Luxe and Sanity: Lost and Found

After almost a year, my seven year old daughter still has a hamster named Luxe.  

You just can't understand how surprised I am by this reality.  Luxe has been cuddled (squeezed),  played with (tortured), and handled regularly by a sweet seven year old girl (sometimes monster).   

Just a few weeks ago while Lily was playing (torturing) with Luxe, she called out:  "Mom!  Luxe doesn't like roller coasters!  But maybe she does a little."  

Yep.  And nope.  I don't have the specifics...

But man oh man, for all the times I've thought of having mercy on the animal and kindly handing her over to a more gentle soul, I'm always reminded of the depth of love that Lily has for this creature.  We had a few kids over for dinner one night, and I found some directions on Luxes cage that Lily had written for her friends:  

Please do not touch.  If you touch she might get out.  So DO NOT TOUCH.  

Luxe has escaped her cage a number of times longing, I'm confident, for a life beyond the hands of her handler; perhaps she's looking for a quieter, saner life... maybe one without roller coasters.   But through her tears of despair when Luxe has briefly escaped in the past, Lily has always managed to find the animal.  

Sorry, Luxe.

We traveled back from my grandpa's funeral this last weekend.  Exhausted, we trudged through the fourth airport of the weekend and made plans for a late night arrival back home that evening.

And exhaustion is what I blame for my free flowing tears over a text from home informing us that Luxe was lost.  She'd escaped and had been gone the entire day.  I had a moment walking through the airport when I actually asked myself:  Why, for the love of the world, are you crying over a hamster? Because exhaustion.  Because two funerals in a month.  Because I could visualize the end of my sanity.  But mostly...because Lily.

I knew that once Lily received the news, the last leg home would be filled with tears, drama, speeches, more tears, and perhaps even plans for another funeral service.  Because we've had a service for a pet before.  The goldfish had a service and burial.

Duh.

While walking through the airport, I called a friend to talk with her....about the hamster.  Listen, if you don't have a friend who will not slam the phone down when she realizes that the tears are flowing because of a lost hamster....well, you've just got to get one.  And if you don't have a friend who will actually GO TO YOUR HOUSE to look for said hamster....these kind are few and far between.  But they're rock star friends.  Everyone needs an "I will drop what I'm doing and will FIND that hamster for you" kind of friend.

Since the hamsters cage is upstairs, I assured my friend that the hamster would probably be upstairs looking for a new home...a safe and quiet space...without roller coasters.

But alas, the hamster was no where to be found.  My rockstar friend couldn't even find evidence of a lost rodent - no drippings, no chewing, no missing treats that were put out to lure Luxe in (though the dog enjoyed several along the way).  The hamster was just gone.

I couldn't blame Luxe for escaping.  I kind of felt excited for her ensuing adventure and the probability of a saner life without roller coasters and squeezes and moments like:  "Mom, look!  When you pull down her little lip you can see Luxes yellow teeth!"  But I also resented the hamster for the news I had to share with my seven year old.  The same seven year old that asked me at different points during the weekend:   "Do you think Luxe got food?  Do you think anyone played with Luxe?  Do you think Luxe got out?  Do you think Luxe misses me?  

Yes, no, no, and...um....not at all.  But I kept that last bit to myself.

My husband advised me to keep this newly found, and potentially devastating for our seven year old, information to myself until we arrived back in St. Louis.

But sometimes I do stupid things like not listen to my sane husband's advice.  And thank the Lord one of us is sane.  Thank goodness we were not both crying over hamsters.  For the love of tears and hamsters, with that thought... things could have been far worse...

So, I told her.  And her reaction did not go as I suspected.  It was far worse.  Through the sobs and the overly dramatic hand gestures, she said many things in a very loud voice in the middle of the airport:

Why would you tell me this?  Why couldn't you have waited until we were home to tell me this horrible thing?  

Because your dad is sane and I'm stupid.

Why on earth would she run away?  Where on this earth is she going to go?  

Because she's tortured.  And somewhere that does not give roller coaster rides to hamsters.

What if she is hurt or stuck or bleeding or electrocuted?  

Honestly, the electrocuted concern made me laugh a little.  I just picture these kinds of things and then I laugh.  It's only mildly disturbing.  

So, I tried to comfort her.  I tried to assure her that Luxe was OK and we were going to work very hard to find her when we got home.  "Lily, Luxe is not hurt or electrocuted."  

"What if her legs got cut off somehow?  How would she crawl back home?"  

I'm not even sure that the loss of limbs would make her go back to whence she came, but one never knows.  "Lily, Luxe is fine."  

"How do you know?  You're not God!  Only God knows all things."  

And so that was the end of that conversation.  And as predicted there were continued tears and anxiety the rest of the way home.

Once we landed we came up with a fast getaway plan, which Lily thought was for Luxes sake but which we knew was merely for our sanity's sake.  Our carry on bags had to be checked because of the small plane, so the kids and I walked quickly to the carousel.  We grabbed four of the five checked bags and then waited....and waited...and waited for the pink and purple Scooby-Doo suitcase which never came out.

Lily's suitcase didn't make it home.

I stomped my way over to the baggage office, smoke could have probably been seen coming from my head, and I encountered a line.  Fourteen people were ahead of me waiting to report loss luggage.

Aaaaand....loss of sanity officially occurred.

I had a proverbial temper tantrum in the line waiting to report that Scooby-Doo was missing.  I said, not under my breath in any way, shape, or form:  "This is why we pack in CARRY ON bags so that we can be allowed to CARRY ON our bags and not have to check our CARRY ON bags.  I will no longer be flying with an airline that says you can have CARRY ON bags but does not allow you to CARRY ON your BAG."  My son wondered who exactly I was talking to.

Whatever.

And my attitude became even more awesome when Lily started crying over all this extra time waiting that was making Luxe "even more lost," and my son started complaining that his iPad was "almost out of battery completely."  It was like I could momentarily identify with the hamster:  I needed to get out of there.  I needed to escape the chaos.  Could I actually hear the annoying squeaking of a hamster wheel?  I was losing it.  

If you have not experienced an adult tempter-tantrum before, they're ugly.  While they vary in form, mine included very loud huffing and puffing, louder than normal chastising of children for doing things like, oh, sitting and standing, and texting angry-faced emojis to people without explanation.

Yep.

But the tantrum escalated when I became the second person in line.  Because when I became the second person in line, a woman came and stood suspiciously to my side as though she might just attempt to jump in front of me in line.

There was a part of me that wanted her to cut in front of me; I was ready to *talk* with her about all the injustice in the world and all the reasons that a woman like her would feel the need to jump in the line in front of a woman like me - a woman who was exhausted, who had three children...and dying iPads.....and lost hamsters.

So when she actually took a step in front of me,  I had no qualms about putting my hand on her shoulder when I said these words:

"Um, Ma,am, I'm pretty sure you were BEHIND me in this line."  

I almost didn't recognize the immaturity of what was my voice.  "Um" and "Pretty sure?!"  I might as well have sprinkled in a few "Like whatever" and "This is totally unfair" because that would have fit my behavior.

The woman turned and looked at me with wide eyes....and then began speaking in a different language.  The man who was in front of me in line turned around and said in an appropriately stern voice:

"Excuse me!  This is my wife!  We just flew in from Indonesia and lost our luggage."  

Oh.

And so I responded responsibly and maturely:  I  looked down at my phone and began pretend texting someone.   I PRETEND TEXTED.  Citizen of the year right there, folks.

Good. Grief.

Once I was able to gather myself (and stop pretend texting), I pondered my behavior, considered the fact that lost Scooby-Doo and Luxe were just not the end of the world, and then imagined how nice it would be to crawl into a hole and briefly escape the chaos I had created around me.

I apologized profusely to the couple once I had declared Scooby-Doo missing and felt the sanity slowly begin to enter back in as I restrained myself from blaming my short fuse on our lost hamster.

It took Lily thirty minutes to find Luxe.  The hamster had made her way down three flights of stairs, gathering treats along the way, crawled into a closet, up a hamper, and had begun making a little home for herself in the basket filled with stuffed animals.  Talk about determination - and a really, really great plan.  Slowly but surely normalcy was settling in.

And look what arrived the next day:

Luxe:  

You almost made it.  

But let's face it...there are worse situations than little girl roller coasters (worse situations like having temper tantrums in airports and yelling at foreigners for standing next to their husbands in line).  We can't completely escape the chaos, so let's just embrace it and not lose our sanity by doing things like escaping cages and grabbing stranger's shoulders.  Keep your cool and realize, rodent, that it could always be worse. 

....Um, but for you maybe not....

How Wonderful!

My dad used to play the mini violin in the air for me growing up.   This happened often.

If you don't know what I'm talking about, it's the sympathy violin - the one that responds readily to the "woe is me's" and the "my life is the hardest life in the history of life" kind of phrases.  Those moments with my dad looked something like this:

It's not that my dad wasn't sympathetic; it's that I was a complainer.  I complained about everything:  the cream of wheat dad made was too hot, my pop-tarts weren't hot enough, basketball was exhausting, piano was too hard, I had more homework than anyone in the entire high school, and my bangs would never. ever. stay sprayed the right way.  

Life was tough.  And so I complained about it.  

And so should I really be surprised when my seven year old daughter rolls around on the ground (um, not exaggerating) over the state of our car?   This is the train of complaints heard most recently about this horrid problem:  How do you expect me to sit in this car with crumbs everywhere?  The crumbs sit under me and make me itch!  And then all I do is itch all the way to school...and at school...I just itch and it's all because of this car!  And I have to hold all my stuff in the car so my stuff doesn't touch the crumbs and then my legs get way too tired from holding my stuff.  And I can't even run at recess!   

It's a tough life she leads.  And it gets even tougher when I remind her who put the crumbs in her seat in the first place.  

I often think about my grandfather when I get sucked into the ease of complaining about my misfortunes in life.  And it does happen with ease, doesn't it?  It's just way too easy to complain about what could have been better, what should be easier, and what isn't going right.  

But my grandpa just had a totally different way of looking at life.  Life to my grandfather was wonderful.  

I will always remember the questions he'd ask about about our ongoings and with each description (difficult or not), he'd respond with an emphatic and hearty: "Wonderful!"  He'd open his arms for an embrace and say with a smile, "Wonderful!"  

Several years ago, grandpa and I were chatting in front of the fireplace in my house while they were in town for a visit.  I asked him how he was doing since he was in the midst of trying to pass several kidney stones:    

"Are you in pain, grandpa?"  

"Yes," and he said it with a smile.  "It's just so wonderful to be here with you all."  

And not another word the entire evening about the pain plaguing his body.  There was never a complaint about the suffering he faced in life:  cancer,  heart issues,  even losing a daughter...my grandfather never ever complained.  

So what was it that was so wonderful for my grandfather?  How is it that life was worthy to live without complaint?  

He loved Jesus with everything he had.  His relationship with Jesus was clear in every conversation and in every aspect of his life.  The saving work of Jesus was wonderful to my grandfather, and his trust in this Savior flowed out in a fierce way.  I could not sit down with grandpa without being reminded that God is in control, that prayer is necessary, and that Scripture is powerful.  In life and in death, he knew the Word is penetrating to the soul.  

He was on his knees before God with every difficulty our family faced and with every praise for the One from whom all blessings flow.  I desire so much to emulate his perspective on life.  His lack of complaining was not inauthentic; he was honest while holding tightly to the promises found in Scripture.  

And if those promises penetrate our hearts, how can we not rejoice in the midst of difficulty?  If we truly believe that our help comes from the LORD the maker of heaven and earth, how can we not respond with praise in the trials?  How can we not give thanks for both the peaks and the valleys, as difficult as that may be at times.  

Our grumblings are sometimes so trivial in light of eternity.  Our small complaints are mere moments of forgetfulness for what we have been given even now:  Life.  Breath.  Shelter.  Family.  Friendships.  Church homes.  Beautiful scenery.  Jobs.  Sunsets and flowers and food that tastes so good, and what we have been promised will come:  Eternity with Jesus.  A new heavens and new earth filled with all goodness and perfection.  Life without sin and sorrow.  

And this is nothing less than wonderful.  It's wonderful.  

Yesterday I called to check on my grandpa and while on the phone, it became clear in a matter of seconds that grandpa was going home to Jesus.  I pulled into the parking lot at my kid's school and wept along with my aunt and grandma on the other end of the phone.  I listened over the speaker to the heart-wrenching sounds of grief as grandpa took his last breath.  In that same moment I watched as a group of young girls headed out excitedly for a birthday party.  

"The Lord gives and the Lord takes away.  Blessed be the name of the LORD."  

And the grief was devastatingly wonderful as I listened:  "Do you see Jesus?  You're surrounded by angels and glory."  

Last night when I went to tuck in my youngest, I found this on her desk:  

People who died in my family:  Ya Ya, March 15, 2016; Pa Pa Rodney, March 9, 2003; Grandpa B., April 18, 2016.  

"And mom, they're all in heaven with Jesus so we will see them again."  

Be still my soul.  

Isn't it wonderful.  

  

The Grip

I recently came across this beautiful quote by John Piper:

"Occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be.  Grieve the losses.  Then wash your face.  Trust God.  And embrace the life you have."  

These words have saturated my thoughts during the last couple of weeks.

What does it actually look like to grieve?   Whether the death of someone dearly loved, a job lost that gave security, a perplexed place in life that has caused fear and anxiety, or a relationship broken that seemed steadfast, whatever the difficulty may be, grief can grip with a determined hold, and the question is not if we will face the pain of loss but when we experience grief's embrace, what do we do with its firm hold?

Let grief remain for a time.  

So my husband has been very patient with an unbelievable roller coaster of emotion after losing my mom:  tears over salmon that was just so good (I hadn't been out to dinner for a while), more tears over mom's jewelry which led to tears over the fact that I don't have jewelry to pass on to my own kids....which led to tears over the fact that I just don't really like jewelry.  

Good grief.  Kind of literally.  

Then there has been the anger over making school lunches (But then let's just be honest, school moms, this is not a seasonal anger.  You know what I'm talking about.)  Never-the-less, my emotions have been larger than life. And my poor husband has been a trooper with it all, not asking me to buck up and think straight, but instead he has allowed me to remain in the grip of grief for a while knowing that sometimes it has broad and unexplainable effects.

I've shared with a few friends that I'm beginning to understand the Old Testament mourning period.  After mourning for a week or so in our day and age, folks innocently start popping their heads around the corner saying in all various ways:  you good now?  you ready to get back to the good old daily grind?  They only cautiously pop their head around the corner, though, just in case tears start flowing over the jewelry they may be wearing - it's best to have a plan for a fast getaway from a griever.  I mean, can you blame them?  I'd draw out my getaway plan and put it securely in my pocket if I was confronted with someone crying over salmon.

But in the Old Testament folks would mourn for weeks and months at a time and it wasn't uncommon to find them grieving in very public ways:  ripping their clothes, wearing sackcloth instead of regular clothing, and...removing all their jewelry.

Because even folks in the OT had jewelry to pass on to their kids.

Whatever.

And they wept...even hiring professional mourners who would wail loudly on their behalf for hours or days (Ex. 33:4; 2 Sam. 14:2).

My tears over salmon and jewelry just don't seem so over the top in this context.  There is something to John Piper's words when he says to occasionally weep deeply over the life you hoped would be.  Grieve the losses.  I don't always do this well.  In the past it's been much easier to let out a good cry then quickly sweep the rest of the deep emotions under the rug in order to get downstairs and make school lunches (stupid school lunches).

But let the grief grip.  

Being decidedly honest before Jesus and crying out smilier words as the Psalmist when he says, "My eye wastes away because of grief... " is good and right and it's what ultimately leads to the loosening of the grip.  He is the only answer to the grip.  Jesus Himself knew grief beyond grief.  He was acquainted with grief, Scripture tells us.  He was familiar with it, accustomed to it, and He knew it well.   Sit for a time in the embrace of the One who understands grief, empathizes with it, and loves us in the midst of it.  Drink deeply of His grace and mercy.

And then allow Jesus to loosen the grip.

There is grace in grieving, but the grief shouldn't debilitate us indefinitely; rather, our grief should motivate us to move forward with unabashed trust in Jesus.

And this is exactly what Piper is reminding us to do:  "...wash your face.  Trust God.  And embrace the life you have."


It's not necessarily a quick transition, but after sitting in grief's grip for a time, there is something refreshing about standing, washing off the tears, and embracing the here and now.  I'm learning that kids help in pulling the here and now scene in front of my eyes when I'm having trouble walking forward.

This embracing of my current life happened for me on April fools day, and it involved my youngest monster...I mean child... who had woken at the crack of dawn in anticipation of the practical joke she couldn't wait to play on me.

I had just finished working out and was standing in the living room looking intently at my mom's rings and began deeply weeping (I'm telling you...there's something about the jewelry...).  I walked into the bathroom for tissues and discovered that an entire tube of toothpaste had been squeezed out and spread from the top of the sink to the bottom.  My white, porcelain sink was CREST blue.

Holy mad momma.  Because how was I supposed to remember it was April fools day?

Now Lily and I were both crying.  I was crying over rings and she was crying, and I quote, "because you are mad at me for squeezing out the whole toothpaste!"

Um...yes.

I sat on the floor and the "here and now" came rushing at me with force.  My baby girl wanted to play a joke.  She wanted to see me laugh.  It was April fools day and although it was the worst possible joke to play on a mom on a school morning...when the lunches weren't even made yet....she just wanted to see me laugh.

So, I sat on the floor and laughed.

And I tried to join in the fun by playing my own practical joke later in the day (not my forte, admittedly):

"Mom, I need to teach you how to do jokes.  That was a bad one."  

And there's my reality.  There's my here and now.  Hello sweet blessings that I've been given in this life; there are too many to count.

Stand up.  Walk forward.  Wipe the tears.  Loosen grief's grip and continue to hold on tightly to Jesus.

His is the only grip we ultimately need.

Gravity and Brokenness

We’re broken, finite people.   I don’t always want to believe that, and there have been times in my life when I’ve tried to defy this reality.  My youngest likes to hear the story about the time I broke my foot in elementary school.  I’m pretty sure it’s not the broken foot that fascinates her but it’s the reason that it broke:   

I was trying to fly.   Duh. 

There was not a soul who could convince me that my plan was ridiculous.  I was sure that if I could get up …just high enough….that I could make this flying thing happen.  My youngest loves to hear about this bizarre occurrence from my past and when she does, these are the kind of questions that follow:  “Did you actually fly?  Like maybe for five seconds did you fly?  Can you show me how high you jumped so I can try too?” 

Um, no - to everything.  

You probably couldn't fly because your arms weren’t strong enough. You didn’t do workouts like me when you were my age.  Let me show you my muscle. So, I could probably do it mom…

I bring up gravity regularly when we discuss this story because, well, who can argue with gravity?  My hope is that her wide eyes that I just know are imagining jumping off the playground bridge because her muscles are bigger than mine, will be somewhat…um….squelched.  But then on one occasion, she said this: 

But God could have let you fly if he wanted to. 

Yep.  But He didn’t.  I wasn’t made to fly in my broken state.  And as a child, my fractured, broken bones reminded me of that reality for weeks after my attempt to defy gravity. 

My mom had some tough last days this side of heaven, an ever present reminder of this broken physical state.  One particular day, while she was in and out of consciousness, I watched her wrestle to sit up on her own, even move her leg off the bed in an attempt to stand up.  I pushed her leg back into the bed with a sense of guilt because pushing it under the covers was a way of saying to my strong mother:  let your strength go.  Be still and give into your weakness, mom.    It didn’t feel right to say it much less write it. 

But the process of dying should never feel “Okay.” Death was never the intention.  The reality of our frailty is not celebratory, and death is not good; in fact, I’ve seen first hand how ugly it can be.  Death is a result of this broken world.

Jesus Himself lamented death in the book of John when His friend Lazarus died.  Those watching the face of the Son of God exclaimed, “See how he loved him!”  (Jn 11:36)

I’ve thought many times about the weakness that this disease caused in my mom through the years. Since her diagnosis only three years ago, she has fought to defy the implications of a brain illness:  She read out loud to her grandkids every chance she had, but over time she simply could no longer form the words;  she traveled to the beach regularly, but soon enough it became impossible to function in a regular room without hospital equipment. 

And yet, with the loss of speech, strength, and simple abilities, she surprised us all with a unique strength of spirit that was displayed through her legs and her hand.  

Just three weeks before she died, mom made one last visit to her home church.  Though she was essentially wheel chair bound, mom was determined to walk down the aisle and out those church doors after the brief service.  I couldn't have been more proud to watch that ten minute struggle down the aisle as she clung to the neck of her caretaker.  I laughed imagining her twirling around and kicking the wheel chair to the side.  Because really, she probably would have if she could have. 

And while she didn't have the use of her right hand, she used that left hand to communicate everything she possible could, even in the last days.  Mom pointed, hugged, pushed cups off places they shouldn't be placed (truth), and grabbed on to the things she wanted.  That hand stayed so strong throughout her deterioration.  

   

But, the reality is that we are broken.  She was broken.  The strength in her hand and legs could not defy death; it showed it’s ugly face and we lament it's existence, just as Jesus did. 

But, that’s not the end of the story.  Praise God it’s not the end of the story.  We weren’t saying good-bye to her forever when we whispered in her ear:  “It's ok to fly to Jesus now, mom.” 

For every believer in Jesus who has kissed good-bye a precious loved one, we’re not giving into death.  Death does not have the victory, though it feels in our weakness that it has somehow won. 

“Where, O Death, is your victory? Where, O Death, is your sting?” 

No.  Death has not won, but it reminds us of our brokenness without a Savior.  Without Jesus, we fear the grave.  With him, we have defeated it. 

Jesus is so close in grief.  My sisters and I know His presence fills  the gap where our parents used to stand.   Praise God.  And praise God for the brokenness that forces us to long for what mom is experiencing now:  

Seeing her Redeemer, 

running without growing weary,  

celebrating without sin,  

worshipping with a restored heart,  

feasting with loved ones...  

and maybe there's even some flying.  

Mom is broken no more.  

 

Just Dance

My husband and I were watching Footloose with our oldest daughter the other night, and, of course, we started dancing during the movie.  I showed my eldest all my really cool moves, and it didn't take long for her dad to join in (For the record, neither of us can actually dance.  We pretty much look like rabid monkeys when we try to bust a move.  Have fun imagining that.)

And, of course, my teenager joined in laughing and dancing with her mom and dad shouting: "This is so awesome!  You guys are so awesome!"

Not at all.  In reality my daughter was basically horrified.  She caught our dance on video for evidence, she says, of why she may or may not need to be adopted at a later time.  And she seems to enjoy sharing these videos.  She's so generous.

"Mom," she said after I had accidentally tripped over the bench and fallen on top of her, "you guys are just not normal."

And neither were my parents when I was a teenager, of course.  My parents were just, plain odd when I was in junior high.  Take my dad, for example, whose nickname for me was "Mongrel."  Yep.

"Hey, Mongrel!  Time for dinner."  So, this sort of command was common, and even somewhat affectionate coming from my dad, but while I heard, "Hey, Katie come and eat,"  my friends probably heard, "Hey, crossbreed!  Come get your feed."  It just wasn't a terribly conventional nickname, but I'll never forget it.  

And then there was my mom:  a woman who at the age of sixteen had the awesome opportunity to watch the completion of the St. Louis Arch.  With all the excitement in St. Louis at the time, she and a friend decided to attend the opening day at the arch.  When they arrived for the big event, the line to get in the doors was incredibly long.  Noticing that the handicap folks were allowed to go straight to the front of the line, my mom did what any normal person would do.  She acted like she was blind so she could jump to the front.

Duh.

Oh, yes she did.  I asked her on many occasions why a blind person would want to experience the sights from the top of the arch.  "Duh," she'd say.

Kidding, kidding....

Oh, mom.  She would just smile a conniving smile and remind us that she was one of the first people to enter the doors of the arch, and she held in every bit of "oooh" and "ahhh" whilst at the top.  Instead, she stared straight ahead with her friend guiding her along, both relishing in their bizarre accomplishment.

So, not much normalcy there either.  And definitely a story that even the grandkids have remembered through the years: "Tell us that story of when Ya Ya pretended like she couldn't see so that she could go up in the arch to see what it was like!"  Yep.

But this abnormal behavior goes back even farther.  When my parents were engaged, my mom's grandpa was anxious to meet the young beau who had taken my mom's heart.  So, my dad and great-grandpa met.  Mom introduced dad to her grandfather saying, "Grandpa, this is my future husband."  My grandfather, who could see clear as crystal, held out his hand and said, "Yes, well, I'm blind and can't see you." And my dad bought it.

Hook, line, and sinker. For the remainder of the night, healthy-eyes grandpa Witmer was blind as a bat as far as my dad knew.  And I'm pretty sure no one's ever going to forget that story.

But then there's also my husband, lest you think this uncharacteristic behavior is one sided.   In college he would dress up like gandhi.   Why, you wonder?  Well, because new students would visit the campus.

Duh.

And so he would greet new students dressed like this:

And then he would say in his gandhi accent:  "This is the flower of life.  This is the flower of death."  And it would look something like this:  

His college friends will still talk about gandhi when reminiscing about good old college days, and there's just not much more I need to say about that.  The pictures speak a thousand words.  Or create strange thoughts.  Or produce questions.  Or just leave you bewildered.  Something along those lines.   

Just this last week my husband and I had a proud parent moment while watching my son impersonate Napoleon Dynamite in front of his entire school.  Yes, that's right.  All in one sentence: proud parents and impersonating Napoleon Dynamite.  While each class prepared group lip syncs, Jrod approached us with the idea of doing the Napoleon Dynamite dance by himself, and all we could think was:  

Awesome.  

He spent hours learning from tutorials, chatting about his progress with friends from church, and he watched the dance over and over....and over again.  And then he did it.  My son danced a choreographed dance by himself, dressed up as the ultimate nerd, and while it was pretty unusual for an elementary school lip sync, it was pretty awesome.  

And really, this is something he'll remember forever.  It's probably something I'll remember forever, standing and clapping for this odd dance like a mother whose kid just won the Nobel prize. There's just something great about doing things a little uncharacteristically, living fully in the moment, and embracing the abnormal every once-in-a-while.  Dance.  Greet others like gandhi.  Wear a huge wig, moon boots, and bust a move.  Why not?  Have fun, enjoy this life we've been given, and make memories along the way.  Life's too short to only be normal all the time.  And I'm pretty sure my eldest daughter is starting to embrace this herself:   

  Cheers, my girl!  Mom has videos too....

Contentment and Toy Dinosaurs

I recently came across some pictures of my kids from several years back.  Here is just a sampling of what I found:

I mean, come on.  They were edible.  Those cheeks for heaven's sake!  But these pictures made me acutely aware of something more than the fact that my kids were completely endearing when they were babies; these pictures made me attentive to my desperate discontentedness.

My husband was the first victim of my state of gloom:  I want them to be that young again!  They were so cute, and they really liked me, and they cuddled, and Jrod liked dinosuars....honey do you remember when our son liked...dinosaurs?  And this was followed by more jabber and ugly tears and blah, blah, blah.

I couldn't let it go.  I mean, I could not let it go.  All the anxious thoughts of how quickly life goes by, how short my time is with my kids, and how much I wished J-rod still liked dinosaurs sat on me like a heavy brick while lying in bed that night.  And so, I did what everyone does when they can't sleep because their kids are getting older and no longer playing with dinosaurs:  I opened their baby books and began flipping through the pages (incidentally, I have two baby books and three children.  This is because, as many of you know and what I have learned from friends, number three doesn't exist as far as pictures are concerned....until about...oh...graduation day).

But something unexpected happened while flipping through the pages:  I started actually remembering the days when my kids were babies.  I'm not far enough removed from it that I remembered quite vividly... the poop.

Oh, the poop.  There was so much of it.   Diaper after diaper, mess after mess, and explosion after explosion.  My son, God bless him, would "paint" with what was left in his diapers during his "quiet time" in his room.  And "quiet time" should always go in quotations just because, well, you know what I'm talking about, moms.

The first time I discovered his "art," I cracked... just a *wee* bit.  It was absolutely disgusting and it was absolutely everywhere.  After several stern warnings and explanations of why this so was stinking (literally) bad, my son went to "quiet time" the next day and fully submitted to all of our rules and warnings.

Not at all.

His art was even more extensive than the previous days "quiet time."  This went on for several days in a row until I threw my hands up and did what any mom would do who needed to remain coherent.  I wrapped his diapers with duct-tape. A lot of duct tape.

My son had duct-taped diapers for the entire second year of his existence.   Next to his changing table we had placed in organized bins: diapers, wet ones, bags, and...duct tape (duh).  It worked brilliantly except for the nursery time at church.  How does a person succinctly and courteously explain to one volunteer after another why there is duct tape in the diaper bag, and, um, on his diapers?

And then I also remembered the cold coffee.  I'm quite certain that I didn't drink a hot cup of coffee that wasn't reheated sixteen times for about five years.  I can still recall opening the microwave and finding my cup of coffee from the previous day.  And there may or may not have been times that I pressed "quick cook" as soon as I found it.  Gross.

And I remembered the lack of sleep.  The kind of lack of sleep where my face actually hurt.  Like I remember my cheeks hurting because I was so tired.  Is that a real thing? Cheek pain from being so tired?  I think it is.

Moms of babes:  you're super women.  And there is light at the end of the tunnel:  you will enjoy a hot cup of non-reheated coffee and painless cheeks someday soon.  Praise be.

And I remembered how many times I longed for my babies to be older.  I remember being excited about the next birthday because it meant they'd be that much more independent, but then in the same moment I would have opposite thoughts: don't get bigger.  You're so cute and chubby and I don't want you to get bigger.  Ever.  And then, before I knew it, there would be poop, cheeks hurting, and cold coffee...and I couldn't wait for them to be older.  I'm kind of a Jekyll and Hyde mom: Grow up!  Please grow down.  Go experience the world!    Please never leave home.  Like ever.  

I struggle at times living in a constant state of discontent and very seldom do I focus on the stage of life that is today. Instead, my tendency is to focus either on where I've been or where I'm going.    This kind of discontentedness is so common for parents, I'm fully aware, but as I've been seeking out what it looks like to have a contented life, I've been gently reminded of what it means that "godliness with contentment is great gain."

In his book, To Live is Christ to Die is Gain,  author Matt Chandler says this:

If the grace of life is replete with treasuring Christ, then we have a joyful duty to live as unto the Lord with all our might. When we seek joy and contentment anywhere outside of Christ we do so to our own disappointment and destruction, and even to the detriment of others around us. 

Unfortunately, I'm pretty sure that I seek with all my might whatever I can to cover up my occasional gloom:  a conversation with a friend that involves little else that me complaining - just because I need to get the woes of my life "off my chest."  But I also cover it up with a night out, Netflix  or even a book that I can't put down, all of which are great things but ultimately leave me in the exact same state of dissatisfaction.  

I'm beginning to understand that these states are similar to the times when I'm hungry (which is more often than not) and need food.  Crackers will cover up my hunger pangs only for a while, but soon enough I'm gonna need some food to satisfy.  Satisfaction won't ultimately come from more crackers; I mean, thank the LORD for meat, and potatoes, and fish, and veggies. And bread...we can never forget the bread.  

I can be filled to overflowing with everything that doesn't ultimately satisfy and still wonder why in the world I'm not content.  Outwardly I appear very calm (and let's just remember that calm is relative), but inwardly I'm bursting with discontent until I'm able to step aside, refocus, and stop feeding myself crackers.  I can't fully enjoy all the blessings God provides in life unless I do so in the framework of His glory:  To live unto the Lord with all our might.    

My grandmother recently shared a story of a friend who lost her grand-daughter in a tragic car accident.  At age twenty-two, her grand-daughter was on her way to her first day of teaching and was struck by a young man who had fallen asleep at the wheel in the early morning.  The woman died later that night.  

How do you breathe after something like this much less find contentment in the midst of it?  By living unto the Lord with all of our might.  This kind of living is not always simplistic; in fact, the journey in working out what living unto the Lord actually looks like is usually messy and complicated, but the end result will always be the same:  Grace.  Grace in the midst of the trials; grace in the sludge of dissatisfaction; grace when we're discontent.  It's what allows us to find the road again that leads us back to Him.  

This precious family who lost their grand-daughter had the opportunity to tell the young man who caused the accident about Jesus.  He gave His life to the Lord.  And a year later the young man's entire family gave their lives to Jesus, finding out, by God's grace, that there is such a thing as ultimate contentment in the midst of a terrific storm.  

I was helping my ill-mom try to walk the other day, and I couldn't help but think about this sort of contented living.  For my mom, walking is about carefully and slowly putting one step in front of the other.  Some days it comes more easily than others, but it always takes desire and commitment and it never happens without someone who is stronger to hold her up.  

I'm quite confident that I'll have many more tears of gloom over what my seven year old calls "the good old days" (she's seven, folks), but my prayer is that I will be satisfied in the desire and commitment to live unto Him with all of my might knowing that He's holding me up along the way.   

And ultimately, my friends, it's in that grip that we find contentment in ALL things - kids growing, sickness appearing, life changing, and even relationships in need of healing.   I'm deeply grateful for these gentle reminders that bring peace and resolve instead of dissatisfaction and can allow me to relish the days of picking up iPads and school planners while remembering with thankfulness that it used to be toy dinosaurs.

Reality Check

As soon as I think I've got this parenting thing under my belt, the Lord slaps some good and needed humility in my face.  And that's when I experience the preverbal "reality check."  

Because the reality is, I have no idea what I'm actually doing (Take comfort, children.  Your dad has some idea.  And if not he, we have some good friends who have successfully raised their children; they have a few extra bedrooms available).  The reality is that I need an abundance of Grace in attempting this thing we call "raising children," and I need it every single day.  And sometimes the hardest reality for me to swallow:  I am not in control.  

I'm confronted with these parental realities somewhat regularly.  Take, for example, the conversation I had with my younger daughter a few weeks ago about sitting in church:  "Lily, why don't you write down a few things that you hear dad preach about during the sermon today, and then we can talk about you learned. It's so important to listen and learn from God's Word."   

"OK, mom."  

It was one of those parenting moments where I slapped my hands together, patted my back, and thought, "There we go.  Important, spiritual lesson learned."  Well done, mom.  

And then this was handed to me after the service:  

I was eating my cheeseburger.  I could taste the cheese chicken and bread.  It was time for class.  Bob tripped me and I pushed Bob.  The teacher sent me to the principal.  I tried to tell him I was right and Bob was wrong.  

Yep.  Reality check - cheeseburgers and Bob instead of grace and forgiveness.  

And then there was the "encouragement" from my youngest when I asked her how mom and dad are doing as parents:  "Well, so, um, Dad's good because He tells us and people about God and loves them.  And mom, you're good because you show us good TV shows and stuff to eat."  

Oh, good.  I'm so glad to hear that Dad's got the spiritual stuff covered so that mom can focus on the important things....like T.V. and food.   And so there's a nice dose of reality.  Just in case I secretly pictured myself like this:  

This might be a little more realistic....

Good. Grief.  

And then, of course, there's all the wonderful and complicated and crazy aspects of raising a teenager.   Just yesterday I reprimanded my oldest for not talking more to me.  "Just tell me something!  Anything!  Words more than 'Yes,' 'No,' and 'Maybe!"  I actually threatened to print out a list of vocabulary words that might help in our deliberations.  

And then, through her tears:  "Mom!  Sometimes I just don't know what words to say."  

I stared at her for a moment and was immediately confronted with an important realization:  my daughter is different than me.  Duh, I know.  And yet because words have always come so easily for me (which is not always a good thing), I can't understand not having them to spew out to the person in front of me.  Each and every parent teacher conference was like a broken record:  Katie tends to speak out of turn.  

I spoke out of turn, in turn, and around every turn.  Coincidentally, my middle is my penance for this flaw.  I sat across from my son's teacher at conferences this fall and she said, "Jrod tends to speak out of turn."  Yup.  Penance.  

But that's not my oldest.  She's quiet, she's introspective, and she's not me.  Her words will be fewer, and sometimes they come out in a picture or drawing, and those words are usually something pretty profound.   The reality is that she is a beautiful child of God that I will spend a life time learning about, and I will probably verbally process my way through it.  

We asked our kids recently where they thought they would be in ten years.  Here were their answers:    

My oldest will be 23:  I'll have graduated from NYU with a degree in performing arts.  I'll be living in the middle of the city and I have no earthly idea if I'll be married.  

My son will be 21:  I'll be running cross country for Covenant College (and will, of course, be one of the best runners), and I will be majoring in history.  I'll be looking for a job as a cop, though I may move to Italy in order to run (I'm pretty sure it would be fun to run in Italy).  I'll also be married to a tan, athletic girl who is a christian and who is NOT a girlie-girl.  At all.  

My youngest will be 17:  I'll be driving all my friends around to get hot chocolate.  And I'll be going to Covenant College and my boyfriend will be Ian because we're the same.  We both like to annoy people a little bit and he's quiet so it's OK I talk a lot."  

(I may have more than one child who's excessive words are a part of my penance).  

As I sat listening to their ten year predictions, I realized with everything in me that there will be so much joy in their future.  But there will also be much sorrow, profound happiness, and a lot of hurt.  I wish I could pave a path of ease and predictability. I wish I could make it so that my girl's biggest concern in life will be where to find the best hot chocolate.   But I can't.  

And frankly, I shouldn't want to.  The greatest growth in my own life happened when I was confronted with situations that made me uncomfortable,  the Lord drew me closer to himself through pain and brokenness, and my eyes were opened in profound ways while serving people in other countries, taking me out of the only comfort I had ever known as a teenager.  As difficult as I'm sure it was for my own parents, I'm eternally grateful to them for allowing me to experience, fall, trudge, and hurt.    

I visited my grandparents last week at their retirement home in Quarryville, PA.  It was a sweet couple of days with them, in spite of the difficult journey that God has called them to walk these last several weeks and months.   I had a few moments with just my grandfather and as he talked, I kept thinking how he exuded faith and trust in God.  

He's led a wonderful life, but it certainly hasn't been without difficulty.   And in the moments we spoke, he mentioned the frustration of not being able to walk on his own due to a heart condition, and he grieved his daughter, my mother, who lives hundreds of miles away in a similar care center because of a debilitating disease, but he also talked about how he prays for us daily, how he relishes in the opportunity to bring all his family before the throne of God.  He has been, and continues to be, a man who continually points me to Jesus, who seeks the Truth, and who trusts His Savior in all circumstances.  This has always been His highest calling.  

And he reminded me of that calling.  My parenting reality becomes blurred when I lose perspective on my calling both as a mom and as a believer in Jesus.  

Scotty Smith wrote this beautiful prayer, reflecting on our responsibility to steward our children:  

Since our children and grandchildren are your inheritance, God, help us to parent as humble stewards, not as anxious owners—whether they are infants or adults. Show us how to parent, and grandparent, in ways that best reveal the unsearchable riches of Christ. 

I'm not called to parent perfectly - there's no such thing.  The perfect mom, dad, or grandparent does not exist....no matter what social media portrays through pretentious pictures and phrases.   I'm not called to live for my children, as tempting as that can be, nor should I be chained to fear over what may or may not happen to them.  I am called to live for the glory of God with my whole heart and seek to parent in light of this, my highest calling...

...and a very welcomed reality check.