Odds and Ends

As I glance around our house it occurs to me that less than 10 years ago most of what I see would have seemed very odd to me. There's a six shooter next to a plastic purse and gameboy on my kitchen counter island. A skein of yarn with the insides pulled out lies in a basket in the corner in two distinct pieces. A picnic blanket is set up on the living room floor in front of the coffee table. Next to that is an upside down tent nearly filled with toy cars, stuffed animals, and pillows. There's a doll shoe on my bathroom vanity. I don't know if other families' houses look like this. I don't really care. I could clean all these things up or have the children clean them up. But they remind me of something... the first day I died.

The death of Me started happening the morning I woke up and took a pregnancy test. A few days before that my husband and I had a mild disagreement about the purchase of a camcorder. He wanted it, and I didn't think we needed it. After all, we didn't have children - recitals to tape, sports events, etc. My husband and I had been trying to have a baby for a couple of years with no luck. That night I had a dream that my older sister was pregnant and had called to ask if she could borrow my new camcorder to video the birth of her child. I was MAD... dream me, that is. I woke up livid, as I struggled to sort dream stupor from reality. I cried at the thought of never having a child to record with the now-hated camcorder. I decided, for some reason, to take the last pregnancy test in the box - the rainy day test. I had, by that time, seen more minus signs on pregnancy tests than I had ever expected in my newlywed daydreams.

Well, long story short my sister got the first call, because she had been the "jerk of my dreams" the night before. She didn't even know what was coming. That was the day that I started to die. It started with the initial mother-guilt. Cutting back on caffeine and sugar... trying to eliminate processed foods and get plenty of sleep (which wasn't that much of a chore most of the time). The realization that I wasn't the only one my lifestyle choices were effecting was changing me - slowly. I avoided hot baths, saunas, and hot tubs. I even found myself worried to go to movie theaters and concerts - for fear that the loud noise would hurt the baby's developing ears. Every article I read about pregnancy made me more apprehensive about my capabilities as a mother, and the feeling of inadequacy threatened to drown me.

Then my husband asked me to quit my job. Quit my job? Okay - I've always wanted to stay at home to catch up on all my cleaning and watch TV all day. I can do that. The sadness of giving up a job I loved with co-workers I loved - also overwhelmed me. What had been my identity for several years was going away. My ability to identify myself as a working woman and to enjoy the pride of a job well done... gone. Was Me going away too?

When I got diagnosed with preeclampsia and had to quit work early to be on bed rest... when I started to look in the mirror and see twice the woman I used to be... I wondered where Me had gone. Would it be worth it?

As I arrived at the hospital to be induced at 199 lbs. I was thrilled that I hadn't hit the deuce. However, that 140 lb. frame I started with was long gone. I don't think I've seen her since. I think she disappeared along with the girl who could turn down dessert with a, "No thanks, I'm just not a 'sweets person'." As I entered my third day of labor with baby, I was still waiting excitedly for this new change. When they handed her to me, I cried. I was so relieved and happy. (I have cried with all four of my babies' births.) I was waiting for the magical transformation now - to MOM. Super mom maybe? I was supposed to know magically what to do now, right?

My aunt likes to say, "They'll let anybody take one of these home!" That's exactly how I felt. Nurse told me when to bathe the baby. But how? Oh, yeah... the fuzzy recollection of a child birth class I took a few months before this birth... it's all coming back to me. There was the big suit with the huge heavy breasts and big belly that I had hoped my husband would volunteer to wear for sympathy - yeah, right. There were all those other couples too... the older couple. I spent 6 weeks wondering if this was their first - not possible - why were they taking another class? Then the cute ones ... Mr. and Mrs. Perfect. "Is your nursery finished? Of course, my nursery has been done for 5 months. I just couldn't relax until I got all the furniture ordered... blah, blah, blah..." Then the single mom - there with her mom... at least her birthing partner new what it was like to wear the big belly suit. Oh, and then the videos - the scary videos of screaming labor. Is this supposed to encourage me to try natural childbirth? They left me wondering, "Could I just go ahead and get some demerol and an epidural right now? It can't be too soon to be well-prepared." I could remember all of those things, but the bathing lesson? Not a clue. That must be part of me that died.

The first 2 months were pure misery. Some women might tell you those were the best months of their lives. I wouldn't doubt them, but for me... it was pure torture. You name it - all those "helpful" motherly cliches that you hear, "Does she have her days and nights mixed up?" "Does she have the colic?" "You think it's a smile, but it's just gas." I wanted to scream like a maniac that someone had stolen Me. But instead I managed a polite smile and a courteous response.

After those first two months, baby started to do some things. She cooed. She smiled. She laughed. She sat up. She said, "mama". She got her first tooth. "How are you doing?" "Me? I'm fine, but look at her. Look how big she is! Look at her go." She's still going today. Me was continuing to die.

Me still rears her ugly head sometimes. Me is exasperated at a missing new box of pencils. She enjoys watching a toddler play drums with her new drumsticks. Me dislikes lots of background ruckus while on the phone. She loves watching the baby laughing on the floor while big sister blows on her belly to keep her entertained while mom's on the phone. Me is annoyed at the dead flowers in my front flower bed. She is thrilled that the first step in potty training a boy might just be letting him enjoy peeing off the front porch. (We live in the country.)

She is who I want to be. She is the kind of mom I want my children to have. After all, She sees the beauty in the chaos. She values love over perfection, rest over stress, relationships over appearances. Don't get me wrong, I enjoy order, but I have also come to see the value in the tangible reminders that this season of my life and of my children's lives is short. It will come and go in a blink. Me would have us miss out on the joy of it. She beckons me to bask in a the cuteness of a chocolate cheek, the sweetness of a syrup kiss, and a banana-slime handprint on my black blouse. These little "odds" have been the beginning of the end of Me.

I hope She continues to grow and push Me right out. If my own mother and grandmothers are any indication, Me might disappear completely once She becomes a grandma. Today, thank the Lord if you were blessed enough to have had the love of an unselfish mother. Burying Me isn't easy for anybody. What an odd end.

Spilled Milk

Germs have been waging war against us for about a month in this house. It started with a little sniffle, and it has become a full blown coughing, sneezing, earache, sore throat, mucus-fest. Combine that with a couple of perpetually teething toddlers, and you have a recipe for physical misery and mental anguish that seems to be never ending. I think much of this is brought on by seasonal allergies and taken advantage of by a few enterprising germs. On top of this, Mark is trying to work through it on his outage hours of 72 hours/week. We've been trying to start a garden also during this season, keep the lawn mowed, and deal with a few incidental health problems that have cropped up. The thing is, I don't really feel stressed by these things. That is, until I sit and dwell on them.

This morning was a different story. I woke up to a puddle under our freezer in the garage. It seemed as though it had been like that for quite awhile as most of what was in the freezer was thoroughly thawed and useless. Even the things I might have been able to salvage had NO place to go, as the freezer was inoperable at the moment, and our indoor freezer was overstuffed as it was. As I was calling everyone I could think of - it occurred to me I was feeling a little bit of stress. Mark is largely unavailable by phone during outage, and my parents are packing for a 2 week vacation in Florida.

As I was surveying the damage, the insurance man called to explain that he would need a thorough inventory (along with prices) of anything in the freezer that was unsalvageable. As we were talking, Violet came up behind me, slipped on the puddle of water from the freezer, and smacked the back of her head on the cement garage floor. The dull thud precipitated the "pause heard round the world" before the screaming that prohibited any further conversation with the insurance man who had ironically asked, "How are you doing today?" when I had answered the phone. Well, if he didn't have a clue how I was at the beginning of the conversation about how to properly inventory a freezer full of spoiled food, then he certainly had a better idea when the baby was screaming in his ear at the end of the conversation.

Now, I'm not really one for crying, and I have a strict, "no crying before noon" policy, mostly because no one else in the house follows this same policy, and we can't all spend the morning blubbering.

I was wracked with waste guilt as I was filling three garbage bags with previously-frozen food. I was also being grossed out by all the juices of previously frozen chicken and pork - imagining my feet wading in e-coli and trichina worms that had dripped onto the rest of the food and was running in puddles around the garage floor. The cause of all this mess was a tripped breaker. It almost made me mad at the freezer - as if it was all her fault. But then again no emotion makes me want to animate inanimate objects like anger does.

As I was struggling trying to empty and inventory the freezer food and keep the toddlers out of the germ puddles, Sadie and Claire came outside and asked how they could help. The girls started carrying salvageable food into the inside freezer and helped keep the toddlers occupied. As I breathed a long, frustrated sigh, Sadie asked, "What's wrong?" I responded rather impatiently, "What's wrong? You can see what's wrong." Without a word, she went into the house and came back out to the garage with her pink CD player and a CD which she popped into the player. It was called "I Can Only Imagine - Lullabies for a Peaceful Sleep". It was Christian songs/hymns played lullaby style. She turned it on in the garage and went to help Claire keep an eye on the babies again. Claire came over to me with a cut out heart that said in crayon, "I love you, mom. Happy Day. Best Day :)" Well, needless to say my no crying policy was in serious jeopardy. I felt another serious guilt pang - that of feeling so sorry for myself when these precious children could see it. They were bearing my burdens with me. And they knew what I needed better than I did at that moment. My blessings far outmeasure my difficulties, and how can I not see that every moment?

It made me notice once again that there are real people inside my children - not just ones that need, need, need, but ones that can see a need and give, give, give. I underestimate my children daily. Their understanding and ability is far above what I imagine it is. I take no credit for this. If anything, my ignorance reduces their potential. I am so thankful that God put within them the ability to recognize a need and the love to act upon it. I hope that, in a world full of takers, they will grow up to be givers, and I hope that I figure out how to nurture that gift. I hope that they learn that, as they demonstrated today, love is not a word - it's a choice to act for the benefit of another. Love - in its true form - is rarer than any other gift on the planet. 1 John 3:18 says, "¹⁸Dear children, let us not love with words or tongue but with actions and in truth." Anyone with a voice (or ability to write) can love with words, but actions show the truth of what's in the heart. True love requires action.

Today I've been loved by my children - not just in words before bedtime or after I bake a batch of cookies - but in action that overflowed from a heart of genuine love. It's my prayer that I can demonstrate this same action toward others also.

On the bright side, we're eating like royalty today - trying to salvage a HUGE pork roast, corn on the cob, and some Schwan turkey pot pies, AND the insurance company offers $500 in spoiled food coverage. So whatever I can't save is on the insurance company, and finally that huge insurance check I write out every month doesn't seem quite so useless. Today didn't go as I planned, but it always goes how God plans. This morning wasn't filled with learning about science and history. In fact, it was more of a "teacher might have to go to The Institute" day. At least I learned something, and I guess crying over spilled milk isn't so bad after all - as long as you're crying out of gratitude for the love of the one who cleaned it up for you.

What's the Worst that Could Happen?

Irrational fears... I think we all have them to some degree. Some of us wouldn't like to admit it, but there is a part of us that worries about something we can't possibly control. Usually, it's something VERY unlikely to ever occur, but the truth of that rarely encounters the illogical worry on the other side of the door... the one between feeling and knowing.

Some of us call them "phobias"... which is just a derivative of the Greek word for fear. I was googling phobias the other day. I was astounded at the wide variety of phobias. I have two in particular myself. The first one is called "globophobia" - fear of balloons. My friends LOVE to tease me about this one, but I blacked out at prom during the balloon drop. The fact is that my fear may be more along the lines of "ligyrophobia" or fear of loud noises. I'm not so much afraid of balloons as of the fact that when they are present people seem to love to pop them. Why? I don't know what's wrong with you people. Along with the ligyrophobia is also the fear of fireworks, gunshots, ziploc bags filled with air, those little air sacks that they use for shipping these days, and McDonald's birthday parties. Now, this seems a pretty avoidable fear, but you'd be amazed how much you'd start to notice all the places you are with your kids that people want to give them a balloon. I would seem awful if I just said, "No thanks. We're not balloon people," and walked away. I mean, who's not balloon people? What kind of hideous creature would withhold a fun, colorful piece of helium-inflated latex joy from their child? I don't even enter the Publisher's Clearinghouse Sweepstakes for fear they might show up on my doorstep with balloons (never mind the enormous billion dollar check). I'd probably just black out or throw up on the person who took Ed McMahon's job, and they'd move on to the next house on the list.

My other phobia would be that of using an outhouse/pit toilet. I will not use one. Give me a patch of weeds and a somewhat questionable leaf over an outhouse any day. I wasn't able to find a phobia word for this one. Fear of toilets in general, however, is a phobia, and, believe me, I feel sorry for that guy.

I'll name some of my other "issues" - what I would classify more as worries than phobias. Most of these are ridiculous, but they've crossed my mind at least once - some of them daily. So I take these fears, and then answer them to their logical conclusions, as follows:

1) What if I had been born 100 years or more earlier than I was? What would I have done about the lack of indoor plumbing?

2) What if I had been born when there were no options for orthodontics or facial hair removal?

3) What if nobody takes pity on me when I get old and keeps up with my facial hair removal?

4) What if my words are forever etched on the internet? Will my grandchildren read them? My great grandchildren? I'm not sure I want that kind of pressure. I want them to remember me in some fanciful cloud of imagination... not as I really am.

5) What if I'm like some people and never get famous but then somehow do after I'm dead and the only pictures they find for my biography are bad hair days? Or what if they put a musical montage of my life in pictures together for my funeral and someone like Arthur Hannes narrates?

6) What if I'm not remembered at all?

7) What if salon shampoo is no better than store shampoo - only more expensive?

8) What if organic food is just a government conspiracy to get rid of the smaller, less appetizing produce at higher prices?

9) What if the UPS man knows me better than most other people do, and I don't know him at all?

10) What if archival quality photo paper really isn't? Will all my photos fade and be forgotten?

11) What if too much hair goes down my drain and clogs it?

12) What if Liquid Plumber is bad for the water table?

13) When the word "googling" (above) was not underlined by spell checker, I immediately thought, "That's an actual word now? This world is changing so rapidly. I'm old now. What if I can't keep up?"

_________________________________________________

1) I would never have known the joys of indoor plumbing, and my parents might have always wondered with the grass behind the outhouse would never grow.

2) I would have been virtually unmarketable and would have had to join the circus sideshow.

3) I guess the kids will remember me as Grandpa Slagter or that scary old bearded lady who wanted a hug every Sunday during visiting hours.

4) Hopefully their reality check about me will be less disappointing than I anticipate. Chances are I'll be crazy old grandma anyway, and maybe viewing some former moments of semi-lucid writing will be a comfort to them. (Oh, and I'll be dead, and it won't matter.)

5) I'll be dead, and it won't matter.

6) I'll be dead, and it won't matter.

7) Then I'm wasting money on a label. People have done that for centuries for much more stupid things than shampoo.

8) Then I helped get rid of unwanted produce and feed farmers.

9) It's his job. He doesn't mind.

10) Maybe, but I'll probably be dead, and it won't matter.

11) Hello, Liquid Plumber.

12) Hello, actual plumber.

13) Then I'll fall behind and become an "eccentric"... which will make the frizzy hair and beard more socially acceptable.

My mom used to have a saying. I remember this saying, because I use it on my own children on a regular basis. Now, I know my mom didn't event this saying, because it's very common. However, when mom said it, it had a way of making the worst fears seem a little more ridiculous. She said, "What's the worst thing that could possibly happen?" She didn't just say it. She made us play it. She made us actually tell her the thought that had originated the fear and what the future would hold if such a thing should actually occur. It had a way of making the fear melt away almost every time.

I find this interesting, because as I have noticed in some of my older friends and relatives... the little molehills that they didn't deal with as younger people have become mountains as they grew into older people. The little worries and fears that they didn't hand over to a God big enough to handle them turned them into - in some cases - downright fear-ridden, worry-filled, controlling individuals. In most cases, that is very ugly. This concept is not just relegated to the world of fear either - anger, gossip, greed, paranoia, anxiety, and lust (amongst other things) like noses and wrinkles, get bigger as we get older. They make us into people who are sometimes downright difficult to be near. I think if more people would think on that question, "What's the worst thing that could happen?" they would, like I often do, find out that what they fear is actually not quite as horrifying as they originally imagined.

This makes me want to deal with my molehills before they become mountains. I know nowhere else to go but to the One who wants to bear my burdens... the One who bore my biggest burden to Calvary.

I was reading tonight, Psalm 34:2-4 My soul makes its boast in the Lord; let the humble hear and be glad. Oh, magnify the Lord with me, and let us exalt His name together! I sought the Lord, and He answered me and delivered me from all my fears.

I think these verses are worth another think or maybe two. For one thing, it's the humble who can hear the Lord. When I think I'm pretty great or pretty capable or pretty pretty, I negate my ability to hear what He has for me. When I magnify (or see in a larger scale) the Lord and put Him in His rightful place in my life, I (along with my issues) get smaller. When I seek to know Him better, He is more than ready to answer me and deliver me from all my fears. He sees every fear, and He knows the thinking that got me there. Ever wonder where all that ick comes from? Thought -->Feeling-->Action-->Result. And the cycle continues. Your feeling originated from a thought - usually an erroneous one if you're like me. Even if your thinking is just a tiny bit "off" - the rest spins out of control. Claiming truth over the thought restarts the cycle in the right direction.

Now, there are dozens and dozens of other verses that deal with fear and casting our cares where they belong. I am going to park it right here for now. Because I need to think on it. What's the worst thing that could happen?

Safety in a Helmet

Helmets - depending on their design, they can look really cool

OR really NOT cool.

I remember when this photo was taken. I was visiting my sister Erin and her husband Pete in California. They like to GO, and so do I. So when they offered to take me horseback riding on the beach I was picturing something a bit more exotic than what you see at the right. I remember that as we were waiting in line to sign a helmet waiver Pete said in his most authoritative military voice that we were all going to wear helmets. Exqueeze me? Helmets? I tend to take the path of least resistance, and when talking with a Madson, you don't win, you acquiesce. So as I went to check out the helmet selection I realized that this was not going to be the kind of ride I had been expecting.

The owners of the establishment selected for each of us a horse based on our size and temperament in relation to the size and temperament of each beast, and if you look closely, you might notice that my horse, the famed mustang of old (and the only mustang they had), looks nothing like the wild and free horse of the Old West. A more depressed equine specimen I can scarcely imagine. He looks, in a word, "demoralized". He could not be less impressed with me, the beach, the scenery (which much of the time was the east end of the westbound horse in front of him), or the trail on which we were walking. For me, it was supposed to be fabulous. For him, I was just a bag of oats and a cold drink - maybe a sugar cube if he didn't misbehave.

I remember sitting on Prickly Pete (or whatever his name was) and waiting for the trail ride to start when a woman (also in a helmet) rode up next to me (mostly by accident or the fact that her horse took her where he wanted to go - just like mine). She looked at me, and said, "It's our anniversary. When my husband said he was taking me horseback riding on the beach, I had pictured galloping through the surf with the wind in my hair. Now I'm wearing this stupid helmet." I had found a kindred spirit. As we traded jokes about our safety-concious men (her husband and my brother-in-law), our spirits lightened considerably; although we could not say the same for Prickly Pete and Wild Bill (or whatever her horse's name was).

Fast forward a few years, and we land in a pediatrician's office with my first son ever - who was 9 when I married Mark and 10 the first time I took him to the pediatrician. We were sitting there as the doctor was rattling off her list of questions (most of which were none of her business anyway), and I kept my fingers crossed that he was giving the answers she wanted to hear. She got to, "Do you wear a helmet/kneepads and other safety gear when riding bikes or skateboards?" Austin didn't skip a beat as he replied, "No way! Dad says helmets are for sissies." As both of our mouths caught flies for a few seconds, she glanced sidelong at me with an "Mmm... hmm..." and a "Does he now?" Well, the cat was out of the bag. We had quite a little laugh about that when I told Mark what Austin had blurted out that day. We laughed about it for weeks as I liked to say to Mark, "Well, someday when you're eating your meals out of a straw at 'the home', we'll see if you can still say (garbled and slurred), 'hfelmeth are fer thithies.'"

I look back on these incidences and laugh, because it's amazing how much your perspective on your needs for safety and security can change over just a relatively short period of time. We have an ATV now, and I feel like we should always wear a helmet, even when we aren't going far or fast. After all, helmets protect the most important part of your body. Without your head intact, nothing else would work right (or maybe work at all). Your head tells the rest of your body what to do and where to go.

Ephesians 6:16-18 speaks of the Armor of God and that the Helmet of Salvation is an integral part of our armor and that salvation is the source of our security. It keeps our head intact. Our head, after all, is the control center of our body. If it is secured, the rest of our actions (what we do and where we go) will fall into better and safer places. Our security, in other words, depends on our view of and attitude toward our Maker and His offer of eternal security. (1 Thessalonians 5:7-9)

The same son who told the doctor almost 4 years ago that, "Dad says that helmets are for sissies," was watching me search for helmet pictures for this blog - not knowing what I was doing. He said to me, "Don't you think that Roman helmet is cool?!" Isaiah 59:17 says of God Himself, "He put on righteousness as his breastplate, and the helmet of salvation on his head; he put on the garments of vengeance and wrapped himself in zeal as in a cloak." I don't know about you, but that gives me goosebumps. Doesn't sound like a sissy to me. So I guess not ALL helmets are for sissies. :) It just depends on the reputation of the one wearing it. I think I'm in pretty good company. Sign me up for a helmet.

Embracing Humanity?

I was in Sunday School class this morning, and the topic, as we began the study of a new book of the Bible, was the origination of that particular book of Scripture. The book is one of the gospels, and as the discussion went on, the two most educated men in the room were discussing the "inerrancy of Scripture", particularly as it pertained to the gospels. You see, it is my understanding that the gospels were being written a couple of decades following the original events of Jesus' life and death. The gospels themselves explain mostly the same thing and, it was agreed, are extremely reliable and accurate due to the fact that they have been copied and recopied yet remain remarkably similar in content and specifics. The bottom line of the story is that some of the gospels report very similar events but may disagree as to a word or two in a specific line of Jesus' words or to the location, timing, or details of a certain sermon or miracle performed by Him. They generally, largely agree, and I believe that the general consensus among those in the class was that the words were inerrant as they left the pen to the page, but that they may have encountered a slight bit of human reinterpretation along the way. Not to mention that, as it was said in class, if 4 people watched the same accident from a different corner of an intersection they would each have a different story and a different way of telling it.

This line of thinking used to bother me... almost making me feel threatened somehow that the God of the Universe left His only Word to me in some type of error-ridden state that makes it unreliable to this day. However, I know this to be untrue, because it is "living and active" and "God breathed" (2 Tim. 3:16 & Hebrews 4:12) and it speaks to me in beautiful clarity every single day in a way that is completely undeniable. All these things would probably not convince someone who doesn't believe or someone from another religion or someone highly "educated", but it satisfies plain ol' me just fine.

Something that was profoundly freeing "hit" me during the discussion. God has never balked at embracing human frailty. In fact, it's somewhat His signature. He created us for relationship with Him and also knowing we would break that relationship through our sin and denial of Him. He wrestled with Jacob (Genesis 32:23-34). He met personally and intimately with patriarchs from Moses to Abraham - providing for their human frailty ever-so-tenderly (Exodus 33:12-22). He established, right from the beginning of His Word to us - that our frailties were no problem for Him. But they are certainly a problem for us - and for one another. Most of us can pick out an imperfection or something we don't particularly like about another person a mile away. We all of a sudden think ourselves a worthy judge of what is good or bad about another person. Thankfully, our Creator thought us worth close association from the very beginning despite knowing everything about us.

God sent His Son - Jesus. Jesus was fully God and fully man. This is another demonstration that He doesn't mind getting His "hands dirty" with humanity. He took on flesh... our illnesses, frailties, difficulties, dirt... He didn't send us a redeemer that was all God and no man. He gave us the opportunity to participate in the process. He included us. We were an integral part, and He didn't say in a sense, "stand back and let me handle this". He got as intimate as He could with a person. He chose to grow inside of her and be parented by her. Could He have redeemed us without our participation? Sure.

The point I'm trying to make I guess is that the Bible is much the same way. He used men - humanity in all their imperfection - to chronicle His life on earth in the gospels and His heart toward and instructions for us in the epistles. I think it's part of His way of relating with us... involving us. The Bible is not just a story about Him. It's a story about how deeply He desires a close relationship with us. He could have written the Bible with His own hand - thus removing the human element. He did so with the Ten Commandments (Exodus 31:18). He could have made it so that the 4 gospels read identically, but He didn't. Each author's unique writing style and personality shows through and invites mortals to recognize that relationship with God is not unattainable... as the gospel writers had already discovered.

God has reached out to us over and over throughout history - from creation to the present. He wants us to reach back. Why? I have no idea. Why would perfection want to commune with imperfection? Why would God want to relate with man? I mean, we can hardly stand to live with one another sometimes. I joked once to a person who felt ostracized by "churchy people", "I have a talent for making the most loving people at church hate me." I think a lot of us feel that way. I'm sure we all know certain people though - the ones who can't stand our lack of being, well, frankly - more like them. A "The whole world would be better if we were all a lot more like me," philosophy. I think if we were all honest, we would admit having taken that philosophy around the block in our minds once or twice - tried it on for size. We claim we love and accept, and we spread that by trying to browbeat or guilt or reason others into our way of thinking - which is also inevitably just as flawed in a different way. In reality, the most loving thing we could probably do for a person we disagree with is what God does - embrace their humanity, love them "as is", and wait to let Him change their heart if He would. Isaiah 58:8-9 says, "'For my thoughts are not your thoughts,neither are your ways my ways,' declares the LORD. 'As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts.'" So basically, giving the world my philosophies on life (which are mostly flawed and rubbish) are not nearly as important as giving them to God. And with that... I'm done.

Letting Go...

If you've ever been a parent (or maybe been in the initial stages of love of any type), you probably know what it's like to want to hold or hug something so tightly that somehow you become a part of it. I know if I had squeezed my children as hard as I wanted to at times, they probably wouldn't have survived it. I think most people have experienced this somewhat strange urge - including my children who themselves have often squeezed things they loved to extinction (see Pets or Playthings? ). Maybe that's where the phrase "loved to death" originated. Anyway, I have these moments with each of my children, and I love them.

This week has been difficult for me in many ways, but I think the biggest challenge was that of Levi's MRI. The actual MRI was difficult for him and me, but the most difficult part of it was the worry over whether or not his brain would be found healthy. I have watched in gut-wrenching heartache as my little boy grips his eyes and cries that he can't see. I've watched him try to run half-blind to a trashcan or bowl so that he can vomit from the pain. I've watched him pinch the bridge of his nose so tightly it turns bright red as he cries that, "It hurts, mommy!" I can't do anything to stop his pain. As his episodes have increased in frequency I've argued with doctors and nurses and tried to get him the attention I felt he needed. I've chewed my tongue half raw in my sleep, and my hair is falling out in clumps. I thought I was okay with it, but my body says something is bothering me.

The results came in Friday that he has a cyst in his brain. I was very thankful it wasn't a tumor, as that was our worst fear. However, as I've started to understand what his cyst could mean for him I've begun to let it bother me again. My little guy is exhibiting symptoms of a cyst that is apparently enlarging. This is likely causing his migraines. The cyst will not go away on its own. It will need watched (probably with more MRI's), and probably will eventually need to be removed - if it is in an operable area. The complexities involved in all of this scare me... for him and for all of us. I like to "borrow trouble", and I keep thinking of how this will effect his quality of life and how it will change the rest of ours. Will we keep home schooling? Will he be able to keep being his normal, active self? How will this change our family? These thoughts make me want to hug him tighter and hold him closer than ever before in his short life. He, of course, understands none of that as he squirms to get out of my grasp and back onto his own agenda.

Non-coincidentally (I'm certain) I had some other trials this week that made me realize that when a mother worries too much and tries too hard to control her children's safety or well-being by her own methods, she crushes them. She leaves them incapable (either emotionally or physically) of meeting their own needs. This starts in childhood, but most of the time it continues as a dysfunction long into adult years and effects the lives and happiness of so many more people than this one, worrisome mother can even imagine.

I love my bed. I snuggle into my covers and my cold pillowcase, and I immediately start to pray. This is a largely pavlovian response that started as early as I can remember. Why? Because my parents didn't stay all night to offer me every comfort I could need. I learned to lean on the Comforter of my soul, and that skill has never served me ill. My relationship with my Heavenly Father deepened from childhood and continues to this day, and I look forward every night to that moment when I hit the covers. Bed is not my danger zone. It's my safe zone. It's not my worry zone. It's my worry-free zone.

I say all this to make sense in my own head of the fact that I could "squeeze" (smother) Levi (and the other children), but the fact is, I wouldn't be squeezing him for him. I would be squeezing him for ME. I would squeeze him, because it makes me feel better. The truth is that isn't loving them. It's loving me. It's giving me a sense that somehow if I follow a certain parenting formula that I'll be able to control their level of safety (mental or spiritual or physical), and that makes me feel better about me and about my ability to control their health and safety. It is my responsibility to provide for their well-being, but those things that are outside of my ability to completely control are also outside of my God-given responsibility. If I dip my toe in the pool of fear then I will start to try to control every thing and everyone around me so that they will be safe inside the bubble I've created for them. Not free... but safe. What about when I follow the formula and fail? What if someone gets epilepsy? What if a brain cyst? Who's to blame? The person this is all about... ME. One second I believe a lie, "I'm the best mother in the world." The next second, I believe the opposite of that lie, "I'm the worst mother in the world." This, of course, is another lie but just as effective at making me completely ineffective as a mother.

But why me? "I buy bottled water and organic food? I give them the right milk. I wash their fruit with Fit. I never microwave plastic. I give them plenty of exercise and minimal T.V." The list goes on and on... Those self-righteous ways we have of controlling our destinies by controlling those of our children. Those things that make us feel superior to "worse" parents. Those things we can drop ever-so-nonchalantly in on conversations with other mothers or on FB statuses so that everyone knows we are an amazing parent. But the sense of security I might take in those things comes crashing down when I have children who are ill. What did I do wrong? Could I have somehow prevented this? What is everyone going to think of me? I, me, my...

Like each of my children, Levi is a gift to me and my husband. He is not ours. He is a loaner. Who knows how many people's lives he will impact - no matter how long he is here on this earth? Only God - the Giver of our gift. I will protect him and try to do best for him, but the result is not in my hands. The goal is not to keep him under my thumb forever in order to make me feel loved and secure. It is to prepare him to go out and impact a world that needs love, compassion, and reconciliation with his Maker. If I make an idol out of any of my children (which incidentally is easy to do because they are my "job" and my "love" and most of my "life"), they are taking a wrongful place in my world, and misery will surely ensue. I'm trying to remember Whose they are and to rest in His plan for their days. This will eventually bring the desired result of all my striving - honor - for their Father and for their parents, but it won't be because of the destiny I controlled into being for them. It will be the one that God had planned for them. I hope they will embrace Him above me, because I will fail them. I will not provide perfectly for their needs. I can't. I can trust the One from whom they are on loan, and He knows the plans He has for them... to prosper and not harm.

With the pressure off of me, I am released to give God the glory for their health and well-being and to cry out to Him in times of fear or disappointment. A dear friend with a chronically ill daughter said to me a few days ago that her daughter was a gift from God, and as I watch this mother give "God" to her daughter, it is a far superior gift than giving her primarily herself. Understanding that I will give my children as much of myself as possible, not shrugging off their needs or displacing them, but if I don't begin to meet a smaller percentage as each year passes then they will always be confused about the ability of a person to meet their needs. As we all find - people are entirely disappointing in the true meeting of needs.

This blog is primarily a sorting of thoughts. I have lost children before in a way - not permanently, but when I got divorced, I lost the ability to have my daughters much of the time. I lost half of their special occasions, half of their weekends, half of their vacations for all of their lives. I remember the devastation of that thought, but it didn't hurt half as much as the reality of it does. When they're gone, their safety is completely beyond my control, and I don't even know where they are or how to get to them if I wanted to get to them. It's like part of my heart is missing. No one is immune to such a scenario, as much as we'd like to think we are. One way or the other, the Lord enabled me to release them - not in bitterness or in apathy, but in total trust that they are not my own, and even if they were with me, they could just as easily become hurt in some way as they could with their father. There is a freedom in trusting God for the safety and well-being of my children. Even as I write that I imagine that I'll be judged by some that I am trying to forego some of the responsibility of having children. But it's the only way I won't drive myself crazy with worry. Now... if I can just stay put.

How Celtic Music Changed My LIfe

So it's 9:30 AM. We tried putting Levi in big-boy underwear this morning. We both entered it optimistically - with the enthusiasm that accompanies (for me) the possible end of another diaper era and (for him) the opportunity to wear "Mater" on his bottom.

I started a little Celtic music a bit earlier this morning, as the girls have been into it lately, and it seems to soothe the sometime savage Levi.

As I was preparing breakfast for the other children, Levi disappeared (unbeknownst to me & SURELY a bad omen for a potty training mom). A few moments later, he was trying to get in the door to the house from the garage. Why had he been in the garage? The odor that accompanied his return left little doubt. As I asked him if he had pooped in the garage, he replied, "Where's Mater?" I responded, "Covered in poop." We went in the bathroom to clean him and his underwear up. Ugh... not a job I relish. However, as I noticed the Celtic music playing in the background I thougt, "This doesn't seem quite so bad. It's like washing out underwear at a Renaissance Fair. That prospect, of course, was filled with much more gaiety than the one I was facing."

While I was handling that, Violet had apparently gone through the trash and eaten some unknown leftovers - as is her customary specialty. However, there just happened to be some accordian music on the Celtic CD, and it gave the air of a French dining experience. Trash to... treasure. Debris to... delectable. Waste to... why waste? Refuse to... how could I refuse? I almost felt like joining her.

Even now I can't help thinking that the Celtic bagpipes might even add a little sobering class to a goldfish funeral.