Forty Lives

I could hear my 4-year old, Ethan, his bed rattling, as he woke up.  And then the exclamation, “Yeah!  It’s Mother’s Day!”  You would have thought it was Christmas, as excited as he was.  I had snoozed the alarm and decided to skip our church service (my one indulgence of the day) but still needed to get ready to teach Sunday school for my 12-year old, Daniel’s, class.  Daniel had returned late and exhausted the night before from a church retreat, so we decided to let him sleep, and Ethan and I went to church.  Chris and I did, however, have to reassure Ethan that I would open my gifts when we returned home.

So I taught Daniel’s class, and Ethan and I headed to the store to pick up supplies for a school project Daniel had to complete.  Who knew they sold squinkies at Michael’s?  The moment Ethan spotted them, he began whining that he wanted me to buy him a package.  I wasn’t about to pay $13 for a toy when we were there for one purpose – supplies for Daniel’s project.  So the whining and fit-throwing went on for what seemed like hours.  So much for Mother’s Day.

Once home and after opening my gifts (which was lots of fun), I decided to take a nap (ok, my second indulgence of the day).  Ethan’s version of Gilda Radner’s hyper character Judy Miller kept me awake, so I gave up and folded a load of laundry.  And he kept begging me to take him to the library, so I gave in.  We returned home just in time to spend a nice evening with my mother who had come over for dinner. 

And then, finally, when we were getting ready for bed, I asked Ethan what episode of “Chloe’s Closet” he’d like to watch.  He replied, “You choose, Mommy.  Because today is not about me, it’s about you!”  I had to laugh.  The day had not really been about me.  Any Mom or Dad knows that each day with young children involves the caring for them.  There will always be school projects and laundry.  There really is no break from this – aside from going on a retreat or to a spa for a few days.  And that’s ok.  Mother’s Day is a reminder that I am blessed with loved ones who share in the everyday as well the miraculous with me.  It’s not about one person, after all.  It’s about family.

I have a friend who is a foster parent.  She is a wonderful mother to her own children, and together the entire family recently decided they wanted to open their home and hearts to others in need.  Their first child, age 2, was with them for just two months.  This little girl soaked up the love, affection, and security provided by my friend, her husband, and their kids every waking moment.  I would see her at church, reaching out her arms to be held by one of them almost constantly.  It was a joy to see the expressions on each of their faces as their bond grew.

Fast-forward to the day they had to let her go.  This little angel hugged and loved on each one individually, not wanting to leave them.  The family gave her a photo album of memories and reluctantly said goodbye.  The case worker cheerily told them she’d call them next week about the next foster child as they drove away.  And now they are in mourning over the precious child they will not likely see again.

My sister-in-law, Marjorie, recently went on a mission trip to Haiti.  One point in the trip found her in an orphanage.  She was in a room surrounded by children, all of them crying uncontrollably.  She used her gift of music and began singing a lullaby to the children.  Immediately, all of the children – except one – stopped crying.  He was so tiny Marjorie was afraid his bones would break if she picked him up.  But she couldn’t stand watching him suffer.  So she picked him up.  As she sang, his cries ceased as well.  The Spirit was in that room, calming and comforting those children.  And then, too soon, Marjorie had to leave.

It is so easy to get lost in the need, the hurt, the innocent eyes of children.  Overwhelming.  How does one wave goodbye to a child who has become a daughter or walk out of a room of crying toddlers?  Must we harden our hearts to be able to do this time and time again?  Is  loving with detachment the only way to get through?  Perhaps not.

Maybe God really wants us to dig in, to love with abandon.  Perhaps our Savior knows that’s the closest we come to knowing the sacrifice made on our behalf.  To let go, to strip away all the layers of self-protection, and to love – agape – strangers who become family.  And then to trust, completely trust, that God will be there to hold us and wipe the tears away.  To know that our strength will be renewed and our hope restored.  Could that be what is asked of us?  If we are the hands and feet of God, then those in need will be blessed.  And isn’t that enough?

This morning, I learned that turkeys aren’t very smart.  A wild turkey found its way into my garden and stopped at the edge of a fence.  He began to pace back and forth, poking his head through the vertical bars, trying to get through.  The problem was his body was way too wide to fit.  I walked toward him to take this picture, and the turkey became more and more frantic trying to get out.

That turkey just couldn’t figure a way out, bless his heart.  (That’s what we say in the south when someone or something isn’t very bright.)  It didn’t occur to him to back up and take a look at his surroundings.  Somehow, in a matter of minutes, he’d forgotten the way he got there in the first place.  He simply could have walked back out of the garden the same way he came in.  Instead, anxiety overtook him, and he repeated the same behavior again and again, faster and faster.

Sounds a little like me, actually.  I’ve gotten myself in a bit of a pickle with work – overcommitting my time – and now I’ve got to deliver what I promised.  So I pace back and forth frantically, working as fast as I can to get everything done, anxiety building minute by minute.  Maybe it’s time to stop, back up, and take a look at my surroundings.  Perhaps I can realize that the important things will get done if I prioritize and focus on one task at a time.  A clear head and directed energy will accomplish much more than a worried, distracted mind ever will.

And that turkey?  I got a little too close for comfort, so he flew away.  That’s one approach, I guess.  Escape the overload, fly away.  But for me – well, I’d rather accomplish something.  I choose to buckle down and concentrate my energy on meeting my deadlines today.  And with any luck, I’ll actually learn from the experience.  Learn that I can say “no” or sometimes “not right now”.  Realize that people are quite capable on their own, and that rather than doing everything myself, I can provide information to empower them to do some of the work as well.  I’ll get out of that garden eventually.  Even a turkey can manage that – one way or another.

When I was about 5 and my sister, Karen, was 7, I got in trouble.  I don’t remember what I did, but my father was pretty angry with me.  Daddy was a very loving, gentle man, but he was also stern with his discipline.  I knew that I was in for it.  Karen knew that, too, and she wasn’t about to let that happen.  The typical older sister, she took on the role of leader and protector.  As Daddy moved closer to deliver the inevitable spanking, Karen instructed me to climb under the coffee table.  She stood between my father and me and said to him, “You spank me instead of Suzanne.”  He was so moved that neither of us got punished that day.

Isn’t that just like our Savior?  He covers our sins, provides a bridge to our Heavenly Father so our relationship can be restored.  How blessed are we that we are offered the opportunity to commune with our God – to pray, sing, and worship knowing our sins are forgiven and there is nothing left to distance us from Him.  How beautiful that this bridge to our God came to us in the form of a precious, tender baby.

O Lord, Thou didst show favor to Thy land; Thou didst restore the captivity of Jacob.  Thou didst forgive the iniquity of Thy people; Thou didst cover all their sin.  Selah.

I sing with an ensemble at church.  I enjoy sharing in the musical creativity, but last week I skipped out on rehearsal.  I got a phone call a bit later because there were only two singers there, and they were working on a song that really needed three-part harmony.  So, I went to rehearsal.

By the time I got there, the other two ladies had worked out their parts.  I added the third part, and it rounded out the sound of the song.  It was easy for us, almost effortless.  Each of us just seemed to know where the other vocals were going.  And our voices blended.

Guess we’ve learned the secret in that group.  We listen to each other.  Each one of us is mindful of the other singers.  We don’t want to overpower the others.  We just want the overall sound to be beautiful rather than showcase our own voices.

Every member of my family has a voice that can be heard (o.k., we’re a bit loud).  Many times in our home, I find that we’re struggling to get our own words out, our own point of view.  And it can quickly get out of control as our words and tempers escalate.  Seems we haven’t learned that ensemble secret.  We don’t listen. 

In our ensemble, there are times when one of us sings lead.  And the rest of us back off during that time.  If we all tried to sing solos at the same time, the result would be chaos.  Occasionally at home, we’re all singing lead and tripping over each other.  Rather than feeling like our voices are heard, we end up feeling alone.

I think it’s time for a change in our household.  Time for us to stop running around, pushing our own agendas, and just stop.  Time to hear when Ethan asks a question about his favorite president (Ulysses S. Grant) or when Daniel wants to recount every play of a UNC basketball game.  And time to share details about our dreams of living near the ocean.

Thankfully, there are moments when we get it.  Like when Daniel taught Ethan the names of the planets the other day.  Or when we cheer Daniel on at a basketball game.  Or when we work together in the yard under the gorgeous spring sky. 

We’re learning that – while we each have different parts to sing – we can be supportive by truly engaging in each others’ activities.  We can share dinnertime conversation about everyday occurrences at school and work.  Hopefully, with enough practice, our conversations will become true moments of sharing and produce a lovely, harmonious sound.

Last night was a tough one for my 12 year old.  His Tar Heels lost to Kansas, so they won’t be going to the Final Four.  During his own basketball game at a friend’s party, he scraped his knee pretty badly.  Then they ran out of pepperoni and cheese pizza before he made it through the line.  Finally, someone told him the ending to “The Hunger Games” before he had a chance to read it for himself.  Rough night.

How do you help a child understand that “this too shall pass”?  It’s hard enough for me as an adult to get past disappointment and truly believe that life will be good again.  But – at his age – there’s not enough history to draw on, not enough memories to instill in him a trust that things will get better.

So maybe I have to tell him my stories.  Stories of a miscarriage, the loss of my father, and the passing away of many of my husband’s family members.  Perhaps he needs to hear that my heart has been broken before or that there have been times when I couldn’t figure out my place in the world or even the right career path.  Perhaps we could take a walk through my wildflower garden to see the green that is emerging where cold, hard ground existed just weeks ago.  And I could remind him that God has always brought us through the darkest times into joy, just like these flowers will bloom again and again.

It’s one thing to believe God’s words “I will never leave you nor forsake you”.  It’s another thing to live them out, see them in action.  My son is almost there, and it’s our job as parents to help him recognize the presence of God as he rides the waves of disappointment.

We did what we could last night.  My husband cooked him a pizza.  I cleaned his wound and put ointment on it.  Our son finished reading his book.  When his head hit the pillow, there was a peace about him.

And this is what God does.  God nourishes us with his Word, cleans our hearts and applies the salve of grace to our wounded spirits.  Then we have the strength to finish what we started.  Eventually, even the most bitter of disappointments must give way to the blessed, nurturing, life-giving peace of our Creator.

I attended a wonderful seminar about a week ago.  Being in an environment surrounded by people who write and feel passionate about their message was invigorating.  I also got glimpses of the personalities and hearts of several of the other attendees.

 One young couple gave me a lot to think about.  They discussed how their words seemed to shape their reality.  In the early days of their marriage, even flippant negative comments about each other’s behavior slowly but surely built a barrier between them.  And then they got me – pointing out I had said several less than positive things during our short conversation.

 Matthew 12:34 reminds me “Out of the abundance of the heart the mouth speaks.”  If that’s the case, my heart could use a little work.  If I expect the worst, I shouldn’t be surprised when that’s exactly what I get.  But if my words reflect an optimistic future, my mind can’t help but follow.  And putting hands and feet to my thoughts will eventually make good things happen.

 I’m not suggesting a denial of reality, and I’m a far cry from Hayley Mills’ Pollyanna.  But I can take baby steps.  Last night after a long day at work, I decided to transplant some flowers in my garden.  I had to dig deep in the dirt, and with every movement of the shovel, I felt my weariness.  I said out loud, “I’m exhausted”.  Hearing my own words, I decided to take a different approach.  As I worked the ground, I said “Turn the soil.  Dig the hole.”  I said this over and over as I cleared a 6 foot row then planted the flowers.  Somehow focusing one step at a time on accomplishing the task at hand rather than my physical limitations made it work.  It wasn’t easy, but I got the job done.

 And then there are the words I speak to my family.  My 4-year old was very proud of all the things he did to get himself ready for bed last night.  And oh, how he did beam with joy when we praised his efforts.  Too many times I find it’s easier to focus on stopping poor behavior rather than encouraging good behavior, especially with my children.  That one may take a lot of practice for me to master.  But words – my words – have power.  I want my heart to overflow with kind and positive thoughts.  And I pray that my words will encourage and bless others.

 “May the words of my mouth and the meditation of my heart be pleasing in your sight, O Lord, my Rock and my Redeemer.”

“Everything happens for a reason.”  We’ve all heard it a hundred times in response to life’s tragedies or unexpected twists and turns in life’s journey.  And for some people, this belief gives them strength and comfort when coping with loss or pain.  Somehow, it just doesn’t ring true to me.

A child is abused, a friend publicly betrayed, and innocent bystander murdered.  All these events are not orchestrated by a divine puppeteer.  The God I serve gave us all free will to make choices – some good, some bad, some seemingly insignificant – that affect ourselves as well as others.  There is no “reason” when someone chooses to act outside the legal or moral fabric that grounds our society and our faith.

This doesn’t mean that I don’t believe that God can control everything.  I just believe He chooses to let us make our own decisions, including whether or not to follow Him.  God wants us to love Him because we truly want to, not just to ease our fears of the unknown. 

Letting go of the belief that everything happens for a reason doesn’t shake my faith but rather strengthens it.  My hope is not in a predetermined path.  My hope is in God.  My hope is in God’s love and presence.  When our lives are shattered, He is there.  The God of the universe weeps with us.

My four-year old had a nightmare last night and asked me to pray for him.  When I finished, he said, “And God and Jesus, please always be with me.”  Of one thing I’m certain…his prayer was answered before it was even asked.

“My peace I give to you”

The words came to me clearly, almost forcefully, while I was twisted up emotionally like a pretzel.  Worry about making the best choices for myself and my family while not neglecting the needs of others had me in a bit of a tizzy.  Boundaries are sometimes hard to define and even harder to maintain once the line is drawn in the sand.  And I had drawn that line.

“My peace I give to you”

But there it was, settled on me.  Peace.  I had done my best, and there was nothing to be gained by worrying.  I had learned my lesson…for about eight hours. 

“My peace I give to you”

The worry came back with a vengeance.  And like a rabbit in the spring it had multiplied.  What had been anxiety about one family member became concern about several family members.  God had given me peace, and I had given it back.

“My peace I give to you”

So I did the only logical thing.  I stopped, and I ate almonds covered in Godiva dark chocolate chased by sips of English Breakfast hot tea.  Savoring every nuance of flavor, I lived fully in that moment.  And in my chocolate-induced clarity, I took the words to heart.

“My peace I give to you”

It’s not to be taken lightly – this peace.  It is to be embraced, savored, consumed with a thankful heart.  This gift of peace must be nurtured.  Worry can chase it away, but pure faith and trust are the water and sunlight it needs to blossom, grow, and share its gentle strength with others.  This gift – blessed gift of peace – is one I now receive with an open heart. 

“My peace I give to you”

This blog is supposed to be about spiritual things – learning the nature of God, forgiveness, reaching out to help others – all the things that supersede the ordinary.  But today it’s about football.  In a couple of days, my team, the LSU Tigers, will play for a national championship and undefeated season.  May not seem all that spiritual on the surface, but I remember another season in 1997 that was filled with football, God, and saying goodbye to my Daddy.

My Dad was not well for many years.  The man who had the kindest heart of anyone I’d ever known had a weak heart that just couldn’t hold on forever.  We knew the end was near in the fall of 1997.  Daddy was in and out of hospitals, and he chose to live out his final months at home.  I travelled back and forth from Tennessee to Louisiana to spend as much time as I could with him and my Mother.

And on those Saturdays – those precious Saturdays – we’d watch football.  Between spectacular running plays, dropped passes, and kicks that stayed just inside the uprights, we’d talk.  Dad dispensed career advice, and I spoke of the baby I hoped to have…bittersweet as we both knew he wouldn’t be there when it happened.  We talked about my wonderful husband who loved football, too (Go Mountaineers!).  And we did laugh.  Daddy never lost his quick wit.

James Earl Jones had it wrong in “Field of Dreams”.  It wasn’t baseball but rather football that was the binding thread running through our family.  And on those days we shared many special moments.  We listened to the LSU/Akron game on the radio (Tigers 56, Zips 0 – no pun intended).  We watched Tennessee’s difficult SEC Championship victory over Auburn with Peyton Manning at the helm.  And we got a little choked up hearing Bob Griese call his son Brian’s Rose Bowl victory over Washington State, earning Michigan a share in the national championship. We connected over football in these moments, the time marked by first downs like hands on a clock.

And then he was gone.  How he would have loved to see LSU take on Alabama Monday night.  He would have rooted for the Tigers with all his might but would also have been proud of the SEC for having both teams in the championship game.

Guess I’ll just have to cheer extra loudly for him.  I’ll watch the game on TV with my family, wear my lucky LSU hat, scream like a crazy woman, and wish that he could be there.  And those memories, divine in their simplicity, will be with me.  Here’s hoping my boys will one day say the same thing about being with their Mom and Dad – watching football – and being a family.