Too Soon

A few days ago, I had the pleasure of catching up with a friend I hadn't seen in some time.  Seeking to set the stage for further discussion, I casually mentioned that my father had passed away.  My friend, full of surprise and sympathy, exclaimed, "I'm so sorry. I had no idea your dad had passed away."

It was slightly awkward.  My first response was to apologize to her.  I had assumed she knew, and mentioned the event only as a point of reference for other events in the life of our family.  I had not meant to plunge her unexpectedly into the role of comforter.  I wanted to tell her the whole story and assure her that I am indeed "alright," but the unexpectedness of the situation only brought tears.  Words were beyond me.

"It's okay," she comforted. "It's still too soon."

I wanted to say that it's not so much that it is "too soon," as it is that it is "too unexpected."  I have told of my father's death many times, spouting medical, legal, and psychological terms without the least hint of a watery eye.  I just wasn't prepared to do it at that particular moment.

And this is where grief gets messy and beautiful all at the same time:  No matter how long it has been, no matter how many times you have shared it without emotions welling up and threatening to overcome you, grief is grief.  It will smack you in the face at the most unexpected moments.  In those moments, you will feel all the raw sorrow and horror of the initial tragedy.  You will also feel the fleeting, anguished beauty of a life never to be recaptured.  It all feels incredibly ugly, but it is a precious gift.  It reminds you that you are human, and human with a history.  It proves a connection to the deceased.  It proves both the power of the life they lived and your love for them.  There is no statute of limitations on sorrow.

Another beautiful thing is that some of the triggers that release your tears will be intensely personal and completely inexplicable to anyone else (and sometimes rather humorous when you remember why something reminds you of the person).  Running on the treadmill last night, I listened to U2, one of my sister's favorite bands. A particular song came on, and I tried to listen.  I really tried.  I've always liked the song and really wanted to hear it... For many reasons, though, I had to skip it if I was to avoid bursting into an uncontrollable flood of tears.  I could feel the waters threatening as I thought of the horses my sister so loved and of a young man whom my sister had been waiting to come around to talking to her again.  (They bickered routinely, only to return to being best of friends. She knew that time would come sooner or later and said so in the days before her death).  I would not have finished my run if I hadn't skipped to the next song.  There are several such songs that bring my sister so clearly to mind, some perfectly cheerful and uplifting and some just silly.  I will not call them all by name, at least not here, not now. They are sacred treasures, pathways to memory, not to be disturbed at present.

In closing, I know this isn't the cheeriest post, and I'm not entirely sure why I wrote it, except that I felt like writing something and this was on my mind last night.  Also, I assure all of you that I am not a weeping basket case!  Yes, I have my cries from time to time, but most of the time, it's neither "too soon" nor "too unexpected" to discuss the losses of my father and sister.

Sometimes, though, it's nice to know that that there are some feelings time cannot soothe into oblivion.  In the end, when the swell of sorrow subsides, you can smile, cherishing precious life gone by and new life flourishing at every turn.

Husbands Come in Handy

I love my husband.  In many ways, we're a lot alike.  We're pretty laid back, come-as-you-are people.  Our senses of humor are, to put it gently, slightly warped.  And yeah, we have a knack for sticking our feet in our mouths...

But we're also quite different from one another.  Besides the obvious fact that he's a dude and I'm clearly not a dude (at least I hope that's clear!), we just function differently.  It dawned on us about six months into our marriage, when we looked at each other, a strange realization rising in each of our minds.  I don't remember what precipitated the conversation, but it went something like:

Him: "I didn't realize you were so emotional."

Me:  "I didn't realize you weren't."

That was about eleven-and-a-half years ago, and we have had plenty of opportunity to witness one another's responses, with all their tears and stoicism, to life's major events and minor occurrences.  I'm not sure if Geoff has quite figured out what to do with my tears and worries - because along with this "emotional" thing comes a propensity to overanalyze everything to a ridiculous degree - but I do know one thing:  I am thankful he's not like me.

On more than one occasion, I have been ruffled to tears or nearly to tears over some event, the importance of which might be debated.  (And of course, I do debate the importance of such events from every possible and impossible angle, further exacerbating my emotional turmoil...)

Then my husband weighs in on the matter.

"So."

So?  The world might be falling apart or our children might be doomed to delinquency or so-and-so might have interpreted such-and-such that I said thus-and-so or... or... or...

Or maybe he's right.  Maybe the things that ruffle me so are mere passing breezes, not the earthquakes I imagine them to be.

Maybe... no, most definitely...  It is a very handy thing to have this particular husband around.

The Sound of Rain

A steady rain is falling on this lovely Sunday evening.  As I washed dishes, gazing out at the falling rain, I felt a sudden urge to open the window and hear the beautiful, rhythmic pattering of this life-giving downpour.  As I listened, I could almost see the clover and grass and trees and flowers growing...  At least I could imagine an even more lush yard filled with beautiful, varying shades of green and accented by white, yellow, pink, purple, and blue flowers, all having been encouraged to grow and blossom, in part, by the very rain now descending.

I also thought briefly of the many recordings of "The Sounds of Rain" I have seen over the years.  It seems there is something in this sound that is universally appealing to human beings, and I suspect that "something" is linked to an innate understanding that rain means the eventual growth of flora that enrich our vistas and if not feeding our bodies directly, doing so indirectly via the great, unending food chain.

Rain, life-promoting and life-sustaining rain, is good.

Even so, when we speak of difficult times in our lives, we think in terms of rain.  We speak of "rainy days," "downpours" and "storms of life."  To be sure, rain can be damaging, but I don't know...  I guess the point I want to make is that even the toughest, stormiest days of our lives can bring growth and beauty.  It's easy to look back, after the storms, and discover how we have grown and what beauty has blossomed as a result of our suffering, but what about during the storms?  How do we view the falling rain, as a curse or a blessing?  Do we dread a disordered future or live in the hope of good to come?  Do we trust that the rains of life are working to birth in our lives lush greenery and brilliant blossoms - deep beauty to be enjoyed in the sweet warmth of a sunny day that will eventually dawn?

I hope we trust, and trust enough to see the beauty before its birth.

The Big 1-0

It's quiet over here, and before I destroy it by gently reminding my eldest that he still has a math lesson to do, I thought I'd take a moment to mark a sacred event in the life of our family...

The arrival of the double digits.

Yes, the day we have long dreaded and eagerly anticipated is upon us.  Tomorrow, we will celebrate Andrew's TENTH birthday.  I can scarcely believe we are old enough to have a child with two digits to his age, and I'm at a loss to explain how we've come so quickly from cradling our very first newborn to asking our eldest of four if he might be interested in a club that will explore a profession in which he recently expressed interest.  (Said profession will go unnamed, since he was a little irked at my mentioning it in front of his brother this afternoon).  I can't for the life of me figure out how the last DECADE has slipped away.  My baby is growing so quickly, halfway to twenty already.  I know, I know... I shouldn't get too far ahead of myself.

The years from now to twenty will likely pass as quickly as the years from zero to ten have, and my emotions can't quite handle the thought of my young son (who requests I not act so foolishly as to refer to him as "my sweet baby boy") being all grown up and on his own.  On the other hand, here we are, on the brink of ten.  That means we have already survived many milestones, and life marches undauntedly onward.  As he grows, I find myself too busy enjoying the child - unless he is now more accurately called a youth - that IS (except maybe in the midst of a Saxon Math lesson, when he is not entirely easy to "enjoy," but that's a very special exception for which he most certainly can be excused for falling slightly shy of Mr. Sunshine, as I'm sure a few of you will agree)...

Oops, sorry for that.  As I was saying, I find myself so enjoying the youth that is that I have little inclination to mourn the baby that was.  Despite his all-too-understandable aversion to mathematics, Andrew is a great kid.  He is curious, observant, thoughtful, intelligent, creative, resourceful, funny, and increasingly responsible as he helps around the house, works in the community garden, or helps his younger siblings.  In short, he's a really neat kid, and I wouldn't trade the privilege of spending these years watching him grow into a man for a lifetime of cuddling a newborn Andrew, as precious to me as the memory of his infancy is.

When he blows out the ten candles,  I may very well shed a few tears over time never to be recaptured, but mostly, I will cherish the moment at hand, this fleeting moment of youth in which my boy loves Legos, devours fantasy fiction, and climbs trees with little thought of turning twenty and leaving his mother to wonder what happened to the last two decades.

Happy TENTH Birthday, Andrew!

Stitches: Kid 4, Round 1

A little over a week ago, a homeschool mother turned author/lecturer shared photos of her "active" boys in various stages of hospitalization.  Full body casts, head wounds, all that fun stuff...  I was thankful as I considered the relatively few trips we have made to the ER over the years.  We've had one broken collar bone (from falling out of bed), a couple of staples in the head (falling on concrete), and a couple high fevers/ear infections, but for the most part, we haven't had to visit the ER all that often.  We've been so blessed...

I should have known better than to compare.  Comparing never ends well, especially when you start to feel good about yourself or your circumstances.

Long story short, here's my sweet baby boy, showing off his bandaged "fingertip laceration."  I didn't get a chance to snap a photo of it pre-stitches, what with applying pressure and trying to get him and his three siblings to the ER and all.    

He's managing well, and I hope with all that is in me that it is a long, long time before our next trip to the ER...  because something tells me sooner or later, no matter how much we kid-proof or how closely we watch this one, he's going to injure himself again.  I hope this incident is not first of many, but I'm having a hard time believing he isn't just getting started...  

God have mercy on my sanity and strengthen me for wounds to come.

A Bitter Cup: Broken and Shattered

“This child is destined to cause the falling and rising of many in Israel, and to be a sign that will be spoken against, so that the thoughts of many hearts will be revealed. And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Luke 2:34-35

In Michelangelo's Pieta, we see Mary holding in her arms the broken, limp form of her son and savior.  The image of a mother, who had been told so many years earlier that a sword would pierce her heart, cradling her son is powerful.  My first, inescapable thought as I studied a photo of the sculpture, was that I could not bear to endure watching my son bear what Jesus bore.

The story isn't about a grieving mother, though.  And so I wanted to shout to Mary and to everyone around her who mourned the death of Jesus that this isn't how His story ends.

We who have the benefit of time know the glorious next chapter.  We know that Jesus was laid in the tomb.  We know the tomb could not hold him.  We know he rose again, bringing salvation to all who would believe in him.  We know that in drinking the bitter cup of death, Jesus shattered the cup of death reserved for each of us.

As I gazed at Michelangelo's lifeless Christ, I felt it unjust that his mother, friends, and disciples grieved.  I wanted to let Mary in on the secret, that her son and savior was not resting in her arms.  He was actively engaged in destroying Death once for all.  He was very much alive indeed.  Only waiting.  Waiting to return in glory and send his followers out to proclaim his awesome triumph over the bitterness of sin and death.

I also felt it unjust that we do not take the time to grieve with those who walked with Jesus in the flesh.  In a way, it is right, for we do know how it all turned out.  We should rejoice.  But I don't know...  I think we would also do well to feel a bit of the loss and grief of his mother and friends.  Jesus didn't just casually walk to Calvary, jump up on the cross, and watch the world go by till he got tired and decided to go ahead and do away with Death.  It was a monumental, earth-shaking and heaven-opening event.  And it wasn't easy.  It wasn't something we should just gloss over on our way to the resurrection.

I'm not suggesting we minimize the resurrection by dwelling on the morbid details of the crucifixion.  I just think we should take the time to wade a little deeper into the depths of what Christ did for us, to know and feel His sacrifice on a heart level, not just as an intellectual precursor to a happy Easter morning.

Going back to the bitter cup theme, a picture formed in my mind as I gazed upon Michelangelo's Pieta.  Bear with me, please, if it sounds stupid or irreverent...

I pictured Jesus, standing outside of his body - the body resting in Mary's arms - drinking the bitter cup of death.  The cup is squarish, red on the outside and black on the inside, just like the coffee cups that make me so happy each morning (and afternoon).  In one fluid motion, he takes his last gulp, tipping the cup way back to get every last drop, then moves the cup from his mouth.  As the cup breaks contact with his lips, it shatters.  It shatters to smithereens, and then to a fine dust that blows away into nothingness.  All because Christ picked up that bitter cup, and Death couldn't bear His holiness.

And now, praise God, there is no cup.  "There is now no condemnation for all who are in Christ," Christ, who was broken for a time, that Death might be shattered for all time.  “Death has been swallowed up in victory,” and nothing will ever be the same again.

Parenting "The Right Way"

Sometimes the biggest blessings in our lives are people quite unlike ourselves.  They teach us to look at life from a different perspective and sometimes, to appreciate the view through their eyes.  Yes, our differences can cause conflict, as we or they are not entirely comfortable not being in agreement with one another.  This is particularly true in the realm of parenting.

See, we all have our ideas of what "The Right Way" to parent is.  If you don't believe it, check yourself the next time someone criticizes your parenting.  You will come up with at least a dozen reasons why what you do is not just fine, but the best thing for your family, thank you very much!  At best, we research our options, consider our circumstances (beliefs, personalities, family dynamics, financial means, lifestyle, etc.), and make informed decisions about what we will do or not do with our children.  At worst, we take the stance that we have supreme authority to do whatever our fancy or mood dictates with our children, regardless of physical, mental, emotional, or spiritual consequences for good or evil to our children and others.  (I am most thankful not to know anyone who fits squarely into this second category as a rule).  Often, though, we do the best with admittedly limited knowledge of ourselves and the options, frequently falling short of our own ideals, ideals which, in the case of healthy parents, always - regardless of where we fall on the spectrum of parenting styles or how miserably we fail to uphold them - flow from a desire to love and nurture our children into healthy, capable, happy adults.

But here's the thing:  We aren't all going to parent the same way.  My Wise and Wonderful Sister, who has a style quite different from and yet quite similar to my own, commented the other day that none of the things we parents so highly esteem are necessarily "right" or explicitly "biblical," on the basis that there is only one clear thing God commands parents to do in regard to their children:

 Fix these words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them on your foreheads. Teach them to your children, talking about them when you sit at home and when you walk along the road, when you lie down and when you get up.  (Deuteronomy 11:18-19)

In Ephesians 6:4, Paul repeats the command:

Fathers, do not exasperate your children; instead, bring them up in the training and instruction of the Lord.  (My sister observed that the command not to exasperate children is directed to fathers.  Does this mean we mothers may exasperate all we want?  Hmm...)

Now, I do believe that all of the commands regarding our treatment of our fellow human beings, summed up in the single command to LOVE ONE ANOTHER, AS CHRIST HAS LOVED US, apply to our children as well.  We are to love our children as Christ has loved us, and loving like Christ is a big command in and of itself.  While we may personally feel that natural childbirth, breastfeeding, baby-wearing, co-sleeping, delayed solids, organic foods, physical training, a good (academic) education, and a host of other things demonstrate our love, even that they are God's will for our families or that they are the undeniably best choices for the thinking human, the Bible does not speak specifically to these practices, and so we must be careful not to confuse these practices with the universal will of God for all families everywhere at every time.  In talking with people who parent differently and hearing their reasons for doing what they do, I am not swayed to change my practices (because I have put a lot of thought, research and prayer into what we do and am confident in our choices), but I cannot deny the love behind their choices...  or the reality that they have happy, well-adjusted children who are apparently no worse off for not having been cuddled to sleep till they were one...  or two... or well, let's just leave it at that.

No, the Bible does not address many of the practices we hold so essential to "good parenting."  That's not to say these practices are not good or that it doesn't matter what we do.  I do believe the responsibility to love our children requires us to make informed choices about what is best for them rather than what is most convenient for us.  Plain common sense tells us that a balanced meal is more beneficial, and thus more loving, to a child than a box of Twinkies and a two-liter of Mountain Dew.  But it's not always that clear-cut, and before we judge another parent too harshly or too generously, we would do well to hear their reasoning.  We would do even better to remember that it's none of our business how they raise their children.  While we may offer help and encouragement, we are not the ones who have to raise their children.  Nor are we the ultimate judge of their work.

And how will the Ultimate Judge of a Parent's Work judge any of our work, if not by our faithfulness to His one command:  Teach these words of mine to your children?


I really don't want to let go of my advocacy for natural childbirth, exclusive and extended breastfeeding, co-sleeping, baby-wearing, and even home education.  But I, and each of us, must fix as our primary goal the passing on of Truth to our children, for that is our clear call as parents and the one thing that will stand the test of eternity.  I do not mean we neglect temporal things like physical, emotional, and intellectual nourishment.  I only mean that we keep these things in their proper places, remembering always our higher calling to teach our children God's ways in all that we do.

For the second time today, I find myself thinking I have outlined a very difficult task, one I'm not sure I'm up to accomplishing.  And so, as with living joyfully, I must look to Christ to train my children in His ways.  I must also rest in His grace, knowing that I will fail again and again, grateful that He receives me by His amazing grace, rather than by my feeble efforts, and rejoicing in the hope that my children's hearts are in His hands more firmly than in mine.