Epic Valentine's Day Failures

Before I begin, let me say that this is kind of an embarrassing blog for me to write.  I usually pride myself on being as honest and transparent as possible in what I write.  As a result, I am compelled to write this blog.  I hope that, by the end, you may be able to tell why this was therapeutic for me.


It's been a tough week or so around here.  After wrapping up a great weekend (a bit over a week ago now) with the oldest 3 of our 5 children and some friends at a Wisconsin Dells water park, we came home to pick up the youngest 2 children (ages 4 and 3).  The 4 year old had spent the night before with a stomach virus and fever, and I could feel the impending doom that would spread to the rest of us.  That was my first failure.  I did feel very sorry for my little guy, because I could tell that he was miserable.  However, just as present (or maybe even more so) in the forefront of my mind was trepidation and frustration with the fact that the rest of us were all doomed to get sick too.  That being said, I must qualify this by saying that I have an intense hatred for vomiting.  I have often said, "I would rather give birth than vomit," and that is really saying something, considering that my shortest and easiest labors were over 27 hours of straight back-to-back contractions.  I cannot say emphatically enough how I dread stomach viruses.  My selfishness caused me to feel more sorry for myself than I felt for my boy.


What has followed for that past week has been five of the seven of us coming down with some sort of illness.  Of those of us who've been sick, some of us have had stomach symptoms, and all of us have had fevers, sore throats, and chest/nasal congestion.  We have the flu.

Fast Forward to Valentine's Day Issues 

The Ghost of Valentine's Days Past  


I have always been a romantic - passionate, spirited, and a lover of gifts and gift-giving.  Therefore, my expectations have always been high when it comes to obligatory gift holidays.  My former husband (Brett) was a bad gift buyer.  I only say that, because he would admit it himself.  I recall that the first Valentine's Day we spent together (dating) he gave me a Vick's humidifier.  I was almost 17, still under my parents' roof, and they had a humidifier should I be in need of one.  He ecstatically pointed out that it was glow-in-the-dark.  I was less enthusiastic, but I played it cool, not wanting to seem ungrateful.  Fast forward to our first married Valentine's Day.  I had spent weeks planning the special day.  I had purchased him a gift and a card and had a special meal planned, and he had purchased me this ____.  That's right.  Nothing.  You know he heard about it.  I was almost 20, and possibly still a little bitter about the humidifier.  I was mad.  I didn't mind seeming ungrateful, because I was his wife now.  He knew he was in the dog house, which prompted an emergency trip to Hallmark for one of the last cards on the shelf (which was not even specified for a wife) and a movie.  What movie you may rightly wonder?  Air... Force... One.  I had never seen, neither did I wish to own, Air Force One.  When I informed him of this, he was incredulous, stating that he had always wanted to see it.  So what he had basically done was buy me (under duress) a gift for himself.  The few years after that, he made annual trips with his brother to buy "the wives" gifts for Valentine's Day.  This was done on Valentine's Day evening and resulted in my sister-in-law and I receiving identical glass plaques or something of the sort whenever they came home Valentine's Day night.  This is just a very short list of his gift-giving misses throughout the 7 years we were married.  [Aside:  Please understand at this point that I am not trying to be negative toward Brett.  I am not angry for the "bad gifts" (if there is such a thing), and it's very important to point out that these things had nothing to do with why our marriage ended.]  I look back on these things as truly funny moments of our marriage.  We were both so young and so immature - it's easy for me to see today all the goofy things that we did and to laugh at what I thought was so important at the time (and the fact that I thought those things were so important).  I willingly admit that my expectations of the day were so high that they could not possibly have been met.  Had Brett secretly built a helipad in our back yard and flown in (with his own secretly earned pilot's license), had two dozen roses awaiting me in the cockpit, taken me to Europe (having had unlimited gas installed in our magical helicopter) and landed us at the top of the Eiffel Tower where a candlelit dinner complete with all of my favorite foods was awaiting our arrival to be served by a French waiter while a violinist serenaded us with all of my favorite music, I would secretly have wondered why he had not planned an entire orchestra and packed me a personalized wind breaker with my name in hearts on the back (after all, it's chilly in Paris in February).


These past Valentine's Days taught me a few things when it comes to a "romantic" personality.  1) If either party forgets or neglects to "find time" to purchase a thoughtful gift for the other, it is a "lose/lose" situation for both parties.  2) The only possible good excuse for not purchasing a thoughtful gift on Valentine's Day for your beloved is extended hospitalization and/or death.   3) No matter how hard a person tries not to have expectations on Valentine's Day, it is truly impossible.  4)  If even one word is uttered by either party to the effect of expecting/hoping/wanting a gift, the potential gift giver has missed their opportunity for the gift to be perceived as voluntary, treasured, and/or thoughtful.  It has now become obligatory and tainted.  5)  The only cards left to purchase Valentine's Day evening might possibly include the words, "Happy Valentine's Day, Grandma!"  


The Ghost of Valentine's Day Present 


About two weeks ago when I was at Walmart getting groceries, I bought a few things for them and a card for Mark.  I already had in mind what I would buy for him as a gift, but I knew that would need to be purchased on line or at a specialty store, and I did that later.  I bought the kids a few Valentine trinkets (as they don't have class parties like so many other kids do).  


This past weekend, Mark and Austin (our teenager) went to the International Motorcycle Show in Chicago.  They had a great time with some other guys and with each other.  However, being a "home body", Mark was anxious to get back home to me and the kids as the day wore on, and he tried to hurry home to help me with all of the sick kids, which I appreciated so much.  Violet had developed an ear infection on top of her other illness, and she was hysterically screaming in pain for almost the entire afternoon and evening of that Saturday.  Mark helped so much with her - taking up with her where I left off - holding and rocking and lying in bed with her... trying anything he could to help soothe her pain.  In addition to this, he prepared his Sunday School lesson (as he teaches 5th and 6th graders at our church).    As we sat at the table for supper (Violet still wailing on my lap), Sadie looked at me and said, "Mom, I bet you're glad Mark and you are going on vacation in August!"  I laughed at that, because I realized how utterly frustrated and exhausted we must both seem and how sweet it was that she wanted to remind us of an upcoming chance for relaxation - however remote it seemed to us at the time.


Mark took Austin to a men's study for guys at our church last night, and they barely arrived home in time for him to shower and get ready for work.  As I put his card in his lunch box, he hurriedly (and worriedly) looked at me and said, "I'm sorry, I just haven't had time to buy you anything for Valentine's Day.  I feel so bad."  He rushed off to work, and said he might try to do an e-card or something like that.  I said, "Well, I bought your gift on line, so you could always do it that way."  That was the last of our conversation, but I really tried to determine within myself that whatever he did or didn't do for me would be fine.  I have become much less needy when it comes to gifts in the past few years, preferring practical gifts mostly, because the lifestyles of married people with five children have necessitated it.  He is often gone on my birthday and sometimes on our anniversary too because of his work schedule, and I have often told him that a hand-written note of encouragement is plenty good enough for me these days.


He arrived home this morning letting me sleep in, and printed off cards for me and the kids.  When I awoke, he was handing the kids their cards along with a package of Starburst for each that he must have obtained at a gas station on the way home from work.  I was disappointed that he had not hand-written anything or given me any sentiment.  He commented, "Well, it would have been nice to have dinner out together tonight, but Austin has practice, and everyone is sick."  I truly tried to hide my disappointment, but he detected it and pressed me for a reason.  I (more willingly than I should have) expressed my frustration at our situation and lamented that, despite my attempt at low expectations, I was disappointed.  


The advent of the Internet, especially Facebook, makes it so much easier to be discontented with my circumstances.  I opened it this morning to no less than 2 dozen posts about what people have received for Valentine's Day or about Valentine's Day plans, and if I had something to brag about, I would be the first one to post it too.  That's the way it works, right?  Facebook is the "way to go, me and my fabulous lifestyle" outlet.  [Aside:  In fact, Facebook has made me a little afraid to start working out regularly, and I'll tell you why:  I have friends who seem to have disappeared and been replaced by Billy Blanks. One day, they're posting about a regular, everyday stuff, and the next day, they're seeing a personal trainer, doing P90X 8 days a week, and doing triathlons 12 times a year.  I totally admire these people (in a slightly annoyed kind of way), but I am loath to read their status updates.  I know they are proud of their lifestyles, and I am proud for them, and I am the first to post when I've dropped 5 pounds, but I fear that were I to start spending an hour a day exercising, I might get carried away and become Denise Austen too.  I wouldn't be able to go to dinner with a friend without telling them how fattening their dinner selection is.  I once posted to my Facebook status something to the effect of, "I have way too many friends who post their workouts.  I wish that just once someone would post, 'I ate half a pizza and a quart of ice cream by myself and spent the rest of the day on the couch watching TV,' that way I could live vicariously through your status and actually enjoy it."  I think I accidentally hurt some feelings with that post, but I just think that human nature is funny.  That being said, if you are one of my friends who works out and talks about it a lot on Facebook, I love and admire you and what you do, and I'm just jealous of your ambition.  Let's go out for a cheeseburger and some tofu sometime soon.]


You may have noticed above the things I wrote in bold face type.  Those are the things I forgot in my selfishness this morning.  My hubby works hard.  He loves being home with his family.  He spends quality time teaching our kids to love me and love God.  He serves others at our church.  He snuggles his kids.  He treats me so well.  (Oh, and he's taking me on a vacation to Hawaii that he's spent a couple years of overtime money saving up for.)  He IS my blessed Valentine.  He already is.  He doesn't have to buy me a gift.  He is my gift.  In case you didn't notice, I bought his card when I was already out at the store.  I did my other shopping on line.  I didn't go out of my way to make his day special either.  As a married couple, we just can't sometimes.  Life gets in the way of love sometimes.  You'd think I would know that by now.  Then again, love is only that... a compilation of life's craziness and the choice to love each other despite its imperfections.  My shortcomings are many, and I hope it's clear that the title of today's blog is referring to my own Valentine's day failures and no one else's. 


The Ghost of Valentine's Days Future


It's my sincere hope that in the future I remember the concept of this blog.  I don't need gifts.  I need to recognize the gifts that are all around me.  


I once asked myself, in an effort to determine exactly what my expectations are, what would really make me happy on Valentine's Day (or any other gift holiday).  The truth is, I couldn't define it at all.  It couldn't be flowers or candy, because they are perishable and impractical.  It couldn't be a vacuum cleaner or a food processor, because those things are "job-related".  It couldn't be just dinner out, because I wouldn't have something to remember from the day.  Bottom line?  NOTHING met my criteria or expectations.  My heart wants something that doesn't exist in the physical realm.  True LOVE - untained, strong, passionate, lasting,  and... supernatural.  Putting expectations on a person will always end in disappointment, because we were created with an eternal longing that cannot (and was never meant to) be met in the temporal realm.  God created me empty in order that I seek Him for true fulfillment.


A few things that I saw on Facebook today that were a blessing:

  

Look What I Can Do!

Two of my children are 3 and 4 years old.  Sometimes I think their favorite phrase at this age is, "Hey, mom, look what I can do!"  From jumping down the stairs two-at-a-time, to drinking down the last half of a milk cup in one gulp, to dribbling a basketball for 3 seconds... it's all praiseworthy and fun as they're learning all the new things they can do - whether or not anyone else thinks those things are particularly cool or interesting.  Last night after Austin's basketball game, they ran out onto the floor to show off their own basketball skills.  Levi shot baskets, and Violet bounced a ball - both shouting the usual, "Look what I can do!" to passersby.  

I am going to "date myself" with this next paragraph and appeal to some of you Gen Xers to recall with me a skit from MADtv.  There was a "little boy" named Stuart (who was played by a grown man, of course) and his mother who had a big hairdo, built in shoulder pads, and a shameless Wisconsin accent.   She always called him, "Styert".  Stuart had a way of trying to show off to strangers by saying, "Hey, look what I can do," which he would follow with some totally random and unimpressive antic meant to impress.  I can't help but think of this skit every time the two little ones say, "Look what I can do!"  In fact, from time-to-time I like to show off for Mark with some type of odd, random antic and shout, "Hey, honey, look what I can do!"

"Look what I can do," might be a phrase that is isolated to children.  However, it is a concept that is perpetuated to the point of perfection by us adults.  From Facebook, to blogs, to tweets, we love to show everyone all the "good things" we can do or all the brilliant things we know.  I am not pointing any fingers, see... I am so guilty.  I like to show off things I make and things I do.  In fact, motives unclear to myself half the time, I am ironically doing it right now.  I tell myself that I blog for me, and that is partially true, but I'll post it to the internet, and I'll link it from Facebook like always, and I'll hope that a few people read it and think about it too.  

My pride is an ugly thing, and God has been making it so blasted clear to me these past two weeks, to the point of overwhelming me with it.  So I've humbled myself and learned to just let God figure all these tough issues out for me and defend me and help me, right??  WRONG.  I only wish that were true, but seems to have only made me more aware of it - not stopped it.  From the overflow of my ugly heart, my ugly mouth speaks.  That's one Facebook status you won't see me post, but that's not because it isn't true, but because everyone who would comment on it would try to convince me that it wasn't true - that I'm not a rotten sinner... that deep down I'm a really good person.  They are my "friends", after all, right?  But I know better about me.  I like to think I'm decent, but then I see me in action and realize that, much to my own dismay, I'm not.  

We like to think that we should be able to take pride in what we do... that it is good to take pride in yourself and your abilities, etc.  It's fine to brag, and, as I mentioned in a FB status a few weeks back, it's a societal norm that's infiltrated something as simple as greeting cards.  I can't stand to read most cards anymore, because they go on and on about wonderful, sweet, perfect ME.  I go to buy a card for a loved one and who is the card about?  ME.  "Dear Mom, Thanks for supporting me, seeing the best in me, being there for me when I needed you, and lifting me up when I was weak, because - let's face it - we both know what a fantastically amazing and remarkable person I am and how much I deserve to be lifted up... after all, who got you this card??  ME, that's who... Happy Birthday to the person who gave birth to ME!  Love Always and Best Wishes, Me"  Okay, prone to exaggeration might be in bold print on my dossier, but you get my drift here, right?  

In the midst of my God-given smackdown this week (and it's barely halfway over), my attention has been drawn to one thing.  Look what I can do?  

LOOK WHAT I CAN DO!

God vs. Us style:

ME:  I can have a new body in 6 weeks with my new diet/exercise program!  

GOD:  I can have a new body in 3 days and save the whole human race in the process.

ME:  Look what I made!

GOD:  Look what I made.

ME:  Look how much I love my kids!

GOD:  Look how much I love your kids.

This list could go on for longer than I have before it's way past my bedtime, but the bottom line is this verse that keeps coming to my mind:  In John 15:5, Jesus says, "I am the vine.  You are the branches.  He who abides in me and I in him, he bears much fruit.  For apart from me, you can do nothing."  Yet, despite the nothing I can do apart from Him, to my shame, I do a whole lot of nothings apart from Him, none of it amounting to anything and so much more of it causing undue trouble and stress for myself and others.  This thing called life is not about us, but we try everything within (and without) our human power to make it about us, even though it renders us completely ineffective.  The moment I've bragged about something, it's made me ridiculous.  The moment pride has reared it's ugly head, it's made me a fool.

This past evening, Levi (whom we've been weaning from naps lately) was interrupted from "working out" on the eliptical trainer by his sister who wanted to "take his picture" with a Viewmaster.  He was annoyed enough (and perhaps sleep-deprived enough) to jump off the eliptical, approach his sister and push the Viewmaster into her eyes - causing her to cry.  Having been in the bathroom during the whole time this occurred, I got this story second-hand from Mark and the other kids.  After Mark told him he must apologize, he refused and ran to his room, slamming the door, and carrying on like a madman about the injustices of the world and his particular situation.  He received discipline for his actions and was told he must apologize to his sister, which he (reluctantly and after much coaching) eventually did. The funny part of this story to me was that when we took food to my grandparents tonight at their home, he sat at their kitchen table and confessed the whole of the situation to the entire table of people.  He admitted to hitting his sister in the eye with the Viewmaster, and making her cry and then he said, "And I wouldn't say I was sorry, and I got mad and mad and ran to my room and then (higher pitched, as if he couldn't believe his own actions) I slammed the door, and then I threw a big, BIG fit!"  My grandpa tried to suppress a grin and a snicker as he listened intently to the story.  Levi said, "I was being so bad, and mom and dad both told me I needed to say sorry."  His confession was sweet to hear - as if he couldn't believe the way he had acted and that, despite the fact I doubt he was remorseful at the time he apologized, he seemed to truly be at that moment.  The best part about this story was the true confession - big, ugly tantrum and all - was something he felt he wanted to share.  Pride gone and glad of it, he bared his soul, and it seemed to be freeing for him.  


This type of honesty could revolutionize my facebook posts.  I can just see them now:


"Marinated a steak for my amazing husband's birthday and then gave him the silent treatment because he didn't appreciate all the trouble I went to."


"Spent the day adoring my wonderful children and then avoided eye contact with an acquaintance at Walmart, because I didn't feel like making conversation."  


"Learned some amazing new truths at Bible study and then went home and ate chocolate chip cookies and milk in the bathtub because I was feeling sorry for myself."


"Ran 8 miles on my eliptical trainer and topped it off with that quart of ice cream I've been hiding in the outside freezer after everyone went to bed tonight."

I hear complaints all around me that are well-founded.  What's wrong with the church?  It's full of ME.  What's wrong with the world?  It's full of ME.  What's wrong in the universe?  It's populated by billions of galaxies in the midst of which is one which has a tiny, little planet that is populated by people like ME.  Why should we look at other people on earth in exasperation at how not good they are?  They're in our same predicament - sin.  Why should we come to church expecting people to be good and act righteously?  We're all in the same predicament - sin.  And all too often, the One who could help us act right is the One we don't ask for help.  

On the list of the things God hates, what made the top of the list?  #1?  The most hated thing?  Pride.  (Proverbs 6:16, Proverbs 8:13) When I look at the photos above, it's rightly obvious to me one of the reasons God hates it when we're proud.  Because we have no basis for it!  The things I can make and do in comparison to the things He has made and done (including making the person who can make and do the other things)?  It is a non-comparison - a laughable comparison.  I have no basis for feeling proud of myself - what I've written, what I've accomplished, what I've made - when I consider what He has written, what He has accomplished, and what He has made.  It's like taping a finger painting on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel.  Have you ever seen someone try to strut his/her stuff when they have no stuff to strut?  How does it make you feel?  Do you pitty that person?  Do you laugh?  Do you feel embarrassed for that person?  How much more would you feel this way if you were the stuff?  If you were the glue that holds the universe together, how would you feel about your creation hanging its pittiful self out to brag.   Yet, as sickeningly ridiculous as that would be, I don't think that's what angers God the most about pride.  Like most sin, I think He hates that it hurts us and that we use it to hurt each other.  And despite all of this, He loves us anyway.  There are a lot of remarkable things that we all see on a daily basis, but what is the most remarkable is that the God of the universe would care for you and for me.

Soft and Sanitized

Lately, my oldest son and I have been enjoying war movies together.  I had quite a collection of war movies when Mark and I got married, from The Dirty Dozen to Wind Talkers to The Gladiator, I enjoyed them all.  Austin is always in awe that I - a GIRL - actually enjoy stories of war.  It's true, real or fictional, (but especially real) I enjoy a good war story.  Austin rationalizes that it must be because my name is derived from the Roman god of war.  I just think that "girls" can enjoy history, including the war parts, as much as "boys" can.  We recently finished the last episode of World War II in HD from the History Channel.  It's no exaggeration to say that I loved this documentary series.  It was so well done, and it provided a more in depth look at WWII than I had ever seen or understood before we watched it.


We watched a movie last night called The Eagle about a Roman soldier who was trying to reclaim a symbol of Rome that his father had lost in combat years earlier.  I thought the movie was mediocre at best, but I was reminded of something that was also impressed upon me as I watched WWII in HD... I am soft.  As I watched the conditions under which millions of people have lived...  As I watched the conditions under which millions of people have existed... I am overwhelmed.  I don't even want to use the word "lived" in the sense that I think of it.  I realize - almost with pain - that I could not live that way.


On Saipan, immediately following its conquer by the United States in WWII, US Marines witnessed the mass suicide of civilians - men, women, and children who had been brainwashed by their government to believe they'd be better off dying than falling into American hands.  The Marines watched helplessly as parents killed their children and then themselves - jumping off (or throwing children off) cliffs onto rocks below, drowning themselves, holding grenades to their chests and pulling the pins.  These piteous people who lived in abject poverty and who were treated as second-class citizens by their own government crawled out of the caves in which they'd been hiding in order to kill themselves.  They believed they had nothing to live for - no reason to believe they could expect better from life than worse than what they had already experienced.   But why?  Isn't life precious?  Not for many.  It makes me wonder if, after humanity's fall from grace, it was ever meant to be precious.


Dean Sherman states that Western civilization, particularly Western Christianity, exists in the world of the theoretical.  We believe in analogies.  We believe in theory, because we rarely exercise our ability to live out our faith in reality.  We really have no idea how most of the world lives.  Even the poorest of our poor are not abjectly impoverished.  We have provided ourselves with so much comfort that we are disgusted by discomfort.  We've tried many things (good and bad) to rid ourselves of the types of discomforts that the rest of the world endure on a daily basis.  Through vaccinations, pain relievers, lawsuits, foods, diets, climate control systems, and thousands of other things we use every day, we've managed to rid ourselves of "life"... or what is considered life for most of the other people on earth.  Even death has become too uncomfortable and inconvenient for many to face these days.  Funeral homes go bankrupt because people choose cremation and no memorial service to save on costs and presumably on grief.  As a hospice volunteer, I am often surprised had how many families choose no services for their loved ones.  Does this really save us?  Does refusing to grieve in a traditional sense work for us?  At least in the Caucasian culture, we'd already managed our grief down into bite-sized tokens (at least in public) of sniffles and tissues. Why not wail and moan and sit in a heap of ashes like other cultures?    Why not ugly cry - snorts, snots, and all?  Too "undignified" has become too easy to ignore.


I miss the passion of earlier generations.  I miss the sense of duty that people felt toward God, family, and country.  I've spoken a lot lately with a lovely single friend of mine who is at a loss to understand why she cannot find a "good" man.  Despite her beauty, intelligence, education, and job - all the things the world says she needs to be and do, and then some - there is not a man to be found who will "fight for" her.  Not a man to be found who values her enough to work at establishing and maintaining a relationship.  Is it her fault?  No way.  It is all of our faults.  We have come to a point in our society where we expect less and less of ourselves and more and more of each other - a combination that can't possibly work.  Women have continued to fight for "rights" and "freedom" which mostly boils down to control over our circumstances (and our men), and we wonder why men are apathetic when it comes to pursuing us.  We've taken the roles that were traditionally theirs - including pursuer - and we wonder why we are so dissatisfied with the mealy-mouthed, dispassionate man lying next to us in bed.  What are they supposed to do?  What's left for them?  What distinguishes them as different from us?  Nothing, and we wanted it that way, and now we hate them for it.  What's worse - a strong, confident man who is sometimes insensitive or a soft, sensitive man who refuses to fight for his woman, family, home, and country?  I know which one appeals more to me.


The comfortable, soft, sanitized world we've created for ourselves largely rids us of our dependence upon anyone - least of all God - and yet we lament our feelings of loneliness and isolation.  We live our lives with the most minimal involvement from God, but He's the first one to get the blame when things go badly for us.  Ironically, the most valuable spiritual truths I've ever learned were in the times of my greatest trials and tribulations.  My most precious times of being "held" by my Savior were in times when there was no one else to hold me.  We wonder why people in more impoverished and persecuted parts of the world seem to have a more vibrant faith, but it's small wonder to me.  After all, real life, like it became after man's fall from glory, is rotten.  It's not fun.  It's not pretty, and it's certainly not easy.


I recall a story that a friend of mine who moved here from another country once told me.  He said that when he had lived in his home country, he had been important and prominent.  He had much pride in who he was and in his home country.  He came to America excited, because he felt God was leading him to make a difference in our country.  He asked God what God wanted him to do.  He was met with frustration after frustration.  He found himself asking God why he would bring him to this country only to meet him with frustration and humiliation.  He said he felt God impress upon him that he was not brought to America because God needed him in America but because God knew that, only in America - far away and humbled from his former way of life - would this friend realize his constant need for God.  Since that time, I have witnessed many people who think their life's work is to change a person or group of people when the reality is that they can't and never could.  We aren't in the business of changing others.  God doesn't need us for that.  He puts us here so that, through the living of our lives - particularly the most painful parts of those lives - we are caused to depend on Him in a way that grows and changes us.  How prideful of us to think that God plans to use us to change other people.  It's only when we realize that we are the ones who need to change that we become truly useful to God at all.


Those Marines on Saipan tried everything they could think of to communicate their good intentions toward the civilians who were killing themselves by the hundreds, but the language barrier and the lack of trust between them prevented a potentially life-saving exchange.  You can't change a person's heart - no matter how good your intentions might be.  Next time, you're facing something difficult and dirty, and you're frustrated out of your mind, the person God probably wants you to change is YOU.

Beauty Ternity

"What?" I asked as he stood in the doorway of his parents' bathroom watching me fix my hair and makeup for the coming day.  "I don't know," he answered quite honestly.  After a pause, he added quietly, "It's just been so long since I watched a woman do her hair."  It may seem odd to you, but this is one of the first conversations I can recall having with the man who is now my husband.  It endeared him to me in a way I can't fully describe.  He had been single for nearly 7 years when I met Mark, and, unlike most single men in their late 20's, he had not dated.  As it was, our dating was not really "dating".  I had 2 children.  He had one, and we lived 3 1/2 hours apart.  Our times together consisted of his staying at a hotel in my town or me staying at his parents' house in his town.  Times together were spent almost entirely with our kids, parents, other family members, friends, or any combination of the above.  Having done just about everything wrong in the book in previous relationships, Mark and I were concerned with doing things right this time for the sakes of our children and ourselves.  This may seem old-fashioned to most people, but we only had one chance to make our second chance work for everyone.  That being said, the exchange mentioned above took place between just him and me as his son walked away from the bathroom doorway that day (my first visit to the Iowa town in which my in-laws still reside).  It is still etched in my mind today.  

Our single-parenting days just about over... 

Last week, I watched my sister - red-headed and 9 months pregnant - as she got ready for a sisters' night out with me and my little sister from California.  As I watched a woman who feels quite certainly less than beautiful at this moment in her life, I recalled my husband's commentary some 6 years ago.  I was drawn in at the sight of her drying and curling her hair, applying makeup, and making herself more beautiful for our night out.  I couldn't take my eyes off of her.  Her beauty was quite (and quietly) evident to me - even if not to herself.


Women are beautiful.  The longer I live, the more I realize that it doesn't matter if we're 3 or 93, tall or short, chubby or thin, we are still the most glorious creatures God made on this earth.  Like you, I've been witness to all types of tainted beauty.  Beauty turned ugly by attitude or heart or flaunted immodesty, but for the most part, I love to look at women.  Often times, it's not her appearance that makes her grand.  It is her way.  Lord Byron wrote, 

"She walks in beauty, like the night

Of cloudless climes and starry skies;

And all that's best of dark and bright

Meet in her aspect and her eyes:

Thus mellowed to that tender light

Which heaven to gaudy day denies.

One shade the more, one ray the less,

Had half impaired the nameless grace

Which waves in every raven tress,

Or softly lightens o'er her face;

Where thoughts serenely sweet express

How pure, how dear their dwelling place.

And on that cheek, and o'er that brow,

So soft, so calm, yet eloquent,

The smiles that win, the tints that glow,

But tell of days in goodness spent,

A mind at peace with all below,

A heart whose love is innocent!"

Me snuggling a newborn Levi

The way she holds a sleeping babe... The way she nurses an ailing infant...  The softness in her voice as she sings a lullaby...  These are just a few of the true beauties of a woman.  

Claire - holding a cicada

Grandma Bowers at 18

Grandma Bowers now with Violet

Emily

Our ladies trip to the Bahamas

Violet

Granny

Claire

My mom and Sadie

My girls at the farm in Iowa

A week ago, I was helping at the local hospice home.  Specifically, I was helping to feed a woman.  She was very old and very frail and unable to speak - even a word.  She was awake and watching as we women (strangers to her) - nurses and volunteers gathered around her and spoke to her.  I was touched by the beauty taking place in that room as people whom she did not know clasped her hand, mopped her brow, spoon fed her, complimented her, caressed her face, and even kissed her forehead.  The patient's eyes looked intently at each of us in turn, and I couldn't help but wonder what she was thinking.  As I looked into her eyes I was noticed how beautiful and blue they were.  They were striking.  I told her so, and the corners of her mouth turned upward, ever so slowly, into a smile.  This woman, disheveled and worn, ill and bedraggled, had undoubtedly seen many a better day.  Had she been able to speak, she might have turned down such a compliment - as so many of us are wont to do, but she didn't.  She just smiled.  I spoke what we both knew but she surely doubted at that moment - she was beautiful.

One of my hospice patients died last week.  He was my buddy for a year.  As I sat by his bed a few days before he passed, I talked of news and weather and his health.  He talked of beauty.  In his old-fashioned way, he said, "Gee, you always look so nice.  You're always smiling."  "Gee, you have beautiful eyes."  For a man too sick to get out of his bed, there were obviously no ulterior motives in his compliments... no veiled creepiness or manipulative ploys.  He was closer to eternity than most of us will be for a long while.  Yet - his soul was being fed by what he perceived.  He reached out and we clasped hands.  He pulled my hand under his chin and held it close - slowly falling asleep.  I felt as I do with my children when they fall asleep next to me - that if I moved he would wake... and he did.  

Ecclesiastes 3:11 says (NLT), "Yet God has made everything beautiful for its own time. He has planted eternity in the human heart, but even so, people cannot see the whole scope of God’s work from beginning to end."

We instinctively know by observing the world around us - particularly beauty (which, incidentally has little evolutionary value if you believe [the truth] that physical attractiveness does not assign worth to a person) that this world is not the end of our existence.  It is not our permanent and only home.  No matter how hard we fight it.  Now matter how much we may deny it, we cannot see a sunset or a waterfall without knowing that we are not a whim of an evolutionary process.  

Are women the only creatures that are beautiful?  Are we the only thing that reflect eternity's promise?  Hardly.  Some of my most precious photos are of the handsome men in my life:

Austin - Summer 06

Austin - Autumn 07

Mark sharing nature with our children

My marriage is so happy, and I mean it's not just facebook happy.  It's genuinely happy.  We have hard times.  We have disagreements.  We have everyday life, bills, chores, and children but at the end of each day I am happier than I was the last.  I don't say that to brag.  I say it because people often ask me that question... if we are genuinely happy - if we are "doing okay".  I'm not offended by the question.  I think people are either genuinely concerned or genuinely curious about our "second time around".  Either of which is understandable to me.  After all, our marriage this time around wasn't built on strong feelings as much as on logical thought and a lot of prayer.  It was a marriage that met - not so much on desires of passion and longing (as immaturity often dictates) but needs of a practical nature, needs like partnership, friendship, companionship, and help.  Ironically, this "mariage of convenience" as I sometimes jokingly call it, is what I've found makes our marriage work - the end result of which has been a deeper passion and more intense longing than I've ever before experienced.  


I must admit that a large part of my happiness stems from the fact that my husband is aging.  To me, every day older he gets, he becomes more golden.  He is handsomer, stronger, and more alive than the days before, and I will explain after I tell you another story.

About two days after that day in his parents' bathroom, he called me (as he did every night) and said, "When I'm over at mom and dad's, I keep going into their guest room.  It still smells like you."  It may seem funny that I recall such simple vulnerabilities, but maybe those are the types of romantic moments that are permitted two single parents.  Unlike me, my husband isn't verbose.  He doesn't waste words.  The longer I've known him, the more precious these memories are, because, in a world of flattery and exaggeration, his utter sincerity was a rare gem.  He wasn't trying to persuade me of his affection.  He was just being honest.  I also say this, because he has a history of using compliments quite sparingly. 

I was talking with a friend this morning, and we got on the subject of our husbands.  We both agreed that they become more attractive with age.  I think that - whether or not he could put it into words - the older he gets, the more Mark realizes that vulnerability and openness is not a weakness.  It is a strength.  When a man is young, he is selfish and insecure - largely lacking the ability to love and certainly feeble to express it.  As they age, the best of men realize that to get they must first give.  Over time and through giving, they become secure and sure, and that is what makes a man attractive - at least in my opinion.  Our husbands have become men by setting aside what other people think and doing what they feel is right - unabashedly and unapologetically.  My husband's soft side is what makes him most attractive to me these days.

Mark and Levi

Mark and sleeping Claire

Mark and my girls

Most of our lives will be spent on the other side of eternity.  I am so glad God gives us one another as a (granted, dim) glimpse of what our eternity could look like.  For me, it is not merely a blessing but a responsibility to look as beautiful (on the inside) as possible.  I am, after all, reflecting (or not) the glory of Heaven to those around me.  I can attract or repulse.  I can draw closer or push away.  I can bring life or death.  It is a challenge to remember that giving life to my children does not have to end in the delivery room.  It does not end until I meet death.

As I lie in bed with my children before bed at night or when they wake up and come in bed with me, I am overwhelmed when they reach out a small, chubby hand to grasp mine or caress my hair.  These most precious moments of unconditional love and affection give me hope that we are passing a legacy of compassion to our children that will end in bedside send-offs to eternity future surrounded by those same precious children instead of the strangers with whom too many hospice patients spend their last hours.  

Before It Sneaks Up On You

Once again, it's been quite awhile since I last blogged.  I let time pass, and then I find it more intimidating by the day to write, because there are that many more things on my mind, and I feel this need to try to communicate it all.  Ugh... I won't do that to either of us.  I'll just give you a taste of what's in here.

Last Friday night (Christmas Eve Eve, incidentally) Mark and I got to go see a movie in Rockford.  After leaving the movie, I realized we needed a few things from the store  - at the top of the list:  diapers.  So we reluctantly headed toward Walmart.  I rationalized that at almost 11:00 PM Rockford's State Street Walmart would have been less busy.  I was woefully mistaken.  When we drove in to look for a parking space, we encountered what appeared to have been the apocalypse.  Carts were strewn about the parking lot.  Shelves were empty.  Employees looked like zombies.  And the shoppers?  Well, we all did our best to pretend that each other didn't exist... unless in one another's way.  Sometimes the need for diapers can just sneak up on a person.

Walmart aside:  Now, I am the first to say that Walmart provides much-needed employment for many people I know and love.  I appreciate that.  However, I have to confess my deep sense of loathing toward Walmart.  This Walmart was equipped with the usual - auto department, pharmacy, photography studio, nail salon, hair salon, etc.  It also, however, was equipped with a McDonald's and a walk-in clinic.  As I waited for Mark to use the restroom before we left the dreaded Walmart on Christmas Eve Eve, I watched a white kid who wore a gangster hat standing precariously on the top of his small head and a t-shirt that said, "psychotic records" standing in the checkout line with what I assumed to be his tired, annoyed, middle-aged mom in a Chicago Bears coat, I tried to conjure up why I am so annoyed with Walmart.  I think it's us that created Walmart... when I say, "us" I mean those of us in the U.S.A.  We love to waste things.  We wear disposable hats and disposable t-shirts (although, I'm fairly certain that if that young man ever gets married his psychotic records t-shirt will be one of the last he ever lets his wife throw out).  We don't buy clothes.  We buy fads and phases.  We don't buy food, we buy cravings and addictions.  Walmart makes luxuries affordable to the point where we are hard pressed to even identify or make any distinction between a need and a want, a necessity and a luxury anymore.  This is entirely aside from the fact that some part of me deeply resents anywhere I can get a haircut and manicure, then get my photos taken while my car simultaneously gets a lube job and tire rotation, then stop by the clinic for a cholesterol check and a flu shot, then stop by McDonald's for some cholesterol with a side of flu, then stop by the pharmacy to get some cholest-off, then stop by the meat department for some Lobster and some ground beef, the produce section for some coconuts and plantains, the dairy section for some milk and cheese, the bakery for some doughnut holes, the baby section for some diapers and Butt Paste, the boy's clothing section for a shirt and tie, the sporting goods section for some stink bait and a basketball, the automotive department for a new car battery, and the personal care section for some toothpaste and floss.... all before a pimple-faced kid manages to give me 25 bags for 23 items and still packages the Lobster and doughnut holes in the same bag as the basketball, Butt Paste, and stink bait - and all while never leaving the doors of one store.  It's marvelously annoying that I need but don't love Walmart!  Sometimes resentment just sneaks up on a person.

Sunday morning I found out that Levi (age 4) was supposed to have been singing in front of the church with some other children.  It's a good thing I bought that shirt and tie at Walmart and put it on him Sunday morning.  (See?  They had me at, "Hello, welcome to Walmart.")  Levi knew this song.  He had sung it to me at home and in the car on many occasions.  It contained the words, "Celebrate the Child who is the Light.  Now the darkness is over.  No more wandering in the night.  Celebrate the Child who is the Light!"  He knew the words... well, most of the words.  He was pretty sure that it was "laundering in the night" that was to be no more, and I was all for that change in particular.  He stood up there looking sharp in his George brand shirt and tie, but he didn't sing a word.  Not a syllable... not a letter... did he utter.  Not a peep.  He resented the shirt, the tie, the outfit, and the obligation.  He may have been up in front of everyone looking sharp on the outside, but on the inside he was still at home wearing only black socks and threatening his sisters with a mere light saber and his sheer nakedness.  He didn't want to be singing.  So he didn't sing.  Sometimes responsibilities just sneak up on a person.

As Levi was unenthusiastic, his sister Violet (age 2) was as enthusiastic as her brother was not.  She longed to sing with the big people and set a hymnal in her lap as though she had the aptitude to belt out the Christmas carols like everyone else.  Never mind that the hymnal was upside down, because she's illiterate anyway.  She remained undaunted.  A more adorable sight was scarce for this mom to behold on Christmas morning.  Sometimes sweetness just sneaks up on a person.

This past Monday, we celebrated my dad's parents' 60th wedding anniversary.  My dad said that, when they were in line at the store to purchase the cake for the party, another patron looked at them (having read the cake's inscription) and said, "60 years, huh?  I guess it's working out then."  I love that... "I guess it's working out."  I suppose it's safe to make such a statement after 60 years.  As they sat there watching a photo montage of their 60 years together run across the screen, I couldn't help but wonder if sometimes 60 years just sneak up on a person.   

Grandma and Grandpa in 1952

My grandma was diagnosed with ALS a few months back, and her health is declining.  That being said, Monday's celebration was a bit more bittersweet than I would have liked it to be.  Sometimes unpleasant things just sneak up on a person.

family photos taken shortly after her diagnosis

 These days, the man who spent most of his life being well taken care of by the woman on his right is lifting her out of bed, helping her get dressed, helping her bathe, pushing her wheel chair, adjusting and calibrating her breathing machine, trying his hand at cooking for them, and even watching her sleep.  Her kitchen has become his kitchen.  Her life has become his life.  His job has become her.  As I type my heart breaks at the idea of it... but not in the way you may think.  "And the two shall become one flesh" is written in Genesis of God's intent and desire for the first couple He made - Adam and Eve.  "And the two shall become one flesh" doesn't happen at the altar or in the bedroom.  It doesn't happen when two people share a look of pride when their child is born or does something special.  It doesn't even happen when two people share hopes and dreams.  It happens when the word "love" becomes a choice - when it becomes an action that must be done on the other's behalf - an action undeserved, unmerited, and unable to be repaid - when he takes steps for her, when he cooks food for her.  When he does all these things on her behalf... they have truly become one flesh.  These days it's hard to tell where one ends and the other begins.  Sometimes beauty just sneaks up on a person.