Baby Doll

As every mother knows, a mom rarely gets the chance to take a shower in a bathroom... all alone... by herself.  Recovering from two months of shower chairs and baths due to a broken leg and ankle, I was relishing my first chance at a "normal person" kind of shower when Violet came in to talk.  To know her is to love her - an ideal combination of stinker and cutie, she always has something interesting to say.  She likes to say rhymes like, one, two pick up sticks, three, four, pick up sticks, five, six, pick up sticks.  She calls Mark "your husmint" when she talks to me about him.  When he comes in the door after work, she says to me, "Mom, your husmint is here.  Don't you want to go kiss your husmint?" and giggles uncontrollably.   Like most girls, she has a big crush on her daddy, and her affection is not misplaced.  She and Mark have become quite inseparable over the past six weeks of my convalescence.  Mark said to me a few weeks back, "Maybe she wouldn't be so ornery if I just lavish her with attention," and so he did.  I dare say she is more in love with him today than ever, and I think it's a result of his efforts toward her.  I haven't seen a dad - ever - be as devoted to his children, but I am admittedly totally biased.

showing off for daddy

When Violet joined me this morning, she said, "Hey, mom.  Your husmint is downstairs."  I said, "Yeah?  What's he doing down there?"  She replied, "He's working."  (He was installing a component on our heating and cooling system.)  Mark later told me that Violet had been his "lovely assistant" earlier, "Until she got tired of me stepping on her toes, and that's how close she was to me the whole time," he said with a grin.  Fortunately, I think she got impatient before he did and decided to come talk to me instead.  She said, "Yep, dad is downstairs working."  I said, "He's so great, and he's my honey."  She said, "Yeah, and you're his honey, and he calls you 'honey' sometimes too."  I said, "Yep.  You know what else he calls me sometimes?"  She asked, "What?"  I said, "Baby Doll."  She laughed, and said, "That's funny!  Baby doll."

You know what?  It is funny.  What man calls a woman "baby doll" in the 21st century?  I mean, Mark has called me "baby doll" from the beginning of our love relationship.  I thought it was so odd and old-fashioned at first.  Then I thought it was unique and wonderful.  It made me fell all wrapped-up and warm inside when he called me that - as though I belonged to him... as though I belonged to someone who wanted to take care of me.  Call me old-fashioned, but that's exactly what I always wanted from a man... what I still want.    Mark and my courtship was so quick.  We met in January, were engaged on February 7th, and married April 14th of the same year.  We had prayed it through in every way, and God kept giving the green light from making the date clear (we had originally planned to wait a year), to having our parents completely on board without a single question or doubt and without our saying a word, to blending our families so well, to... THIS

What is this, you may well wonder.  I have to admit that, as I went shopping for a wedding dress, I wasn't a bit nervous, but I felt I had every reason to be trepidatious.  After all, I didn't know this man who called me "baby doll" very well at all... considering we were about to be married.  I had very little time to find the right dress.  As I wandered through the small, local dress shop, I stopped at a section for wedding accessories, and there it was... plain as day... a bridal purse with the words "Baby doll" emblazoned across the front in rhinestones.  I took a double and a triple take - standing and staring in disbelief.  What are the odds of this? I don't even know.  What I do know is that it was another sign that God wanted me and Mark to be married.  He had lavished me with another convincing proof.  When I say "lavished", I mean it.  It was totally over-the-top.  It might as well have been a bright neon sign that proclaimed, "Marry This Man!" God didn't have to give me such an obvious yet perfectly soft and soothing reminder that - not only was He in loving control of our situation, but that He had planned it out long before we had.  When I think about the series of events that would have led to a manufacturer choosing the phrase "baby doll" to put on a bridal purse, and that a tiny bridal shop in Milledgeville, Illinois, would have chosen such an interesting item to stock their meager accessory shelf... Things like that don't just happen by coincidence.  If you ask me, nothing does.  

I am awed that I serve a God who not only meets my needs, but Who lavishes tender care upon me in most unexpected ways.  I don't think it's wrong to ask Him for signs that you are in His will.  In fact, I think that the desire for a sign to know you're in His will is a great testament to the fact that a person truly wants to be doing what God wants him/her to do.  

Since the first "baby" doll uttered by the man who would later become my "husmint", he has loved all of his "baby dolls" in most precious ways.

with Sadie and Claire

with Claire

with Violet, Levi, and Levi's baby

When we took our trip to Hawaii this past summer, it was directly scheduled over a date that would have been my 15th anniversary if I had still been married to my first husband.  My first husband left at the 6 1/2 year marriage milestone.  At 6 1/2 years with Mark, we were enjoying the bounty of God's grace - learning to love one another better daily.  A day that sometimes comes with sad reminders was filled up with the hope that comes with knowing that our committment isn't something that started out with starry eyes and love-struck infatuation with a side of fireworks.  It started with hope - not in one another - but in God.  Our hope was that the One Who brought us to it would bring us through it.  The best kinds of love are the ones that start out as an ember and are fanned to flame.  

Mark's love for us is a reminder to me of the fact that, if a person can love so selflessly - wanting the best for his family, how much more does our Heavenly Father want to pour out His perfect love on our sorest circumstances.  He stands waiting and wanting to give us everything that He alone knows we need - for our betterment and for His glory.  Will we welcome Him?

Give a Man a Fish

Today I'm reminded of the old saying, "Give a man a fish, and you feed him for a day.  Teach a man to fish, and you feed him for a lifetime."  This phrase comes to mind as I help a few of my girlfriends endure the heartaches of bitter divorce.  In both of these cases, church-going "Christian" guys with sweet wives and children and imperfect marriages (an affliction of every married person) decided that another woman would be a better life-choice for himself and his mistress and that his own happiness should take precedence over everyone else's in his family.  In each case, the husband chose a mistress and her child over work and dedication to his own marriage and family.

I struggle over this, and not only because the same thing happened to me but more because of what these men claim.  They stand staunchly by their "Christianity" and believe that God has led them to divorce their wives and live with their mistresses and that God is blessing their current lives - the proof?  "I know God's blessing me, because I'm so happy."  By the same token, they assume that because the wives they left behind are miserable and terrified that those women must be the ones in the wrong... that they are being somehow cursed by God for their wrongs.   Were the wives wrong in their marriages?  Yes, as we all are in relationships.  They have fully admitted their faults - even asking forgiveness and hoping for reconciliation and working toward it whole-heartedly.   Someone once told me that marriage isn't 50/50.  Each person has to give 100% to make it work.  Thus, when marriage fails - it is the equal fault of both parties, and I agree with that wholeheartedly.

As I watched one of my friends today agonizing over the fact that her husband is introducing their children to his mistress and her child, I remembered that feeling well... as though I was being replaced in the lives of my daughters.  I know now that no parent - however shoddy - can be replaced in the heart of his/her own children (a happy fact that I wish I had known back then.  It would have saved me a lot of grief).

My heart aches as I watch these situations unfold, because these moms are begging God daily - not only to take away their pain and protect their childrens' fragile hearts during this difficult time - but to help them treat their former (or soon-to-be) former husbands and mistresses with compassion and kindness.  All the while, they are being watched like a hawk by the husbands and mistresses for a slip-up in their behaviors.  In both cases, the wives have had weak moments of strong words with their husbands, and the husbands have the audacity to say things to the effect of, "Well, if you were really a Christian, you would be kind to my mistress and to me and be happy that we're happy."  If they fail to act sweetly in even one interaction out of 100, their religion is thrown in their faces, and they are told, "Well, if you were a real Christian, you would be nice - no matter what I do."  The husbands take it further to claim that they are the "real Christians".  These men who left wives and children for other women to make themselves happy... they have finally found the secret to true Christian morality and behavior - infidelity and abandonment of responsibilities.  Am I the only one who wants to scream at this?  Somehow the word "Christian" is supposed to translate to angelic, super-human self-control.  The whole world wants a Christian who is compassionate, sympathetic, and sweet-tempered while at the same time not able to have those same feelings hurt when they are thrashed verbally and emotionally.  They are supposed to have the presence of mind to forgive the swearing, screaming, abusive words of others and immediately respond with kindness and sweetness and unwavering self-control.  Does that happen sometimes?  Yes.  It may even happen 9 times out of 10, but it's that tenth time, when a person might snap and say, "Why are you doing this to me?  Why are you doing this to our kids?  That woman is ____ (fill in the blank), and I hate what the both of you are doing to us!"  Ah, then she has been the most filthy, anti-Christian ___ (fill in the blank) that the world has ever seen.  Would it be easier to just say, "I'm not a Christian," and that way have the right to say everything you are thinking/feeling inside?  I think so.

I mean, truly, what does a cheating husband expect his Christian wife to do?  Is she supposed to say, "I'm so happy that you're happy, and I promise that the kids and I will stay out of your way and let you have your happiness.  How can I facilitate it?  Can I help throw a bridal shower for your mistress?  I'll help you plan your wedding.  It'll be great fun!"

I watch these first-time single moms as they pray before interactions with difficult people and situations - that they'll be a good example to their kids and that they'll respond kindly to the people who are causing the most acute emotional pain they've ever experienced.  What are they learning?  Most people would say, "They're learning to be a doormat."  What they are really learning is to be more like God wants them to be.  They are learning to give over control.  They are learning to try to do the right thing - walking by what God wants them to do rather than what their human nature screams at them to do.  Sometimes we win that battle.  Sometimes we do not.  Does that make us hideous excuses for  Christians?  No.  It makes us humans full of sin - which is why we called on God in the beginning - for help... not to claim we're perfect, but because we know how desperately imperfect we are, and we at least want to try to rise above what our nature says to do.  Knowing it can't be done on our own, a Christian just claims - not his own righteousness (because he knows he has none to claim), but a Christian claims Jesus' righteousness as his own and tries not to tarnish that sacrifice by being an idiot time and time again.

It's taken me awhile to realize that every time I am faced with a difficult person or situation it's God showing me something ugly in myself that needs worked out.  When I was going through my divorce, I begged God to get me out of that awful circumstance... bring Brett home - anything to get out of the pain.  Immediately, I got a mental picture of me trying to teach my daughter to write her name.  She kept dropping the pencil in exasperation and saying, "I just can't.  I can't do it."  God challenged me with a gentle question, "If she says she can't, will you just let her quit?  Would you ever stop trying to teach her to write her name?"  My only response can be, "No.  If I let her quit now, she'd never learn anything else.  Writing her name is elementary and fundamental to the rest of all she'll ever do in school."  His response was, "Exactly."  I knew at that moment that if God let me out of that difficult circumstance - in which he was hacking away at my pride, my control issues, my selfishness, and so many other things, that I would just have to go through more of the same circumstances, because learning those lessons was fundamental to moving on to something else.  If you are continually beating your head against the same brick wall of broken relationships, painful circumstances, financial woes, weight issues, etc. it's because you simply are refusing to learn to "write your name".  You can't move on to the next lesson until you get the last lesson down.

I find it ironic that one of my friends' husband said that he knew he was in the right and that his new relationship was being blessed by God because he was so happy.  If our happiness alone is a measure of whether or not God is blessing us for good behavior, it's a poor measure indeed.  Does God grant His creatures happiness if they're doing the right thing?  Does God grant us joys and pleasures based on our performance?  Is God the kind of God that would give a man a fish (happiness) today and neglect to teach a man to fish (act in a such way that facilitates internal joy) for a lifetime?  The benefactors in these hideous divorce situations, although they aren't fully realizing it yet, are the women who are learning to be kind when they feel anger, to forgive when they feel offended, to be quiet when they want to scream angry words, and to find satisfaction and trust in God rather than placing all their hopes in momentary happiness.  God is teaching them - as they are willingly partnering with Him - to implement behaviors that will end in true, ultimate happiness.  When we treat others with kindness, when we put self-control into practice, when we truly love others with our actions, then we receive the deepest happiness - and not the kind that disappears when a date night goes sour or a vacation gets rained out, but the kind of happiness that contents itself in having managed somehow to honor the sacrifice that Jesus made on the cross with right acts when everything inside was screaming at self to seek revenge.

Now, that's not to say that God doesn't bless people for just no reason at all.  In fact, I think that is one of His greatest joys, and I've been a recipient of those kinds of blessings more often than not.  However, those things are momentary gifts - not able to sustain a lifetime of happiness.

Somewhere out there are Christians who claim that they are better than others, because of their religion.  It's these Christians that make others have an expectation that Christians should always act perfect.  They imply, "A Christian should always have the right response, and "A Christian should always be kind."  In that world, it doesn't matter how hard you smack a Christian down, they are obligated to get back up and offer themselves for you to do it again... and with a smile and a "thank you".  That Christians are to flawlessly execute Matthew 5:39, in which Jesus states that we are not to resist and "evil man" but rather give him more than he asks ("turning the other cheek" to persecutors).  I agree that we are supposed to learn to respond rightly and kindly in every circumstance, but where is the practice field?  Life is it.  It's the practice field.  A person can't practice right response to a distasteful person or situation until faced with it, and then is likely to fail miserably many times before finally getting it close to right - and then will likely fail again thereafter from time-to-time.  Unfortunately, there is no other place to learn right response than real situations - when emotions are screaming, tempers are flaring, and pain has us to the breaking point.

No one - Christian or not - should ever presume to brag that he or she is above ugliness.  Our fallen nature makes every one of us ugly in many ways - physically and emotionally.  These are not excuses for bad behavior, and our ugliness is certainly not a surprise to God.  Isaiah 64:6 says, "We are all as an unclean thing, and all our righteousnesses are as filthy rags."  John 2:24 says, that Jesus refused to entrust Himself to the crowd around him, because He knew what was in the heart of a man.  They were singing His praises, yet He knew not to trust them, because He knew the heart of man is fickle and is prone to loving one minute and despising the next.  If anyone could obtain perfection like God, then we would cease to be human, and He would certainly cease to be God.  He knows we're incapable, and thankfully - even when we fail (especially when we fail), His grace is all-sufficient and covers our ugliness with the beauty of grace.

I don't know about you, but I'm glad that God not only gives me fish but that he teaches me to fish.

OWS and AHS

"We don't deserve this," I said as he sat on a rock looking back at me.  "Who says?" he responded.  "Huh?" I asked listlessly.  "Why don't we deserve this?" he persisted.  "I don't know... just because we haven't done anything right."  After all, Hawaii was the most perfect place I could imagine on earth, and as we sat there drying on some rocks underneath Alele Falls, a private location where we'd just swam under a waterfall without another soul in the world in miles, in an environment closer to earthly perfection than any I'd ever witnessed to that point, I felt small and totally unworthy to be there.

My husband works in the nuclear power industry.  Last winter, he was talking about signing up for yet another set of work hours that would take him to another region of the Midwest for a bit over two weeks.  These 72 hour work weeks for a month or more are not uncommon in his job, and we usually see these kinds of hours 2-4 times a year.  I will never complain about his job, because he has a job - and a good one, but these work hours can make for some trying times in our household.  Everything just seems to run more smoothly with two parents.  As he was talking about heading to another voluntary assignment that would separate us all for a few weeks, I said, "Well, I know we've said this before, but if you do sign up, I want some tickets to someplace tropical in hand before you head out."  We had talked many times about trying to take some time to go somewhere for awhile - just the two of us.  After all, our honeymoon a bit over 6 years ago was a nice one to the Smoky Mountains, but we were pretty new to each other at the time, and we were just trying to get through awkward - not to mention the mono I had contracted about a week before the wedding.  After that, we came home to 3 children - a ready-made family loaded down with responsibilities and routine.  We are a couple famous for talking about "what ifs" and "some days", but I liked the idea of more than just the promise of some future vacation if he were to sign up for more over time.  He agreed and told me to start planning a vacation for a mere 3 weeks from that time.  After sitting in front of the computer for 2 hours agonizing over where to go and how long to go, I determined I just couldn't put things together that quickly.  He agreed, and we decided to wait until the very end of August so that we could avoid busy summer vacation season.  So last January, I set to planning a vacation a whole 7 months away, which might as well have been an eternity at that point.

Later that Spring, a family member who is in the Navy approached Austin (16) about a "Tiger Cruise". This is an event wherein Navy personnel can invite family members on board a ship to see the daily operations, etc. of the ship.  Essentially, all we would have to pay for him to go was air fare to Oahu.  We told Austin that he'd have to pay half of the airfare, and he'd be good to go.  He (being a renowned penny pincher) said he might rather just save his money and stay home.  I said something to the effect of, "Are you serious?  Do you know how many kids your age would die to have this kind of opportunity, and you're going to let a few hundred bucks stand in your way?  You may never get there again in your lifetime!"  He semi-reluctantly agreed that he'd like to go.  When was he supposed to go? At the beginning of August.  We made the plans, and he was to be gone 16 days.  My dad accompanied him for the trip, and they took in a week of sight-seeing in Hawaii too.  When Austin was gone though, I was afraid to tell anyone where he was... afraid that they might think we were bragging or that we had 'money to burn"... especially since he spent two weeks in February on a cross-country road trip from California to Illinois - bringing my sister back home from Cali for a visit.  In reality, he was just afforded a unique opportunity that we would have been foolish to deny him - especially since he foresees a possible military career in his future.

Austin - Grand Canyon 2012

Austin - Hoover Dam 2012

So, he spent months teasing us that he'd be getting to see Hawaii before we did.  A fact, which we didn't find nearly as annoying as he hoped we would.  His upcoming trip to Hawaii didn't make me feel less guilty.  I worried even more that people would see and scrutinize our trip-taking, and they did.  Pointed commentary about "rich Christians" - spending money frivolously when we should be (presumably, as they are) giving it to the poor was ironically posted on the Internet/facebook by people with computers... putting them in the richest 95% of humanity because they have a computer in the first place.  I guess if I were judging them, I would say they should have spent their computer money on the poor.  I find it terrifically ironic that people post angry words about the "filthy rich" on the Internet with their macbook pro or hp laptop from their bed whilst watching their flat screen TV.  Just about anyone in America can rack up credit card debt on "needs" like computers and TVs and Internet access and cable TV.  We didn't go into debt to take a vacation.  We planned it into our year... along with charitable contributions... as if it's anyone else's business.

As we sat there under that water fall, my husband reminded me that we don't spend money on the things a lot of people do.  We have aged television sets and no TV service; we buy almost all of our kids' clothing second-hand; we have older cars with no payments; etc.  Even more importantly, he reminded me - people who begrudge either of us a vacation do not really know, care about, or love us as a couple or family.  No, they don't even like us.  Why do I care what people like that think anyway?  He had made an excellent point - several, in fact.

It doesn't matter how many good points are made... I still want to feel guilty about having something so great.  I don't even know why.  What I do know is that, had Mark not helped in relieving my guilt, I was precariously teetering on the edge of losing the blessing that the vacation was.  So I began to keep a journal of our trip so that I could relive it for years to come... for those difficult seasons, which are sure to come - and always do... into every life.  I have never been so close to paradise on earth, and, for me at least, it was Hawaii with the man I love.  Everyone has their own version of where their paradise would be, but I think that our glimpses of those places - however many and to whatever extent we're permitted those glimpses in our lifetimes - are meant to give us a tiny taste of what God has within His creative capacities.

I intend to document our trip in another blog - mostly to have a photo/written remembrance of the trip, and also - for those of you who have asked for advice and are considering a trip to the same area - some must-dos and must sees and maybe one or two must NOT dos.  

For now, I'm going to take this in a different direction.  SINCE, I've started this blog about half a dozen times and rerouted and never finished it, and I have a contract to blog at least once/month, this is it, folks:

The ups and downs of our late summer/early fall - and by "fall", I'm not referring to "autumn", I really mean FALL:

It started off pretty well - kind of like this:

A friend of ours asked our family if he could take our photos in the wheat field behind our house... gave us 2 days to plan and be there, and voila... an awesome deal on family photos that we were very happy to have.

And then there was this:

I did something like this - OW...

Which ended up in something like this...
(MRI of herniated disc) - OW...

That lead to something like this... AH...
(Yes, there were much better massage photos on line, but I thought this one was funny.)

And then something like this... OW...

 
And ended, or so I thought, with this last picture... still a mom, still a wife... still a LOT of work to do that I'm not supposed to do, which lead to:

forced child labor :(

When all of the above started less than 6 weeks before our anticipated trip, I thought we'd never go.  I thought we would never make it to Hawaii and that my fears of getting what I deserved - were coming true... a bad back and a missed opportunity.  Enter our church family and family family who brought meals, cleaned, took care of kids, and helped with just about everything conceivable... not to mention the star of the show, my husband - who ran his life, my life, and our family life without a single complaint and with compassion and humor that are so essential to our lives as a couple and family.  What would I do without him?  This is one of the AH... parts.

Then came the time to take the trip...

northeast coast of Maui

northeast Maui coastline

Maui - mountainous/rainforest

southeastern coast of Maui

private garden at condo off Hana beach

One of my favorite moments of my love trying to extricate himself from sharp waterfall rocks without falling while I was holding the camera 

outdoor shower/tub at the Kipahulu condo 

falls on Road to Hana

Little Me... Giant Tree - on our hike up to Waimoku Falls

more of our hike up to Waimoku Falls

swimming in Alele Falls

my love on our first night in Oahu - near Waikiki beach

our toes in the first water we saw in Hawaii

Last night on Maui - Sunset extraordinairre

And I saw that it was VERY good... There was enough AHHHHH... in those 10 days to last me a lifetime.

And then we came home to an ordinary life - full of routine, continued physical therapy, bills, schooling the kids, etc.  After about a week of this - Mark and I meeting one another coming and going after having been spoiled with days of intimacy, he asked me to come sit in the garage in a lawn chair he had set up for me after a long week for us both.  He held my hand, and said, "I know it sounds terrible, but I want to go back..."  I looked at him, and smiled, and I said, "Me too... this is the first time all week I've even talked to you."  We sat and basked in the quiet beauty of rural Illinois from our garage lawn chairs, the kids squealing and riding bikes in circles around us.  Precious moments aren't about the places we're at but about the people who are with us.

And after all that AH... there had to be another OW, which looked exactly like this:

the unveiling of my hideous leg

incision #1 (inside of right leg)

and, my personal favorite, incision #2 (outside of right leg)

Now, those I know and love know exactly how this happened, but suffice it to say that it involved an ankle broken in two places, a bone chip in my ankle, and a severely broken fibula - all of which resulted in my physical therapist who was completely mystified by my behavior.  Fix a person, and then what do they do?  Break themselves again.  When I tried to lift my leg after the accident, it flopped over to the right side, and I knew something was terribly wrong.  From there, let's just say that the ambulance crew knows me by name - they recognize me, not just in SPITE of the grimmacing, wailing, mascara-running, ugly-crying face that only they get to see, but BECAUSE of that face.  "I know you," said the ambulance driver with a little less finesse than was required at the moment.  I covered my face, and I said between gasps, "I know, and I'm SO sorry."  "Why in the world are you sorry?" he asked.  I couldn't respond - mostly, because I was sorry for everything I could think of... my husband, my kids, the abulance personnel who are supposed to be rescussitating drowning victims and little old people who are having heart attacks.  "How old are you?" someone from the accident scene shouted.  "Eighty-four," I wailed back.  "Um, my sister replied, 34."  "I feel like I'm eighty-four," I sobbed.  Then I lost consciousness. (AH...).  Then I regained it again.  (OW...)  Replay the last two sentences about a dozen times between the accident scene and my first hour in the ER, and you'd have those 2, terrible hours in a nutshell.  

5 days in the hospital; 2 roommates (one with Alzheimer's-induced screaming fits, the other with an abusive son who liked to stay in the room screaming at her off and on for hours just for fun); 5 IV attempts; one IV leak; 2 successful IVs; 2 pain pumps; 2 hours of surgery; untold mls of morphine, demerol, and dilauded; one metal plate and several metal screws; about 40 staples; and one wheelchair later, they finally released me from the hospital.  OW...

I could write for another 3 hours about the hospital stay, the first couple of weeks of recovery, learning to use a wheelchair and/or crutches, teaching myself to do everything in new ways, feeling very sorry for myself, and a lot of other whining, but I'd rather talk about something else.  

Well, I will talk about my Alzheimer's roommate for a second, because - and maybe this is just the pain pump talking - she.was.hilarious.  My first impression of her was when she would wake up shouting all night long the first night I was in the hospital.  My second impression was when they were trying to catheterize her at about 5:00 AM.  She kept fighting them and shouting, "Help!  They're trying to kill me!" and "Stop, that doesn't belong there!"  I felt sorry for her, but I admired her mettle.  I continued to witness her turn down any food they offered her, as I remained on a strictly no-food-or-water diet for 24 hours as they were trying to schedule my surgery.  I listened annoyedly as she turned down shakes, roast beef, yogurt, and chocolate cake.  Then came the shouts for "Help!"  I couldn't rest for two minutes without her calling for a nurse.  They knew she wasn't in need of one for the most part; so this could go on for 20-30 minutes before I would just call a nurse for her with the call button.  They would talk to her and calm her down a bit, and she would beg for them to stay in there with her, because she didn't like to be left alone.  Finally, she decided that she wanted her food tray (mostly, I suspect, because she wanted to keep the nurse in there to feed her).  She said, "I need my food tray."  "Really?" the two, young nurses at her bedside asked, "because you have turned down all food all day."  "Really!  and I want someone to feed it to me too!" she shouted back at them.  They left the room and told her that one of them would be right back with her tray.  As the door closed behind them, she muttered, "I don't want it anyway."  Ah, I imagine myself being just like that someday.  

What I really want to talk about are the things I'm finally learning not to take for granted.  Three days after I came home, my husband found me crying in my chair in the corner of our bedroom.  He asked why I was crying, of course.  I said that I hated being stuck in the chair.  It was only my 3rd day home of several weeks upcoming, and I felt trapped.  He brushed my hair back from my face, and he said, "You have a nice home to stay in.  You have kids who are old enough to help you and who love to help you.  You have church family who are bringing us meals every day.  You have a temporary condition.  You have a son who can drive you anywhere you need to go when I can't.  You have friends and family who are calling you and lining up to help you in any way they can.  You have a husband who is crazy about you and a God Who's watching over you.  What's wrong again?"  You know when you're in the mood to just feel sorry for yourself, and you don't want to hear someone tell you nice, happy things?  Well, I was in that mood - for days.   And then, one-by-one, stories kept coming to my mind or attention.  People would come by to drop off meals and tell of a friend or relative who was in dire straits.  People who had lost limbs...  People who were battling cancer or who had children battling it...  A woman whose husband divorced her and moved out of state while leaving her to cope with a young daughter who is dying of brain cancer and a son with serious behavioral disorders...   (I just noiced those last three sentences sounded like just one of the people that either of the presidential candidates might claim to have promised a better future to on their various tours of these miserable United States.)  What right have I to feel sorry for myself?  All I had been able to think of was how I was just finishing up physical therapy for my last injury; how I would have to rely on other people again; how much I would miss out on in these upcoming holiday months; how I was just starting to get back to regular workouts; how I hate sitting still; how I, I, I, me, me, me.

As I sat at the dining table one of those first nights home, Mark gave thanks for the food and for having me home from the hospital.  In a half-joking way, I made the statement that I wished the hospital had been able to put me under sedation for the few months till I'll be allowed to use my leg again.  Austin (16) frowned at me, and said, "Why?"  I said, "Well, you know - so you guys don't have to wait on me all the time."  He said, "You know, mom... we like having you around.  Do you know what it was like around here with you gone for 5 days?"  It cut me to the core - how selfish I was being.  I needed an attitude adjustment - seriously.  

Well, God's taking care of that.  I don't know what I need to learn in this, but I know there's a lot.  Some of it is that we all have our "OWs" and "AHs".  One moment we can be basking in an "AH..." only to be struck down by an "OW..." minutes later.  That is life.  Regardless of what it throws at me, I am the same person.  I can't choose my circumstances, but I can choose my responses.  I can choose to be beautiful inside when I'm scarred outside.  I can choose to contribute whole-heartedly to the happiness of those around me when I'm not ideally happy myself.  Would I like things to be different?  Yes.  Can I think of a single, legitimate reason to complain at this moment?  I'm happy to finally answer, "No."  

What are you struggling with this week?  Why are you unhappy?  What's making you discontented?  There are better times ahead!  AND... there are worse times ahead, most likely.  I don't say that second part to depress you but to encourage you to enjoy the situation you're in, not only because there are way better things ahead, but because there are also worse things ahead, and you don't want to waste the relatively good moments that are in your lap today.  I can't remember when I've had as much time to sit down and rest, sleep in, snuggle kids in my lap, have long conversations with my older children about nothing and everything, and just enjoy my family with no agenda in particular.  Someday, the kids will be gone.  Someday, loved ones will die.  Someday, health will fail catastrophically.  For now, I just have a broken leg, and I'm so thankful that God is turning my OW into an AH... right in front of my face, and even more that He's finally giving me the grace to recognize it.

I'd Like to Say...

Today I find myself at what I hope is the tail-end of another outage season.  For those of you non-nukes, that's when his work takes one of these two cooling towers out of service for about a month (give or take - usually GIVE) for routine maintenance.

 It's also when my husband works 72 hours/week.  When we were first married, before the NRC (Nuclear Regulatory Commission) breathed down their necks, the power plant my husband works at required 84 hour work weeks - which were worse, admittedly than right now.  However, all those days (or nights - whichever 7 to 7 shift he happens to be assigned) can take their toll on all of us.  Admittedly, the quality of parenting around here slides.  

I used to worry for our safety when he wasn't around as much, but we have had added some security options around here lately - not the least of which was a Ruger .38 special my love bought for me.  I never thought I'd be a "pistol packin' mama," but we had some incidences of concern this past Spring.  Long stories short - I ended up at the gun shop with my husband and the "gun guy" (who supposedly has a name, but I only ever call him the "gun guy"), who were showing me a few models of gun I might like.  I can't say I "liked" any of them, but the pink pearl-handled revolver caught my eye.  However, after closer inspection - which included gun guy telling me to pull the trigger a few times to see how it felt in my hand, I said, "Well, it's a hard pull, and I think I won't be able to pull it 4 or 5 times in a row if I need to, you know?"  Mark and gun guy looked at me agape for a few seconds, and gun guy got to work showing me a few other revolvers.  I decided on the Ruger - which was a little more intimidating in appearance.  When we left - ammo in hand, Mark mentioned my comment and how he and gun guy had been stunned by my imaginary shooting of an intruder several times with a medium caliber handgun.  I said, "Well, I don't want to have to go to court."  He laughed, and so did I.  I'm not sure how much I was joking, but I don't really like my gun.  I've had several shooting lessons - courtesy of Mark and Austin.  I can load and unload fast, and I can shoot it, but I don't like it.  I like the sense of security I get from it.  This isn't a blog about guns or about second amendment rights or even about home security options.  It's about my weekend.  

It's at this point that I'd like to use the phrase, "It started out innocently enough," but that wouldn't apply here.  Last Friday, our local home school group had a get-together/picnic lunch.   [Background:  A few days prior, on my husband's one day off/week, we took the kids to Brookfield Zoo.  Like any trip to the zoo with young children, it never goes how you have it pictured in your mind.  Rides on the carousel, cotton candy, feeding peanuts to the elephants and corn to the goats...  It really consists mostly of parking and fetching strollers/wagons; exchanging tickets and money for every, possible attraction; dragging a cooler along to avoid $8.00 sandwiches; trying to scrape up quarters for wax mold machines, goat feeding machines, and whatever else the zoo can think of to literally nickel-and-dime us to death; watching your child screaming as she either runs toward or away from the peacocks, geese, and guinea fowl roaming the zoo; and thinking your child is tugging at your leg when it's really a petting zoo goat eating your shorts like they're salad.  Levi and Violet spent much of this trip chasing the more helpless of the creatures roaming the zoo into a tizzy.]

Back to the squirrel at Friday's home school picnic... not as much a captive audience as a peacock with a tracking device/zoo prison anklet.  She began the squirrel chase with a bellow that would've impressed William Wallace himself.  This squirrel had her number.  He scampered up a tree.  She followed.  He went around and down the tree.  She went around the tree.  He went back up the tree.  And so the taunting went.  About the time I turned back to start talking with some friends, my friend tapped me on the shoulder and turned my attention back to the tree, where my 3 year old daughter stood, back to the tree, pants at her knees, butt pointing squarely up into the tree, mooning. the. squirrel.  I don't think anyone would have called that - least of all the squirrel.  At this point I would like to use the phrase, "I was shocked and mortified," but that wouldn't apply here.  I've ceased being surprised by much when it comes to some of my children.  I thought, "How would I explain to everyone here that I have no idea where she came up with that idea?  I doubt they'd even believe me."  Ah, well.  I posed the useless question anyway... and all were, of course, very gracious.  The idea that the Slagters must spend their days mooning one another in gibbon-like displays of displeasure is an amusing picture in my mind - and probably in the minds of others now too.  It's gotta be good for something, I figure.  If I took my days too seriously, most of them would end in puddles of tears.

attitude plus

On to the rest of the weekend...  We were set to travel about 5 1/2 hours (give or take - usually GIVE) to Southern Illinois for a family reunion.  I was going to be on my own with all the children... which isn't a problem for the older three (9, 11, and 16).  They are very helpful, easy-going, and happy, and I'm always happy to be with them.  I purposefully picked out a hotel that had a pool (and jacuzzi).  I thought we could all use the break after the long day of travel.  We arrived at the hotel around 3:30PM the first day (Saturday).  My grandparents, who were staying at the hotel across the street, had mentioned that they'd like to go to supper with us at a local Chinese buffet after we all got settled.  I reluctantly agreed (knowing that most of the kids don't like those places and that those places consistently give me intestinal woes).  I told them I'd wait for their call.  I tried to keep the kids busy in the hotel room, thinking I didn't want to have to drag them out of the pool shortly after they'd gotten into it.  About an hour later, my grandma called me - telling me they'd called some relatives, and that they'd meet us at the restaurant in about 40 minutes.  My agony was complete.  The squealing (from delayed pool excitement), wrestling, hitting, punching, and general wasting of pent-up energy from a 6 hour car ride was getting to me in a big way.  I was trying to keep the room quiet for any possible neighbors.  After about the third time Levi or Violet ended up crying after a wrestling match, I told them that they wouldn't be allowed to swim later if they didn't shape up and calm down.  About 5 "second chances" later for Violet (mostly involving tickle fights gone amiss), she asked me if she could have one last chance - on the walk over to the restaurant.  I told her that this was positively her last chance.  She then proceeded to push her brother off a curb and into traffic.  That was it.  Her last chance expired, and I came to the terrible realization that I had to follow through with the grounding.  However, I had not only grounded Violet.  I had grounded myself... to a hotel room... with a toddler who desperately wanted to go swimming with her happy siblings.  There would be no jacuzzi for me.  There would only be a little girl begging and pleading and crying to go swimming while I tried to comfort her.  I felt like a heel, but I had to follow through with my word - even if it hadn't been very well thought-out.  Sadie asked me if there was a way that Violet could work her way back into swimming-favor.  I replied that I couldn't re neg on this issue, because this already strong-headed blonde with notable skill for getting what she wants would certainly take me to task for it.

I already had the beginnings of a pretty miserable cold.  Between the cold and sleeping with 5 other people in the same room, I resorted to Nyquil.  Ah, Nyquil... the only kind of socially acceptable drunk a mother can be.  Between that an a Benadryl for some awful allergy symptoms, I slept pretty well - considering I went to bed at 9:30 - which is the earliest time I may have gone to bed since 5th grade.  I woke up in the morning to explain to Levi and Austin that they could go to breakfast at the breakfast room in the hotel without us girls and that we would go to breakfast when Violet and Sadie awoke.  (Pay attention, because this fairly benign instruction will bite me back on Monday morning.)  After breakfast, the kids went in swimming awhile.  We got ready for the reunion and met my grandparents to follow them to the community building.  When we got there, the small reunion was attended by only one other child - a five-year-old boy - an astute little fellow whose only phrase directly to me was about Violet when he came over to me, pointed to Violet and said, "You see that girl?  SHE does NOT listen!"  (Tell me something I don't know, kid.)  Levi had a buddy - one who understood his "pain"... until... I didn't see what happened.  I heard some screaming and looked over to see Levi's buddy screaming and holding his head.  I saw Violet running toward me saying, "I didn't do it!  Levi did it!"  The buddy was screaming and holding his head and pointing to Levi.  Levi had tears welled up in his eyes, and he said, "We were just wrestling, and he fell down!  I didn't mean to hurt him!"  I told him I believed him but that he still needed to apologize.  After some coaxing that it was okay, he told his buddy (presumably an only child) that he was sorry - at which point the boy's father lectured Levi in an angry sort of way and told him, "I told you boys that you shouldn't be TOUCHING each other!"  At which point I thought, "Yeah, you can tell YOU only have one kid, rookie."  That's all kids do when they're together... touch each other, touch everything else, and especially touch the stuff you've told them explicitly NOT to touch.  So there was his first mistake - telling them not to touch each other.  If we learned nothing else from God, Adam, and Eve in the garden, it was not to tell human beings the things they're not supposed to touch.  Bottom line: "buddy's" dad banned him from playing with the Slagter children (the only other children at the reunion) for the rest of the day.  I'm not saying it was a bad decision - just not a very nice one.   So I had to encourage my kids to try to give "buddy" a rest from them for the rest of the day.

But our day wasn't over yet.  Chinese food started to kick in, and my stomach was a wreck.  Nausea and stomach rumblings started to overtake me.  I spent the last hour (give or take - mostly GIVE) in the Belle Rive Community Center bathroom - crossing my fingers that the kids were staying away from "buddy", his ice pack(s), and his imaginary friends.  As they closed the building, I had to leave my "fortress of solitude" and head for the cemeteries.  Yes, the cemeteries.   The traditional visit to the cemeteries was one I dreaded as a child - the awkwardness of adult grief, the rules about not stepping on the grass in front of the gravestones or touching flower arrangements, etc.  However, I've come to appreciate the importance of these visits as an adult.  That is, unless I'm sick.  As I was chasing Violet around telling her not to pick flowers off grave site arrangements, climb monuments, or otherwise desecrate grave sites, she announced, "I have to poop!"  As her urgency grew, grandma said we could go.  So I thought we were headed back to the hotel... and sweet privacy (or at least relative privacy).  The grandparents took a detour and headed to a second cemetery where - who else was there, but buddy and his overprotective parents.  His dad glared at us as my children unbuckled and began to run over to buddy - a friendly face they recognized.  In buddy's eyes, bygones were bygones, but I could tell that not so in his dad's eyes.  So I suggested strongly that the kids should come back to the car with me and wait till grandma and grandpa were ready to go back to the hotel.  About 5 minutes later, they meandered back to their car, and we started gratefully following them toward the interstate... as Violet was continually complaining about her need for a bathroom, and I was feeling the same sense of pain myself.  About 3 miles on the interstate (and only 6 more miles till our hotel exit), I saw a sign for a rest area.  I believe I forgot to mention that we had an incident on the way down when Levi (who insists on using men's restrooms now instead of accompanying me and his sisters to the ladies' room) got out of the restroom before we did and dialed the emergency call button on the police telephone outside the restrooms.  We were met with a flashing blue light and an operator asking what our emergency was.  SO... rest areas were not places of good luck so far this trip.  I set Violet up in a stall and proceeded to grab the stall next to her myself.  Not 5 seconds later, Violet announced from her stall throughout the bathroom, "Well... NOW I CAN'T GO!"  At this point, I'd like to say that I was mystified by this turn of events.  I'd also like to say that she ended up changing her ways when I said in my quietest yet most threatening voice, "You're not leaving that stall until you go poop!"  However, I heard a toilet flush, and a stall door open.  Had there not been a solid block wall between us, I'm not entirely sure I wouldn't have grabbed her ankle and made her stay in that stall.  I then heard her asking strangers for help washing and drying her hands... along with adults asking where her mommy was.  UGH... I was seriously conflicted between rushing to get out of my own stall and back out with her to make sure she made it safely back to the van and just tossing the dice and hoping for the best.  Fortunately for all of us, motherly instinct won out (as it usually does)... yes, even over physical agony.

At this point, I'd like to say that was the end of a long weekend.  I'd like to say that when we finally made it back to the hotel to the swimming pool and jacuzzi that it wasn't cold from some sort of malfunction that couldn't be fixed on a Sunday evening.  I'd like to say I didn't spend the rest of Sunday evening nauseated beyond belief, fitfully sleeping, and unable to go get the kids some supper.  I'd also really like to say that Levi didn't wake up early Monday morning and quietly yet skillfully manage the bolt lock on the top of our hotel room door (without waking anyone else up), walk himself down to the breakfast room, and start eating breakfast all by himself.   But I can't say those things.

What I can say - with any degree of confidence, is that I fail.  Life is full of glittering victories and - quite possibly more often - utter, dismal failures... for all of us.  I know people who shy away from the words, "success" and "failure".  I don't.  I fail.  I can't feel good about myself if I lose my temper with my kids.  By God's grace, that rarely happens.  I happen to have become blessed (or plauged - depending on who you ask) with a thing called forbearance (or even laid-back-ed-ness).  I wasn't always laid back, but since my first marriage ended, I was brought to surrender... in that I cannot possibly control my circumstances.   From time to time, I try to grasp that control back - an act of habit, but I'm always gently reminded that it's futile.  As I imagine what people in that breakfast room must've thought when my 5-year-old wandered into the room barefooted in his football PJ's, helped himself to a box of cocoa puffs, popped the top, and started chowing down, I imagine maybe they thought we were into "unparenting" - letting our kids ride the subway unattended and things of that sort.  Little did they know it was more like nausea followed by Nyquil induced parenting... reminding me that I wouldn't be a good actual drunk.

I read a devotion by Charles Spurgeon (19th century British minister).  It started out, "A living dog is better than a dead lion." - Ecclesiastes 9:4  From there, Spurgeon goes on to say that worst things of life - the absolute most awful of its circumstances - are still brighter than the best death has to offer.  He says that same thing applies to our spiritual lives.  The least amount of grace exercised is far superior to the best of the unregenerate nature.  "The thief on the cross excels Caesar on his throne; Lazarus among the dogs is better than Cicero among the Senators," because of the fact that there is beauty in admitting failure, weakness, and need - in a very human way - to One greater than self.  You see, even Caesars and Ciceros are weak, needy - pathetic even.  They need - even if unwilling to admit it.

Life happens, and as Spurgeon writes, "Life is the badge of nobility in the realm of spiritual things, and men without it are only coarser or finer specimens of the same lifeless material, needing to be quickened, for they are dead in trespasses and sins."  Life - and how I rise (by conscious choice) to meet it or fall to be conquered by it - are badges of honor unique in all of creation to humanity.  In addtion, "A living, loving gospel sermon, however unlearned in matter and uncouth in style, is better than the finest discourse devoid of unction and power.  A living dog keeps better watch than a dead lion, and is of more service to his master; and so the poorest spiritual preacher is infinitely to be preferred to the exquisite orator who has no wisdom but that of words, no energy but that of sound."  My actions toward those around me (most often my children) are more effectively used in loving, grace-giving, surrender than in blustering, controlling words and deeds that end in the hardening of hearts.

I take the kids to a local ceramics shop sometimes to work on projects and learn new skills.  The proprietor, a lovely woman - and well-put-together, loves to use the word, "Perfect!" when referring to how a color combination or new skill we try turns out.  I love it when things turn out, "perfect".  What a delight that a side-effect of a fallen world - full of error - is the frustration of would-be perfectionists.  Striving for perfect pleats, perfect hair, perfectly matching colors, perfect decor, and perfect weather for a perfect vacation, we can miss the joys of living in the imperfect.

Perfection is a requirement fulfilled only by God, and that not through effort but through His very nature... not something earned or accomplished, but something intrinsic to His very being.

Yes, I'd like to say a lot of things about how our weekend went, but in the end... I'd do it all over again. Experiences that teach are far more valuable than easy ones.  I can say this for sure - there is grace abundant and free for all of my mistakes and yours.