Today was an interesting Mother's Day. Usually, on this day, my thoughts are on on my own mother or my experiences as a mom. But today, for some reason, I kept remembering some of the other moms I have met over the years...
When I watched a friend at church interacting with her son's girlfriend (whom she does not particularly care for), with kindness and sincerity, I was reminded of one of my first visits to my ex-husband's mother's house. The first few hours were awkward, but as the evening wore on, I felt like I was making a nice impression on his mother and sisters. Before we went to bed, my ex wrote "S loves Jenni" on the dry erase board on the fridge. At breakfast the next morning, I noticed a "I wish he didn't" penned in underneath. S noticed it too and loudly protested, demanding to know who wrote it. His mother just smirked and told him the choices were not limited.
As I sat stirring a huge pot of homemade spaghetti sauce, this afternoon, I remembered visiting a friend's house in college. His mom decided to make spaghetti for dinner. I watched her boil the pasta and take out a jar of sauce. After adding the sauce to a pan to heat, I watched in horror as she took out a package of Italian sausage and added it raw and whole, casings and all, to the sauce. After cooking it for a very short time, she announced that the spaghetti was ready. She brought the pasta to the table- undrained. When I got up the courage to comment on his mother's meal a few days later, my friend admitted that he had never seen her actually cook anything before.
I played with my daughter's hair, this evening, until she shrugged me off in annoyance. And I thought of the little girl who lives across the street from us. The little girl who spends every free minute with our family. The girl who lives without a mom and lives with a dad who doesn't work. I thought of the time when I played with her hair and how she sat soaking in the love and attention as I poured stories of Jesus' love into her little mind. And I remembered how she looked up at me and said, "Miss Jenn, if someone isn't in your family, can they still call you 'Mom'?"
I thought of all the selfish and careless and stupid and horrific things I've heard of other moms doing.
And I thought of all the little ones without moms. Without the comforting touch, the reassuring voice, the steady shoulder and the gentle wisdom a mother gives.
And as I sit here feeling this tiny new life kicking inside of me, I am overwhelmed by the burden of it all. How can I possibly be the mom that my kids' need? I may not be outwardly cruel, like my exes' mom was. I may not rear my kids on fast-food and take-out alone, like my friend's mom did. I haven't disappeared, like the girl next door's mom did.
But I have been screaming far too often. And I get impatient far too easily. I break promises and forget important events and don't stop to hold them often enough. The last few weeks, in particular, I have been selfish and inwardly focused, and my kids have suffered because of it.
This Mother's Day has not been a celebration of who I am. It's been a reminder of what I never want to be.
Sunday, May 11, 2008
Truth
Monday, April 21, 2008
This Stuff Matters
I seem to be nesting a bit early this time, but I like the results! My basement is almost clean, the attic is clearing and I can see closet floors.
Little time left for blogging, but this winter was a very cluttering one and I need the space more than I need the break.
It's amazing how a few weeks of sunshine remind me of how unimportant all the stuff we have is. We've been spending hours puttering around in the dirt, playing with Sammie the turtle and just soaking up the sun. Suddenly the toys and CDs and even the books just seem so pointless. I know I'll appreciate them come the next rainy day, but for now, it's good to simplify.
There are times when I look around at how much we have, and I wonder if we are doing our kids a disservice. My kids rarely ask for anything. They just get. Granted, they don't see or hear any advertising, so they don't have that I-need-it mentality, but we often don't give them the chance to really wait for something. Delayed gratification is such a lost concept.
My generation was reared in entitlement. Many of us were taught that we were the best, the brightest, the prettiest, the sweetest and all-around perfect... just because. Many of us were given everything we needed and far more than we wanted.... just because. And many of us never learned how to delay spending, how to earn something we wanted, or how to appreciate what we had. Fortunately, I was not one of them.
But I fear that my kids may be.
My kids have eaten out more this year than I did in my entire life before college. And I am not kidding. My kids get sweets on a fairly regular basis. My kids have far, far too many clothes and way too many toys. I know that eating out and having sweets and wearing clothes and playing with toys is not wrong. But at what point do we say, "Enough!"? It is a question I have asked myself several times over the last seven years.
Several circumstances have contributed to my renewed concerns. I finally, at the urging of Amy, watched The Story of Stuff. Although I found it a bit fanatical, it was a great reminder of how materialistic we have become in the last few decades.
The other thing that really got me going was an incident that occured at Asker's Tee-ball game. He was a late addition to the team and my first introduction to the other players and parents was at the first game.
He proudly put on his uniform at 2am and woke me up seventeen times before 7am. After hours of "can we go now?", it was finally game time. He grabbed his new glove and we left.
When the other kids started showing up, I was in shock. These were five and six-year olds decked out like they were in the major leagues. Almost every single other child had his/her own ball bag completely loaded with gear. Multiple bats per child, loads of balls and co-ordinated batting helmets. They had special shoes and special socks and UnderArmour for the cool morning. They had personalized water bottles and energy snacks. FOR TEE-BALL!
When I played Little League, we used team bats and balls and helmets. We drank out of the team water cooler and had a snack when the game was over. Asker has his own bat, but we hadn't even considered bringing it. I hadn't bought him a batting helmet that he would grow out of in a year, and I sure as hell wasn't buying him a $150.00 ball bag.
But then as they were all sitting on the bench and the coach told them to get their batting helmets on, little Asker spoke up.
"Excuse me, Coach? I don't have my own batting helmet."
And a little knife of guilt went through me.
What kind of mom was I that didn't buy her perfect, precious first-grader a batting helmet. How could I expect him to do his best if I didn't provide the tools? Did the other moms think we were too poor? Hell, I was standing there, visibly pregnant, holding a snotty-nosed 8-month old and trying to keep two toddlers quiet. What would they think of me?
And then the coach reminded me of what it all was really about.
"That's okay, buddy! We're a team and we have lots of helmets and bats to share!"
And I remembered why we didn't buy the extra gear. I remembered why it hadn't even crossed our minds to buy the extra gear. He didn't need it.
After the game, Asker asked me if he could get his own helmet. I thought about it for a minute and told him that he needed to play the entire season and show responsibility, respect and commitment. And that if he was a good example to the (mostly younger) other players and tried his best, we would get him a helmet for next year. He smiled and said, "Awesome!"
And, in that moment, I felt sorry for the other kids' whose parents had probably not even considered not buying all the extra gear.
But I also realized that had we seen all the other kids' gear first, before that first game, we probably would have bought him a few extra things. Just to keep up. Just because it was expected and it was the norm. And that scared me.
I want to make sure that the choices we are making as parents are the right choices. not just the socially acceptable ones. I want to think through every choice and make sure my kids are learning delayed gratification, appreciation and, yes, even disappointment. I want them to understand their value doesn't come from just being, but from the respect, honor, love, joy, patience, friendship, mercy and grace they show others. Of course, we value them even when they show anger, disrespect and hatred, but I want them to realize there are better choices.
And I think reducing our materialism (yes, even farther) is a key.
So, we went through forgotten or unused toys and clothes. We talked about kids who need them and the joy their stuff will bring to others. We talked about how hard Daddy works and how we need to value the things we buy because they are a result of his labor. I reminded them of the true story we read last year of the children in the Liberian orphanage who ate a plain donut for every single meal. Every single day. Every single year.
I hope it will stick.
And maybe the next time I get a 10pm craving for Taco Bell, I'll open the fridge and just eat some leftovers.
Friday, March 21, 2008
Haiku Good Friday
Smell the blood and tears.
Pain, loss, death strangle the air.
Weight of the world hangs.
Mock, scorn, spit. Ignore.
Cacophony, then silence.
Your name on His lips.
Forgiveness and grace.
Mercy, peace, truth, perfect love.
Defined in one death.
Death was not the end.
Battle and then victory.
Tomb empty, alone.
Freely given; this.
Payment made, and debt erased.
For me, for you. All.
Wednesday, March 05, 2008
A Father's Love
A few months ago, I wrote about my dad's pancreatic cancer and how his blood tests seemed to indicate that the cancer was gone. Well, this week, his CAT scan results were finally read and there is no cancer in his body. Anywhere!
Please go back and read the story so you can understand how powerful this is. Pancreatic cancer is not a curable cancer. He did not have a successful resection surgery. He was given months, then weeks, then days to live.
Now, over three years later, his cancer has completely disappeared.
It is difficult to put into words the range of emotions I've felt during the last few years. He was diagnosed the day I gave birth to Clam. Recovering from the birth, I was unable to attend his surgery and felt very disconnected in the first few weeks.
From the first moments we were told he had cancer, Dave believed that he would be miraculously healed. Every time the subject would come up in conversation, Dave would pipe in with a, "But the Lord's going to heal him."
And I despised Dave for it.
I felt like he was glib and unrealistic and that we needed to prepare for what we were told was imminent demise. As I watched my dad literally shrinking before my eyes, I knew God was capable of healing him. But I didn't really expect it to happen this time. It just seemed too big.
I prayed for him, but always with a "Your will be done," out for myself. If he wasn't healed, I could always just say, "well, it wasn't the Lord's will," and save myself the embarrassment of explaining.
But then, he didn't die. And more than that, he changed. Dramatically.
My dad has always been an incredibly strong man. Strong of convictions, strong of opinion and strong of faith. But after a family tragedy about 15 years ago, he had turned inward. So far inward that we rarely glimpsed him. We saw anger and frustration and empty words, but the spark was gone.
And now, during a fight for his life, his passion had returned. Barely able to rise from the couch, he would speak of God's love with such compelling force that the room would be moved to tears. Always having bestowed affection begrudgingly, he now poured out, "I love yous" and initiated hugs. A hermit for nearly a decade, he began a weekly men's Bible study in his home. And when we would leave , Dave and I always joked that we were "coming down from the mountain."
His faith (and my mother's) became contagious. I began to pray, not, "Your will be done," but, "I know that it is Your will to heal." (James 5:14-16). I began to, in the words of Dutch Sheets, stand before death and ask for life.
And more than anything I began to realize that God is not limited by our minds. We cannot ask too much. We cannot ask too often. We cannot ask enough.
God healed my father's heart. He healed my heart. He has touched countless people through my dad's story.
And now, He has healed my father's body. And I can't stop smiling!
Sunday, November 04, 2007
The Great Physician
Almost 3 years ago, on Valentine's Day 2005, we called my parents to tell them that I had given birth to our third child. That night, my parents called us to tell us that my dad had been diagnosed with pancreatic cancer.
Pancreatic cancer, called the silent killer, has the lowest survival rate of all cancers. My dad was told that if he had a successful Whipple (resection) surgery, he could possibly live for 6 months to 1 year. His surgery was not successful. Within a few weeks of his diagnosis, he was barely able to get off the couch and looked like he was, well, dying. His skin was yellowed and hanging off his gaunt frame. His energy was gone and his voice was weak. But his eyes still sparkled. My brother flew in from Los Angeles, and we all gathered at my parents house the weekend of Memorial day. We spent hours talking, singing and praying together. A man of strong and unwavering faith, my father often ended up comforting us, his children. Although we all knew God was able to heal him, we also prepared ourselves for what we had been told was certain death. After a devestatingly painful round of chemotherapy, my dad decided not to do the remaining round. His doctors told him there were no remaining therapies available. He was given weeks to live.
Over the next 2 years, he was in and out of doctor's offices and hospitals wavering between barely living and some pretty good times. He would get stronger and start to eat again, only to have a relapse, lose 10 pounds and be back to extreme exhaustion. Every test continued to show the cancer growing. Every surgery was viewed as simply an extension; a temporary assuagement of pain.
In December 2006, the doctors decided a temporary stint my father had needed to be replaced. He was told it would be a quick surgery and he would be home the next day. During prayer the night before the surgery, my father felt God speak directly to him and tell him that he needed to trust in Him. God told my father that he would be in the hospital for 7 days and that he would be sent home to die. The next day, when the doctors opened him up to replace the stint, they found that the cancer had mastitized throughout his body. It had covered the stint to the degree that the stint was surrounded by what the doctors described as "cement." They were unable to successfully finish the surgery. As this stint was necessary for his liver to function, they had to immediately rush him into another procedure. He had a drainage tube installed- without anesthesia! 7 days later he was sent home. The doctors advised my parents numerous times to call Hospice because my father had only days to live. My father's response every time was that God would decide when it was his time. He was not afraid to die, at times he welcomed the idea, but he knew that nothing the doctors could do would save him if God called for him, and nothing the cancer could do would kill him if God was not ready for him.
This summer, my dad once again went in for surgery to have the drainage tube replaced. They had never put in a permanent one because they had expected him to die within days. Finally, after realizing my dad was still around, they scheduled the surgery for July. After the surgery, where it was once again confirmed that the cancer had continued to spread, my father almost died. As he was coming out of the anesthesia, his heart stopped. For several minutes, the doctors frantically worked to revive him, rushing my mother out of the room. My father has since described his feelings of those moments to me and his disappointment at not being with Jesus is palpable.
It was during that surgery and the follow-up visits that he revealed to his doctors a shocking revelation. He had stopped taking his medication nearly 3 months before. He had been taking enzymes to allow his food to digest, pain medication and reflux medication (perhaps more, those are just the ones I'm aware of). The digestive medication was particularly necessary. Without it, his food would take days instead of hours to digest as his liver was hardly functioning. But the Lord had clearly told him to stop taking his medication. Naturally, his doctors scoffed and scolded telling him he would lose weight rapidly without his medication. But, since he was not yet dead, they told him to come back in 3 months, instead of the usual 1 month.
Last Wednesday, my father returned to the oncologist. His doctor entered the room reading Dad's chart. He told my dad there must be a mistake with his weight. "No," my dad replied, "it's correct." The doctor insisted my father could not possibly have gained 18 pounds in 3 months. "Yes," my dad replied, "I weigh myself everyday." He confirmed that he was still medication free and left for the gastroenterologist's office. The doctor read my dad's blood work results with utter disbelief. He told my dad that no doctor in the world could find any trace of cancer in his test results. On paper, the cancer is gone! It is only this week that my dad revealed to me that when the Lord told him to stop taking his medication, He also told him that he would be healed. The physician ordered a cat scan to confirm what the tests already show. But as my dad so eloquently put it, "The cat scan will show one of two things; either He has healed me, or He hasn't healed me yet."
What a mighty God we serve.
*Update March 2008- The cat scan results are in and there is no cancer at all! It is completely gone!
