Jun 20, 2019
Moving!
Hello, Readers! I want to let you know that my blog will be relocating soon. Details to come!
Jun 5, 2019
Bloom Season
Spring is here. Where I live, spring is basically summer, but still. It is the season for blooms. In the several pots on my deck and patio, flowers are blooming. Some have just begun to show their colors after the cold (all right, cool) weather, and others are fading now that the heat is kicking in. One planter in particular is preparing to showcase a blaze of color within the next few days: in it are a gerbera daisy and a geranium side-by-side, their blooms to be deep orange and hot pink. These plants came through the winter, to my surprise, and I am excited to see their little buds and the small beginnings of petals.
Enter my daughters, nearly-four and one. They have a wading pool on the deck. They have a hose with gushing water. They have buckets. Do they want to play with these things? No. They want to pick flowers.
At first, I ask them not to. What a reasonable request, right? The few blooms on the geranium are gone within about three trips of my one-year-old from the plant to the pool, where she is dropping the flowers one at a time into the water. They look pretty when they float. My last hope is the buds on the geranium that haven't started to open yet (they aren't showing any pink, so maybe my daughters won't see them). The single bloom on the gerbera daisy, I know, is doomed.
The gerbera daisy has a blooming pattern that I have found requires patience. It produces about one to three flowers at a time, and each bud takes what seems a painstakingly long amount of time to open completely. Once the blooms open, they remain for a while, making them worth the wait, but when they fall, there is a long period of waiting again before the next round of blooms appears.
On my daisy plant now is a single bloom that has barely begun its work: tiny petals extend from the center, pale orange and narrow, like squat embroidery needles. I know that in a few days' time, the petals will stretch, unfold, and deepen to their full orange color. I am looking forward to seeing the flower. But my children do not understand this expectation.
I try to explain it to my older girl. Maybe she can understand, but she doesn't seem very interested. She's more interested in the here-and-now (I can't blame her; she's only almost four). She is learning to be patient, but she would rather pluck the flower now, early, to play with it, than wait for it to bloom fully.
In my frustration at the loss of most of my blooms and potential blooms, I have a choice: I can get upset, yell, and sweep the girls up and take them inside, ending play time with the fury of my dragon-mom fiery wrath (dragon-mom is a real thing), or I can patiently let the children be children. They are exploring. They want to enjoy examining the flowers, picking each petal off and feeling it in their fingers. They want to see how the petals look in the water. They want to play with pretty things. Their actions are not malicious.
As I sit in the lawn chair, trying to enjoy the outside play time as much as my daughters apparently are, I remember words from Paul David Tripp's Parenting, the book I'm reading with my care group right now. He asks, "Do physical things get in the way of, or create needless tension in, your parenting?" I take a deep breath and look at the flowers. They are, indeed, physical things. They are objects, not people. My daughters are much more valuable than the orange and pink blooms. I can relax. This summer, the world will not come to an end, even if every single bloom is plucked early from my plants. And I doubt even my industrious children could manage that feat.
My children are learning patience, and so am I. Tripp writes that "[i]n every moment as you are parenting your children, the heavenly Father is parenting you." I need to hear this truth: I need God as my parent every bit as much as my children need me as a parent (I suppose even more so). God is teaching me to be patient and gracious with my children, and I am a slow learner. He reminds me here on the deck, as my girls pluck flowers, that the true blooms to wait for are not growing in planters. They are running around naked in the backyard; they are little now, but will be grown-up some day (sooner than I imagine), their deepest, brightest colors yet to be seen.
 |
| Petals plucked and dropped on the dirt in the pot. |
Feb 23, 2019
When What You Have to Work with Is a Tangled Mess
I've been knitting a lot lately. Sometimes the yarn runs smoothly from the center of the skein, like it's supposed to. But sometimes, the dreaded tangle appears. It may be small at first, just a tiny snag in the straight line of yarn, but usually at such a warning sign I sigh in frustration. I know what is coming: a tangled mess that interferes with my serene knitting experience. It takes more time to clear up the tangles and get a length of workable yarn than I end up spending on the knitting itself. By the time my brief window of free time is over (during my children's afternoon naps), I've worked my fingertips sore trying to loosen cotton yarn from its matted knots and probably knitted about three rows.
The tangled mess experience teaches me patience, I suppose, sort of like sitting in traffic. Though I feel like I'm getting nowhere, I know that in reality I'm getting closer to my destination. In the car, crawling along at 25 mph on the highway, I am still facing the right direction. I'll get there sooner or (in this case) later. Loosening the tangled yarn, I know I'm freeing the strand I need to finish my project. I just have to let the project take more time than I had anticipated.
Knitting and detangling yarn is like investing in a relationship; let's say a marriage. The yarn you're using is the yarn you have. You already bought it and you've tied it in little looping knots onto your needles. You've committed to it and you've already put some amount of work into completing the desired object when the tangle appears. That tangle stops you in your work and you face a choice: work at undoing the tangle so you can keep going, or cut your losses and start over with a different skein. I've personally done both. With knitting, the stakes are pretty low, in terms of cost: a skein of yarn is pretty cheap. But with relationships, the cost is higher: the value of a person cannot be measured.
In marriage, you've already committed to a person, through vows and through building life together to some extent before tangles appear. Your spouse is knitted to you and your two lines of yarn are now inextricable. All people have tangles (both spouses have nasty knots that will appear at some point). The question is whether to work on the tangles or to cut the yarn and lose the work you've already put into your pattern. The two of you together form a knitted project, and you build it stitch by stitch one day, one decision, one meal, one conversation at a time.
You can't cut off the person you've tied yourself to or all of your hard work will be lost. You can be assured that any other person with whom you might start again will have tangles, just like this one. The two of you must stop in the midst of whatever work you're doing and untie the knots together. It might feel like a waste of time. You may think you're not making any progress. But if your project, the pattern the two of you are building through your whole lives, is ever to be completed, you have to take the time to face problems and work on fixing them.
Marriage is good at showing the tangles of our lives, our personal messes and failures, and forcing us to stop and sort them before going on. It feels slow. It feels tedious and painful. But it's worth doing because the very fibers we need to complete our work are hidden in that mess. We just have to free them.
Special note:
I have seen, through the example of someone close to me, a time when a marriage cannot go on and the yarn has to be cut. I will simply say this: a marriage involves two people and it requires both to willingly remain in order for it to continue.
The tangled mess experience teaches me patience, I suppose, sort of like sitting in traffic. Though I feel like I'm getting nowhere, I know that in reality I'm getting closer to my destination. In the car, crawling along at 25 mph on the highway, I am still facing the right direction. I'll get there sooner or (in this case) later. Loosening the tangled yarn, I know I'm freeing the strand I need to finish my project. I just have to let the project take more time than I had anticipated.
Knitting and detangling yarn is like investing in a relationship; let's say a marriage. The yarn you're using is the yarn you have. You already bought it and you've tied it in little looping knots onto your needles. You've committed to it and you've already put some amount of work into completing the desired object when the tangle appears. That tangle stops you in your work and you face a choice: work at undoing the tangle so you can keep going, or cut your losses and start over with a different skein. I've personally done both. With knitting, the stakes are pretty low, in terms of cost: a skein of yarn is pretty cheap. But with relationships, the cost is higher: the value of a person cannot be measured.
In marriage, you've already committed to a person, through vows and through building life together to some extent before tangles appear. Your spouse is knitted to you and your two lines of yarn are now inextricable. All people have tangles (both spouses have nasty knots that will appear at some point). The question is whether to work on the tangles or to cut the yarn and lose the work you've already put into your pattern. The two of you together form a knitted project, and you build it stitch by stitch one day, one decision, one meal, one conversation at a time.
You can't cut off the person you've tied yourself to or all of your hard work will be lost. You can be assured that any other person with whom you might start again will have tangles, just like this one. The two of you must stop in the midst of whatever work you're doing and untie the knots together. It might feel like a waste of time. You may think you're not making any progress. But if your project, the pattern the two of you are building through your whole lives, is ever to be completed, you have to take the time to face problems and work on fixing them.
Marriage is good at showing the tangles of our lives, our personal messes and failures, and forcing us to stop and sort them before going on. It feels slow. It feels tedious and painful. But it's worth doing because the very fibers we need to complete our work are hidden in that mess. We just have to free them.
 |
| My current mess. |
I have seen, through the example of someone close to me, a time when a marriage cannot go on and the yarn has to be cut. I will simply say this: a marriage involves two people and it requires both to willingly remain in order for it to continue.
Feb 18, 2019
How to Survive Your Cold (and Enjoy It, Too)
The cold and flu season is in full swing. Where I live, close to the Texas Hill Country, it has also been the season for cedar pollen, leading to what for many is comparable to getting a severe cold or even flu-like symptoms, called around here "cedar fever." The dreaded pollen can cause such terrible allergies that last and last until finally they develop into sinus infections, fevers, sore throats, coughing, congestion that blocks ears: the works.
As I battled with my most recent bout of the cedar fever, a sinus infection, and took care of my two young daughters, who also had fevers and runny noses, I struggled to keep a positive attitude. When everything was sore and two small children were cranky for days (and nights!) on end, who could really blame me? Well, the truth is that it would have helped my family and me to survive the sickness without all the grumpiness if I had simply practiced thankfulness. Wait, thankfulness? For infections? Yes. Thankfulness, even for infections.
According to research, as discussed by Amy Morin in Psychology Today, practicing thankfulness has been shown to improve mental, psychological, emotional, and even physical health. Clearly it is in our best interest to try gratefulness in place of grumbling. However, what about a cold is there to be grateful for?
This is where a bit of discipline and creative thinking come into play. In 1000 Gifts, Ann Voskamp argues that thankfulness is at times a sacrifice. In other words, it's hard to do, but worth the challenge. I've written more in-depth about the sacrifice of thanksgiving elsewhere, and giving thanks through difficult circumstances is on my mind a lot. Though it takes self-control to give thanks instead of gripe, I can think of several ways I could (at least in theory!) give thanks for sickness.
When I'm sick, I try to slow down and let my body rest as much as possible. I can be thankful for the slower schedule, even though it might be forced on me against my will. If I have a chance, I can even take a hot bath (the steam is great for congestion!) and relax a bit, maybe with a drop or two of eucalyptus essential oil to add an invigorating scent that reportedly helps clear congestion. When my kids are napping, I can nap. I can be thankful for yummy, hot soup (maybe my husband will bring me pho!). Trying to find small things to enjoy during a cold is one way to be thankful.
More importantly, perhaps, getting sick reminds me that I am not in control of my own health, ultimately. Yes, I can control the food I eat, my exercise, and - to some extent, being a mom of littles - how much sleep I get. But I cannot stop myself from getting a cold, no matter how many elderberry gummies I chew per day. God takes the opportunity when I get sick to remind me that I am frail. Yet despite the frailty and relative lack of importance of my life (considering by comparison God, the maker of the universe), He still cares for me intimately. My motherhood matters. My personal dreams and goals matter. My health matters to Him, who showed compassion for the sick when He walked the earth (and still does today). When I'm sick, it is easier to see both how small I am and also how my simple, small life matters to God. After all, the little things stand out more to me when I'm sick: the taste of soup, the feeling of a hot bath, the smell of eucalyptus, even being able to breathe! All of these little things are gifts from a God who created my body and said it was good.
So, I can try to be thankful, though it's not easy, when sickness strikes. And when it's through, I can be thankful again that I have a healthy body. Sick or healthy, life itself is such a gift!
As I battled with my most recent bout of the cedar fever, a sinus infection, and took care of my two young daughters, who also had fevers and runny noses, I struggled to keep a positive attitude. When everything was sore and two small children were cranky for days (and nights!) on end, who could really blame me? Well, the truth is that it would have helped my family and me to survive the sickness without all the grumpiness if I had simply practiced thankfulness. Wait, thankfulness? For infections? Yes. Thankfulness, even for infections.
According to research, as discussed by Amy Morin in Psychology Today, practicing thankfulness has been shown to improve mental, psychological, emotional, and even physical health. Clearly it is in our best interest to try gratefulness in place of grumbling. However, what about a cold is there to be grateful for?
This is where a bit of discipline and creative thinking come into play. In 1000 Gifts, Ann Voskamp argues that thankfulness is at times a sacrifice. In other words, it's hard to do, but worth the challenge. I've written more in-depth about the sacrifice of thanksgiving elsewhere, and giving thanks through difficult circumstances is on my mind a lot. Though it takes self-control to give thanks instead of gripe, I can think of several ways I could (at least in theory!) give thanks for sickness.
When I'm sick, I try to slow down and let my body rest as much as possible. I can be thankful for the slower schedule, even though it might be forced on me against my will. If I have a chance, I can even take a hot bath (the steam is great for congestion!) and relax a bit, maybe with a drop or two of eucalyptus essential oil to add an invigorating scent that reportedly helps clear congestion. When my kids are napping, I can nap. I can be thankful for yummy, hot soup (maybe my husband will bring me pho!). Trying to find small things to enjoy during a cold is one way to be thankful.
More importantly, perhaps, getting sick reminds me that I am not in control of my own health, ultimately. Yes, I can control the food I eat, my exercise, and - to some extent, being a mom of littles - how much sleep I get. But I cannot stop myself from getting a cold, no matter how many elderberry gummies I chew per day. God takes the opportunity when I get sick to remind me that I am frail. Yet despite the frailty and relative lack of importance of my life (considering by comparison God, the maker of the universe), He still cares for me intimately. My motherhood matters. My personal dreams and goals matter. My health matters to Him, who showed compassion for the sick when He walked the earth (and still does today). When I'm sick, it is easier to see both how small I am and also how my simple, small life matters to God. After all, the little things stand out more to me when I'm sick: the taste of soup, the feeling of a hot bath, the smell of eucalyptus, even being able to breathe! All of these little things are gifts from a God who created my body and said it was good.
So, I can try to be thankful, though it's not easy, when sickness strikes. And when it's through, I can be thankful again that I have a healthy body. Sick or healthy, life itself is such a gift!
Feb 14, 2019
Five Date Ideas for the Non-Romantic
My husband and I have vastly different expectations when it comes to dating each other. We agree it's important to keep the spark of romantic love alive in our marriage, but the question of how to go about it meets different and sometimes conflicting attitudes from the two of us. If you're in a relationship anything like ours, you know that it can be a challenge to find new and exciting date ideas when one of you wants to go dancing, paint together, or try one of those date-at-home boxes, and the other claims he would rather eat his own toenails than try any of that romantic, "cheesy" stuff.
Though we have disparate tastes, we both want the same things from our dates: to enjoy each other and to strengthen our marriage. Through the years of testing date ideas, we have found a few winners. These activities have enriched our relationship through everything from laughter and teamwork to deep philosophical conversations, and they pass the "non-mushy" test to please the sensible-minded while still meeting the need for connection time to satisfy the hopeless romantic. If you are looking for something to freshen your relationship other than the go-to dinner and a movie routine, consider these alternate date ideas. Since my husband and I have two small kids, these activities have the added benefits of being relatively inexpensive (or free) and not requiring that you hire a babysitter; you don't have to leave the house (unless you want to).
1. Cribbage and Coffee
Break out this old-fashioned and charming card game, brush up on your addition skills, and race your peg around the track to get to the finish line first. Sip on your favorite beverage and let the conversation flow naturally as you both get the hang of the game. My husband and I spent many dates playing cribbage when we were engaged. It's the perfect balance of skill and luck of the draw, so it doesn't get too competitive (great if one of you doesn't enjoy playing games unless he's winning).
2. Cooperative Games
If newer, multi-faceted board games are more your thing, try a cooperative game in which you two must work together to win. The benefit of these games is the fact that you get to strategize with your partner instead of plotting secretly as in most traditional games. You might just find some new strengths as a couple while you take risks and compromise in order to beat the game. Our favorites are the pleasingly-complex Pandemic (save humanity from rampaging diseases) and the simpler, fantasy-infused Forbidden Island (rescue treasures from an island before you sink). An added bonus of gameplay: our discussion naturally centers on the game, saving us from figuring out how to stop talking about work and the kids.
3. Listen to the Radio
If you're into podcasts, share a favorite with your spouse. Spending time appreciating something that the other person enjoys can increase the depth of your understanding of him or her. For a fun alternative, try listening to an old radio show, such as mystery theater from CBS Radio Mystery Theater. One advantage of listening to the radio or a podcast is that listening allows you to feel more present with each other than if you were watching a show. As Gary Chapman suggests in The Five Love Languages, "It isn't enough to just be in the same room with someone. A key ingredient in giving your spouse quality time is giving them focused attention . . . the activity in which [you] are both engaged is incidental." Even though you might still sit on the couch to listen to the radio, you might find you enjoy being able to look at each other instead of the screen as your individual responses to the story become part of the experience (a win for those of us more romantically inclined, or those whose love language is spending quality time).
4. Read Aloud
If you enjoy podcasts and radio, take your date one step further and read aloud to each other. One of the benefits of this activity is that it can take as little or as much time as you want to spend, since you can always find a good stopping point in a book and come back to it later. You may even find yourself looking forward to the next installment on your next date (no extra date planning required!). Since these dates need to suit those who may not be interested in the romantic comedies of the book world (i.e. Jane Austen), here are a few recommendations my husband and I have both enjoyed:
Using materials you might already have around the house, make your own fondue snack as a date activity by itself or to accompany one of the other ideas here. Light a few tea light candles and place them on a safe surface. Position a simple wire basket upside-down over the flames and put a small ramekin full of your favorite chocolate chips on top. The heat from the candles will gently melt the chocolate. Use skewers or toothpicks to dip goodies into the chocolate. Try marshmallows, cookies, fruits, and pretzels (all cut or broken into small bite-sized pieces). Everyone, romantic or not, loves a snack!
Though we have disparate tastes, we both want the same things from our dates: to enjoy each other and to strengthen our marriage. Through the years of testing date ideas, we have found a few winners. These activities have enriched our relationship through everything from laughter and teamwork to deep philosophical conversations, and they pass the "non-mushy" test to please the sensible-minded while still meeting the need for connection time to satisfy the hopeless romantic. If you are looking for something to freshen your relationship other than the go-to dinner and a movie routine, consider these alternate date ideas. Since my husband and I have two small kids, these activities have the added benefits of being relatively inexpensive (or free) and not requiring that you hire a babysitter; you don't have to leave the house (unless you want to).
1. Cribbage and Coffee
Break out this old-fashioned and charming card game, brush up on your addition skills, and race your peg around the track to get to the finish line first. Sip on your favorite beverage and let the conversation flow naturally as you both get the hang of the game. My husband and I spent many dates playing cribbage when we were engaged. It's the perfect balance of skill and luck of the draw, so it doesn't get too competitive (great if one of you doesn't enjoy playing games unless he's winning).
2. Cooperative Games
If newer, multi-faceted board games are more your thing, try a cooperative game in which you two must work together to win. The benefit of these games is the fact that you get to strategize with your partner instead of plotting secretly as in most traditional games. You might just find some new strengths as a couple while you take risks and compromise in order to beat the game. Our favorites are the pleasingly-complex Pandemic (save humanity from rampaging diseases) and the simpler, fantasy-infused Forbidden Island (rescue treasures from an island before you sink). An added bonus of gameplay: our discussion naturally centers on the game, saving us from figuring out how to stop talking about work and the kids.
3. Listen to the Radio
If you're into podcasts, share a favorite with your spouse. Spending time appreciating something that the other person enjoys can increase the depth of your understanding of him or her. For a fun alternative, try listening to an old radio show, such as mystery theater from CBS Radio Mystery Theater. One advantage of listening to the radio or a podcast is that listening allows you to feel more present with each other than if you were watching a show. As Gary Chapman suggests in The Five Love Languages, "It isn't enough to just be in the same room with someone. A key ingredient in giving your spouse quality time is giving them focused attention . . . the activity in which [you] are both engaged is incidental." Even though you might still sit on the couch to listen to the radio, you might find you enjoy being able to look at each other instead of the screen as your individual responses to the story become part of the experience (a win for those of us more romantically inclined, or those whose love language is spending quality time).
4. Read Aloud
If you enjoy podcasts and radio, take your date one step further and read aloud to each other. One of the benefits of this activity is that it can take as little or as much time as you want to spend, since you can always find a good stopping point in a book and come back to it later. You may even find yourself looking forward to the next installment on your next date (no extra date planning required!). Since these dates need to suit those who may not be interested in the romantic comedies of the book world (i.e. Jane Austen), here are a few recommendations my husband and I have both enjoyed:
- If you're a fan of biographies, try Amazing Grace by Eric Metaxas, which recounts the story of William Wilberforce, English politician and, most famously, champion of ending the slave trade in Britain. He also, however, worked to end animal cruelty and revive morality. My husband and I were challenged and inspired by this read.
- If you're into fiction, try A Separate Peace by John Knowles. A haunting and exquisitely written story about friendship and loyalty set against the backdrop of the second world war, this book is aimed at younger readers yet presents themes worth exploring at any age. It sparked lively conversation between my husband and me.
- If you love poetry, break away from Shakespeare's sonnets and read some A. E. Housman poems (hubby's favorite) for their driving rhythm and rhyme schemes and for their darkly cynical, yet stolid view of the world. Check out the collection A Shropshire Lad; the less-romantically-inclined will not balk at these poems, and the two of you can relish in challenging your own view of the world when you discuss them. Is your view more positive than Housman's? For a completely different approach, try reading some Gerard Manley Hopkins poetry (my favorite). Full of exuberant life, these poems will engage your imagination and set you thinking about the beauty of nature, but not romantic love (win!). For a start, look up "As Kingfishers Catch Fire," "God's Grandeur," "Pied Beauty," or "Spring."
Using materials you might already have around the house, make your own fondue snack as a date activity by itself or to accompany one of the other ideas here. Light a few tea light candles and place them on a safe surface. Position a simple wire basket upside-down over the flames and put a small ramekin full of your favorite chocolate chips on top. The heat from the candles will gently melt the chocolate. Use skewers or toothpicks to dip goodies into the chocolate. Try marshmallows, cookies, fruits, and pretzels (all cut or broken into small bite-sized pieces). Everyone, romantic or not, loves a snack!
However you date, keep an open mind and be willing to try new things. If you are the romantic one in the relationship, take the pressure off of your spouse and do all the planning. Your spouse will likely appreciate your effort and be willing to go along for the ride. Either way, the most important ingredient in a successful date is the fact that the two of
you are experiencing something together, right? Shared memories can help strengthen the
foundation for your relationship (even if you end up laughing over them!).
Jan 26, 2019
Slow Down When Sick
Popcorn
Thunderheads fill my bowl. Whole
Skies of storms, many nights'
Worth - an epic flood's worth - sit
Still, waiting to be plucked
One handful at a time for Mom.
For R.J., they're removed singly and
Given names (her game):
Juliet, Jeremiah, James (not
Stormy or ominous). I bite
The tops off of the biggest
Clouds so S.L. can eat them; food
For a baby with no sharp bits. The
Soft puffy insides start to dissolve
Like snow in my warm mouth.
Heat expanded air and moisture,
Forced particles to burgeon outward into
Bulbous mounds larger than
Mountains - smaller than
Hailstones.
Apple
I'd always heard it was a star, but
No: a tiny flower hides inside the
Core of the apple I'm eating. A sculptor
Cast a lily in wax, pulled out the delicate
Petals, and left behind an empty
Cream-colored impression wherein dark,
Fertile seeds rest encased. My thin knife has
Slid through the crack in the
Door and unbolted the lock: now
They fall with gentle clicks
Onto my cutting board.
Thunderheads fill my bowl. Whole
Skies of storms, many nights'
Worth - an epic flood's worth - sit
Still, waiting to be plucked
One handful at a time for Mom.
For R.J., they're removed singly and
Given names (her game):
Juliet, Jeremiah, James (not
Stormy or ominous). I bite
The tops off of the biggest
Clouds so S.L. can eat them; food
For a baby with no sharp bits. The
Soft puffy insides start to dissolve
Like snow in my warm mouth.
Heat expanded air and moisture,
Forced particles to burgeon outward into
Bulbous mounds larger than
Mountains - smaller than
Hailstones.
 |
| Popcorn Cloud |
I'd always heard it was a star, but
No: a tiny flower hides inside the
Core of the apple I'm eating. A sculptor
Cast a lily in wax, pulled out the delicate
Petals, and left behind an empty
Cream-colored impression wherein dark,
Fertile seeds rest encased. My thin knife has
Slid through the crack in the
Door and unbolted the lock: now
They fall with gentle clicks
Onto my cutting board.
 |
| Apple Flower |
Dec 8, 2018
Bergamot Flashback
We're fast approaching Christmas,
and the choir has practiced the song
for maybe three weeks now. "Listen
to the recording at home,"
the director reminds us. Warm tea
soothes my throat while I knit.
The red sweater was done by Halloween, knit
with click-clicks and slow breath, full of mistakes, yet in time for Christmas.
Maybe Mimi will make peppermint tea
again, and this time my song
won't have to be, "Sick! So sick!" Away from home,
yes, but not pregnant this time. The choir will sing; this time, I'll get to listen.
The heater comes on in the house. Listen
to the cold rain hitting the roof and knit
while my daughters sleep. Tastes sweet to be at home -
to know the lights for Christmas,
on their timer, will glow while we're away - to hear my daughter practice her song.
Breathe. Today it took a cup of Holiday Chai tea
to get past the afternoon slump. Today's tea
I kept hidden from the girl; didn't have to listen
as she asked for some and return my sing- song
"No, no. It has caffeine." My hands itched to knit
today; I've almost finished the gray hat. And Christmas
makes so many demands on my time at home.
We won't be at home,
so if I want the gingerbread tea
I'll bring it in that little tin. We leave after both Christmas
choir performances, mine and hers. Nana can listen
if I record my daughter's performance. I'll wait to knit
my green sweater; we need to practice the song.
Once, two college girls, on guitar and piano, sang a song
together at one girl's family home.
One had taught the other how to knit,
and had made her soy milk-infused Earl Grey tea
before they sat on the bedroom floor in their apartment, where one girl could listen
to the other read a fantasy story and rest in the comfort as cozy as Christmas.
She can still knit with those skills and can still hear that song:
At Christmas time in her own grown-up home
she smells Earl Grey tea in a bottle of bergamot and stops to listen.
I recently attended a house concert where I had the privilege of hearing my college roommate and friend from many years ago perform her own beautiful music. A singer-songwriter who plays guitar, she always had an interest in creating, writing, and singing, and she always had a knack for turning any space into "home." It is an amazing experience when one brief moment - such as listening to a song or smelling a specific scent - recalls to your mind years of previous moments, and they all get bundled up together into one new experience that you can open like a gift as your present circumstances seem to be put on pause. The past moments take on new meaning as you see them through the lens of all your current life, and your current life is blessed, as with a refreshing shower, with the sweetness of the memories. At Christmas time, especially, I think we experience life as being circular, so that our past and present can affect each other in our perception of them, and each can imbue the other with new flavor and richness.
A sestina, with its recurring words presented in a new order in each stanza, is very circle-like, and seemed to me the perfect form in which to attempt to express this experience of memory.
and the choir has practiced the song
for maybe three weeks now. "Listen
to the recording at home,"
the director reminds us. Warm tea
soothes my throat while I knit.
The red sweater was done by Halloween, knit
with click-clicks and slow breath, full of mistakes, yet in time for Christmas.
Maybe Mimi will make peppermint tea
again, and this time my song
won't have to be, "Sick! So sick!" Away from home,
yes, but not pregnant this time. The choir will sing; this time, I'll get to listen.
The heater comes on in the house. Listen
to the cold rain hitting the roof and knit
while my daughters sleep. Tastes sweet to be at home -
to know the lights for Christmas,
on their timer, will glow while we're away - to hear my daughter practice her song.
Breathe. Today it took a cup of Holiday Chai tea
to get past the afternoon slump. Today's tea
I kept hidden from the girl; didn't have to listen
as she asked for some and return my sing- song
"No, no. It has caffeine." My hands itched to knit
today; I've almost finished the gray hat. And Christmas
makes so many demands on my time at home.
We won't be at home,
so if I want the gingerbread tea
I'll bring it in that little tin. We leave after both Christmas
choir performances, mine and hers. Nana can listen
if I record my daughter's performance. I'll wait to knit
my green sweater; we need to practice the song.
Once, two college girls, on guitar and piano, sang a song
together at one girl's family home.
One had taught the other how to knit,
and had made her soy milk-infused Earl Grey tea
before they sat on the bedroom floor in their apartment, where one girl could listen
to the other read a fantasy story and rest in the comfort as cozy as Christmas.
She can still knit with those skills and can still hear that song:
At Christmas time in her own grown-up home
she smells Earl Grey tea in a bottle of bergamot and stops to listen.
I recently attended a house concert where I had the privilege of hearing my college roommate and friend from many years ago perform her own beautiful music. A singer-songwriter who plays guitar, she always had an interest in creating, writing, and singing, and she always had a knack for turning any space into "home." It is an amazing experience when one brief moment - such as listening to a song or smelling a specific scent - recalls to your mind years of previous moments, and they all get bundled up together into one new experience that you can open like a gift as your present circumstances seem to be put on pause. The past moments take on new meaning as you see them through the lens of all your current life, and your current life is blessed, as with a refreshing shower, with the sweetness of the memories. At Christmas time, especially, I think we experience life as being circular, so that our past and present can affect each other in our perception of them, and each can imbue the other with new flavor and richness.
A sestina, with its recurring words presented in a new order in each stanza, is very circle-like, and seemed to me the perfect form in which to attempt to express this experience of memory.
Nov 17, 2018
The Sacrifice of Thanksgiving
"I will offer to you the sacrifice of thanksgiving and call on the name of the LORD." Psalm 116:17
I thought my nights were unbearable. My 9 month-old was waking several times a night, so my sleep was constantly interrupted. This had been going on for weeks. I was a grumpy, complaining mess.
Then we all got sick with a cold. Nothing too debilitating, but just enough gunk to disrupt my baby's sleep so much that she would not let me put her down at all for one night, and barely the night after that. One night she screamed so much that for hours she was inconsolable and I slept very little.
What all of this showed me was that I need to be thankful for my circumstances, no matter what they are. Who can say whether they will deteriorate into something worse very soon? I tend to take it for granted that I deserve a certain standard of comfort (such as a full night's sleep), and I complain when I don't get it. Complaining shows that I see myself higher than I ought to.
In reality, I don't deserve anything good in my life. Every good gift comes from God (James 1:17), and He sustains all things by giving us life (Acts 17:28). If I have food and clothing, I should be content (1 Timothy 6:8). Many don't even have these.
I think God has given us many strategies for overcoming the complaining attitude and embracing an attitude of thanksgiving. He tells us to be thankful in all things, so we have a command to obey (1 Thessalonians 5:18). He gives us memories so that we can recall from our own lives times of trial and times of refreshing. Therefore, we can learn that seasons come and go, and if we are in a difficult time, a time of healing may be fast approaching. We can also remember how God sustained us through the past time of difficulty. For example, my first daughter didn't sleep through the night until she was almost two and a half years old. Now she sleeps like a champion!
God also allows us to learn about other people who deal with various circumstances that are different from ours, whether good or bad. We can see our own blessings by comparison and reach out to help those who materially have less or who may have more materially but need spiritual and emotional encouragement that we can offer.
There are so many ways to practice being thankful, and any time I give thanks, I feel blessed. Complaining only makes things seem worse. Being thankful may be a sacrifice, especially being thankful for difficult things, but it's an offering to God because it recognizes His sovereignty and goodness and it reveals that we ultimately trust Him rather than ourselves to know what is best for us.
 |
| My two (at times sleepless) daughters. |
Oct 27, 2018
He Won't Dance with Me
I've tried everything: simple requests, bargaining, debating, reasoning, begging. Nothing will move my husband to dance with me at an event like a wedding. We have been to several in our nearly five years of marriage, so there have been many opportunities to try new strategies. Maybe this time, I'll think. Maybe this time he'll realize how much it would mean to me and he'll give in. Usually this crazy thought is followed by some daydreaming about how fun it will be to get out there on the floor, all dressed up, and enjoy a slow dance or two with my love. Every time I bring it up, however, my hopes are silenced, like pretty music suddenly drowned out by the sound of a loud truck's roaring engine. He absolutely refuses. He just will not do it. Why, I cannot fully comprehend. But there it is. He is the man I married.
Lest it sound as though my husband is never amenable to my requests, I should explain that most often he is perfectly happy to go along with doing things I enjoy, and to let me even take the lead in planning anniversary trips and such. Most of the time, he is not so immovable as on the dancing question. Dancing is one of two things I can think of on which he will not budge; the other is going to one of those "bring your own snacks and paint along with the instructor" classes.
Dealing with our completely opposite interests in the dancing matter is one thing, and I'm sure many lessons about disappointment, understanding, patience, and the like can be learned from it. But the more interesting point in all of this is the irony found in the fact that I, like many girls, I'm sure, always looked forward during my single days to the days when I would finally have a spouse to take with me to these dancing functions. It was always awkward without a dance partner who wasn't A) a crush (embarrassing), B) a reluctant date (pathetic), or C) a family member (not quite the same thing). I remember consciously thinking about how nice it would be to have a built-in dance partner who was at once my romantic interest and my best friend.
As it turns out, all of my best chances for dancing and enjoying it, notwithstanding awkwardness, happened when I was single. I danced more then than I have since and than I maybe ever will again. I had the opportunities to attend and participate in English country dances (yes, as in Jane Austen); swing dancing classes, events, and performances; high school banquets and fundraisers; and weddings. Little did I know that in my pining for future married dancing bliss I had fallen prey to a mindset that was false - and the dancing dreams were just one specific instance of that mindset.
The mindset was this: an assumption that married life would be a certain way, and specifically a better way than I perceived my single state to be. What a mistake! Of course, marriage books warn you not to assume marriage will fix all your problems, because you and your spouse will be just as messed up together as you are individually. I knew this truth, but somehow I failed to apply it in all my thinking. I sometimes let myself feel sorry for my single self instead of enjoying and making the most of the time that I had with good friends and fun experiences. Hence my dancing dreams, which frankly were a form of idolatry and jealousy (idolizing marriage and envying those who had what I thought I wanted).
In reality, my spouse is both much less and much more than I assumed he would be when I imagined what dancing with him would be like. True, he won't dance with me, but he will brush my hair, change the oil in my car, mow the lawn, and do the dishes. He will fight with me, but he will apologize when he is wrong and forgive me when I am wrong. He will raise children with me. God willing, he will grow old with me. He will be my first advocate and best critic. He will be my constant friend. We will laugh, cry (well, I cry, anyway), and converse deeply together. How thankful I am for him!
Marriage is not the answer to all of our problems; neither is singleness. But either is a good gift to be enjoyed in its proper season.
Lest it sound as though my husband is never amenable to my requests, I should explain that most often he is perfectly happy to go along with doing things I enjoy, and to let me even take the lead in planning anniversary trips and such. Most of the time, he is not so immovable as on the dancing question. Dancing is one of two things I can think of on which he will not budge; the other is going to one of those "bring your own snacks and paint along with the instructor" classes.
Dealing with our completely opposite interests in the dancing matter is one thing, and I'm sure many lessons about disappointment, understanding, patience, and the like can be learned from it. But the more interesting point in all of this is the irony found in the fact that I, like many girls, I'm sure, always looked forward during my single days to the days when I would finally have a spouse to take with me to these dancing functions. It was always awkward without a dance partner who wasn't A) a crush (embarrassing), B) a reluctant date (pathetic), or C) a family member (not quite the same thing). I remember consciously thinking about how nice it would be to have a built-in dance partner who was at once my romantic interest and my best friend.
As it turns out, all of my best chances for dancing and enjoying it, notwithstanding awkwardness, happened when I was single. I danced more then than I have since and than I maybe ever will again. I had the opportunities to attend and participate in English country dances (yes, as in Jane Austen); swing dancing classes, events, and performances; high school banquets and fundraisers; and weddings. Little did I know that in my pining for future married dancing bliss I had fallen prey to a mindset that was false - and the dancing dreams were just one specific instance of that mindset.
The mindset was this: an assumption that married life would be a certain way, and specifically a better way than I perceived my single state to be. What a mistake! Of course, marriage books warn you not to assume marriage will fix all your problems, because you and your spouse will be just as messed up together as you are individually. I knew this truth, but somehow I failed to apply it in all my thinking. I sometimes let myself feel sorry for my single self instead of enjoying and making the most of the time that I had with good friends and fun experiences. Hence my dancing dreams, which frankly were a form of idolatry and jealousy (idolizing marriage and envying those who had what I thought I wanted).
In reality, my spouse is both much less and much more than I assumed he would be when I imagined what dancing with him would be like. True, he won't dance with me, but he will brush my hair, change the oil in my car, mow the lawn, and do the dishes. He will fight with me, but he will apologize when he is wrong and forgive me when I am wrong. He will raise children with me. God willing, he will grow old with me. He will be my first advocate and best critic. He will be my constant friend. We will laugh, cry (well, I cry, anyway), and converse deeply together. How thankful I am for him!
Marriage is not the answer to all of our problems; neither is singleness. But either is a good gift to be enjoyed in its proper season.
Sep 30, 2018
The Butterflies Are Here
"The butterflies are here!" I commented to the young man helping me load groceries into my car.
"Yeah, passing through on their annual migration," he responded. "I always hate to see them in front of the car, though." I knew what he meant. My husband had commented about the same issue. The Snout Nosed butterflies are on their way from Canada to Mexico, and have been passing through San Antonio this week. They fly so thickly across highways that it's impossible to commute without killing some. My husband and the man at the grocery store felt dismayed and slightly guilty about this fact, though it's unavoidable. "Survival of the fittest, I guess," said my grocery helper, shrugging the small worry off.
Yes, many of the butterflies don't make it to their destination (although whether "fitness" has anything to do with which ones are hit by cars, I doubt). But the man's reference to naturalistic evolutionary and social theory got me thinking. His comment and the concept itself are attempts to explain suffering and death, the basic fact that not all creatures survive, which for some reason makes us feel, well, sad.
But why? Why do we feel sad that some butterflies get squashed on their journey? Many more of them surely reach the final destination and are able to replenish the population of the species to return again to the same place the following year. Overall, what is the death of some butterflies, when the population as a whole is fine? If all of the butterflies survived, they would probably create some kind of overpopulation problem in an ecosystem somewhere anyway.
If a naturalistic explanation for the world and life were truly sufficient, then our response to the butterflies would not make any sense. Indeed, where would this response even come from? The emotions of guilt and sadness at the inconsequential loss of some insects could serve no purpose in terms of evolutionary development. Rather, our response reveals that there is a standard of what is good, an ideal that we are somehow programmed to seek. When we see death, especially the sudden quashing of fragile creatures on their seemingly hopeful and harrowing journey across a continent, we recoil. The situation seems horrible to us because we sense that something isn't right. In an ideal world, all of the beautiful butterflies would make it, and then they wouldn't cause an overpopulation problem; everything and every creature would live in perfect balance with everything and everyone else.
It is relatively easy to see how the beauty in the world points us to God. After all, if God does exist, we expect He is good and would make good things. The intricate patterns and delicate strength of the tiny butterfly's wings present themselves to us as belonging to the purview of a great Designer who knows much more and has more creative power than we humans could ever presume to possess. The thought that random mutations in the absence of any informed plan could produce such wonders might strike us as comical, outlandish, ludicrous, like assuming all of the works of Shakespeare were produced not by an intelligent author but by the random shaking of ink bottles against paper. It takes a great and blind faith, indeed, to believe in such a thing.
But what of the brokenness of the butterfly wings smashed into the grills of our cars? Surely the existence of such ugliness makes us question whether a good God exists or is in control of anything. Much worse brokenness than dead butterflies often crowds into our lives or the lives of those we know or hear of in the news. It is a natural first response to question the existence of a good God under these circumstances, but the very fact that they repulse us actually gives us a clue that a good God does exist. If the universe existed without a designer outside of it, it would be in a sort of moral vacuum. There would be no standard outside of the natural world itself to differentiate good and bad, right and wrong, or beauty and brokenness. The natural world hardly gives us any clues as to why we have such a negative response to death; after all, isn't death "natural," and in many cases, even necessary? According to the natural order, then, we should accept it without qualms. So we must look outside of the natural universe to make sense of the fact that we respond to death as though something were inherently wrong. We sense something about the universe is broken, which implies that perhaps once it was, and we long for it to be again, whole.
In That Hideous Strength, one of his space trilogy novels, C. S. Lewis argues that even if the natural universe is all that exists, it would be better to fight against the nastiness and insanity within it than to side with all of its brutish baseness. Mark Studdock, a man driven by the desire to belong, finds himself fighting against an attempt at what essentially boils down to brainwashing by the "elites" he's been trying to get close to throughout the whole story:
Mark quickly realizes that no matter what the elites say with their "scientific point of view," he wants to be on the side of the "Normal." Later, when asked to stamp on a crucifix, Mark refuses, asserting in his mind that Christ had been forsaken by a God who turned out not to exist, and he wonders, "If the universe was a cheat, was that a good reason for joining its side?" In this brilliant philosophical and psychological depiction of the common human experience of the clash between an ideal standard of good and a broken reality, Lewis posits that at the very least our experience shows us a standard does, in fact, exist (the "Normal"). Without an objective standard somehow ingrained in us, we would not be able to recognize the crookedness of the world.
The next step is determining where the standard originates, and the crucifix scene, of course, provides a clue as to where Lewis finds the answer: the God of Christianity and the Bible. It is reasonable to explain our awareness of a standard by the existence of a God who reveals the standard (by being Himself the standard for all perfection), and who created us with an inherent awareness of it. It also makes sense to say that if the universe was created by a good God, and was, at one point, good, then we can understand why now we question the presence of broken and terrible things; they are broken and terrible not by design, and they were not meant to be this way. When we startle and weep at brokenness, ugliness, and death, we agree with the "Normal"; we take sides with God against the brokenness rather than accepting it as part of an amoral and nonsensical universe containing no explanation within its own boundaries for the existence of any standard of morality or even for life itself.
The beauty in the world - its landscapes, delicious foods, self-sacrificial love, butterfly wings - reveals the beauty of a Designer who is good. But the brokenness of the world, and the fact that we perceive the brokenness as such, also point us to God. In the face of the brokenness and our grieving, let us recall that He even entered into our world and partook of its brokenness, becoming broken Himself and overcoming that brokenness, in order that all things might one day be restored and made whole and beautiful again.
"Yeah, passing through on their annual migration," he responded. "I always hate to see them in front of the car, though." I knew what he meant. My husband had commented about the same issue. The Snout Nosed butterflies are on their way from Canada to Mexico, and have been passing through San Antonio this week. They fly so thickly across highways that it's impossible to commute without killing some. My husband and the man at the grocery store felt dismayed and slightly guilty about this fact, though it's unavoidable. "Survival of the fittest, I guess," said my grocery helper, shrugging the small worry off.
Yes, many of the butterflies don't make it to their destination (although whether "fitness" has anything to do with which ones are hit by cars, I doubt). But the man's reference to naturalistic evolutionary and social theory got me thinking. His comment and the concept itself are attempts to explain suffering and death, the basic fact that not all creatures survive, which for some reason makes us feel, well, sad.
But why? Why do we feel sad that some butterflies get squashed on their journey? Many more of them surely reach the final destination and are able to replenish the population of the species to return again to the same place the following year. Overall, what is the death of some butterflies, when the population as a whole is fine? If all of the butterflies survived, they would probably create some kind of overpopulation problem in an ecosystem somewhere anyway.
If a naturalistic explanation for the world and life were truly sufficient, then our response to the butterflies would not make any sense. Indeed, where would this response even come from? The emotions of guilt and sadness at the inconsequential loss of some insects could serve no purpose in terms of evolutionary development. Rather, our response reveals that there is a standard of what is good, an ideal that we are somehow programmed to seek. When we see death, especially the sudden quashing of fragile creatures on their seemingly hopeful and harrowing journey across a continent, we recoil. The situation seems horrible to us because we sense that something isn't right. In an ideal world, all of the beautiful butterflies would make it, and then they wouldn't cause an overpopulation problem; everything and every creature would live in perfect balance with everything and everyone else.
It is relatively easy to see how the beauty in the world points us to God. After all, if God does exist, we expect He is good and would make good things. The intricate patterns and delicate strength of the tiny butterfly's wings present themselves to us as belonging to the purview of a great Designer who knows much more and has more creative power than we humans could ever presume to possess. The thought that random mutations in the absence of any informed plan could produce such wonders might strike us as comical, outlandish, ludicrous, like assuming all of the works of Shakespeare were produced not by an intelligent author but by the random shaking of ink bottles against paper. It takes a great and blind faith, indeed, to believe in such a thing.
But what of the brokenness of the butterfly wings smashed into the grills of our cars? Surely the existence of such ugliness makes us question whether a good God exists or is in control of anything. Much worse brokenness than dead butterflies often crowds into our lives or the lives of those we know or hear of in the news. It is a natural first response to question the existence of a good God under these circumstances, but the very fact that they repulse us actually gives us a clue that a good God does exist. If the universe existed without a designer outside of it, it would be in a sort of moral vacuum. There would be no standard outside of the natural world itself to differentiate good and bad, right and wrong, or beauty and brokenness. The natural world hardly gives us any clues as to why we have such a negative response to death; after all, isn't death "natural," and in many cases, even necessary? According to the natural order, then, we should accept it without qualms. So we must look outside of the natural universe to make sense of the fact that we respond to death as though something were inherently wrong. We sense something about the universe is broken, which implies that perhaps once it was, and we long for it to be again, whole.
In That Hideous Strength, one of his space trilogy novels, C. S. Lewis argues that even if the natural universe is all that exists, it would be better to fight against the nastiness and insanity within it than to side with all of its brutish baseness. Mark Studdock, a man driven by the desire to belong, finds himself fighting against an attempt at what essentially boils down to brainwashing by the "elites" he's been trying to get close to throughout the whole story:
But after an hour or so this long, high coffin of a room began to produce on Mark an effect which his instructor had probably not anticipated. . . . the built and painted perversity of this room had the effect of making him aware . . . of this room's opposite. As the desert first teaches men to love water, or as absence first reveals affection, there rose up against this background of the sour and the crooked some kind of vision of the sweet and the straight. Something else - something he vaguely called the "Normal" - apparently existed.
Mark quickly realizes that no matter what the elites say with their "scientific point of view," he wants to be on the side of the "Normal." Later, when asked to stamp on a crucifix, Mark refuses, asserting in his mind that Christ had been forsaken by a God who turned out not to exist, and he wonders, "If the universe was a cheat, was that a good reason for joining its side?" In this brilliant philosophical and psychological depiction of the common human experience of the clash between an ideal standard of good and a broken reality, Lewis posits that at the very least our experience shows us a standard does, in fact, exist (the "Normal"). Without an objective standard somehow ingrained in us, we would not be able to recognize the crookedness of the world.
The next step is determining where the standard originates, and the crucifix scene, of course, provides a clue as to where Lewis finds the answer: the God of Christianity and the Bible. It is reasonable to explain our awareness of a standard by the existence of a God who reveals the standard (by being Himself the standard for all perfection), and who created us with an inherent awareness of it. It also makes sense to say that if the universe was created by a good God, and was, at one point, good, then we can understand why now we question the presence of broken and terrible things; they are broken and terrible not by design, and they were not meant to be this way. When we startle and weep at brokenness, ugliness, and death, we agree with the "Normal"; we take sides with God against the brokenness rather than accepting it as part of an amoral and nonsensical universe containing no explanation within its own boundaries for the existence of any standard of morality or even for life itself.
The beauty in the world - its landscapes, delicious foods, self-sacrificial love, butterfly wings - reveals the beauty of a Designer who is good. But the brokenness of the world, and the fact that we perceive the brokenness as such, also point us to God. In the face of the brokenness and our grieving, let us recall that He even entered into our world and partook of its brokenness, becoming broken Himself and overcoming that brokenness, in order that all things might one day be restored and made whole and beautiful again.
 |
| The tiny specks are butterflies; the picture cannot do justice to the true effect of walking through what feels like swarms of butterflies all heading in the same direction across our neighborhood! |
Aug 26, 2018
Psalm 139, Emotions, and Absolute Truth
This summer, I've been reviewing Psalm 139 to memorize it again (it has been about eight years since I first did). The newness of it strikes me - even though I've seen and thought the words countless times, they still bring fresh comfort and insight as God uses them to meet me in my current circumstances.
One part in particular has shined a light onto my thoughts and feelings this summer:
What stands out to me in these verses is the contrast between the Psalmist's perception of reality and God's perception of it. David (the Psalmist) writes that he may very well feel overwhelmed by his circumstances. In fact, much like me quite frequently, he is anticipating feeling overwhelmed in the future, rather than expressing an emotion immediately present. I relate to this as a feeling of anxiety: worry about the future and the possibility of feeling overwhelmed by it.
By contrast, David recognizes that God has no such apprehension. To God, there can be no overwhelming circumstance. To God, light and dark are not even materially important. He is in charge of all things and knows all things, so night brings no unknowns, surprises, fear, or anxiety.
A few lessons are helpful to me here. First, David struggled with some of the things I struggle with. I'm not alone. Second, what he did with the struggle is what I should do: he prayed about it (since the psalm is essentially a prayer to God). Third, David recognized when he was not yet feeling overwhelmed the truth that God is sovereign, so that when he did feel overwhelmed, he could remind himself of this truth. The time to nail down the truth of God's power and comfort is now; I should take advantage of the mentally clear times to prepare for times that are more challenging emotionally by reflecting on truth.
Fourth, David says that he may perceive light to be night. In other words, his perception may be faulty. I think emotional distress or depression can cause us to perceive reality incorrectly. Even joyful things lose their luster when our distress takes over. On the other hand, God, who is perfect, perceives even the "dark" circumstances with total authority and control, directing them for His own purpose and His glory (also, as Paul writes, for the good of those who love Him, whom He has called!). His perception of reality is reality; He can never be mistaken.
I, along with David, can take comfort in His sovereignty. He is absolute truth, and reality is dependent on Him. He is wise and good, and He is loving, just, merciful, patient, gentle, powerful, and so many other wonderful things so perfectly that I cannot possibly comprehend Him altogether. Therefore, when my emotions are askew, and even good circumstances feel off somehow, and when I feel overwhelmed by challenges, let me remember the truth: God always sees light even if it is dark, and God always sees me, so in some sense I am always in the light.
Of course, Jesus is also called the Light, and if I am in Him, through faith in His sacrifice and resurrection on my behalf, I am in the Light in an eternal sense as well: I am always and forever in the Light. Nothing and no one can take this away.
One part in particular has shined a light onto my thoughts and feelings this summer:
If I say, "Surely the darkness will overwhelm me,
And the light around me will be night,"
Even the darkness is not dark to You,
And the night is as bright as the day.
Darkness and light are alike to You.
(Psalm 139:11-12)
What stands out to me in these verses is the contrast between the Psalmist's perception of reality and God's perception of it. David (the Psalmist) writes that he may very well feel overwhelmed by his circumstances. In fact, much like me quite frequently, he is anticipating feeling overwhelmed in the future, rather than expressing an emotion immediately present. I relate to this as a feeling of anxiety: worry about the future and the possibility of feeling overwhelmed by it.
By contrast, David recognizes that God has no such apprehension. To God, there can be no overwhelming circumstance. To God, light and dark are not even materially important. He is in charge of all things and knows all things, so night brings no unknowns, surprises, fear, or anxiety.
A few lessons are helpful to me here. First, David struggled with some of the things I struggle with. I'm not alone. Second, what he did with the struggle is what I should do: he prayed about it (since the psalm is essentially a prayer to God). Third, David recognized when he was not yet feeling overwhelmed the truth that God is sovereign, so that when he did feel overwhelmed, he could remind himself of this truth. The time to nail down the truth of God's power and comfort is now; I should take advantage of the mentally clear times to prepare for times that are more challenging emotionally by reflecting on truth.
Fourth, David says that he may perceive light to be night. In other words, his perception may be faulty. I think emotional distress or depression can cause us to perceive reality incorrectly. Even joyful things lose their luster when our distress takes over. On the other hand, God, who is perfect, perceives even the "dark" circumstances with total authority and control, directing them for His own purpose and His glory (also, as Paul writes, for the good of those who love Him, whom He has called!). His perception of reality is reality; He can never be mistaken.
I, along with David, can take comfort in His sovereignty. He is absolute truth, and reality is dependent on Him. He is wise and good, and He is loving, just, merciful, patient, gentle, powerful, and so many other wonderful things so perfectly that I cannot possibly comprehend Him altogether. Therefore, when my emotions are askew, and even good circumstances feel off somehow, and when I feel overwhelmed by challenges, let me remember the truth: God always sees light even if it is dark, and God always sees me, so in some sense I am always in the light.
Of course, Jesus is also called the Light, and if I am in Him, through faith in His sacrifice and resurrection on my behalf, I am in the Light in an eternal sense as well: I am always and forever in the Light. Nothing and no one can take this away.
Jul 28, 2018
I'm Writing My Own Rules
This is what my house looks like. At any given moment, I can count at least five pieces of paper on the floor, and that's only in one room. What ever happened to going paperless? And what is it with cats and knocking paper off of tables? Don't worry about the scattered toys, because my toddler is playing with them and they'll be shoved into boxes and put away onto the rugs once a week so my husband can mop the floors with his giant, manly, old-school mop (he insisted). Then the toys will make their appearances again, little by little, like an expanding ant hill, until the next tidying-up day. It's fine. She's only three for one year. Another three-year-old will take over again, and God only knows how many more after that, but still, each will only be three for one year. Boxes from deliveries (because Amazon) need to be collapsed and recycled. But - hey! - at least we have recycling here! Score. Sorry about the six or seven mateless shoes in the walkways and kitchen and laundry room and - oh, pretty much everywhere! No explanation. Maybe we need a system. I also think we need a bookshelf for the dining area because it has become the central location for listening to fun CDs, reading the story Bible at breakfast time, and checking recipe books. All of the necessary associated items live on our table for now. Speaking of tables, and eating, and dishes: Yes, the dishes are in progress. The laundry is also in progress. Don't worry about that; I do have a system worked out. We are not starving; we are not naked; we are healthy and learning all the time all together. We read a lot - again with the bookshelves - I think we need more. Is it possible to have too many books? Wait, no, what am I saying? Someone find my sense for me, please. While you're at it, grab my keys and take the van out to get some chocolate. I'll be here. Let's make this a regular thing. Chocolate every once-in-a-while to remind us to take a break and slow down and breathe and do some yoga and all of those good things. And, remember: one day it will just be us adults here with only memories of all the messes to keep us up at night.
Jun 30, 2018
Limitation as Relief from Anxiety
Many of God's attributes pertain only to Him and not to us humans, according to theologians. For example, only God is eternal, self-sufficient, omnipotent, and sovereign. In a book titled None Like Him: 10 Ways God Is Different from Us (and Why That's a Good Thing), Jen Wilkin describes ten of these attributes and why we as limited creatures can draw comfort, hope, and reassurance from the fact that they are true only of God.
Reading this book is showing me something my husband has been trying to tell me for almost as long as he's known me (sorry, honey!): my anxiety stems from my trying to control what I cannot control, know what I cannot know, and be what I cannot be. Essentially, I feel anxious when I reach the boundaries of my humanity and feel responsible for things outside those boundaries.
One night, my toddler was throwing fits at bedtime. At the same time, my infant was screeching loudly in my arms as my husband and I tried to wrangle the toddler into her bedroom for a peaceful routine that would lead to all-night sleep. Meanwhile, my anxiety level was climbing higher. I felt concerned that my baby was learning to scream from my toddler. I recognized as I reflected on the list of attributes pertaining only to God that I felt anxious because I was trying to be omniscient (Is my baby learning screaming from my toddler?) and sovereign (How can I stop this from happening?), when in reality I cannot be either of those things. When I stopped and noticed that I wasn't responsible to know the answer that I could not know or control the situation that I could not control, my shoulders relaxed a bit and some of the tension melted. Of course, some tension remained, as there were still a screeching infant and fit-throwing toddler to be dealt with.
Knowing the limits of my humanity and accepting instead of fighting them allowed me to be calmer and feel more peaceful, even in the midst of a trying moment. Wilkin writes that "[w]e are capable of bearing [God's] image as we were intended only when we embrace our limits." If I can stop trying to be God, I can reflect Him better. For me, as a person who struggles with anxiety, releasing that burden of incorrect responsibility - the burden of controlling and directing things that aren't mine to control and direct - is a huge relief.
As Wilkin succinctly puts it: "Because God owns everything, he is responsible for its care and has the right to do with it what he wishes." This is not to say that we do not have responsibility to care for the people and possessions God places into our little spheres of influence, but the ultimate responsibility rests with Him. The care that we take has boundaries and limitations based on our humanness, and these limitations should free us to love well, without worry.
Reading this book is showing me something my husband has been trying to tell me for almost as long as he's known me (sorry, honey!): my anxiety stems from my trying to control what I cannot control, know what I cannot know, and be what I cannot be. Essentially, I feel anxious when I reach the boundaries of my humanity and feel responsible for things outside those boundaries.
One night, my toddler was throwing fits at bedtime. At the same time, my infant was screeching loudly in my arms as my husband and I tried to wrangle the toddler into her bedroom for a peaceful routine that would lead to all-night sleep. Meanwhile, my anxiety level was climbing higher. I felt concerned that my baby was learning to scream from my toddler. I recognized as I reflected on the list of attributes pertaining only to God that I felt anxious because I was trying to be omniscient (Is my baby learning screaming from my toddler?) and sovereign (How can I stop this from happening?), when in reality I cannot be either of those things. When I stopped and noticed that I wasn't responsible to know the answer that I could not know or control the situation that I could not control, my shoulders relaxed a bit and some of the tension melted. Of course, some tension remained, as there were still a screeching infant and fit-throwing toddler to be dealt with.
Knowing the limits of my humanity and accepting instead of fighting them allowed me to be calmer and feel more peaceful, even in the midst of a trying moment. Wilkin writes that "[w]e are capable of bearing [God's] image as we were intended only when we embrace our limits." If I can stop trying to be God, I can reflect Him better. For me, as a person who struggles with anxiety, releasing that burden of incorrect responsibility - the burden of controlling and directing things that aren't mine to control and direct - is a huge relief.
As Wilkin succinctly puts it: "Because God owns everything, he is responsible for its care and has the right to do with it what he wishes." This is not to say that we do not have responsibility to care for the people and possessions God places into our little spheres of influence, but the ultimate responsibility rests with Him. The care that we take has boundaries and limitations based on our humanness, and these limitations should free us to love well, without worry.
May 8, 2018
Arrows
Heidi St. John's book Becoming Mom Strong discusses the biblical idea that children are "like arrows in the hands of a warrior" (Psalm 127:4). St. John describes her purpose as a parent this way: "Surely we were born for this - to launch our arrows into the world for the Kingdom of God!" In other words, our children do not stay with us forever; they depart at some point or other, and our job is to prepare them to depart well and at the right time, with true aim.
The other day, my toddler (R) woke up early (even for her), at about 5:30. My husband had just that same week started a new job with a new schedule, which allows him to be home in the mornings instead of gone before the rest of us wake up. Our theory on R's wake-up time was that partly she was just excited to see her daddy and was ready to start the day. Of course, along with the early rising came the early beginning of a long day full of "why" questions and stubborn two-year-old willfulness. My perspective was already keyed to be positive (thanks to the Ann Voskamp Joy Dare, which had a prompt for that day to look for gifts found in difficult people); otherwise, I would have absolutely lost it. Instead I only partially lost it.
In any case, I reflected on R's personality that day and how the challenges she presents now may be shaped with her future usefulness as an "arrow" in mind. She loves her daddy, which indicates to me that she has the capacity to develop close and healthy relationships as she matures. She is full of curiosity and the desire to learn, and I'm hoping this desire will stay with her so that she dives into whatever work God has for her with just as much enthusiasm when she's 30 as she does now. Her willfulness now may serve her well in the future by helping her stand firm in her convictions when she faces trials at work, in relationships, and from the general culture (which I suppose will be even more difficult to walk through as a Christian when she is an adult than it is now).
So let me pray that these (sometimes challenging) qualities will develop into beneficial traits as R grows, and that her dad and I will have the wisdom to help her hone her gifts and her personality now, in preparation for the aiming and launching season to come.
The other day, my toddler (R) woke up early (even for her), at about 5:30. My husband had just that same week started a new job with a new schedule, which allows him to be home in the mornings instead of gone before the rest of us wake up. Our theory on R's wake-up time was that partly she was just excited to see her daddy and was ready to start the day. Of course, along with the early rising came the early beginning of a long day full of "why" questions and stubborn two-year-old willfulness. My perspective was already keyed to be positive (thanks to the Ann Voskamp Joy Dare, which had a prompt for that day to look for gifts found in difficult people); otherwise, I would have absolutely lost it. Instead I only partially lost it.
In any case, I reflected on R's personality that day and how the challenges she presents now may be shaped with her future usefulness as an "arrow" in mind. She loves her daddy, which indicates to me that she has the capacity to develop close and healthy relationships as she matures. She is full of curiosity and the desire to learn, and I'm hoping this desire will stay with her so that she dives into whatever work God has for her with just as much enthusiasm when she's 30 as she does now. Her willfulness now may serve her well in the future by helping her stand firm in her convictions when she faces trials at work, in relationships, and from the general culture (which I suppose will be even more difficult to walk through as a Christian when she is an adult than it is now).
So let me pray that these (sometimes challenging) qualities will develop into beneficial traits as R grows, and that her dad and I will have the wisdom to help her hone her gifts and her personality now, in preparation for the aiming and launching season to come.
 |
| Walking with her until she's ready to launch. |
Apr 21, 2018
"Three Hard Eucharisteos"
Ann Voskamp suggests looking for daily gifts from God in the little things. A simple pat of butter can be viewed with gratitude and seen as a loving reminder that God cares. In Voskamp's "Joy Dare Collection" challenge, she lists "3 hard eucharisteos" (three things for which it is hard to give thanks) as a prompt for seeking God's gifts on April 16th. On that day, my daughters were sick with a cold (which they are still getting over). Consequently, sleep was even more lacking than usual, and my husband was primarily taking care of our wakeful, snotty, needy toddler at night since I'm still caring for our two-month-old who wakes a couple of times a night anyway. My three gifts from God that day were:
1. Two sick girls. A reminder that I'm not in control of their health, let alone their choices as they get older. I can do all I can to be a good mom and set a good example, but that's it. God holds them and loves them even more than I do.
2. Sleepless nights. A reminder that God sustains me through the times when I don't think I have strength to get anything done. He gives grace for each moment, including the sleep-deprived ones.
3. Not being able to sleep with my husband (cuddles being an important way I feel connected to him). A reminder that my ultimate comfort, security, and encouragement come from God, not my husband. I can tend to rely too much on my husband for support, though he is just a person, and cannot take the place of God in meeting every emotional need that I have.
1. Two sick girls. A reminder that I'm not in control of their health, let alone their choices as they get older. I can do all I can to be a good mom and set a good example, but that's it. God holds them and loves them even more than I do.
2. Sleepless nights. A reminder that God sustains me through the times when I don't think I have strength to get anything done. He gives grace for each moment, including the sleep-deprived ones.
3. Not being able to sleep with my husband (cuddles being an important way I feel connected to him). A reminder that my ultimate comfort, security, and encouragement come from God, not my husband. I can tend to rely too much on my husband for support, though he is just a person, and cannot take the place of God in meeting every emotional need that I have.
Mar 24, 2018
Who's in Charge Here?
I would like to have the authority in my own life to say to my child, "Do not be sick with hand, foot, and mouth disease," or, "get rid of that jaundice right now, young lady." However, the power to control whether or not my children are ill does not fall to me.
The first week home with baby number two (S), my first daughter (R) contracted hand, foot, and mouth disease. We were afraid it was strep throat at first, but when my husband took her to the doctor we found out (to our relief) that it was this scary-sounding but relatively non-threatening disease that caused her to have bothersome red spots all over her hands, feet, face, and hip areas. She was not contagious to adults, and there was little risk that infant S would be in contact with R, which was why we were so relieved. However, there was still a lot of work and trouble associated with the situation. R had fever for a couple of days, she didn't feel well, and we had to prevent her from cuddling her new baby sister. Meanwhile, baby S also had some issues related to jaundice concern. Her pediatrician asked us to get her tested and re-tested for bilirubin levels every day for the first week of her life, which meant trips back to the hospital every day for a week after having finally been discharged after spending two nights there following her birth (two instead of one because I was group B strep positive).
All in all, the first week home with our new baby was not the experience I had desired. I'd imagined lots of rest and cuddles, not lots of car trips with an infant, insanely messy breastfeeding in public, a whining, tired toddler, and little opportunity for much-needed naps for myself.
That week, my Bible study teacher shared her memory verse with me: Matthew 21:23b says, "By what authority are You doing these things, and who gave You this authority?" The Pharisees were challenging Jesus with these words. Of course, the questions are provocative; since I believe Jesus has ultimate authority, given that He is God, I have no right to question Him in such a way. Meditating on this verse was the very thing I needed that week. As I prayed for help to deal with the tiredness and the two needy children, sobbing, I submitted the time to God. He is the authority of my life, not me.
Remembering Who is in charge gave me comfort that week, but remembering that my life was not all bad helped, too. Around that same time, I was reading the section of the Martin Luther biography by Eric Metaxas that describes Luther traveling many miles on foot to a meeting that could easily have resulted in his own execution by burning. Luther was (understandably) so anxious he had severe stomach pains and was unable to continue walking at one point. By comparison to this extreme hardship, my life was peachy! A little perspective can work wonders. Also, there were some enjoyable things about the week: I got to have lunch out with my husband after a couple of the trips to the hospital, toddler-free (since my mom was watching R for us), and all of those car-rides and dealings with the "outside world" probably helped me get back to a feeling of reality and normalcy after the strangeness of the two-night hospital stay.
In the end, God is good and He knows what He is doing. "Trust in Him at all times, O people; Pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us," says David in Psalm 62:8. Truly God wants to hear from us no matter what emotions we are feeling (including anger or panic), but He also wants us to submit ourselves to His authority and rest in the fact that our peace is ultimately in Him, not in circumstances going exactly how we want.
The first week home with baby number two (S), my first daughter (R) contracted hand, foot, and mouth disease. We were afraid it was strep throat at first, but when my husband took her to the doctor we found out (to our relief) that it was this scary-sounding but relatively non-threatening disease that caused her to have bothersome red spots all over her hands, feet, face, and hip areas. She was not contagious to adults, and there was little risk that infant S would be in contact with R, which was why we were so relieved. However, there was still a lot of work and trouble associated with the situation. R had fever for a couple of days, she didn't feel well, and we had to prevent her from cuddling her new baby sister. Meanwhile, baby S also had some issues related to jaundice concern. Her pediatrician asked us to get her tested and re-tested for bilirubin levels every day for the first week of her life, which meant trips back to the hospital every day for a week after having finally been discharged after spending two nights there following her birth (two instead of one because I was group B strep positive).
All in all, the first week home with our new baby was not the experience I had desired. I'd imagined lots of rest and cuddles, not lots of car trips with an infant, insanely messy breastfeeding in public, a whining, tired toddler, and little opportunity for much-needed naps for myself.
That week, my Bible study teacher shared her memory verse with me: Matthew 21:23b says, "By what authority are You doing these things, and who gave You this authority?" The Pharisees were challenging Jesus with these words. Of course, the questions are provocative; since I believe Jesus has ultimate authority, given that He is God, I have no right to question Him in such a way. Meditating on this verse was the very thing I needed that week. As I prayed for help to deal with the tiredness and the two needy children, sobbing, I submitted the time to God. He is the authority of my life, not me.
Remembering Who is in charge gave me comfort that week, but remembering that my life was not all bad helped, too. Around that same time, I was reading the section of the Martin Luther biography by Eric Metaxas that describes Luther traveling many miles on foot to a meeting that could easily have resulted in his own execution by burning. Luther was (understandably) so anxious he had severe stomach pains and was unable to continue walking at one point. By comparison to this extreme hardship, my life was peachy! A little perspective can work wonders. Also, there were some enjoyable things about the week: I got to have lunch out with my husband after a couple of the trips to the hospital, toddler-free (since my mom was watching R for us), and all of those car-rides and dealings with the "outside world" probably helped me get back to a feeling of reality and normalcy after the strangeness of the two-night hospital stay.
In the end, God is good and He knows what He is doing. "Trust in Him at all times, O people; Pour out your heart before Him; God is a refuge for us," says David in Psalm 62:8. Truly God wants to hear from us no matter what emotions we are feeling (including anger or panic), but He also wants us to submit ourselves to His authority and rest in the fact that our peace is ultimately in Him, not in circumstances going exactly how we want.
Feb 24, 2018
Birth Story Two
I woke up at 4 a.m. to use the bathroom as usual, and noticed some very watery discharge in my liner and dripping from me. Not entirely sure what it was, but seeing that more kept coming, I changed into a pad just in case and went back to bed. "I think my water broke," I told my husband. He reassured me the best thing to do was try to get sleep either way. About an hour later, I woke him up again: "I'm having contractions." "Should we call your parents?"
So my second labor began with my water breaking (later confirmed at triage in the hospital), which I never expected. I called the midwife at about 8 a.m. and she suggested we should come on in to check if my water had indeed broken, because if so she wanted to admit me and start the antibiotic (I was GBS positive). We had wanted to labor much longer at home, but this circumstance made the decision for us, and we went earlier than we otherwise would have. As it turned out, I'm glad we got there when we did. Triage takes longer than you think, and by the time I got to the labor room, the contractions were quite uncomfortable - a car ride at that point would have been challenging!
Overall, the labor took about eight hours (shorter than my first by four hours), if you only count how long I was really feeling contractions. I want to highlight my major takeaways for the sake of remembrance:
When I called the midwife I found out my favorite out of five was the one on call that day (an answered prayer that seems like a small thing, but which gave me great joy that day).
Anti-nausea medication during early labor gave me huge relief and I never had to throw up.
I never had my cervix checked until my husband and I wanted to; because my water had broken, the midwife admitted me without checking, and she didn't feel a need to check unless we wanted to know. When we finally did ask her to check, I was dilated to a six, which meant that most likely the majority of the time of labor had passed already. Good news!
Laboring in the shower was a huge pain reliever! Almost unbelievably so!
I still hate having a contraction on an exercise ball (something I tried in both labors).
Having just a saline lock and only intermittent fetal monitoring made me feel very free.
The squat bar for pushing turned out to feel awkward, and even though I knew the position to get in to use it, I could not seem to get myself into that position. I ended up turning around and lying on my chest on the bed with my knees bent under me (basically on all fours, but with the bed raised where my hands were so that my chest was more supported. I didn't know the bed could do that!). The nurse handed me a pillow, and I wrapped my arms around it and did my breathing (slash loud groaning and/or yelling) into it. That pillow added such a sense of security. After three pushes, baby girl number two was out!
The midwife said I'd been pushing for a while before that, when I was still standing and leaning on my husband through contractions. She kept telling me I could push if I wanted to, but that I didn't have to. What an awesome experience, having an advocate there who encouraged me to listen to my body's cues and not force anything.
I kept telling my husband "I love you" after getting through each contraction for the latter part of labor. I felt so close and connected to him throughout the whole experience (something that I remember from the first labor as well). He kept telling me I was doing a great job, that I could do this, that I was almost done, and other encouraging things. He let me hold and lean on him as much as I needed. He was an amazing coach and source of comfort, security, and calm. I also cried a tiny bit a few times, which always seemed to help relieve any fear or anxiety I had at the moment.
This labor was full of gifts from a gracious God: my favorite midwife, daytime labor, low traffic on Sunday morning on the way to the hospital, only one cervix check, a redeeming experience with the pushing stage (after having an emotionally terrible one in my first labor).
So my second labor began with my water breaking (later confirmed at triage in the hospital), which I never expected. I called the midwife at about 8 a.m. and she suggested we should come on in to check if my water had indeed broken, because if so she wanted to admit me and start the antibiotic (I was GBS positive). We had wanted to labor much longer at home, but this circumstance made the decision for us, and we went earlier than we otherwise would have. As it turned out, I'm glad we got there when we did. Triage takes longer than you think, and by the time I got to the labor room, the contractions were quite uncomfortable - a car ride at that point would have been challenging!
Overall, the labor took about eight hours (shorter than my first by four hours), if you only count how long I was really feeling contractions. I want to highlight my major takeaways for the sake of remembrance:
When I called the midwife I found out my favorite out of five was the one on call that day (an answered prayer that seems like a small thing, but which gave me great joy that day).
Anti-nausea medication during early labor gave me huge relief and I never had to throw up.
I never had my cervix checked until my husband and I wanted to; because my water had broken, the midwife admitted me without checking, and she didn't feel a need to check unless we wanted to know. When we finally did ask her to check, I was dilated to a six, which meant that most likely the majority of the time of labor had passed already. Good news!
Laboring in the shower was a huge pain reliever! Almost unbelievably so!
I still hate having a contraction on an exercise ball (something I tried in both labors).
Having just a saline lock and only intermittent fetal monitoring made me feel very free.
The squat bar for pushing turned out to feel awkward, and even though I knew the position to get in to use it, I could not seem to get myself into that position. I ended up turning around and lying on my chest on the bed with my knees bent under me (basically on all fours, but with the bed raised where my hands were so that my chest was more supported. I didn't know the bed could do that!). The nurse handed me a pillow, and I wrapped my arms around it and did my breathing (slash loud groaning and/or yelling) into it. That pillow added such a sense of security. After three pushes, baby girl number two was out!
The midwife said I'd been pushing for a while before that, when I was still standing and leaning on my husband through contractions. She kept telling me I could push if I wanted to, but that I didn't have to. What an awesome experience, having an advocate there who encouraged me to listen to my body's cues and not force anything.
I kept telling my husband "I love you" after getting through each contraction for the latter part of labor. I felt so close and connected to him throughout the whole experience (something that I remember from the first labor as well). He kept telling me I was doing a great job, that I could do this, that I was almost done, and other encouraging things. He let me hold and lean on him as much as I needed. He was an amazing coach and source of comfort, security, and calm. I also cried a tiny bit a few times, which always seemed to help relieve any fear or anxiety I had at the moment.
This labor was full of gifts from a gracious God: my favorite midwife, daytime labor, low traffic on Sunday morning on the way to the hospital, only one cervix check, a redeeming experience with the pushing stage (after having an emotionally terrible one in my first labor).
Jan 14, 2018
Obedience: True Freedom
January seems an appropriate month to write about change; the expectation of welcoming a new baby to the family within the next few weeks makes it even more so. In The Young Unicorns, Madeleine L'Engle has some challenging thoughts about change and acceptance of our roles in life. She argues that "only obedience . . . is perfect freedom." At times it seems counter-intuitive, but perhaps accepting our roles and what is demanded of us does provide a sense of freedom in our lives.
One of L'Engle's main teenage characters, Vicky, struggling with change, complains to her father that she wished they had never moved from the country to a big city. Her father responds that "we aren't free to remain static, to refuse to change. That isn't freedom. That's death." L'Engle is not arguing for change merely for the sake of change; rather, she suggests that when requirements are placed on us, we must respond appropriately, which sometimes requires great change. A wise and trusted Rabbi in the novel states that "to be demanded of gives us dignity." Refusing to respond is not freedom, but "apathy," a loss of one's humanity.
Sometimes the demands made on us seem trivial or less prestigious than what we could be doing otherwise. I can relate somewhat to Mrs. Austin, a mother in the novel, who gave up a singing career on stage when she married and had children, choosing instead to work in her home and be present with her family. She herself does not view the change as a lessening of her potential or a waste of her talents, though others think so. Instead, she sees it as one of those necessary changes placed upon her by the demands of life. From L'Engle's perspective, these demands come from a sovereign God who ordains the plans for our lives and requires us to respond humbly with obedience.
Staying home with small children, changing diapers, sitting still and nursing a newborn for the better part of the day, interacting with a two-year-old and her baby doll as though that baby doll were alive, cooking, grocery shopping, folding laundry, and taking naps may all seem like small and insignificant tasks when compared to the types of work that are generally lauded in our society. We value intelligence, creativity, ambition, hard work, and making a "mark" on history or leaving a great legacy. These are fine things. A quiet and simple life is also a fine thing (1 Thessalonians 4:11). I struggle with change, like Vicky, when new chapters begin in my life. Having a new baby gives me trepidation (to put it mildly). I need others to remind me, and I need to remind myself, that the demands of life can bring dignity and freedom when I accept them obediently, setting aside my own agenda and routines.
Since a loving and good God sees fit to place on me the demands of new motherhood, I should accept the changes brought by the newborn with as much flexibility and energy as I can muster, rather than stubbornly kicking at the goads, as it were. Whatever the yoke He places on me, He's taking part in pulling with it as well (Matthew 11:28-30); what a wonderful promise! What restful and dignified freedom, to do my work actively with Him rather than struggling in vain against it.
One of L'Engle's main teenage characters, Vicky, struggling with change, complains to her father that she wished they had never moved from the country to a big city. Her father responds that "we aren't free to remain static, to refuse to change. That isn't freedom. That's death." L'Engle is not arguing for change merely for the sake of change; rather, she suggests that when requirements are placed on us, we must respond appropriately, which sometimes requires great change. A wise and trusted Rabbi in the novel states that "to be demanded of gives us dignity." Refusing to respond is not freedom, but "apathy," a loss of one's humanity.
Sometimes the demands made on us seem trivial or less prestigious than what we could be doing otherwise. I can relate somewhat to Mrs. Austin, a mother in the novel, who gave up a singing career on stage when she married and had children, choosing instead to work in her home and be present with her family. She herself does not view the change as a lessening of her potential or a waste of her talents, though others think so. Instead, she sees it as one of those necessary changes placed upon her by the demands of life. From L'Engle's perspective, these demands come from a sovereign God who ordains the plans for our lives and requires us to respond humbly with obedience.
Staying home with small children, changing diapers, sitting still and nursing a newborn for the better part of the day, interacting with a two-year-old and her baby doll as though that baby doll were alive, cooking, grocery shopping, folding laundry, and taking naps may all seem like small and insignificant tasks when compared to the types of work that are generally lauded in our society. We value intelligence, creativity, ambition, hard work, and making a "mark" on history or leaving a great legacy. These are fine things. A quiet and simple life is also a fine thing (1 Thessalonians 4:11). I struggle with change, like Vicky, when new chapters begin in my life. Having a new baby gives me trepidation (to put it mildly). I need others to remind me, and I need to remind myself, that the demands of life can bring dignity and freedom when I accept them obediently, setting aside my own agenda and routines.
Since a loving and good God sees fit to place on me the demands of new motherhood, I should accept the changes brought by the newborn with as much flexibility and energy as I can muster, rather than stubbornly kicking at the goads, as it were. Whatever the yoke He places on me, He's taking part in pulling with it as well (Matthew 11:28-30); what a wonderful promise! What restful and dignified freedom, to do my work actively with Him rather than struggling in vain against it.
Dec 9, 2017
Good Silence
It's the most wonderful time of the year, and one of the busiest. Of course, there are the holidays, which line up together in close succession so it seems impossible to grasp one before it slips through your hands and the next one is upon you. In my family, there are some additional celebrations that cause there to be even less breathing room between events: my husband's birthday, my birthday, and our anniversary all fall within a period of time from less than a week before Thanksgiving to less than a week before Christmas. Life can quickly feel hectic instead of joyful at this time of year.
For a week or so I have noticed myself making "to-do" lists in my mind any time there's a moment of silence (when my two-year-old is not asking me "why?"), and even in the midst of conversations. Perhaps this busyness in my brain is the reason a small passage from The Young Unicorns by Madeleine L'Engle resonates with me so strongly. Along with L'Engle's character, I "underst[and] silence, that good silence comes from inside, not outside, and that little, unimportant things can break it more easily than the big ones."
I understand that inner silence, akin to peace, cannot easily be broken by things like "buses and taxi horns and ambulance sirens" (L'Engle), "big" sounds, but I let those insignificant things like worry about the meal plan or whether or not I have time to finish making a Christmas tree skirt or answering my daughter's twelfth "why" of the day barge in and destroy my mind's silence, "break[ing] it up into noise" (L'Engle).
Those insignificant things should not have the power to ruin the silence, the peace and joy, that can run through each day and color it with brilliance. In the end, we'll eat. Decorations come and go. My daughter is a person going through a stage of learning, and I can help her through it. My perspective on our circumstances will affect my approach more than the circumstances themselves, so why shouldn't my perspective be one of contented peace? Paul says, "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose" (Romans 8:28). Meditating on such a promise, founded in the truth of a good and sovereign God, my mind and heart can be at peace, resting in good silence, this season.
For a week or so I have noticed myself making "to-do" lists in my mind any time there's a moment of silence (when my two-year-old is not asking me "why?"), and even in the midst of conversations. Perhaps this busyness in my brain is the reason a small passage from The Young Unicorns by Madeleine L'Engle resonates with me so strongly. Along with L'Engle's character, I "underst[and] silence, that good silence comes from inside, not outside, and that little, unimportant things can break it more easily than the big ones."
I understand that inner silence, akin to peace, cannot easily be broken by things like "buses and taxi horns and ambulance sirens" (L'Engle), "big" sounds, but I let those insignificant things like worry about the meal plan or whether or not I have time to finish making a Christmas tree skirt or answering my daughter's twelfth "why" of the day barge in and destroy my mind's silence, "break[ing] it up into noise" (L'Engle).
Those insignificant things should not have the power to ruin the silence, the peace and joy, that can run through each day and color it with brilliance. In the end, we'll eat. Decorations come and go. My daughter is a person going through a stage of learning, and I can help her through it. My perspective on our circumstances will affect my approach more than the circumstances themselves, so why shouldn't my perspective be one of contented peace? Paul says, "And we know that God causes all things to work together for good to those who love God, to those who are called according to His purpose" (Romans 8:28). Meditating on such a promise, founded in the truth of a good and sovereign God, my mind and heart can be at peace, resting in good silence, this season.
Nov 12, 2017
Weaning and Dreams
It's been a special dream of mine since my daughter was a few months old to one day tandem breastfeed my toddler and a new baby. At first when my daughter was born, nursing was extremely difficult because of some anatomical issues, and we had to use a hospital grade pump and supplement with formula for about a week or two. After that, she was able to nurse, but it was still quite painful for a while. When my husband, in his online research to try to help our situation, stumbled across a style of breastfeeding called "laid back," my world changed. Nursing became more of a pleasant experience that both my daughter and I enjoyed.
At some point after that, I learned that when breastfeeding a toddler (for those who want to let their children nurse until they are ready to stop or for those who just want to wean at some point later than the one-year mark), some women who then get pregnant and have an infant choose to nurse the baby and continue nursing the toddler. This style is called "tandem" breastfeeding (moms of twins do it, too) because the mother is nursing more than one child at the same time (not necessarily simultaneously, although that's possible, too). I read about how lots of moms experienced tandem nursing as a wonderful bonding experience for the older child and new baby, and that some even held hands while nursing together. This amazed me and touched my touch-loving heart (physical touch is one of my strongest love languages). I've been hoping to achieve this tandem nursing since learning of it.
Baby number two is on the way now, due in late January, and my daughter and I plugged away at nursing all through about the first half of the pregnancy. She had expressed no desire to stop just because she turned two (why would she?) and I was happy to continue. But then, as morning sickness and physical tiredness set in, I decided it was time to night-wean. The pregnancy turned out to be exactly the catalyst I needed to stick with this decision and make it through the rough nights with my toddler for a while, and in the end I believe this helped her start sleeping a bit more soundly, something our whole family needed. (As a side note, my daughter, just a few weeks ago, at about two years and four months old, started sleeping through the whole night by herself for the first time in her life.)
I began restricting nursing to three to four sessions a day, which was really fairly in line with what my daughter was doing on her own anyway. It seemed to me that this plan would be a good balance between nourishing a growing baby and maintaining the breastfeeding relationship. My midwife had mentioned that some nursing women experienced a dramatic drop in milk supply later in pregnancy, but I wasn't expecting my milk to completely go away. I also never expected nursing during pregnancy to be so extremely painful. I knew about "aversion" to nursing that many women experience during pregnancy, but the discomfort and irritation I felt while nursing my toddler, especially in more recent weeks, took my by surprise.
Yet these are the things that have happened. My sense is that my supply has gone away due to pregnancy, and that simultaneously my daughter has lost interest. Who knows whether her interest dropped because the supply dropped or if it was the other way around, or whether my restricting her nursing times caused her to gradually lose her desire to nurse? The nursing was so uncomfortable anyway that it became a relief to have her say "no" to it.
Whatever the cause (I'm sure it is actually a complex mixture of many factors), my daughter is effectively weaned now, at about two years and five months old. She still asks for "nurse nurse" occasionally, but then doesn't really latch on and leaves me after a few seconds. This is not what I ever expected, and I still don't know exactly how she will respond when baby arrives and the milk supply returns; she may see baby nursing and want to participate alongside (I'd love that!). Or she may have no interest at all by that point. In any case, my dream has to be held in open hands. The pain of nursing has helped me respond to the weaning process with much less sadness than I had anticipated feeling (and that lots of women feel) during weaning. My daughter seems perfectly content with cuddles and other types of connection time with me. All in all, breastfeeding my firstborn has been a satisfying experience, whether or not there is more to come.
At some point after that, I learned that when breastfeeding a toddler (for those who want to let their children nurse until they are ready to stop or for those who just want to wean at some point later than the one-year mark), some women who then get pregnant and have an infant choose to nurse the baby and continue nursing the toddler. This style is called "tandem" breastfeeding (moms of twins do it, too) because the mother is nursing more than one child at the same time (not necessarily simultaneously, although that's possible, too). I read about how lots of moms experienced tandem nursing as a wonderful bonding experience for the older child and new baby, and that some even held hands while nursing together. This amazed me and touched my touch-loving heart (physical touch is one of my strongest love languages). I've been hoping to achieve this tandem nursing since learning of it.
Baby number two is on the way now, due in late January, and my daughter and I plugged away at nursing all through about the first half of the pregnancy. She had expressed no desire to stop just because she turned two (why would she?) and I was happy to continue. But then, as morning sickness and physical tiredness set in, I decided it was time to night-wean. The pregnancy turned out to be exactly the catalyst I needed to stick with this decision and make it through the rough nights with my toddler for a while, and in the end I believe this helped her start sleeping a bit more soundly, something our whole family needed. (As a side note, my daughter, just a few weeks ago, at about two years and four months old, started sleeping through the whole night by herself for the first time in her life.)
I began restricting nursing to three to four sessions a day, which was really fairly in line with what my daughter was doing on her own anyway. It seemed to me that this plan would be a good balance between nourishing a growing baby and maintaining the breastfeeding relationship. My midwife had mentioned that some nursing women experienced a dramatic drop in milk supply later in pregnancy, but I wasn't expecting my milk to completely go away. I also never expected nursing during pregnancy to be so extremely painful. I knew about "aversion" to nursing that many women experience during pregnancy, but the discomfort and irritation I felt while nursing my toddler, especially in more recent weeks, took my by surprise.
Yet these are the things that have happened. My sense is that my supply has gone away due to pregnancy, and that simultaneously my daughter has lost interest. Who knows whether her interest dropped because the supply dropped or if it was the other way around, or whether my restricting her nursing times caused her to gradually lose her desire to nurse? The nursing was so uncomfortable anyway that it became a relief to have her say "no" to it.
Whatever the cause (I'm sure it is actually a complex mixture of many factors), my daughter is effectively weaned now, at about two years and five months old. She still asks for "nurse nurse" occasionally, but then doesn't really latch on and leaves me after a few seconds. This is not what I ever expected, and I still don't know exactly how she will respond when baby arrives and the milk supply returns; she may see baby nursing and want to participate alongside (I'd love that!). Or she may have no interest at all by that point. In any case, my dream has to be held in open hands. The pain of nursing has helped me respond to the weaning process with much less sadness than I had anticipated feeling (and that lots of women feel) during weaning. My daughter seems perfectly content with cuddles and other types of connection time with me. All in all, breastfeeding my firstborn has been a satisfying experience, whether or not there is more to come.
 |
| Baby Girl |
 |
| Growing Up |
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)