE roller coasters.  I LOVE getting to spend all this time with the little Wilks'es.  Really, I do.  But sometimes, I need a break.  So, Friday is coming.  My sweet husband has planned a mega-date to celebrate my new writing endeavors, and to give us a chance to step off the roller coaster for a while.  My amazing parents are taking four kiddos Friday afternoon for overnight fun. I am  more than just a little excited.

For roughly 24 hours:

 1.  I will me able to use the bathroom, and even shower without causing anyone tears or calamity.
2.  My food will be warm when  I eat it. It will not resemble a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, or a hot dog.
3.  Literary discussions will not include Captain Underpants or My Little Pony.
4.  I will not referee a single fight.
5.  I will not clean a single mess, or wash a single dish.
6.  Laundry will wait.
7.  I will not hear, "Mom, I have a booger, Wanna pick it?"
8. None of my time will be spent dealing with anyone else's potty mess.
9.  At no point will we listen to any music played on Wow-Wow-Wubzy or the Wiggles.
10. I will not hunt for a sippy or shoes.
11. Nothing other than ice will come out the my ice maker.
12. I will wake up by my own power, not by yelling children, or crashing vacuums.

And when I return on Saturday to the joyous ride, I will be a little more refreshed and a little less frazzled.  My hair might actually in place. I will take one look into four curious pairs of deep blue eyes and realize that I have missed every single second of it.

I will be ready to go again.  But right now, I need to get away. I need time to breathe, to think, to recharge, to re-focus.  I need to remember what to celebrate.  I have been busy trying to raise good kids.  I don't want to lose sight of all the good God has already put there.

Maybe that is why Jesus is always stealing moments alone to pray.  Everyone always needs something more.  Someone forever misses the point.  People press in at every turn.  It must have been hard, in the midst of the roller coaster of everything of  to remember why He came.  What did He want to celebrate and bring out in us, His children? What parts will not be missed as they are left behind?

One day, He will return.  All will be made right, and He will be ready to start again.  And he will look deep into our eyes, and we will realize: We have lived, for every single second, of this.






Friday, July 6, 2012

Faith like a child




Today, Mia walked through the grocery store (no cart, no stroller) and chose her own breakfast muffin this morning. She said, "chip  pre-pees, Momma?" and pointed to the huge chocolate chip-laden pastry in the case.    That's my girl. 

 Today, Abi helped me pick out a dress for an interview.  "Well, mom... the blue one has pretty stripes, but you should get the other one.  It looks like it belongs on you.  It makes you look like you have something to say." Alright, then.  Decision made.   

Today, Ben grumbled and groaned like a teenager when I made him get up for breakfast.  He also  changed Ian's diaper with out being asked.  Really.

 Today, Ian made up songs to the tune of the ABC's expressing his feelings on potty training, shopping and alligators. He also informed me that a  T-Rex  doesn't like bubblegum. (Too many teeth to brush, of course.) True.

On this normal, summer day full of banter and bickering, Bar-b-Que and bubble-baths, shopping and sprinkler runs two realities hit me like the image of a T-Rex chewing watermelon flavored  Bubblicious:

One, These kids are utterly amazing.

And two, they are growing up incredibly fast.

In eight years, Ben will be driving.  That's like two blinks from now, at this rate. The clothes I brought tiny Mia Grace home from the hospital in, like, say... yesterday, now fit the dolls she carries around the house while she imitates my limp and sings praise songs I learned in college.  Where is the pause button? It's a whirlwind; always changing, always moving, always growing.

Sometimes, late at night while they sleep, I try to recount the whole day in my head, just to make sure I didn't miss any moments.  At warp speed, they have morphed from these sweet-smelling lumps of sleep deprivation and joy to strong, independent free-thinking personalities.  I just don't want to miss any of it.  Sure, moments come when  patience and perspective runs thin, and I might wish to fast forward just a little...But what would I miss in the trade-off?  A smile? A chance to wipe a tear? A moment when the gritty rough parts of their soul might rub and shape mine just a little more?  If I had a choice, I would opt for slow motion play over a fast forward breeze through any time.
    
But the slow-motion-play feature that exists on our TV does not have an equivalent in life.


Now we buy diapers and wipes and goldfish crackers by the case.  Soon  the list might include i-pads and prom dresses.  Ian will probably still want the goldfish though.  




I joke with my kids that they grow-up too quickly.  I tell them to slow down, sometimes I say to stop for a while.  This used to elicit the "you-so-crazy-Mommy" looks on their adorable little faces.  They would give me the eyes and move on.  Now, their response is different.


"But Mom, we have to keep growing, all the time. That's the way God made it." 


Right again,  littles.

That's the way God made it.  For you to be growing all the time.  Sometimes you grow so fast, I have to get you new pajama pants since you busted out of the others overnight. Sometimes the growth seems less obvious. Then I realize you ave developed this whole other amazing dimension of thinking, or vocabulary, or skill, and I almost missed it.  But you are always growing.

Then, I remember Jesus telling people that they should have faith like a child.  They should relate to Yahweh, like a child.  We like to strive to relate as adults sure of stature, and role, and position.  But what if Jesus wants a faith that revels in constant growth? We might not want to grow because it's hard, and full of change.  Maybe we aren't quite sure what that next step will feel like.

 Faith, like child, is designed to grow. Sometimes, as God's children, we grow in spurts that devour all the food in the house.  We learn something new and soak it up like a sponge.  Then sometimes, we grow in less noticeable ways, that build over time and require others reflection to see.  We may even feel stagnant.  But we want  roots of faith that sink deep so we wait.  

Children grow naturally, by design.  But, they thrive under conditions with three things:

One, they need nourishment.  The food and water of faith consists of the scriptures and the traditions we hold.  Take them in.  Identify with them.  Participate in them.  Feed your soul throughout the day, the way we feed our body.

Two, they need love.  A friend of mine tells a story of his time in Russian orphanages.  He speaks of tiny, frail children who fail to thrive because they do not get held, or cuddled.  They lay in cribs, clean and fed, but without loving contact they fade away.  Love fuels and sustains the growth of our faith, and our relationship to the One who defines it.  Speak love.  Show love. Walk love.  Live love.

And three,  they need community. Community teaches kids. It molds their growth and guides it.  Community in family, or in schools, or in sports gives purpose, direction, and even discipline, when necessary.  We were created to need other people.  The Church serves that purpose  in the growth of our faith.

Jesus asks for faith like a child.  We can allow ourselves to be loved, nourished and enfolded into true community.    We can seek the Father as his children, ready to grow and thrive, and excited about where the whirlwind adventure will lead.


Thursday, July 5, 2012

Beautiful Scars


A big chunk of our family time happens on-the-go, running errands in our sage green mini-van.  
It was the week before Thanksgiving and we had several destinations to check off that afternoon.  
We had reached the point in the day when sweet treats beckon, but dinner seems far off. The bickering from the older kids in the back seat was noticeably absent. On a whim, we pulled into the drive-thru and ordered two kid sized hot chocolates and a juice box.  Cheers and laughter erupted from the back seat.  Sweets! With Whipped Cream! Happy day!  John and Laurie Wilks: Parents of the Year!
We waited, as patiently as possible.  Soon enough, an awkward teenager handed us our steamy liquid goodness.  We thanked her and I passed them back to the worlds happiest 8 and 4 year-old kids.  They were so grateful, it melted my heart.  I hollered a warning that their drinks were hot; and glance back at their smiling faces as John pulled back on to the highway.
I wish I could have frozen this moment and savored it.
Suddenly, I heard an ear piercing, terrified scream from my 4 yr old daughter.  She just kept screaming, and crying.  Traffic prevented us from turning around or pulling over.
She couldn't manage words over the primal screams of pain.  In a matter of seconds we'd gone from mini-van bliss to utter chaos.
(Please read the rest of the story that I wrote as a guest post on leannepenny.com Through the magic of twitter I found Leanne's amazing testimony of choosing faith over fears and joy over despair.  May we journey together and let God redeem our painful moments. ) 

Wednesday, June 27, 2012

On the Stormy Seas (A Reflection on Acts 27)




Eighteen sets of eyes stared up at me, wide in anticipation.  We had just boarded our imaginary boat on the last day of Vacation Bible School.  I cut the lights, as a storm began to rock our story time.  The winds blew.  Whoosh!  The clouds rolled in.  Thunder clapped and lightning flashed.  The children swayed and rocked as waves of pretend water rocked our ship. (I sprayed them with a little bit of real water just to help the memory stick.)

Paul and his friends struggled aboard a boat as they set out on a missionary journey.  We talked of the wind, the waves, the darkness, the stinky fish smells and sea-sickness.  (The boys loved to imagine that sea-sickness.)  We spoke of the tiredness and the chores.   When the storm did not let up, we spoke of the fears they must have been feeling.  How they longed for calm waters.  How they wanted their beds at home, and their mommies.   How they wanted to feel safe.  They were afraid.

Then God told Paul, through a dream, that He would keep them safe.  God instructed Paul to tell his shipmates not to be afraid.  A collective sigh of relief rang through our make-shift vessel.  The end of the storm would come sooner than craft time.  Surely.

Paul spoke for peace, but the storm still raged.  Sea-sickness seemed to be winning.  The land loomed in the distance.  My boat-mates cheered.  And then, the boat crashed.  They revolted.  No Kidding.  When Paul and his crew had to swim for the land, this group of snorkelers thew a fit.

"Wait, NO!!!"

"That's not right!  God said He would take care of them!"

"Um, I'm pretty sure it doesn't go like this."

"Yea!  Aren't you supposed to tell the part where God calms the sea?  Tell that part.  Tell it.  RIGHT NOW!"

But, God didn't still these waves. The boat did break down.  The passengers found themselves over their heads in the salty waves.  They swam for their lives.  They grabbed frantically for shards of wood from the wreckage to keep themselves a float.  And Paul's words echoed in their ears, "Do not be afraid."

I suspect the hearts of Paul and his crew carried as much dissonance as the little ones gave me as we tried to relive it that Friday morning.  Did they wonder if God had forgotten them?  Did they rack their minds for something they did to deserve this chaotic turn of events?   Did they question the decision to make the adventurous journey?   Shipwrecked and swimming  was not what they signed on for, right?  I imagine, they too, were pretty sure this was not suppose to go like this.

These people had committed their lives to being part of the miraculous story of God in our world.  They had seen and heard the amazing things that He has done in the past.  That one about Jesus calming the waves probably seemed pretty applicable in those moments.

And He could have done that. He could have stopped the relentless crashing of those waves.  Heck, the same Holy Spirit was in them that was in Jesus.  He could have let them walk on the waves.  That would have been amazing!  Paul and his crew, just strolling through the stormy seas, right up to the shore....He could have done that.  Except, he didn't.

They were bobbing and swimming, wondering, and sputtering for breath.  The sea water burned in their noses and every kick against the waves burned in their tired hamstrings.  They swam to the shore, in waves that proved to strong for a boat made to withstand them.

When they all reached the beach, they had a story to tell.  They ALL reached the beach, and found each other alive and well, ready to share the good news.  How is that any less miraculous than if God had held the boat together, or given them smooth sailing?

Instead of calming the waves, or giving His followers feet to surf upon them, the God of all Wonders allowed his people to trust that calm quiet spirit in their hearts while they navigated the nasty waves around them. He kept His promise; they all made it to shore.  He had been protecting them.  He had not forgotten them.  The God of all Wonders can redeem any chaotic turn of events for His Glory.


Because of that, we all have a story to tell to those around us today.  



What storms are you swimming through today?


What stories of His faithfulness (bigger than your fears) can you tell?




Tuesday, May 29, 2012

All I need...


 On a recent trip to Walmart, I walked the aisles in a stunned, bewildered trance. Actually, this has happened before. This time though, it wasn't from pregnancy or post-par-tum exhaustion. I could not blame the haze of seminary finals. The shoppers remained relatively tame (even the ones riding in my cart), so I can't even say I suffered there either. No, this time, as I walked through the crowded shelves, looking for Roll-backs on necessary items, I began to make a mental list of all the things that promised to make me better...  Lots of products claim to make me better, or more than my everyday self.

Diapers and wipes that would make me a gentler mom.

Cleaners that would make me a better housekeeper.

Shampoo that promise to volumize my hair. (Volumize? What does that mean, exactly... Can your hair go up to 11?)

Food that would make me more energized.

Lotions that would make me more youthful.

Everywhere I looked things assured me that I needed them to make me more.... skinny, strong, beautiful, fun, alert, smart, resourceful... Fill in the blank. Everyday, we are bombarded with the question, “Are we ____________ enough to face this life?”

In fact, Time magazine, garnered a firestorm of controversy when it cut straight to the chase and came out with the cover story, “Are you mom ENOUGH?” Add some provocative photos just for good measure; sit back and watch the arguments unfold. The question hits a nerve because it's one we all wrestle with. Mom...dad...man... woman...professional, whatever... We all wonder are we ENOUGH?

The questions we wonder about in Walmart don't disappear within the walls of the church.

Back my college days, I ran with a group of ladies known as the WOW group. We, the Women of the Word, met oh-so-very-often for Bible Study, accountability, prayer, and service. That “Proverbs 31 Women” was our ideal, and in some sense, our goal. I remember thinking loudly, but only to myself, in that place of deep insecurity that I swore never to admit to another human soul: “I do not think I will ever live up to all that.” That picture of the ever elusive Woman of valor, and charity and ultimate virtue became a tool that mocked and taunted me. Even the scriptures that I cherish seemed to whisper “not enough”.

Is there a spiritual wonder supplement I can take for that; maybe something meant to maximize my spiritual potential? Oh, how I wanted, and needed, to be ENOUGH to pursue the things God was placing in my heart those days, and even today. I am not. Yes, you read that right. I am not enough.

When bad news hits like a freight train derailed at top speed, I am not enough. When depression sits around my heart like a stubborn thick fog, I am not enough. When the children are behaving like crazed maniacs and the hope of true adult conversation around a meal that does not involve frozen fish sticks looms to distant to be considered a reality, I am not enough. When things are going really well, and the house is full of laughter and praises, I am still not enough. Weather or not anyone sees everything that I do, I am not enough. When things are going as perfectly as they can this side of heaven, I am not enough. And when life is hard, no matter how much I try, I am not enough.

Because it is His grace that is sufficient. It is His grace that is enough. His power is made perfect in my weakness. The power of the One who created the universe is made perfect when I can say to Him: “I will never be enough without You. I cannot and will not do this without You. I am created to need You. You are my portion and You are ENOUGH.”

That is a foreign cry in this Do-it-Yourself loving, self-improvement soaked, John Wayne echoing American culture. All we want is a plan, and the fortitude to pull ourselves up. We want to use that sharpie check everything off the list. Neat. Clean. Tidy. Self-Reliant. And a little more empty than we would like to admit.

I have revisited that Proverbs 31 woman that we studied for so long years ago. Her reflection has changed a bit over the years. She still stands, as inspiring veracious as ever before. But I no longer read her tribute as a check-list. Instead, I hear it as intended: a poem or a song celebrating what God can do for those who set every aspect of their life and heart before His Light. Eschet Chayil (the Woman of Valor) didn't get there on her own. She got there being brave enough to utter that dissonant cry of relationship, and reliance of God.

See, there is another character in the Biblical story to who gets the Eschet Chayil title. We see it again in Ruth. Ruth, however, exemplifies the polar opposite of the life we see in Proverbs. All the details are different. Ruth is a childless widow, dirt poor, and from the “wrong kind” of family. Yet she shares the title with the woman who is an uber- sucessful domestic homemaker/businesswomen who has every duck in a row, every t crossed, and everything all together.

Proverbs 31:25 says she could “laugh at the days to come” (love that...) She does not laugh because she trusts in story book endings, even if she got them. She does not laugh because she has it all together. She laughs because she knows the Lord has never failed anyone's cry of desperate reliance. She laughs because she knows the Lord is always enough.  

Wednesday, May 9, 2012

Finding Your Voice


A few days ago, my eight year-old son  wrote this award winning piece in school.


The Life of an Eraser
by: Ben
Everyday I am rubbed against paper and pencil markings.
Why don't you just get another cockadoody paper?!
NO! Please don't use me now! I am too busy complaining to consumers!
OW! OW! OW! OW! OK, OK!, But make it quick! It still hurts when you use me.
OW! OW! OW! OW! Ok! You're done! Good-bye! I am going to "Pencilvania" 
where pencils are popular not me!

I asked him if I could share it here, and he gave a resounding YES. 

 I love it because it made me laugh, and appreciate his quirky sense of humor.  I love it because he busted his behind and worked so hard on it. I love it because it seems to have awakened in him, a love of writing, similar to ,my own.  But most of all, I love it because of it's perspective.  Ben put himself in a place I would have never thought to go, and stayed there long enough to give a voice to a silent tool, that would otherwise have none at all.   I love the idea of giving voice to the silent.  

I've been reading quite a bit of writing about writing lately, and much of it centers on this idea of finding "a voice" to write in, or with, or though... (pick a preposition).  In that "voice",  words, (and writers) connect with readers in a way way that reflects reality, and encourages more reading.  Much thought consternation and time is spent searching for ans honing in on this "voice". Some even treat it as if it as a mystical quest, somewhat like the holy grail of writing....I was off, finding my writer's voice...  


At least, for me, this quest for voice lands me right where it landed my second grader, outside  my normal perspective.  From someone else's spot, I may be able to see details, speak words, or hear melody otherwise drowned out.  In a position of empathy, I can see past my tiny little world to shed light on something worth seeing.  When I am obsessed with finding the right words, or the right image or the right anything to get my point across it is a slow and losing battle.  When I can let go of that fight. and get beyond myself, to a new perspective only then can I find a voice to speak the truth in love.  


Until I read these words from Ben.  I had never considered the theoretical thoughts of my trusty pink eraser.  I had never felt the need.  But in the last few days, as  Ben considered the pain of the pink pearl, I witnessed nasty,hasty fights and rhetorical bullying offered in the guise of furthering the Church.  This makes me sad.  It also makes me wonder what other perspectives we are failing to see.  


(Warning raw ranting ahead.  Still processing thoughts here.)


I have given up any hope of a pie-in-the-sky, easy solution to the divisiveness and fighting that plagues the church I love so dearly.  Even if we could hold hands and sing Kum-Ba-Ya, that alone would not heal the hearts and minds so wounded on either side.  Could not hurt...But will not heal the deep wounds and (dare I say it) the beginnings of a schism already happening.  Truth is, right and wrong, theology and ideals, and real people with real hearts exist on both sides.  Words I read in the past weeks have made we wonder if we are so caught up in shouting for truth; we forget  listen to and give voice to the real Truth.  Capital T.  Whose Truthfulness and Healing does not depend on how we feel in the moment.  Those of you  who allowed your tweets and facebook, statuses and words to be bathed in grace and mercy were often out shouted by those who wielded their words like whips and swords.  And yes, the Word of God is sharper than any sword...but some have put that particular weapon down in favor of one more easily known and more easily twisted to fit the desires of our twisted hearts.


I am sad.  Because I feel that the church is losing it's voice.  We cannot speak to the coming generation when we are too busy shouting over what we want, and who is right.  How can they believe we offer healing and grace when we spout bitterness in public forums?   


The best, and worst, thing about the Church is the people.  And for better, or worse, we are living this thing out together as the bride of Christ.  We are all broken; we are all healing.  We are all needy; we are all needed.  We all have to move beyond our own voices to hear the voice of the One who was, and is, and is to come.  His voice is the one who will reach the coming generations... It's the voice of the Scriptures.  The voice of the One who prayed for us so very long ago.  Still calling us to follow; Still shocking us with the relevance of his peculiarity.  Still offering grace that heals to holiness.  That is the Voice.  That is the perspective of the Church.


May we cling to it; tune our ears to it; and never let it be silenced.   

Friday, April 20, 2012

Hearts of Prayer



We call him Hearts.  Hearts the-Licker Wilks is his full name (because his tongue sticks out, of course.)  An official Wuggle-Pet, Hearts enjoys the distinction of being the newest member of Abigail's sizable stuffed friend collection. Hearts and  Abi  just  met on Good Friday. You would swear they have been together forever, but not so much. Now that they have each other, he goes everywhere with her.  He secretly rides in her backpack to preschool.  He has his own spot in the van.  He loves to watch My Little Pony.   It came as no surprise to me when Hearts-the-Licker got sick with her on Easter weekend. (It's hard to say who had it first, though.)  He was a tough pup and took it well; didn't complain much at all, even when it came to his medicine.

We attended an Easter celebration that day at a friend's house.   At some point early in the festivities I noticed  Abi's friend's Blue Wuggle was residing in Abi's pocket. He just never left.  If you are are not in a stage of your life when you get to listen to kids TV programming as much a I do, you may not recognize the strange enormity of six inch tall Wuggle Pets.  You may not get the jingle lodged in your head almost daily. For what ever reason, Abi has wanted a Wuggle Pet since the first time she saw that commercial and heard the catchy ditty.   But honestly, Abi wants a LOT of things as soon as she sees the commercials.  She had asked me for one, in a list along with new crayons, and flip-flops with stars, and a purple lamb, and a thousand other things.  I didn't think  much about it.  I didn't take her request that seriously. She seemed content with my, "we'll see" answer and that was fine.
/*
Until that Friday,  I had absolutly no idea that she had been going over my head to ask someone else about her Wuggle desires.  (Okay, yes. I knew she had talked to John about it.  But, he gave her the same "we'll-see" response that I did. That was that.)  Apparently, she accepted our dismissal so easily, because she was taking it up with the Almighty.  Since the very first day she heard that little jingle, she asked God if he would please bring her a Wuggle Pet.  No, I am not kidding.

If I would have known this, I probably would have found her one myself, sooner.  Part of me wishes I could have been responsible, at least in part, for her Wuggle-smiles.  But I am not, and because of the sweetness of this story, I am okay with that.  

See, Abi's friend, (Heart's original owner) stood in the dark about Abi's Wuggle prayers too.   She only had a feeling (while they were doing something completely different) that  Abi would appreciate the Wuggle Pet and that she should share.  Without hesitation or regret she handed over the little blue dog with a smile.  I had thought it would only be for the afternoon; I was shocked when I was matter-of-factly informed that the arrangement  was final in the eyes of our nine year old friend, and her mother.  And then, with her eyes beaming and heart brimming, Abi gushed:  "God LOVES me!  HE answered my prayers!!! REALLY!!!..." and the rest of the story unfolded.

Abi got her Wuggle Pet.  Do I believe he Wuggle wish was granted by the One?   Do I believe the God fills the Heavens and the Earth would think to give my five year old her Wuggle Pet?  Does the Creator of the Universe stop to deal in 6 inch spotted blue stuffies?

Yes. I do. Because He does love her.   He loves her, maybe even more than I love her. (That is really hard for me to wrap my  brain around.)  He loves her.  If He can use a Wuggle to show her that, why not?
“Which of you, if your son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him!"  Matthew 7:9-11
But what about when our proverbial Wuggles don't come?   Children go hungry. Rejection letters come again.  Loved ones are left to morn.  Sadness.  Brokenness. Oppression.  Pain.  Those tho live in  a perpetual state of--without.  We see it,  daily if we open our eyes.    Sometimes, the things we pray for don't materialize.  And if I am really transparent enough to reflect the light and love of Jesus, it is hard for me to  wrap my brain around that, too.

This life is like that.  I see a crazy mix of joy and pain, sunshine and sorrow, healing and sickness, abundance and need.    Some say God steps in to answer prayers for what we need.  True. A good Father would never want his children to go without.  Some say God likes to answer prayers by using his people and their abundant resources.  True.  My daughter's answered prayer came by the willing and generous hand of a little girl who runs with Jesus.  She understands that she is blessed to be a blessing.  I love that.  We do miss a chance to see answered prayers when we hold our gifts with white knuckled fists.  Is that why the next verses speak that good ol' golden rule?

 More than the cosmic vending machine.  More than most fair Father we can imagine.  Prayer gives us more than that simply because God is more than that.  It is more than the yes or the no; even more than the hope and the waiting.  In prayer, we find a connection. We find a relationship.

The best gifts I have ever received (and the best relationships I have ever enjoyed) have been the ones that tell me I am known, loved and accepted, even appreciated more than I realize.  The unsolicited gifts from my sweet husband that celebrate my quirkiness.  Friends who are willing to sit with me on one of "those days" and not expect me to be inspirational I'm just not in that place.  Children who recognize when I need civility and maybe even a little chocolate.

No, Abi didn't need the Wuggle Pet.  But she did need that connection.  She needed that certainty. He gave her a little blue reflection of tangible love to cling to.  Because life is like that.  And He knows what she needs even better than I do.

 

Tuesday, April 17, 2012

Easter and Happy Endings


I love Easter.  I love the whole reflective Lenten season that anticipates  the big celebration.  I love sunny spring weather.  I love the songs.  I love the prettiness. I love the chocolate.  I love the Story, the redemption, the happiness of it all. (We have already established I have a huge thing for happy endings, right? )    And I was particularly psyched for the past weekend's festivities. I was ready.

The past few months have been fast and furious.   Life abounds; full of craziness, going and going,We have been brimming with  everyday trials.  I was looking forward to the feast of hope.  I needed to see the paramount of happy endings again.

 I had awesome Children's Church and Sunday School planned.  Easter sermon was ready. Family dinner was set. I made John's favorite dessert, sugar free no less.  I had a gazillian eggs (of three varieties) hand stuffed and hand decorated.  We even managed to find a little extra in the budget and bought the boys new church clothes  Every detail seemed set.   Easter was coming soon, and I was ready.

And then, John lost his sermon notes. Okay, no biggie.  ADHD a busy house with four curious kids.  It happens. Simple rewrite... better sermon.  God is Good.  Then Ian found the egg stash.  He  decimated it--pre-hunt. So, I put them back together after the kids went to bed. I can put up with  hand cramps induced by the repetitive motion of opening and closing those little plastic eggs, as long as the celebration in salvaged.  God is good.

 And then, came the retching.  Sickness ran rampant through the house.  No one wanted to move.  Traffic backed up for the bathrooms. Children cried.  Parents grouched. Children grouched.  Parents cried.  At first, I didn't want to believe it.   This would all just have to go away by morning.  God is good! And, Easter  was coming! (Now just a few short hours away.)  What would become of the celebration?  I needed a happy ending...this was not going according to plan.

It was technically very early Easter morning now.  I began to try and piece a sermon together since every time John stood up he had a bout a fifteen second window before he became violently nauseous.  Normally,  does not make for great public speaking.  Only, I wasn't feeling much better.  It was too late to call for other reinforcements.   What would become of the celebration?

I forced myself out of bed. I called some awesome volunteers to cover the holes in Sunday School and Children's Church.   And somehow, my big happy celebration had been traded for a very puny sick day.

I opened the oven door to discover the resurrection cookies I made for the kids  somehow morphed piles of  marshmallow goop. UGH.   Yep. That's about right.  I  opened the fridge and found magenta liquid oozing everywhere.  The cobbler pan has tipped and caused a river flowing to a sea of sugar free cobbler filling  at the bottom of the refrigerator.


Easter morning, I sat cleaning puke, snot, diapers and cobbler goo, while feeling only half alive.  I had to pause and collapse onto the couch every few minutes when I felt like passing out.  Easter morning, instead of feasting on resurrection cookies, we were tossing our cookies.  Easter morning,  instead of reveling in worship with our church family, I was surrounded by grumpy, sick kids, and a depressed, green husband. I was sick and disappointed. And they were just as sick and disappointed as me.

It was Easter morning. We didn't feel like singing.  We didn't see the filled pews. I didn't get to teach the Story like I had planned.  The festive food was disastrous; no one even felt like eating anyway.  ( Not even the chocolate!) Torrential rain squelched what ever glimmer of hope I had for huge miraculous recovery and celebration.  How could I celebrate the resurrection like this?  Where was my happy ending?

 But it was still Easter.  Somewhat like the ladies at the tomb, we were expecting one thing, and got something completely different.  We expected shiny, happy, vibrant, yummy Easter.  We got gray, weak, bland and puke-y Easter.  Mary came expecting to grieve and mourn Jesus.  She expected death and maybe a chance for closure.  She had prepared, as best she could, to go to the tomb and finish the job of burial.    Imagine her surprise when instead she got to begin the job of spreading the good news of life and resurrection.

For better, or for worse, Easter still comes.  The tomb is still empty, even if the Resurrection cookies are not.  Jesus rose from the dead, even if I doubt if I can rise from the couch.  God wants good things for us, even if, at the moment, we are knee deep in foul putrescence and disappointment.  He is the Redeemer, and it is His story.  He moves far beyond what we can ask, or imagine; far greater than we could ever expect--no matter how or where we worship him.

I wanted my shiny, happy, pretty, Easter.  It did not come.  But Easter, true Easter still did. In Easter, we have ability to look at brokenness of this life and realize their is hope because of His ultimate wholeness. Not only does Easter still come, it stays with us.  Because He stays with us.  He is present with us in all of the grey, gloomy lonely says as much as he is in the bright, happy perfect days.  In Easter, we have the Grace to speak sermons from germy sick beds, and have an indoor egg crawl.  In the midst of weakness, we  prove that He is strong, that He is Risen.  With cobbler and pork roast, or with saltines and Sprite we say: He is good and He sustains us.  No circumstance can change that.   And that is a happy ending I can celebrate.




Wednesday, April 4, 2012

Open Arms


I was already used to being spit up on.  Ben spit up a lot as a baby, and after years of early childhood special ed I had seen so much;  I didn't even grimace at spit-up.  So when Ian a tiny newborn poltergeist impersonator, I didn't worry.  I figured he'd outgrow it.  I was so happy to have my perfect little Ian in my arms; I didn't mind smelling like gym socks and cheese.

Days went by, and the projectile woes got steadily worse.  We tried all the normal things: different milk, different positions, nothing helped.  He slept, cried, puked and dirtied the occasional diaper. Repeat. Day in, day out.  One morning, when the crying was particularly loud, and the vomit was particularly voluminous, we went back to the doctor.

"It's probably nothing," she remarked as we recounted the story of Ian's first days.  "Probably nothing, at all." "Just to be safe, I want an MRI appointment at the hospital, now." I watched her eyes get big as she gave the nonverbal cue to the nurse to call ahead to the hospital. At that point, I knew it was something.

My mind was racing.  But there was nothing to do at this point, except breathe, and be normal.  Ben was at school until three.  He would need to be picked up, and Abi could not handle anymore doctors offices.  So, I went home,. and John took our tiny little boy for more tests.   I managed, in those hours, a few one word prayers, some prayerful sighs of desperation and some solitude during Wonder-Pets.   (Thank God for Wonder Pets.) In between I tried to distract myself back to the old normal with Facebook, cleaning and crafts.  I knew I had enough faith for the way things had been; did I have enough for whatever was coming next? In that moment,  A friend sent me a message that read, "Lord, I believe. Help my unbelief."

A few minutes later the phone rang.  It was John.  The horrific ordeal of the MRI showed that the valve leading to Ian's stomach was completely closed off.  Nothing could get though and he would need immediate surgery keep him from starving to death.  I silently reminded myself to breathe.  I wanted to cry, but I couldn't find the umph to do that and do get Ben from Kindergarten.  Tears would have to wait.

On the longest six block walk ever,  I tried to explain the situation in a way that a child might grasp.  This was neat trick.  How could I when I my own grasp seemed to be evading me? Kids, Ian is sick. The doctors want to fix his tummy. He is at the hospital now. Yes, I think he will be OK.  Yes, God is with him and us as well." To myself I added:   "Lord, I believe.  Help my unbelief."  Ben's eyes were huge blue saucers at this point, and he seemed to walk slower with every step.

Home. John called again.  He was on his way to come and get us all.   He came in the door without Ian.  Breathe, Laurie.

We walk hand in hand through the parking lot and John explained they would not  allow Ian to come home with us, even for the car ride to pick me up.  He was too sick to risk it.  A few hours earlier it was 'probably nothing'.  How did we get here again?  Never mind, just get me to that room.  Let me hold that  boy.

The hospital was bright and cheerful.  In the room, Ian was laying on a bed with shallow rails and white sheets.  He was still, calm, tiny and helpless.  His itty-bitty body looked even smaller because of the rather large needle they have inserted and taped to his head while we were gone.  Wires connected him to monitoring machines that beeped incessantly.  They seemed to be speaking a foreign language.  They stood as more thing to remind me, we were in a very foreign place.  I looked at John and I saw his heart sink.  The needle bothered him.  The while-we-were-gone part didn't help either.   My head hurt too.


Next came the introductions and the explanations.  He could not eat or drink anything until surgery tomorrow.  The IV in his head would keep him hydrated enough to get by.  Apparently, projectile spewing every day of your two weeks of life starts to deplete the number of good veins you have left for IV.  His condition, pyloric stinosis, was common-- for boys-- especially.  It was quite possible that Ben had a less severe case as a baby... At this point the nurses were starting to sound like grown ups on the Peanut cartoons.

In a moment of sheer grace, a nurse recognized the look on my face and stopped her explanations for a minute.  She found a chair and a pillow. If I sat close enough to the machines and kept the right angle,  I could hold him while she talked.  Somewhere John found pizza and coke.  I could translate the foreign language again.

 Meanwhile, The older kids dealt with the foreign land by exploring, a.k.a touching everything.  It soon became apparent we would have to divide and conquer again, and rather quickly before small curious, hands broke expensive medical equipment.  Policies only let one parent stay over might, anyway.  So, this time, John sat at home, attempting to pray, breathe, and be normal.

We said our goodbye, silently praying for strength, peace, and healing, not just for Ian, but for all of us.

As the sun set.  The hospital slowly faded from cheerful to, well, hospital-ish.  Full of caring people, but lonely as all get out.  A place of healing; full of brokenness.    The fold out chair that I was supposed to sleep on was quickly deemed "the most uncomfortable chair ever".  Who was going to sleep now anyway?

To say "long night" would equate to calling a blazing inferno "slightly warm."   But it wasn't all terrible.   A little sugar water on his pacifier Ian stayed relativity calm through the discomfort.  (Thank you, living-means-of grace-nurse)  There were diapers to be changed, each one weighed  and charted.  Other that that, and loving that baby, not much was pressing on the "to-do" list.

Each time he squirmed the wires connected to the monitors would come loose resulting in a screeching chorus of alarms.  I watched carefully as nurses replaced them.  Soon, I learned to to replace them  myself and stop the awful  blaring that reminded me of too many  "code blues" on ER and House.

I learned something else, too.  Because of all those pesky wires, I could not hold Ian close to my chest and wrapped up in my arms as I had done before we entered this foreign land.  I had to change my grasp on him and hold him up, with an open type of embrace.  That way my hands, my heart, and my presence would not interfere with everything.

I held him in my open arms all night long.  We sang.  We talked.  I told stories.  The moments oscillated from precious sweetness to utter gut-checks.   But the embrace could not change.

I often told my other kids when they whine about food, that they have never gone hungry a day in their lives.  I realized I could never truthfully say that to his sweet face.  He had been starving since day one.  And there was nothing more I could do about it.  He was tiny enough that he wouldn't remember.  On the other hand, I always would.  Breathe.

The phlebotomist came late that night to draw blood.  Ian's veins were uncooperative again.  And when she came in she couldn't even find the light switch.   It was a tough job, to be sure.  I tried to be patient.  He was whimpering; then howling. Ten sticks; then twelve.  I'll say it:  I wanted to deck her.  But, then I would have had to give up that open armed embrace.  And that wasn't happening.

I met the surgeon that night, too.  More information...He realized that nothing seemed routine to me, but he had done thousands of these before...I couldn't help noticing that his hands looked positively giant in comparison to my son's frail little frame.

More songs, more stories, more time passing.  A few bleary-eyed visits from friends and cell phone calls from a land somewhat more familiar.

My in-laws had come to stay with the kids.  I could lean on John for surgery day. The time finally came for them to roll him back.   I found it hard to make my legs move faster than Ben walking home from Kindergarten.  Sometimes, I really understand that boy.

More information.  At some point it drifted to Peanut-speak again.  Focus; breathe, believe.   Then came the releases.  Pages and pages of forms informed us of every risk and every danger.  My fears stared from that paper, glaring at my tired eyes in black and white.  They  were asking for signatures.  This was really happening.  And that's when the tears finally came.

Somehow, the papers got signed.

While sitting next to the bed, with a box of Kleenex and a face full of snot, I had a realization.  Truth, became especially real to me.  I caught a glimpse of grace, in a moment of reflection.

 There are things in this broken world that are starving us, hurting us, breaking us, and keeping us weaker than He intends.  He wants to remove those things, to redeem them so we can life abundant life.   Redemption can only come when we recognize the severity of the situation.  We need a Savior outside of ourselves.  We hold our gifts, out lives, our loves, and all we possess  with an open grasp and an open heart so we do not stand in opposition to His purpose.  We face the fears and risks of life  keeping that open grasp; that position of offering and faith.  Because we trust that He is enough, even in a foreign land.


I handed my son over to a stranger, who swept him up in a warm blanket, and whisked him away to a room full of needles, scalpels and lasers.  I pictured that blanket as the very presence of God and waited for him to return to my open arms.   

















Tuesday, April 3, 2012

Reflections of a Google Geek

I put a “t” into the Google box at the top of my screen. It already knows that I am thinking Target.  Surprisingly, it only needed the“Ho” in “How ” to figure out that I had forgotten how to boil an egg. (Yes, I know.  It’s pathetic, but we don’t eat hard boiled eggs at my house.) This is incredibly useful and convenient.  Need a multiplication game for work?  “Mult” into the trusty box brings up a slew in every level.  Your eight-year old is wondering how much an earthworm eats? Covered.  What can I substitute for the milk that just got spilled all over the floor?  Easy.  Sharpie on the sofa?  Not a problem.  Stats for a sermon? Sure.  And most of the time, I don’t even have to type in the whole question.  AMAZING! (Almost creepy, really.) It’s like it knows.

I don’t even pretend comprehend how the Google box understands what I am going to ask it for before I finish asking.   It is a mystery to high for my little pea brain.  But I like it.  I use it. And I am grateful for it.  I can   remember getting Prodigy dial up internet for the first time when I was a kid.  Type in your password H-E-L-L-O and listen for the sound of the connection “brrrrrrrrrwrwrwrwrwr----BING and wait… in minutes (long minutes) you would be connected to Junior High research paper central.  That was cool.  But the Google box, stands as a whole different level of geek freedom.  Seemingly infinite information, over infinite topics  all in a fraction of second.    And I don't even have to finish my inquiry.

Okay, so I know my daily fascination with with the internet and my Google box makes me a geek.  I am okay with that.  Besides being a geek, I am also prone to make strange connections and be a bit if a mystic.  Maybe that's why my mind goes here:

 Even before a word is on my tongue,

   behold, O Lordyou know it altogether.  Psalm 139:4
Great is our Lord and mighty in power;
his understanding has no limit.  Psalm 147:5 

Just two in a list of many that have come to mind.   Before you click your stumble button, or set a search query for "blogs a little less off the wall"  Hang with me for a second.  When I read verses like this, I can't  fathom it.  I simply can't wrap my head around the enormousness of it all.  And I desperately want to.  So, I look for things in my world to reflect a little light on the situation.   That leaves me here,  juxtaposing the massiveness that the tiny Google box holds with the vastness the One who created the universe.


Sources that I googled (ironic? ha, ha) say that the information powerhouse holds over 2,000,000 servers in data centers placed all over the world.   Big as that is, it sits minuscule in comparison to the one who knows every star and calls it by name  (Psalm147:4) and knows the number of hair on each head. (Matthew 10:30).  All of history has forever been within His grasp.


You might think a being that big would cease to be personal or intimate.   Au contraire, mon frere.  The Master knows our names, our needs and our words even before we speak them.  (Which, by the way, begs a question of why we pray in the first place... but that is another post.  Stay tuned! )  He lives with us, and calls us friends.  While Google's vastness, presence, and helpfulness is astounding at times, can we call it a true friend? That which is inanimate cannot claim intimacy.  While it may serve as a tool in the  creation of connections, it can never create the connections themselves.  An true connection is something our Father is the Master of  It can never claim to be so knowing as to allow is to discover our very selves.   The only information it uses is which we present to it.  The box may seem to know all; we have all come up dry from time to time... worse.  Thankfully, He, actually does know all, and with him we never come up short.  


The next time you enter the wonders of the internet and are struck by the tool that has become a part of our every-day existence I hope you will be struck, too, by One who is ever-so-much higher greater. and more-knowing than that.