On Suffering

The other day I asked my six year old what she thought it meant to suffer. 

"Oh, my goodness.  I totally know.  Suffering is about the thing that I'm going to get into my mouth to make me stop sucking my thumb."

So, the torture device, I mean the dental device, is for that exact purpose - once in, she literally cannot suck her thumb anymore due to the sharp prongs that hang down in the front of her mouth.

OK...they're not sharp.  But I admit I was a little nervous about the torture device.  And not really because I secretly feared that it was in some way torturous, but because of the implications for mom and dad.  I secretly wondered how parent's got through the "stop cold turkey" thumb sucking.  Would she be awake all night?  Would she cry for hours on end?  (I decided that I'd have her call her dentist if either of these first two fears came to fruition)  Would she be mad and have temper tantrums?  Would she end up in counseling?  Were there support groups for me and my husband?? 

I had in mind my daughter's definition of suffering when the day of installation came around.  She was pretty brave at the office - a definite mix of tears and laughing, which is about the right wave of emotion that we experience with our six year old.  There's never much in between. 

When it was all said and done and the torture device was in, my daughter and I got in the car.  I had kind of hoped that she would be a little quieter than normal, due to the regular frustrations of a daughter who talks non stop (and I'm not exaggerating here; the girl has a remarkable talent in the talking department), and due to a progressing headache.  I knew it would be tough to talk "normally" for a while, since the appliance made her speech sound funny, so I was sure she'd take a few more breaks than normal. 

 Alas, she actually talked more than usual on the way back to school.  The problem was that I couldn't tell her to take a break and put her thumb in her mouth.  I was starting to convince myself it was a torture device for parents.  I was also pretty sure that I was the one who was going to end up in counseling.

"Mom, I can't say 'T.'  T, T, T, T."   Etcetera, etcetera, etcetera.   The amount of spit in our car was unreal.  And then we went from T's to S's to Z's and back to T's.  She then went on to repeat every kid's name in her class several times to ensure, she said, "that no one will be confused when I call for them." 

When she calls for them?  Man, a thumb sucking device could be the least of her worries. 

I actually told her to put a fist up by her mouth to see if that would help her be a little quieter.  "No, mom.  I have to practice my 'T's,'" as the spit came out abundantly. 

The good news was that for the first several hours Lily seemed completely un-affected by the appliance, other than "T's" and "S's."   She thought she'd suffer, but instead she delighted in it and in the amount of spit that she produced when trying to say "T" or "S."  

But, when night time came, the suffering started.  Oh, the suffering began and began big, boldly and over-dramatically (this is how we tend to do everything in our household). 

It started with how it felt to her tongue:  "My tongue hurts SO bad and my tongue just keeps on hurting and hurting."  Literally an hour later she told me her tongue was fine.  It was actually something on her foot that was really hurting. 

And then the suffering continued when it came to eating:  "I can't eat anything and I don't know if I can eat again," as she put her head on the kitchen table.  Her dad gave her a toothpick and told her to figure it out.  We're sympathetic like that.  This complaining too lasted for a very short time.  It was especially over when the Halloween candy came out.  All of a sudden it was totally fine and easy to eat!  It was a miracle! 

And then the suffering ended with a bang right before bed:  "I just feel so much like my thumb needs sucking!  It just really needs it so much.  My mouth needs my thumb!" 

But, I am happy to report, that was the end of it.  Once I closed her door (with perhaps a few warnings about kids who get out of bed and complain about silly things like torture devices) the suffering was over and she was fast and peacefully asleep. 

In the morning she suggested to me that she was ready to go ahead and get it out.  I told her she'd have to talk with her dentist.  She told me she was going to have a conversation with him about it.  I don't doubt for one second that will actually happen. 

Such is suffering to a six year old.  And for a time, to her mom. 

I had the privilege this past week of leading a Bible Study discussion on 1 Peter 4 on the topic of suffering.  I have a hard time expressing how much I got out of studying this passage. 

Verses 12 through 16 talk about a very specific type of suffering:  Suffering for being a Christian.  Suffering because we stand up for the name of Jesus.  Suffering because we believe that the gospel is the answer to all things.  Suffering because we have hope in the mist of difficulty, which some have suggested is a naïve and oblivious way to live. 

It's tough, though, for many of us to apply this specific kind of suffering to our lives - it was tough for me.  I've been wrestling the last couple of weeks with the ways in my life that I have (and haven't!) suffered because I am a follower of Christ.  Verse 12 tells us to not be surprised as though something strange were happening.  Implying, then, that suffering because we are Christians will happen and should happen at some point in our journeys.

There are so many places around the world where suffering because of an unrelenting hope in Jesus  is neither strange nor uncommon. 

I was recently confronted with a video of children in Iraq who were shot because they would not renounce their faith. It was one of the most disturbing ten second clips I've ever seen.  It truly shook me to the core.  And while our natural response may be to turn our head and ignore it because it's difficult to absorb, I believe it's our responsibility as the body of believer's to pray for them and to be aware of what they are facing.  May we be willing to empathize with them as we pray urgently for those whose lives are in danger because they believe in the gospel that saves.  Lord, come quickly. 

These precious believers have set for us a remarkable example of what it means to truly follow Christ, and I am eternally grateful for both their example and their testimony.  After studying this passage, I've found myself more worldly aware and have committed in a new way to praying for those who don't have the same freedoms we do. 

The beautiful culmination of this passage is found in verse 19 when Peter reminds us that those who suffer entrust their souls to a Faithful Creator.  And this truth applies not just to those suffering for being a Christian but to any and all kind of suffering.

God, who made the universe, who created me and knows every time a hair falls from my head, is faithful in the midst of all suffering.  He's faithful.  This brings together the beauty of knowing the Creator God as a personal Savior.  He will never leave us, forsake us, or have us suffer for the sake of suffering. 

And why the suffering?  Because it refines us.  The word 'refined' is defined this way: " to remove impurities or unwanted elements."  Like lily's torture device - it's tough now, but it's ensuring to us that the thumb, which isn't good for her teeth or speech in the long run, is effectively being removed from her mouth.  (And beyond that, I can stop having nightmares of her sucking her thumb in her college dorm room). 

Suffering reminds us of who we are and whose we are while drawing us closer to Jesus.  It doesn't make the suffering less painful, but these truth's give us hope in the midst of it. 

Unfortunately there is sometimes a tendency to rate the pain of those around us. There's a sinful need to see who's suffering more or less or whose suffering due to the pains of this world takes precedence over another.   Suffering is suffering, whether it's a dental torture device or a terminal illness.  When you're in it, it's hard. 

Roman's 8:37 through 38 reminds us: 

No, in all these things we are more than conquerors through him who loved us. For I am sure that neither death nor life, nor angels nor rulers, nor things present nor things to come, nor powers, nor height nor depth, nor anything else in all creation, will be able to separate us from the love of God in Christ Jesus our Lord.

We are more than conquerors!  All the suffering that we experience as a believer lay at our feet  conquered because of the hope we have in Jesus.  And they're not just at our feet, but they serve us because God works through them for our own good. 

As a parent, I would love to think that my six year old won't suffer beyond the thumb sucking appliance that is on the fore front of her mind (and mouth) at the moment, but as a believer, I know this won't be the case.  My prayer for my daughter is the same prayer for my own heart in the midst of current and future suffering: 

Lord, may my faith be unshaken when trials come, and may I give testimony to you, my Faithful Creator, in the midst of the suffering that comes.  Lord, may Your will be done in order that you might refine me. 



My Plot in Life: Bon Bon's and Baby Questions

So, I had a day the other day.  One of those days when, in the middle of it all, I wished I could have tapped my shoes and said, "There's no place like Hawaii, there's no place like Hawaii," and then I'd be beamed to the beach.  How great would that be - to be beamed to the beach?   Apple needs to get to work on that.  If they can make a watch talk to me about my day.... 

This particular day started with a run.  Not necessarily to be in the best shape, but to clear my mind for the following hour:  wake the kids and get out the door hour.  I can't speak on this particular time with too much detail, as it's much too traumatizing. 

The important fact is that all three kids made it into the car, mostly fed and generally in one piece.  The difficulty of this task can be understood in terms of priorities:  having clothes is a priority.  Wearing them backwards is a not a priority.

And we weren't singing "Merrily we go to school, go to school, go to school..." Oh, no. I spent the first five minutes trying to break up a fight between my two "youngers" over how babies come out of mom's tummies.  Each kid was passionate that they knew the answer, and at first it was hilarious.  My daughter was essentially arguing that God takes them out, and my son was countering with the fact that knives were involved.  It started becoming annoying when they began yelling their arguments, kicking each other's chairs, and throwing back packs.  For heaven's sake. 

Thankfully no one felt the need to ask the one mommy in the car if she had any answers to this quandary.  Thankfully, or this hour also would have been too traumatizing to retell. 

One thing and one thing alone broke up the argument:  My son realized he forgot his shoes.  For the love....

How does one forget ones shoes?  I seriously considered making him go to school in his socks, but alas, I turned around the car and we were then sufficiently late to each school drop off.  My younger two don't get upset about being late (unfortunately, they're kind of used to it when mom is involved), but my oldest is a different story.  She wants to get to school early enough to socialize before her first class.  So, my son's lack of shoes now eliminated social hour and devastated her up-until-that-day unblemished late record. 

She sat with her arms folded in the front seat, mad at her brother, who managed to forget shoes for the day, and mad at me for turning the car around.  I told her to imagine walking around in socks all day and then consider whether or not I should have gone back to the house.  She suggested she'd like it.  She actually probably would.  So, that didn't work. 

After dropping off late children and running errands (which included picking up "the way wrong deodorant," according to my son), I went over to my parent's old house to help with a few things in order to get it on the market as soon as possible.  While there, I had a lovely encounter with two mice. 

Most people would have left the rodents for the professionals...most smart people, that is.  Again, I will spare the details other than to say I left alive and the mice did not.  However, I did have a minor (that may be understating it, according to my husband) panic attack that night over mouse disease.  I have no idea if such a thing exists, but I was sure for about an hour that I had it. 

 After finishing up at mom's, I walked in the house to nap and eat Bon Bon's... 

...in my Hawaiian dreams.  Instead I decided to tackle the toilets and laundry and general clean up.  The clean up, just to highlight a few of the more exciting aspects of what I had to look forward to, included picking up an entire roll of toilet paper waded up in the corner of the bathroom - who, what, why?  I have no idea - and scrubbing down the carpet in the car after spilling my green smoothie the day before.  Yes, the day before.  It was gross. 

But none of it was done sufficiently because within a few minutes of walking in the door, I received a phone call from my oldest: 

"I forgot my iPad." 

"Well, at least it wasn't your shoes.  So, have a good day without your iPad." 

"But my teacher says I need my iPad!"  Shoot.  Apparently having her iPad is a priority.  Having a pencil these days, is not. 

My plan was to shower.  At some point in the day, I really was going to shower, but I realized on my way to a class at the seminary that I never actually accomplished this important task.  I literally considered whether putting on Chap stick under my arms could have the same affect as deodorant.  And I wasn't in the mood to learn anything. 

I went to pick up the kids from school, lavishing in my ten minutes of carpool time to work on the Bible study lesson that I am leading.  It's amazing what a mom's mind can (and can't) absorb in ten minutes.   I'm pretty sure I stared at the same page of the John Stott commentary for all ten minutes.  But, somehow I felt a little more accomplished.  And then I sat back, wishing I was in Hawaii.  And it was only 3:00. 

After chauffeuring kids who complained about late slips and the wrong deodorant, I headed out to teach piano lessons, only to be interrupted half way through by my parent's realtor asking if I knew anything about the dead mice in the basement. 

And again, I tapped my shoes together. 

I've recently had a number of different conversations with women about their "plot" in life.  Some work outside the home and some do not, but what's amazingly consistent is how discontent so many feel.

For those who work outside the home, there is a sense of guilt over not being with their kids enough or frustration in feeling "stuck" in their careers, lamenting that what they do is mundane and not really making a difference. 

It's not too different from those I've spoken with who stay at home.  Many of these women feel they are lacking something in their lives and that their work at home feels, at times, insignificant. 

I get it.  I was introduced recently as a "Pastor's wife and homemaker."  I seriously cringed.  I wanted to stand on top of a table and shatter every image of those around who were imagining me sitting on the couch in my Snuggie, sewing the kid's clothes, and eating Bon Bon's.

But there is a clear call for us as women and believer's in Christ when it comes to our "plot," whatever that may be:  "Whatever you do, work heartily, as for the Lord and not for men [or women]." Colossians 3:23. 

What we're called to, whether it be folding laundry, cleaning up spills from messy toddlers, planning a presentation, or giving a lecture, we're called to do it heartily.  We can't (and shouldn't!) waste our time wishing that we had the life of someone else.  As soon as we neglect the place in life to which God has called us by being critical or discontent, we lose heart for our work. 

My husband reminded me recently that when God blesses us, he blesses us with more responsibility, not less.  What a brilliant reminder.  Our responsibilities are a blessing!  The fact that I have to chauffeur kid's around after school is a blessing...I have children who are healthy and thriving.  The fact that I have to clean up my parent's house is a blessing...I am capable and healthy (at least until the mouse disease hits).  And the fact that many of you are in the midst of presentations, meetings, and lectures...you have a job when so many others would give anything for employment. 

I pray for a spirit that is less critical and less longing for what I don't have and instead for an attitude willing to be thankful for this season of life right here and now - even in the midst of days I'd rather be in Hawaii. 

And one of the best ways to do this?  Be mindful of the good parts of the day - they're always there.  Sometimes we have to fight hard to think of them, but they're there.      

Even though I was regularly tapping my toes and wishing I could be beamed, there were some good parts to the day that I needed to identify: 

First, I watched one of my piano students get so excited to show me how well he learned his piece that he hardly sat down before playing.  And then he told me my lollypops were better than his moms. 

Second, the passage that the professor was giving a devotion on at the seminary class had implications for something I was deeply struggling during the last several days.  The Lord spoke to me that day through His Word, even in my smelly and unteachable state. 

And last, I laughed, instead of crying, when lily interrupted my own piano practice to ask me if I could tell her "just how babies become free from those bellies." 








 

On Being a "PK"

My dad kept a diary during his journey through cancer.  The diary was published the year he died, almost twelve years ago.  I read the book for the first time this week. 

It was certainly hard to relive the journey through the words on the pages, but it was also encouraging to be reminded of his bold and unwavering faith in Jesus.  The pages tell a story of a man who had fear, fought hard for life, and peacefully relented into the hands of Jesus when He called him home. 

In reading the diary, I was also reminded of how much he loved his job.  My dad loved being a pastor, he loved his congregation, and he loved worship. 

Because he was called to full-time ministry, I grew up as a pastor's kid, or "PK," and shared my dad with many different people.  Dad had a very public ministry as the senior pastor of a large PCA church, an author of a few books, and the host of a radio program.  "Open-line Friday" at the radio station was something he looked forward to each week; callers from the area would call in and ask him any spiritually related or Biblically related question they wanted to.  And he absolutely loved it.  And I will never understand that.  My mom couldn't even listen to the show.  She'd get nervous that he might not know what to say, or that he'd say too much.  I totally get it.  I get hives when I'm walking down the hallway at church and can't think on my toes of what to say to the person I run into.     

I was recently talking with a fellow pastor's wife who lamented the fact that many parent's who face the prospect of full-time ministry often hear the stories of pastor's kids who, for many different reasons, grow to resent the church and the ministry to which their father's were called. 

So, I'm certainly no "success story" when it comes to growing up as a "PK." (Incidentally, when I was called that in elementary school, a fellow student inquired about the label.  Another student spoke up and said, "It means she is a potential kid."  I had no idea at the time just how awesome that answer was.)  There was, of course, some tension throughout my childhood that was related to ministry, whether I recognized it at the time or not, and I was by no means an easy pastor's kid.

In fact, I was kicked out of Sunday school in the 5th grade for talking non stop with my neighbors.  The only thing I really remember about the incident was that I was upset with my friend who didn't get kicked out with me.  I told her later that if we were asked to leave together, then we could go play on the playground during Sunday school.

Another time I argued long with my parents about a not so appropriate dress I wanted to wear to church that when they made me put on an alternative outfit, I "somehow" managed to cut the bottom of my dress with scissors during Sunday school.  Somehow. 

Yep.  I was that kid.  And so when my son, J-Rod, came home last year with "speaks out of turn" on his report card....well....

And when my youngest,  Lily, left the house for back to school night in tears because I wouldn't let her wear the Burka that her dad brought back from the Middle East...well...I suppose I'm just glad she didn't come home with her shorts cut in half.  I suppose.

There were times, especially as a teen, when my parent's and I fought over whether or not I needed to attend a particular church activity, and I'm sure they struggled through parenting as ministry leaders, trying to feel out when to push and when to let me alone. 

As a pastor's wife, I know the tension.  I get the struggle.  When the kids were younger, for example, we could talk about anything going on in the church, and it didn't matter that the kids were around.  When they got a little older, we'd start spelling names and various other sentences.  This made for super long conversations and a confused husband, due to my very bad spelling. 

And now that the kids are older, every so often we catch ourselves talking too freely about church difficulties in front of the kids, and every so often I revert back to my spelling days.  And then my twelve- year old quickly reminds me...she can spell, as does my ten year old, and my six year old just says she will tell on us if we're talking mean about someone.  Parenting is truly humbling.   

But with all the struggle, I can say something very confidently:  By God's grace, I never resented the church or the ministry that my dad was called to.  My two sisters and I remain actively involved in our churches, and two of us even married pastor's.  Admittedly, we were all kind of excited for something different when my younger sister married a JAG, but alas, he became an elder and she is now the music director at their local church. 

With the many stories today that focus on what their pastor-parent did that pushed them away from the church, I want to share three specific ways that I believe my dad, through God's mercy, helped me not resent being a "PK." 

His role in the church never denied me access. 

"Back in the day" (I'm really not that old...at least not old enough to use that phrase), we didn't have I-phones.  I tried to explain to my kids the other day what a phone was that actually sat on a receiver, had a cord attached, and was plugged into the wall.  Oh my word, the questions they had just trying to picture what I was talking about were priceless.  Lily wanted to know if "that kind of phone could call aliens."

So, we didn't use phones with the frequency that we do today, but even so, as I got older I always knew it was possible to get a hold of my dad.  His day was consumed with meetings and teaching preparations, but he answered his phone for his girls whenever it was possible.  And if we stopped by the office on the way home, he'd slip out of a meeting, check into what we needed, and then go back to work.  His job at the church never meant we had to wait our turn to talk with him. 

And his availability didn't mean that he attended every sporting event that I played in, but his readiness to talk and be available gave confidence that I was a priority, even if he was not always physically present. 

And as a younger child, when I would hug him after a sermon, he always turned, looked me in the eye, and give me a hug back.  It didn't matter who he was greeting, he took the ten seconds to look at me and show me that he loved my presence as his kid. 

And when he was home, he was available for us.  He helped me with math homework until he didn't get it anymore (I've already reached my helpful limit in math with my fifth grader), and for the most part, he put his work day's frustrations and joys aside and was just, plain dad. 

His calling to the church was a joyful responsibility.

Being a pastor's wife, I now know that church is not always a joy.  What?  Gasp!  It's true.  There are days in ministry when I want to urge my husband to go ahead and look into that sportscaster career he had talked about when he was younger. 

Fortunately, that sentiment is not too frequent, but I do know how hard it can be to remain joyful in the midst of the calling if the perspective on why we do what we do is skewed, which is why I'm incredibly thankful for the example my dad set with his attitude toward ministry:  whether it was an event for the church, a Bible study he taught, or a sermon he was preparing, dad did his best to refer to his work with a sense of joy and excitement.  And although he was passionate about his ministry, I'm sure there were times he was tired of it all and had to conjure up the positive attitude, but when he was frustrated, he took the difficulties to the Lord and not to us. 

I don't ever remember him trudging out the door the evenings he would go out to lead evangelism teams, and I know he had to be tired.  He had three kids and worked hard.  I have three kids and work hard!  Maybe he had a magic potion. 

I'll never forget standing in the sanctuary with my dad and our worship director after a good Friday service.  With the sanctuary emptied, he pointed out the details of how the lighting aided to the service and how the words in the music tied together the themes woven in throughout the night.  The man was so excited, you couldn't help but smile along with him.  I remember looking at the music director and there was a large smile on his face as well.

No, there was no magic potion.  He loved his calling, even when the calling was tough; his excitement for Jesus and creativity in worship was contagious.

And even at a young age, I caught it. 

His ministry to the church often included his family. 

I went on hospital visits with my dad when I was in elementary school.  OK, so it wasn't an amusement park or an ice cream shop, but doing ministry with my dad was so important. 

When we went with him to visit folks who were ill, or when we dropped off a basket of goodies to a family in the church, doing it as a family reinforced to us that we were a part of his ministry.  Although lines between being a dad and being a pastor were present, there were times when those responsibilities overlapped and any possible resentment of his job versus my time with him was eased.  It didn't matter to me whether we were dropping the dog off at the vet, grabbing McDonald's, or visiting someone with cancer, just being with my dad was important.  And I believe he understood that. 

It meant something to be a part of what he was called to.  So, when we'd pray at dinner, he would include in his prayers the people in the church.  And then we too, even as children, were a part of  ministering to those particular people.  And as my younger sister developed in her musically abilities, he asked her to write music for the Christmas services at church with the hopes that her talents would be used to minister to the congregation.

I even remember driving around in the car after school, and dad would hand me pictures of all the new members asking me to quiz him on their names.  I was a part of that responsibility of his, and although I beat him nine times out of ten when it came to the names of folks, I would actually know who they were when I saw them at church the next Sunday, bringing me into an aspect of his ministry.  Incidentally, I never told the new folks about the flash cards, but how funny would that have been:  "You made it into the 'kept missing' pile.  We'll see how long it takes for you to move to the 'memorized pile.'" 

He wasn't perfect, but dad tried hard to prayerfully do what he could to keep us from resenting Christ's Bride, the church.  For the many potential full-time ministry folks (at least you're not  "potential kids;" it could be worse), be encouraged.  There are many stories like mine of "PK's" who grew to love the church as much as their parents did.

In his diary, my dad wrote these words: 

"I pray for my girls every day that God will protect them, give them a thirst for Him, a hunger for His Word, and a passion for worship.  I pray each day that God will provide them with godly husbands and that He will keep them from rebellion and temptation.  God has so faithfully answered my feeble prayers for my three precious girls.  They love the Lord and His church.  I am so proud of them.  I hope that the Lord grants me the grace to spend many more years with them on this earth.  They are so much fun to be around." 

Praise God for your prayers, dad. 

And now that we've produced three "PK's" that keep us constantly on our toes, I echo this prayer every single day:  Lord, keep them close. In spite of our failures, we feebly pray that they will always love you and love your church.  Amen. 



Color Coding Memories

We have a lot of stuff.  Like most American families, we've acquired this stuff over the years, and much of it sits uselessly in the storage room of our house.   We recently put our house on the market and did a big clean out of the whole house. 

It's truly amazing to me how a toy that has remained untouched in my six year olds closet for literally two years is all the sudden her "favorite toy she's ever had in her entire life." 

While cleaning out this closet, I wasn't moved by my daughter's sentiment for the plastic house I found so threw the toy in the donate pile.  For a second it was like I was watching a movie in slow motion:  Lily dove to block my attempted donation and grabbed the house. 

"You can't give this away!  I'll never ever forget it! My ponies need it!" 

So, I bargained with her.  She could keep the house if she found two other items to donate.  She  methodically plodded around her room, and a few minutes later she came out handing me a mini doll's outfit and a marble. 

Fortunately, in the last couple of months she has grasped on to the idea of giving things away.  While getting ready for our vacation a couple of weeks ago, she told me she wanted to bring a particular doll to give to her cousin.  She explained to me while packing it carefully into her suitcase that "its a great one to give away.  It's lost almost all of it's hair and has pen on it." 

So, we're still working on the act of generosity. 

It is funny how we become attached to our things.  Maybe it's more unfortunate than it is funny since most of us have an over abundance.   But amidst the heaps and piles of things our family needs or doesn't need, some of which sits collecting dust and cobwebs, are the gems that hold sweet memories. These gems are the treasured possessions that often  look insignificant or useless to others but they're tokens taking me back to a particular place in time with memories incredibly distinct.

While cleaning out the house, I came across one of these gems.  I noticed that my kids had discarded an old, flattened, discolored, penguin stuffed animal.  It wore a blue T-Shirt that read,  "TLC."   I seriously reverted back to a child and put on the same temper tantrum my six year old did over her plastic house.

While my youngest told me I could keep the penguin if I picked out two other items to give away, I quickly jumped into an explanation since my older two had a look like I needed to be institutionalized.

When we were little, my sisters and I were terrors to babysit.  Quite literally, we were terrors.  Since I was the oldest, I was usually the ring leader.  The goal amongst the three of us was to make sure that we never had a babysitter back twice.

In fact, I will never forget my mom and dad standing in the kitchen flipping through the church directory and my mom expressing her frustration:  "None of them are available and I've been through the entire book!"

We were little devils.  And for some reason the babysitters never "told" on us.  They would just never return.  I remember telling made up stories to these poor, innocent teenagers about our house being possessed and then "waking up" long after bed time telling them that my sisters and I heard something scary.  They would freak out every single time.  And because that still makes me chuckle, I deserve the afternoon headaches brought on by my feisty six-year old.

But then something remarkable happened.  My parents found a babysitter who could keep us in line.  She expected obedience, she told my parents when we misbehaved, and she was even....nice.

Believe it or not, we became attached to this babysitter.  I became especially attached and would cry myself to sleep in the weeks leading up to her college departure.  We all shared tears when it was time for her to go (including my parents, who probably feared never finding a sitter again), but she left me with something to remember her by.

I slept with the penguin that she made for me every night as a kid (and it may or may not have accidentally made it into my suitcase when I left for college).

And so, after reliving my childhood for a brief five minutes, I expected my kids to embrace me and let me know that I could keep the penguin as long as I needed.

That's not reality.  They reminded me how odd I looked hugging a stuffed penguin and I reluctantly tossed it into the pile, smiling as I remembered the one babysitter who would consistently say "Yes!" to my desperate for a date parents. 

My mom and step father are moving into a retirement home in a couple of weeks, leaving the house I grew up in.  With the progression of her disease, we're very thankful for a place my mom and step father can live comfortably with extra help.  But, change is never easy. And moves are always hard.  Because of  their physical limitations, I've been handling the majority of the details of the move for them.  I've spent the bulk of the time the last several weeks color coding each and every item in the house.  Some of the items will go with them, some will go to other family members, and other items will be donated.  Each piece of furniture, each setting of silverware - they all get a color. 

I've gone through a wave of emotions while doing this chore. In each room of the house, I'm thrown back into time while color coding certain items. 

In my sister's room, I found all of our wedding dresses and bridesmaids dresses for each other's weddings.  I have distinct and wonderful memories of each one of these events.  One of my favorite memories was at my sister Erin's wedding when my husband (who was officiating) finished the last half of his homily using only U2 song titles. 

If you don't believe it's possible, you don't know my husband.   And while the bridesmaids and groomsmen, also fellow U2 fans, laughed at every phrase, my grandmother said to us afterward, "I thought the word Vertigo was an interesting disease to pick in teaching about the phrase 'in sickness and in health.'" 

And in the kitchen while I marked the dishes, I couldn't help but remember standing over the counter watching my dad scoop ice cream into his bowl attempting to see how high he could pile it without the ice cream falling out the bowl (my younger sister comes by her ice cream obsession innocently; it's genetic).

Walking through the bedrooms, there are both happy and sad memories; some have faded, and some feel as though they happened yesterday.  Both of my parents had healthy, vibrant days in the house, and both of them grew ill in the house.   The items and the furniture around me remind me of both kinds of days.

The beautiful reality is that when the house is emptied in a few weeks time, the memories will not go with all the stuff.  Each color coded item will go to it's new place, but the memories will remain.  And they will be cherished, I pray, for years to come.

Many would say to let go of the past and simply embrace the present, waiting for whatever is to come.  I disagree.  The past is significant.  It reminds me of God's faithfulness in getting me to this point right here and right now.  Each threat of anxiety begs me to look at the past and be reminded of how God has tenderly and mercifully cared for us and gives hope that He will continue to do so in the future.

In fact, I believe it's hard to move forward in this life that is sometimes unclear and foggy without a reminder of the road already traveled.  Joy comes with an appreciation of the God-given memories that make up our past, an acceptance of where we currently are, and a confidence in what is to come. Sandra McCracken has a song entitled God's Highway (the link is below).  In the song she sings: 

 My feet are strong, my eyes are clear, I cannot see the way from here.  But on we go, He knows the way, and in His arms He keeps me safe. 

Fear not.  Keep on. Watch and pray.  Walk in the light of God's Highway. 

You see, it's not the possessions in and of themselves that are significant; it's the meaning and memories behind some of them that have value because they are a part of the road I have traveled.  It's not over the stuff that I grieve, nor really in the loss of the house where I grew up, but in the remembrances of what used to be.  Those can't be color coded - those will come with me. and in them I'll rejoice. 

http://vimeo.com/88185064

A Marathon and a Suit: Lessons in Committment

Sometimes it's hard to commit.  It's especially hard to commit to something when the outcome is questionable and the end goal is far off. 

Take a marathon, for example.  Those of you who have attempted this feat (I'm told that is less than one percent of the population) know that there's nothing "for sure" when deciding to commit to this insane distance in running.  The commitment to the weekly running routine is nothing short of arduous, and let's be honest, no one can promise you that six months later you'll actually cross that finish line.  There are injuries and sickness to contend with, scheduling conflicts that make it impossible to get in that long run during the week, and from time to time the:  "I've hit a wall and can't do it anymore" attitude that could keep the end goal of crossing that finish line a mere dream. 

With all these possibilities in mind, I decided to commit to training for 26.2 miles about a year and a half ago.  To say I was nervous is a huge understatement.  When I scrolled down my training schedule and saw 20 miles....18 miles....I completely second guessed my ability to make such a commitment.  Actually, I didn't second guess my ability to run when I saw the schedule.  In all honesty when I saw the training regimen, I imagined myself conquering the concrete; I imagined wanting more at mile twenty four and I pictured doing it all with grace, poise, and lot's of muscle.  In actuality, this is what I imagined: 

 

 

After my first "long" run, I realized there's really no such thing as the above image.  Give me a break.  Ten miles was a huge milestone and I physically wore every inch of pain that I felt during the run.  And even if I wanted to pretend the above were true, my kid's honest reaction every time I walked in the door from a long run shook me quickly back to my reality:  "Ooh, mom, you're so sweaty!"  Or the more common, "Mom, you look really bad."  Or my all time favorite, "Mom, can you please not come near me." 

 

 

But, I was committed.  Very, very committed.  I stuck to that schedule thanks to two runner friends (who, incidentally, probably looked a little more like the above picture).  And even though there were some Saturday's when I thought my legs weren't going to go more than four miles, I always felt a sense of accomplishment when I hit the pavement and could check off another long run on my training schedule.  No matter how painful or ugly the run....I was committed. 

 

The Expo the day before the race pumped me up.  I was even beginning to see my face on the girl in the picture.  The excitement and momentum was a real boost, building anticipation for the longest run of my life. 

 

 



This happy, mom's a rock star, I thought I could be a rock star, picture all happened before my conversation with one of workers at the Expo. I noticed the gentleman describing the route of the half-marathon to several runners standing around.  They looked excited, he looked excited, and then he wished them all luck as they walked away.  I stayed and asked him if he would show me the route for the full marathon: 

"You're doing the full?" 

"Yep!"  I told him it was my first marathon, shared with him a little about my running buddies and even told him my hopeful finish time.  It was clearly more information than he was looking for and I'm sure I looked a little idiotic (maybe like my make-believe running girl picture). 

"Well, this is one of the hardest marathon's for a first timer.  But I'm sure you'll make it." 

All happy--mom's a rock star--I can run like that girl in the picture--thoughts and hopes were officially dashed.  He was sure I would make it?   Way to go with the encouragement, Mr. Expo man.  Geez. 

But I was committed. 

So, at 4:00 a.m. the next morning I began the process of eating the right food, and getting nervous about whether I ate too much or too little of the right food, putting on the right clothes, and getting nervous about whether I was wearing too much or too little, and getting to the start line with enough time to snap the photo to document that I did in fact make it to the starting line, even if I did not, in fact, look anything like the girl in the picture - even before the race began. 

I hit a wall around mile seventeen.  Thankfully my other running buddy came to the rescue and provided bagel bites, advil, and the much needed freshness in order to be able to talk us through the last ten miles.  I had never been more interested in hearing about someone's weekend. I just needed her to keep talking.  I was going to finish that blasted race.  I was committed. 

She kept us going and all was well in my running world until the last 1/4 of a mile.  This is the point at which I had a panic attack.  Why, you may ask, would I have a panic attack when I could physically see the finish line?  I have no, earthly idea.  I'm sure my running buddy was mentally asking the same question while at the same time telling me to "breathe in; breathe out." 

But I was committed...and I finished that race.  26.2 miles of pure and painful running.  And while I couldn't move my body for a good twenty-four hours, I wore a constant smile knowing what I had accomplished. 



I've learned during this past year that my son has the same commitment gene to challenges as I do.  Two nights before Easter last year, I began trying clothes on my son in the hopes that something would work for him to wear on Easter Sunday.  Unless he was going to go to church with pants that would be safe in a flood, I realized he was going to need a new outfit. 

So, the day before Easter I found him a suit.  It was a quick decision, leaving little thought as to whether or not he (or anyone else in the family) would actually like the suit.  I justified that he'd only be wearing it for one day, so if he didn't like it, he wouldn't have to wear it again. 

He hated it.  I mean, he really hated it.  Being the night before Easter, I wasn't about to run out and get something the kid liked and return the bad decision another day.  Unfortunately for my son, I'm not that mom.  He was going to wear the suit. 



Instead of happy, Easter smiles, all we heard from my son was how itchy, scratchy, hot, cold, uncomfortable, and ugly he was...no matter how many times we reiterated that the day was not about the suit, but about Jesus' resurrection.  But the suit itched.  And the suit was hot.  Or cold.  Or whatever he decided it was in the moment he decided it. 

After the services, the complaining continued.  And it just so happened to continue in front of our youth pastor and friend.  He was one of the many whom Jrod cornered that morning in order to make known the dire situation that his mother had placed him in. 

Before I could really process what was happening, there was a challenge extended to my son:  Wear the suit every Sunday for an entire year and you'll get something. 

He agreed.  And my son was committed. 

For an entire year, I have seen Jrod put on that lime green suit.  I have slowly begun to hate the suit almost as much as my son did on Easter morning almost one year ago.  In every holiday picture with my kids this last year, Jrod is wearing the suit:  Mother's day, Father's Day, Christmas...the lime green suit is there.  We couldn't escape it.  My son was committed. 

And we tried to get rid of it.  There were times when I was the gentleman at the Expo, trying to convince my son once the sleeves shrunk and the pants began riding up his legs, to just give in.  Six months was long enough, son!  We tried to pat him on the back and say, "Yea for you!  You made it so many months!  NOW BE DONE." 

He even hit a wall.  Right around nine months the pants were becoming noticeably short.  But, like my running friend who came to my rescue at mile seventeen, Granmda Buswell came to the rescue with her needle and thread and took that hem down.  Yay, Grandma.

My son was committed to this challenge and he was going to get to that finish line. 

There were times when I wanted my husband to explain from the pulpit why our son was wearing the same outfit during the course of the year.  I felt a particular urge to make the challenge known when we'd receive a random bag of nice boys clothes left in my husband's office.  Or when someone would stop me in the hallway and say, "Boy, Jrod sure likes his suit."  But I never felt the urge more than when someone mailed us a nice Sunday outfit marked, "For Jrod for Christmas."  We weren't the only ones sick of the lime green.  And frankly, I was concerned that others wondered about our ability to actually purchase clothes for our son. 

Much like my race day, my son has neared the end of his goal. And he has certainly stayed committed throughout.  I even sense some excitement from him that in spite of wearing clothes that really don't fit anymore, he's made it.  He has stayed committed and he's about to accomplish his goal.  I totally get it, son. 

Somewhat unfortunately, in this last "1/4 of a mile" until the finish line, I'm sensing a bit of panic from J-Rod.  He's been saying things like, "What else is there to wear?" And, "Maybe I'll just keep wearing it because I really don't know what else I'd wear."  Yes, he's having that same sense of panic that I did.  Even with the finish line literally in sight. 

Son, the end is near.  You're almost there.  And I very literally cannot wait.  And I think there are about 200 other friends and family who share in my sentiment.  And when you cross that finish line, you'll be thrilled in spite of being uncomfortable, perhaps unfashionable, and maybe even a little smelly throughout the year (although the smelly part is admittedly my fault for skipping one too many washes in fear that the suit would actually begin to shred). 

You did it, Jrod.  You committed. Maybe one day we'll run a marathon together. 

 

 

 

The Tooth Fairy

My kids never believed in Santa Claus. 

We never told them that he wasn't real....but I suppose we never really told them he was either.  Just this last Christmas I was having a conversation in the car with my five year old: 

"Mom, we need to tell a lot of people about Jesus." 

"Yes, we do, Lily.  You can tell your friends who may not know about Jesus."

"I will because he's real.  I'll tell them about hell too." 

Well, we had a few minutes of discussion on a tactful way to go about eternal damnation.  And then, with the same resolve she felt in telling her friends about Jesus, she said:  

"And Mom, I need to make sure to tell my friends that Santa isn't real either." 

And then I totally confused her.  So I summarized:  Tell your friends that Jesus is real.  Do not tell your friends that Santa is not. 

The poor kid.  There's so much to try and get straight when you're five. 

While my kids have never been believers in the jolly fat man, they've always been firm believers in the tooth fairy.  This is purely the result of our parenting.  We've always gone a little too far when it came to the tooth fairy: handwritten notes in fancy writing on fancy paper, gifts (like birthday present type gifts), pictures of the tooth fairy's house, pictures of her friends, scavenger hunts to and from the tooth fairy, and correspondence that would last for weeks between our child and the "tooth fairy."  O.K., we have gone way too far. 

It all started very innocently.  My oldest daughter lost her tooth one night right before bed.  She was so excited about putting it under her pillow and I'll never forget her toothless smile when she exclaimed, "I wonder how much money the tooth fairy gives for your first tooth." 

My husband and I looked at each other completely dismayed.  My husband began assuring my daughter that the tooth fairy would definitely give her some money, but that sometimes money comes in the form of something called a check....

I totally interrupted his explanation pulling him out of the room and turning off the lights for my dreamy daughter who was trying so hard to stay awake for the special visit. 

He was right, though.  We had no cash in the house - not even a dime.  And then I had a brilliant idea:  it was her birthday in a week and I had a few presents hidden for the big occasion.  "We'll just put one of the gifts under her pillow and write a note explaining that she's a special girl so she gets a gift instead of money." 

It was the stupidest idea I've ever had.  We didn't consider multiple teeth, nor did we consider multiple children.  Ideally, we would have started with a quarter and gone up from there, but instead with started with a new baby doll....and a note.  We had to go up from there.  Subsequently, each lost tooth from my daughter, and then of course from my son, resulted in a gift, a fancy note, and all that followed in between.  My husband and I began dreading the loss of teeth.

 

 



I will never forget the day when our babysitter and friend let the cat out of the bag for our older two.  She assumed they were too old to believe in a tooth fairy, and so when one of them lost a tooth, my friend said very matter of fact:  "So, what are your parents going to put under your pillow?" 

I'm told that my kids looked like deer in the headlights.  My friend came to me apologetically, feeling awful that she broke the news to them.  She was sorry that the kids no longer believed in a winged fairy that sprinkled them with magic dust, sorry that they no longer believed there was a magical forest where they lived, and sorry that they no longer accepted a reality of winged fairy's that watched over each and every tooth. 

I was over joyed.  The truth was out!  And I didn't have to break the news.  I wanted to do a happy dance knowing that I no longer had to do late night runs to Walmart to get a present; my husband was totally willing to join me in the happy dance.  He no longer had to write fancy notes on fancy stationary.  We were free!  We were free to say to our kids, "Great.  You lost a tooth.  We'll give you a buck."  

But then we had one more child.  Lily found out recently that she had to have a tooth pulled by her dentist.  This was going to be her first "lost" tooth.  Her emotions about the event ranged from fear, due the fact that her brother ever so caringly explained that she'd get a shot in her mouth that would make her mouth feel really weird,  to excitement, due to the fact that she loves her dentist and couldn't wait to go to his office, to joy, due to the fact that the tooth fairy was going to visit her when the tooth came out. 

The tooth fairy.  Shoot.  I told my kids not to say anything about what the tooth fairy brought to them in the past.  If they wanted to mention the more recent dollars they've received, they could mention away. 

For a good week, Lily told every person she saw about the tooth pulling.  And I mean she told everyone.  The check out guy at Trader Joes knew the date of the pulling, her friends at church knew what was going to happen, and her teacher....her poor teacher....informed me she heard about what was becoming the infamous "pulling" every day of the week. 

Lily was very detailed with her explanation as well.  She didn't make it quick, explaining all about the tooth behind the tooth that was going to be pulled, showing off the affected tooth, and then describing the process of the shot and funny feeling as if this had happened to her numerous times before.

She actually wanted me to make a paper chain so she could count down the days.  I told her we'd count sleeps instead.  The night before, Lily starred up at her ceiling with a big smile on her face.  It was odd.  Very, very odd.  You would have thought we were going to Disney World the next day.  But no, we were going to the dentist to get a tooth pulled. 

She woke up the morning of the pulling as if she had been dreaming about it all night: "Mom, is today the day?  Today is the day!"  She chose her favorite dress to wear for her dentist.   She was set. 

I made sure we had cash in the house.  We were set. 

When we arrived at the dentist office, the descriptions from Lily continued.  She explained the details to the dental assistant, she showed the tooth to the hygienist and then waited with great anticipation to get to the chair. 

Once we finally made it into the room, Lily sat in the chair, reclined, shut her eyes as tight as she could, opened her mouth so wide that she started to shake, and then.....she cried. 

At this point there were no needles, no dental tools, just the realization that the greatly anticipated tooth pulling time was finally here, and I'm sure she wondered if it was going to be every bit as painful as her dear brother described that it would be.  As I watched my daughter in the chair, I got a glimpse into my own emotional instability:  within seconds, my child was crying, then laughing, then crying, and then smiling, weeping, and then laughing again. 

Once the quick procedure was over, Lily took her boxed up tooth and walked to the car with a sense of pride.  I pulled out of the driveway and began telling Lily how proud I was of her.  Aside from the inherited emotional instability, she did pretty well in a situation that was probably a little scary for a five year old.  It was then that she brought her up: 

"Mom, can I take my tooth out of the box and hold it.  If I don't hold it then the tooth fairy might not know that it's actually mine." 

I took a last minute detour.  Without giving it much though, I turned into target.  I sat for a minute considering my future in the tooth fairy business, knowing the reality of what my future could hold with each and every little tooth that my little girl brought to me. 

That night, Lily, much like her older sister, said she was going to try to stay awake to see the tooth fairy.  After she was asleep, I pulled out the wrapped gift of Frozen, and my husband got out the fancy stationary and started with his fancy writing.  We both sighed knowing full well the suckers that we truly are. 

We were strangely excited to sneak in and slip the gift and note under Lily's pillow.  And if the excitement of late night runs to Walmart and fancy notes on fancy paper runs out for us, I can always call my friend...

Happy first tooth fairy visit, little lily.  Enjoy each and every one. 

Expressions

Showing emotion is hard for some people.  Not all people.  My two youngest have no problem expressing their emotions....at all. 

"Mom, the drink I just had is the best drink I've ever had in my whole, entire life.  It like makes me want to die it's so good.  Just so good that you could never believe it," is the kind of thing I might hear from my son on a somewhat regular basis. 

And my youngest wants to let us know about everything she is feeling; all day long she lets us know about what she's feeling.  The other night, right before bed, she expressed this:  "Mom, I'm so cold.  But then when I put the covers on me I'm so hot.  So I'm like too hot and too cold and also my finger hurts. Like so bad.  But not as bad as my hand because my hand is so dry.  Can I get some lotion?  The smelly kind of lotion ?  Because that lotion makes me feel really good." 

So I gave her the smelly lotion and then she started bawling.  "That smelly lotion is all over my sheets and it makes me feel like I'm going to have bad dreams."  Because a little rose petal lotion on bed sheets would make one have bad dreams.  Obviously. 

And then there is my oldest.  Being more introverted, and more like her father, she's a little more even keeled when it comes to her emotions.  There aren't a lot of ups and downs (yet), and she tends to analyze before expressing the way she feels about something.

But this isn't always the case.  My oldest, also like her father, gets into things intensely.  Whether it's a book, a music group, or a sport, for a time she will be intensely focused on that one interest.  

To our demise as parents, we have slowly watched our oldest become intensely excited about the boy band One Direction.  For those who know my husband and his intense like of U2 (I'm telling you, my daughter and husband are two peas in a pod), this has been a little upsetting. 

He came home the other day to my oldest and her friend watching a One Direction movie.  The conversation went something like this: 

"Girls, why don't we turn on U2 videos instead?"   I'm not entirely sure what he was thinking the outcome of that question would be. 

"Um, no dad." This is what I was assuming the outcome to the question would be. 

Once the sharp pain of U2 rejection wore off, he continued:

"So, why do you like this boy group so much?"  Notice his deliberate choice of words. 

"Because they're a cool band, and they're really good." 

"They're not a band, and they're not really good." 

And that went over well with the girls.  I told him to try the U2 question again and see where that would get him. 

But, like the softy's we are, this past week we bought two tickets to the One Direction Concert.  Of course this came after first trying to sway her to save her money for the upcoming U2 tour.  We failed and two One Direction concert tickets were purchased - one for my daughter and the second for one of her parents.  Which parent will be decided upon at a later date.  Although I must admit, I'd love to see my husband go to a boy band concert.  So far, his best argument against this possibility is that the squealing hurts his ears.  He's going to have to do better than that. 

When the tickets were actually purchased, my daughter did not try to withhold one ounce of the emotion she was feeling.  There was screaming, dancing, texting, and maybe even a tear or two.  And we loved watching the emotions flow from her.  Even it is was because of Harry Styles. 

Because of some treatment she's been going through, I haven't been able to talk with my sister in quite a while.  While this has been difficult, I have been able to write her - actual hand written letters.  I've loved writing to her.  I look forward to her weekly letter and I look forward to sitting down and letting her know what's going on.  And from time to time, expressing my emotions to her through words rather than over the phone can actually be therapeutic.

I tend to be more like my younger two with my emotions, wearing a lot on my sleeve.  And yes, my husband is a patient man.  But I also enjoy expressing what I'm thinking and feeling through writing.  This reality has become very poignant for me as I've watched my mom slowly lose her ability to speak and write. 

I sense her agitation when she is trying to tell a story or when she wants to express her love to her grandkids.  It's not easy.  In fact, it's extremely difficult for her.  Her own body hinders her ability to communicate and express herself.  And there will come a time before too long when that speech will be gone completely as her body continues to weaken.  To watch her struggle in trying to express herself tears at my heart in a way I can't really express.  And while this is seemingly very difficult to relate with, I can empathize in a small way with her frustration in communicating what she wants to express. 

Even if we're not physically hindered, everyone has been hit with some news, some kind of heart breaking reality, that takes the breath right out of us.  It's in those moments when clear expression is as difficult as it can be to breath.  When my sister told me she had breast cancer, she called and said three words:  "I've got it."  I really didn't know what to say or how to feel.  With a loss of words, my body responded by shaking. 

When my dad passed into glory, it was difficult to know just how to express what I was feeling.  I could no longer pray for his healing, so I just wept. 

It's because of these kinds of situations that the verses from Romans 8 have been particularly significant to me through the last several years:  "Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness.  For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us with groaning's too deep for words." 

Can you see the hope that this passage gives?   No matter how hard it may be to convey our emotions, thoughts, and confusions, the spirit takes care of it for us.   And he does this with "groaning's too deep for words."  We may not know what to ask or even how to ask it, but the spirit does.  Our present suffering expressed through groans are taken by the Spirit and formed into a beautiful offering of requests to God, woven together in perfect harmony with His will.  It's an act that is mercifully beautiful. 

And I know that our all powerful God weeps with us when we can't bear to hold in our tears. He rejoices with us when we can't contain our excitement.  And when we can express nothing at all, He sends His spirit to do it for us.