You would think that, if I was going to jealous of anyone, it would be of my Suburban friends…the ones with big houses, three car garages, car payments, and kids who play soccer on Saturdays, go to private schools during the week and church, faithfully, every Sunday.
But I’m not. I mean, sometimes I get this itch to do the “normal” thing, as this Suburban life is what I grew up knowing. Minus the private school. Oh, and substitute soccer for softball. We had a big yard. And big bedrooms. Bedrooms that somehow separated us from the messiness of being a family and where I sometimes felt lonely. But there are those moments, like when I open the door and step on a coat, trip over a pair of shoes, and take two steps into the living room and scratch my head, saying to myself, “I just picked this place up…” that I think maybe a big house would make more sense. And then I remember reading this article in “House Beautiful,” one of seven some odd magazines that I subscribe to thanks to my Diet Coke addiction and their “Reward” program. I rarely find time to read any of them and I have vowed to take them to Italy with us to read them when I’m “not busy,” as if in learning another language and culture and assisting my three helpless children acclimate will somehow leave me bored. This article was by the Editor, a frail-looking gay fellow whose personality shines through his writing and whose mannerisms are likely to mirror Boy George. In this particular article, he was discussing how much he enjoys small spaces and how when he goes to his friends’ houses that are ginormous, he always asks the questions, “So where do you really live?” And most often they lead him to a tiny corner in the house, with a comfy chair and a good light. And that is where they “live.”
And thus, when I think about this (as well as the small fact that we are moving to a country where you can’t find anything bigger than a shoebox to live in), any grass-is-greener-than attitude pretty much dissipates and I am left happy with our tiny house (and tiny mortgage). That is not to say that people don’t have preferences. Just as those “big house” people probably get all jealous of one another over their crown molding and master suite bathrooms and fancy refrigerators, I, a small space city gal with a budget the size of a tuna can, get jealous of other small space city gals who live on a similar sized tuna can budget.
In fact, right now I am sitting in the kitchen of one of my friend’s apartments in downtown Chicago. She (I will call her Joanna) and her husband just left for church with their three children who were matched in Christmas attire, like they just stepped out of a Ralph Lauren ad. Now, I have to preface by saying that the jealousy I’m allowing to simmer in a tiny part of my conscious, isn’t just about this space and her utilization of it, though I will go on about that I’m sure. It’s also about the fact that since I have known this girl, for going on five years, she and her husband have always done everything the “right” way…or I should say the way I was raised to believe was the “right” way. When we all lived in the same building, we lived two floors above them. On a Saturday night, while Thomas and I fought over who would do bedtime or dishes or laundry, I would make my way to their apartment to ask Joanna a question and she and her husband would be sitting there serenely, their children asleep, listening to Saturday night worship music together, reading and studying their own separate books in their own little chairs. It was like a scene at my grandparent’s house. It seemed too perfect and until that point, I thought that people our ages with kids our kids’ ages, just simply lived in chaos.
In addition, my friend also manages to work on her Masters, lead Bible Studies, throw parties, counsel friends, workout, bake, attend (and head up) important meetings, clean and organize her home, and decorate it in a way that is completely unlike my style but that is somehow appealing in all of its warmth and coziness. To boot, she and her husband have the job here at Moody that we were looking to apply for before we applied with Avant to go to Italy. The job comes with this top-floor apartment, and get this, a rooftop deck (I have prayed, boldly, like my son when he wants a Power Ranger, for a rooftop deck for a good three years…). Oh and they adopted a little black baby girl, something that has always been in my heart to do. These small facts are most likely unbeknownst to them, and it’s quite a joy to see them in this job position and with this beautiful baby girl. There is just this part of me…the part that still believes, after all these years, that Jesus is holding out on me because I’m not good enough, that is somewhat invidious of my friend.
Because I am here alone, just with Elias and Keziah (the others are down the hall sleeping), I was looking around at all of her utilitarian ideas for space, and a sense of guilt crashed over me, like a ferocious wave, as I searched for a Tupperware container to put leftovers in and found them in their own drawer, aligned with color-coded lids, perfectly placed into one another just like one of those infomercials for some space-saving masterpiece. And I suddenly felt like the girl on that same infomercial who is over-dramatizing the effects of not having such an item. Only, when I saw the dramatized version of myself reaching above the sink in my kitchen for a Tupperware container, the scene of the lids and plastic cups falling onto my head and into my sink of dirty dishes was was a familiar one, it being part of my daily life and all.
I even made my way into her bedroom, as I snoopily wanted to check out her closet space. The top drawer of her dresser was open and there lay a cute little sock organizer…one that looked like it was made just for this little chest of drawers. There in this small diagonal tick-tack-toe cubby thingy, were each pair of socks folded perfectly into one another, as if they were twins in the womb…as if they had never been apart all of those times in the washer. This, and I was pretty proud of myself when last Friday I organized Thomas and my socks, putting the matches in their own shoebox and the orphaned ones into a broken hamper.
By the time I made my way into her bathroom, the only other niche besides my closet that I just can’t seem to make “work” when it comes to style and function, I threw my hands up and admitted that keeping up was wholly impossible. For there on her cute little shelves, lay side by side, a few decorative paraphernalia and toothbrushes, as if they went together. As if the toothbrushes were part of her decor. There was no clutter. You wouldn’t have thought that one, three, and four year-olds shared this space. No toothpaste smeared on the sink. No fingerprints on the mirror. And certainly not the same smells that fill our bathroom at home, thanks to a certain six year-old that seems to miss when aiming.
So if I were in a counseling session, Mike would probably say, “So what is really going on? What are you unhappy with in your life that is causing guilt over Tupperware placement?” And I would take a deep breath, like I just did, take a sip of Diet Coke (did that too) and stare at him, the ceiling, the window, for a good two minutes (you kind of have to speed up the thinking process when you are getting charged by the minute). And I would probably say something to the effect of, “That’s a good question.”
I would probably think back to last night and how I left some other Chicago friends’ house with a sense of emptiness. How I felt unheard and misunderstood for ridiculous reasons. How I thought that perhaps I was projecting my feelings toward Thomas onto these innocent bystanders. Because Thomas and I really haven’t connected in a while. And because he is a talker, as well as an extrovert, and I’m an introvert who can pose as an extrovert in situations where I feel comfortable, I therefore have this terrible disposition of having to have my heart (my thoughts) drawn out of me. It can happen easily when I sense someone really wants to know me. But as in the case of marriage, somehow the busyness of life gets in the way and we forget the needs of one another and the reality that our styles of communication are as different as the climates of Indiana and Florida. Thomas talks and talks and as he talks his point begins to unfold, as well as his heart. I, on the other hand, do the same, but in a very different “climate,” if you will. My heart has to feel secure and understood and empathized with in order for my “point” to unfold. I haven’t been drawn out lately. My conversations have been shallow. The climate is off. In my marriage. With my family. In my friendships. Even with Jesus.
Perhaps the reason is that the reality of us moving in six months, as well as all the “work” that has to be done in order for us to leave, has begun to settle down into my heart, like an Alka-Seltzer dropped in water, fizzing and bubbling, unpredictable in its nature, but sure to subside nonetheless. When faced with an awkward conversation, instead of being objective, I think, “This is what it’s going to be like in Italy.” I will be unknown. This is scary. I know. I have done this sort of thing before.
And with Thomas, I’ve been with him in the midst of change. We either cling to one another or cling to something else that gives us comfort. The first is good. The latter is damaging. I have real fears.
I was talking to my older sister, Julia, recently and I was listening, my heart feeling helpless, as she lamented over the loss of the baby boy they were getting ready to adopt from China. She talked about how she had been angry lately. Mean to her husband and kids. Feeling out of sorts.
She and I have this bond, as we have grown older. It wasn’t always this way. When we were young, we used to hit each other with brushes and point out one another’s flaws. I always told her she had a big nose and bird legs. Her defense was that I was fat with a fat nose. In hindsight, it’s quite funny, as none of those things are inherently true. We just used whatever ammo we could come up with in our puberty-stricken state.
But somehow, the older we’ve gotten, the more kids we have had, and the ways in which our lives share so many passions and goals, it is as if there are moments where our genetic makeup takes over and we are in default sister mode. We share deep joy and deep pain. It’s like the first day of spring. While it’s been so cold for so long, I remember the warmth of the sun when it hits my pale skin for the first time in months. I breathe deep and allow my body to receive this new, proverbial season with all of its flowery smells, like a fresh load of fabric-softened laundry. In a world that can be cold and lonely, she makes me feel known.
When Julia said this about being angry, I began thinking about how I’ve not been the most pleasant person as of late either. And I remembered that my emotions are typically a gauge for what is going on in my heart. Time is no longer on my side. Months are slipping by until we leave, and by nature, I am beginning to disassociate with the world around me. This is typically when my addictive personality starts rearing its frizzy head. Instead of involving myself emotionally in relationships that are seemingly going to dissolve, I exercise, eat, clean, shop, and stalk random people on Facebook… all in the hopes of dissimulating.
And suddenly all of those old demons, the ones I have arrogantly “gotten past,” are once again before me, raising their pointed horns and all. I’m critical. I’m jealous. I’m materialistic. Ironically, I’m all the people I criticize. Fitting, really.
And so Mrs. Therapy Person, also known as my conscience, there you have it. That is why I am comparing myself to someone whose sock drawer is the equivalent of a modern art sculpture (though I guess my shoebox sock drawer may better fit the modern art description…really I do not like modern art…but was simply trying to make the point that she is organized in a way that I can never be). That is why I am questioning whether or not Jesus has remembered my prayers, especially the one for a rooftop deck. And that is for sure why I’m being overly critical of my husband who is in reality a mere human, just like myself. We are all in process.
And I am taking a deep breath again. Realizing that, in the little humility I can invoke in this moment, it’s all about forgiveness and grace. Just like my babies have known my relationship to each one, the moment each was born, so I know these friends, Forgiveness and Grace. They are familiar. I met them when I was fourteen and have taken advantage of them, mostly in my desperate moments, ever since. And in these moments of errant behavior, coupled with a heavy heart, I call on them again.
And I hear His voice, like a God who would care enough for me to take on human flesh and die a criminal’s death, like the constant sound of the tide, muted and tranquil, saying “Come to Me.”
And once again I am home.
Dec 18, 2008
Dec 7, 2008
Happy Pills
After making our way in the snow to Target last night, with the sheer intention of getting my prescription for Zoloft (otherwise known as my happy pills) filled, I walked to the pharmacy and stared at the cold steel door over the window, realizing it would be yet another day until I would feel somewhat sane again.
Not only did I suffer from a serious headache yesterday from the lack of mind-altering enhancement (otherwise known as Serotonin), but I also was quite emotional this morning. Now, I am (with or without meds) totally wired as a feeler. I sense God's presence and leading in my life through my emotions. No, they are not always right, especially when I'm reading the world through an emotional lens that is tweaked by hormones. However, more often than not, I listen to my gut when it is speaking. I am learning, in my 29 years of life, that when something doesn't "feel" right, I would be most wise to just wait on God's leading. I could give you lots of examples of times I didn't do this, but dwelling on our mistakes is no fun and I have been lacking some serious verbiage lately and to go on about such things would only suck more of my brainpower, as well as your time. Trust me, I'm doing all I can right now to come up with some sort of point to this blog.
As a side note, or rather I guess this would go along with my point, I also know, through my feelings, when I am supposed to write. I get this anxious feeling...like a kid waiting to see Santa. The only difference is that I'm not only the kid waiting, I'm also the one pretending to be Father Christmas. And delivering some sort of message is my responsiblity alone. THe proliferation of all that I hold inside is up to me. If it's good, well surprise! I am as delighted as you are. But if it's bad, it goes into my drafts folder with all the other rejects, and I'm back to a blank screen (aka a stocking of coal). And this would be fine if I didn't have that continued nagging, pulling, lump-in-my-throat-thing going on where I know God wants to stretch me and have me share my heart with you.
Most times, when I sit down to blog, I get sidetracked by e-mail, facebook, slickdeals, or as in the case a moment ago, a crying child. Ope. He must have heard me type that, for he just began whining in his bed again.
Okay. Silence. Finally.
So like I was saying, when I sit down to write, just as if I were in college with a paper due tomorrow, I put on my procrastination hat, and find something else to do. Delving into my emotional state, somehow making sense of it, and making it sound good enough to keep your attention is a very risky thing. It's like I'm in the 8th grade beauty pageant all over again, standing awkwardly in that Barbie-pink, ridiculously puffy dress, waiting to find out if I'm indeed the next "Ms. Brandywine." Mind you that all you needed was one of these overstuffed dresses to win and my best friend's mom knew that because she was the one that hosted these outlandish events and lent me the dress...and well, come to think of it, I think I was the only one with such a dress, henceforth I was the winner... however... It was still a terrible feeling to have given those judges my all and then to wait nervously for them to tell me if I was good enough.
And so it is with you. I hate hate hate that I am such a sucker for affirmation. I long to adhere to the childhood proverbs about not caring what others think (or better put in Christian circles..."only caring what Jesus thinks"), but I'm just not there. So trust me when I say that your encouragement is what is making me sit here at my little desk, in this uncomfortable chair, in my small, quiet house, with all of its hushed interstate sounds and mulled cider smells, to communicate with you...to put myself on the line...in order for something beyond myself to be fashioned, bent, and sculpted with these tiny keys and with these tiny words and these ridiculously long sentences.
Now then. Where was I? Emotions. No crazy meds. This morning. Ah yes.
So on the way to church, I was listening to the radio and on came this song by a girl I know from Chicago. I only encountered her a handful of times, but we were good friends with her good friends and henceforth the strange connection. This woman and her husband lost their baby to SIDS in May, I believe. And this song on the radio is older. And her voice is so beautiful. And you could feel the pain in her voice, even though it wasn't even there when the song was recorded. I wanted to cry. I held back tears for fear that mascara would be all over my face by the time I got to church. I thought about how shallow that was. How I was inhibiting the sharing in God's sorrow for this mother all for the sake of my freshly painted face. My heart remained heavy.
When I finally made my way into church with my whining children in tow, I looked to the screen and saw the face of a hurting mother. She was telling the story of how they lost their teenage son in a car accident less than a year ago. Through tears she told of God's comfort in the midst of pain.
Next, a husband and wife told their story about a miscarriage, a failed adoption, and the eventual miracle baby who recently came into their lives.
At that point, I took my kids to their class and began talking to a friend. I later made my way down the hall to the high school room, where I always go for a few minutes. I like the music and the energy of a generation that isn't afraid to dream big dreams. Concurrently, I like praying for the kids in the room. I couldn't help but think, as I knelt down in the very back of the dimmed santuary, how so many of these kids were hurting, perhaps feeling inadequate, depressed...maybe even suicidal. I stared at them, my eyes drifting from one to another, wondering about their stories. Wondering who was lonely. Who was afraid.
Then I continued my Sunday morning sojourn, by heading upstairs to the "young adult class," where I look forward to my weekly cream-filled iced donut. You know, I saw a sign in a Kansas City gas station once, as I was at the cash register purchasing a box of Krispy Kremes for our ride home that read, "Go ahead, you have all day to work it off." And that is how I look at donuts, as well as any other sugar filled dessert item dressed in breakfast drag.
I was quite disappointed when upon entering the room, I didn't see the white boxes of yeasty heaven in the back. I made my way to a table, feeling out of sorts without Thomas being there with me. My ADD settled down and I listened to the conversation that our pastor friend was leading. It had to do with "where the class was going" and, having had plently of discussions with him regarding his philosophy of ministry, I knew what he was getting at. The dialogue was going in circles and at some point, my haven't-had-medicine-for-four-days side kicked in and I began "sharing" my opinions. My opinions carried the weight of emotion with them because, at the moment, I was for some reason passionate about getting these people to understand what the pastor dude was trying to communicate. One of the guys refuted me, proving my overly sensitive feminist side right. I got annoyed. I wanted to leave the room. And then I realized that indeed I was being overly sensitive and overly critical and just as my emotions had given me compassion for those hurting people and those high school kids moments earlier, they were now beginning to control this other side of me...the dark side if you will, and I knew in that moment that my mind was off. I needed to keep my mouth shut before I said anything I regretted. I needed to get my kids and get out of there.
I acted normal as I made my way down the stairs, across to the classrooms, and over toward my parents who were holding a tired Ezra. My heart was still heavy. I began having shallow conversations with people, just wanting to get away, in fear of what I was capable of in my "the world is against me" state. Elias began hitting his sister who began crying. He then proceeded to chase Ezra around, nearly running into the crowd of people. Upon telling him his TV privelege was going to be taken away for his nasty attitude, he used an unpleasant cuss word, at which point I shared with him that he would also be getting his mouth washed out with soap. I took his hand and, remaining calm, pulled him along the snowy parking lot, trying to ignore him screaming, "Let go. Let go. Let go." When i finally did let go, he began screaming that he wanted to watch TV. That lasted for a good ten minutes in the car until I reminded him that I could take more priveleges away.
By the time we got home, Elias had calmed down (with a Zest-fully-clean mouth) and I had a new month-supply of happy pills in hand. I put a pill in my mouth, took a sip of Diet Coke, and swallowed.
We went over to our friends' house later on that day. I could feel my negativity subsiding. Of course, Annette's dance party in her kitchen helped a little... I felt free to be me. Not inhibitied by a skewed perception of some false philosophy on life.
I am constantly amazed, when I confront this part of me (because this isn't the first time I let my prescription run out), how real my emotions appear. They drown me at moments. I make the world out to be a dark and mean-spirited place and I make my husband out to be my mortal enemy (oh, that happened later in the day). It's ugly really. But when my brain is functioning as it should, my emotions act as a guide. They assist in directing me into new worlds. They guide me into grieving for a hurting mother, a desperate teenager. They steer me to try new things, to make myself a little more vulnerable, to confront someone who's hurt me or say sorry to one I've wronged. But when I'm imbalanced, my emotions don't merely guide me. They control me. I have no say over where they will take me. When it's good, like this morning when I had a tiny glimpse into God's heart for his hurting children, it's good. But when it's bad, like taking little comments personal, it's really bad. And when it's really bad, I know that depression is not far off.
Therefore, I am at peace with the fact that I need medication. Emotions are such an intregal part of the way I see the world and my role in it. Without them, I would wither and die. But it took two children and a third pregnancy to make me see that my emotions were controlling me and therefore damaging my husband and children with their unpredictability. But more than that, they were damaging me. I see Jesus' grace better with medicine, because it's easier to extend it to myself and others. Ahhhh. Grace. I love that word. It always brings me back to a place I can start from. And tomorrow I will be glad to start it afresh without the highs and lows...just a steady compassion for my family and my neighbors...a love that can only be stirred through growing closer to Jesus and letting Him guide me. Whether that's through my emotions or not...that lies in the hands of a God who shouts to us through his beauty and remains silent through our pain. A God whose ways we will never comprehend but in whose mercy we must depend. A God who has given us our emotions in order to channel us into His heart.
Not only did I suffer from a serious headache yesterday from the lack of mind-altering enhancement (otherwise known as Serotonin), but I also was quite emotional this morning. Now, I am (with or without meds) totally wired as a feeler. I sense God's presence and leading in my life through my emotions. No, they are not always right, especially when I'm reading the world through an emotional lens that is tweaked by hormones. However, more often than not, I listen to my gut when it is speaking. I am learning, in my 29 years of life, that when something doesn't "feel" right, I would be most wise to just wait on God's leading. I could give you lots of examples of times I didn't do this, but dwelling on our mistakes is no fun and I have been lacking some serious verbiage lately and to go on about such things would only suck more of my brainpower, as well as your time. Trust me, I'm doing all I can right now to come up with some sort of point to this blog.
As a side note, or rather I guess this would go along with my point, I also know, through my feelings, when I am supposed to write. I get this anxious feeling...like a kid waiting to see Santa. The only difference is that I'm not only the kid waiting, I'm also the one pretending to be Father Christmas. And delivering some sort of message is my responsiblity alone. THe proliferation of all that I hold inside is up to me. If it's good, well surprise! I am as delighted as you are. But if it's bad, it goes into my drafts folder with all the other rejects, and I'm back to a blank screen (aka a stocking of coal). And this would be fine if I didn't have that continued nagging, pulling, lump-in-my-throat-thing going on where I know God wants to stretch me and have me share my heart with you.
Most times, when I sit down to blog, I get sidetracked by e-mail, facebook, slickdeals, or as in the case a moment ago, a crying child. Ope. He must have heard me type that, for he just began whining in his bed again.
Okay. Silence. Finally.
So like I was saying, when I sit down to write, just as if I were in college with a paper due tomorrow, I put on my procrastination hat, and find something else to do. Delving into my emotional state, somehow making sense of it, and making it sound good enough to keep your attention is a very risky thing. It's like I'm in the 8th grade beauty pageant all over again, standing awkwardly in that Barbie-pink, ridiculously puffy dress, waiting to find out if I'm indeed the next "Ms. Brandywine." Mind you that all you needed was one of these overstuffed dresses to win and my best friend's mom knew that because she was the one that hosted these outlandish events and lent me the dress...and well, come to think of it, I think I was the only one with such a dress, henceforth I was the winner... however... It was still a terrible feeling to have given those judges my all and then to wait nervously for them to tell me if I was good enough.
And so it is with you. I hate hate hate that I am such a sucker for affirmation. I long to adhere to the childhood proverbs about not caring what others think (or better put in Christian circles..."only caring what Jesus thinks"), but I'm just not there. So trust me when I say that your encouragement is what is making me sit here at my little desk, in this uncomfortable chair, in my small, quiet house, with all of its hushed interstate sounds and mulled cider smells, to communicate with you...to put myself on the line...in order for something beyond myself to be fashioned, bent, and sculpted with these tiny keys and with these tiny words and these ridiculously long sentences.
Now then. Where was I? Emotions. No crazy meds. This morning. Ah yes.
So on the way to church, I was listening to the radio and on came this song by a girl I know from Chicago. I only encountered her a handful of times, but we were good friends with her good friends and henceforth the strange connection. This woman and her husband lost their baby to SIDS in May, I believe. And this song on the radio is older. And her voice is so beautiful. And you could feel the pain in her voice, even though it wasn't even there when the song was recorded. I wanted to cry. I held back tears for fear that mascara would be all over my face by the time I got to church. I thought about how shallow that was. How I was inhibiting the sharing in God's sorrow for this mother all for the sake of my freshly painted face. My heart remained heavy.
When I finally made my way into church with my whining children in tow, I looked to the screen and saw the face of a hurting mother. She was telling the story of how they lost their teenage son in a car accident less than a year ago. Through tears she told of God's comfort in the midst of pain.
Next, a husband and wife told their story about a miscarriage, a failed adoption, and the eventual miracle baby who recently came into their lives.
At that point, I took my kids to their class and began talking to a friend. I later made my way down the hall to the high school room, where I always go for a few minutes. I like the music and the energy of a generation that isn't afraid to dream big dreams. Concurrently, I like praying for the kids in the room. I couldn't help but think, as I knelt down in the very back of the dimmed santuary, how so many of these kids were hurting, perhaps feeling inadequate, depressed...maybe even suicidal. I stared at them, my eyes drifting from one to another, wondering about their stories. Wondering who was lonely. Who was afraid.
Then I continued my Sunday morning sojourn, by heading upstairs to the "young adult class," where I look forward to my weekly cream-filled iced donut. You know, I saw a sign in a Kansas City gas station once, as I was at the cash register purchasing a box of Krispy Kremes for our ride home that read, "Go ahead, you have all day to work it off." And that is how I look at donuts, as well as any other sugar filled dessert item dressed in breakfast drag.
I was quite disappointed when upon entering the room, I didn't see the white boxes of yeasty heaven in the back. I made my way to a table, feeling out of sorts without Thomas being there with me. My ADD settled down and I listened to the conversation that our pastor friend was leading. It had to do with "where the class was going" and, having had plently of discussions with him regarding his philosophy of ministry, I knew what he was getting at. The dialogue was going in circles and at some point, my haven't-had-medicine-for-four-days side kicked in and I began "sharing" my opinions. My opinions carried the weight of emotion with them because, at the moment, I was for some reason passionate about getting these people to understand what the pastor dude was trying to communicate. One of the guys refuted me, proving my overly sensitive feminist side right. I got annoyed. I wanted to leave the room. And then I realized that indeed I was being overly sensitive and overly critical and just as my emotions had given me compassion for those hurting people and those high school kids moments earlier, they were now beginning to control this other side of me...the dark side if you will, and I knew in that moment that my mind was off. I needed to keep my mouth shut before I said anything I regretted. I needed to get my kids and get out of there.
I acted normal as I made my way down the stairs, across to the classrooms, and over toward my parents who were holding a tired Ezra. My heart was still heavy. I began having shallow conversations with people, just wanting to get away, in fear of what I was capable of in my "the world is against me" state. Elias began hitting his sister who began crying. He then proceeded to chase Ezra around, nearly running into the crowd of people. Upon telling him his TV privelege was going to be taken away for his nasty attitude, he used an unpleasant cuss word, at which point I shared with him that he would also be getting his mouth washed out with soap. I took his hand and, remaining calm, pulled him along the snowy parking lot, trying to ignore him screaming, "Let go. Let go. Let go." When i finally did let go, he began screaming that he wanted to watch TV. That lasted for a good ten minutes in the car until I reminded him that I could take more priveleges away.
By the time we got home, Elias had calmed down (with a Zest-fully-clean mouth) and I had a new month-supply of happy pills in hand. I put a pill in my mouth, took a sip of Diet Coke, and swallowed.
We went over to our friends' house later on that day. I could feel my negativity subsiding. Of course, Annette's dance party in her kitchen helped a little... I felt free to be me. Not inhibitied by a skewed perception of some false philosophy on life.
I am constantly amazed, when I confront this part of me (because this isn't the first time I let my prescription run out), how real my emotions appear. They drown me at moments. I make the world out to be a dark and mean-spirited place and I make my husband out to be my mortal enemy (oh, that happened later in the day). It's ugly really. But when my brain is functioning as it should, my emotions act as a guide. They assist in directing me into new worlds. They guide me into grieving for a hurting mother, a desperate teenager. They steer me to try new things, to make myself a little more vulnerable, to confront someone who's hurt me or say sorry to one I've wronged. But when I'm imbalanced, my emotions don't merely guide me. They control me. I have no say over where they will take me. When it's good, like this morning when I had a tiny glimpse into God's heart for his hurting children, it's good. But when it's bad, like taking little comments personal, it's really bad. And when it's really bad, I know that depression is not far off.
Therefore, I am at peace with the fact that I need medication. Emotions are such an intregal part of the way I see the world and my role in it. Without them, I would wither and die. But it took two children and a third pregnancy to make me see that my emotions were controlling me and therefore damaging my husband and children with their unpredictability. But more than that, they were damaging me. I see Jesus' grace better with medicine, because it's easier to extend it to myself and others. Ahhhh. Grace. I love that word. It always brings me back to a place I can start from. And tomorrow I will be glad to start it afresh without the highs and lows...just a steady compassion for my family and my neighbors...a love that can only be stirred through growing closer to Jesus and letting Him guide me. Whether that's through my emotions or not...that lies in the hands of a God who shouts to us through his beauty and remains silent through our pain. A God whose ways we will never comprehend but in whose mercy we must depend. A God who has given us our emotions in order to channel us into His heart.
Nov 16, 2008
Divulging my Apathy...
Restless. Cynical. Apathetic.
Just to name a few.
It's one of those days when the paradox of desperately wanting real connection with people and desperately wanting to be alone, collide, and I am left sitting in a bathtub with a plate full of cold blueberry pie and a can of Diet Coke...trying desperately to find some comfort in the hot water where tiny Walmart bubbles float by, filling my nose with their cheap Sea Breeze scent.
Thomas went to bed. An argument was no doubt brewing in us both. I had done most of the dishes. He got the sweet delight of completing the project of kitchen cleaning duty, and though I had spent a good 30 mintues scrubbing Cocoa Wheats off of bowls and stuffing them into the dishwasher, he had the satisfaction of walking away from the kitchen with it spotless and shiny. So when, halfway into Extreme Makeover Home Edition, Elias and Keziah conned me into making popcorn, suffice it to say that there were droplets of grease splattered on his shiny stove.
He was not happy.
I did not care.
That he was not happy.
In fact, I kind of enjoyed it.
But for as firey and defensive as I usually am when he makes a rude comment about something as petty as oil residue...wating for that very moment to give my list of things accomplished today (getting three children ready for church, helping Elias with his homework, doing some laundry, making dinner, signing permission slips, filling in the calendar, working on a spreadsheet...just to name a few), I played my cards well and retreated to the bathroom, where I found myself looking like Cat in the Hat.
After getting out of the bath and realizing I had a house of sleeping people all to myself, I decided (again this will explain my insanity) to take a trip to Walmart. Not because I like the store. In fact, I have several conspiracy theories about how they manipulate people into thinking their prices are cheaper than the next guy's, but again they are only theories and they are floating in my head somewhere and could never be articulated well. I only went, truly, because I wanted to walk. While I have secretly been enjoying the cold weather, as on a good day I see that it brings us together as a family and we have more time to just sit and play or watch movies or whatever, today I had had it with not getting any exercise. And since we can't really afford a gym membership, I told myself that Walmart was free (though Walmart is never free...I spent twelve dollars and ninety six cents on batteries and a bubble necklace and a Hannah Montana glue stick and thank you cards).
I enjoyed my WallyWorld visit...it seemed to fit my "I want to be around people but don't really want to interact with them" mood. In fact, as I was standing in the check out line, I didn't even mind the lady in front of me who had tried desperately to stuff a pair of boots into a box that was clearly made for a pair of clearance-priced sandals (the picture was right there!). The cashier guy, who had perhaps smoked a little too much weed that day, was about to fall for it, when Ms. Manager, who clearly knew what was going on, decided to go and check the validity of the lady's story, as she said there were several pairs of boots in these "clearance sandal" boxes.
I didn't stick around to see the outcome, for I switched over to lane eleven by the time she returned. However, I did see the lady leave without the shoes as I waited, again apathetically and patiently, for yet another price check for the guy in front of me. And it's a good thing I didn't have an ugly chip on my shoulder because Mr. Football dude in front of me (who I secretly was theorizing was a Colts football player who could only shop at night because of all of his crazy fans) knew me from church and began asking me questions about us being missionaries. Turns out, he goes to IUPUI, a local state college, and was buying a presentation folder for his paper due tomorrow. But he could have passed for a Pro football player. And since I don't watch football and wouldn't know any of them from Adam, it was fun to pretend.
While I am being sort of funny, I am realizing as I'm processing this to cyberspace that my cynicism and apathy are rooted in it being one of those days where I keep having these thoughts, ones that are subtle, like a cat scratching at the back door, that all of the injustices of the world are just too much. It's unjust that I read a story last night that a woman in Somalia was stoned to death in front of 1000 spectators, unjust that my sister can't get her baby from China, unjust that Christian women and children are being raped and hacked into pieces in front of their loved ones in India, unjust that this very moment a woman in Africa is walking 20 miles to deliver some 50 pounds of rice that she has been carrying on her back, all for forty cents. And I know Jesus' ways are not my ways, but sometimes I can't help but wonder why on earth He doesn't just come back and get this good versus evil thing over with once and for all.
And in the crevices of my heart, the ones that believe in a God that is Sovereign and good, long-suffering, slow to anger, abundant in mercy and grace and love, I know the answer to that question.
But for the sake of delving into my state of being at this very moment, I can't help but wonder if all of the injustices are what has made me frustrated at my husband today. This morning, after they called all of us missionaries on stage to introduce us, we sat back down near the front row and shortly after, were passed "the elements" (that always makes me laugh). For the layperson of the Christian Church, that's the little wafer and tiny cup of grape juice (which Elias loves, by the way). The symbolism of course is what really matters and so there we were, having eaten our wafer (representing Jesus body given for us) and "holding our cup (the blood of Jesus shed) so that we could take it as one body." In that moment, I had this fleeting thought that what I really wanted to do with it was to dump my juice onto Thomas' lap.
No, I wouldn't have done it. Yes, it would have felt very good. Until I realized how dumb I looked (though I could have "accidentally" spilled it...hmmmm....). Anyway, I wanted to dump it on him because I was jealous. I was jealous that he got to go to this conference all week and learn about the Bible and eat amazing food and have fellowship with like-minded people all day and every day. I was jealous because, as a man, he somehow has more repoire with people. They listen when he speaks. And you could argue with me all day that I'm off on this one. But tomorrow I could give you five examples of it being true. It's just the nature of being a man versus being a woman.
Don't get me wrong. I take great honor in having the privelege of being a stay-at-home mom. I think that the gift of being a woman, with our instincts, our beauty, our mystery, and our connection with the ones we grow inside of us, is one that is insurmountable. But that doesn't mean that raising children is my "calling" in life. I have a lot of passion stirring inside of me. I have put so many things on the back burner of life because I KNOW these little people will soon be adults and I want to help them become the best adults they can be. However, on days like today, when my jealousy collides with the injustices toward women, I can't help but become angry at the person who is closest to my heart and just so happens to be a male.
When I think of the women who are victimized sexually...when I think about single moms and the workers in the tomato field in Rwanda...when I think about the old man at the mall today who kept looking at my little sister's chest...when I think about the girls at the Hannah House who have fled their homes because of abuse...when I think about my good friend who was molested by her grandfather, one man she should have been able to trust... It is then that I just feel hopeless. And my hopelessness, because I cannot fix these problems, turns into cynicism. Unfortunately, my cynicism, when not divulged, falls onto the Church...or most often and more likely, my husband...
My husband is one of the least shovenistic males I know. In fact, that was a huge reason why I married him. Because he sees us as equal. In fact, he knows that having a wife gives him another necessary perspective on life. I believe he would say that I bring stability and perhaps a little wisdom into his otherwise unrooted and scattered world. I could go on for at least a few paragraphs about what he brings into my life, but what I really want to say is that he is not my enemy. My uneasiness is not because of him, though I could also go on for several paragraphs about what drives me crazy about him! My uneasiness...my disheartened mundaneness is due in full by the fact that until Jesus returns, women, no matter how progressive the culture, will not only be exploited on levels unimaginable, but they will also not be given the high honor they are due.
And for that reason, I'm at a loss. Nonetheless, tomorrow will begin a new day. I will awake and remember, as I drive Elias to school, the woman in Africa whose children walk three miles to school. And for that woman, I will take pride in how far we have come as a country. I will be thankful for the opportunities that lay before me. And I will try to treat Thomas with the decency and respect he deserves. Not because he's a man. But because he's my husband.
Just to name a few.
It's one of those days when the paradox of desperately wanting real connection with people and desperately wanting to be alone, collide, and I am left sitting in a bathtub with a plate full of cold blueberry pie and a can of Diet Coke...trying desperately to find some comfort in the hot water where tiny Walmart bubbles float by, filling my nose with their cheap Sea Breeze scent.
Thomas went to bed. An argument was no doubt brewing in us both. I had done most of the dishes. He got the sweet delight of completing the project of kitchen cleaning duty, and though I had spent a good 30 mintues scrubbing Cocoa Wheats off of bowls and stuffing them into the dishwasher, he had the satisfaction of walking away from the kitchen with it spotless and shiny. So when, halfway into Extreme Makeover Home Edition, Elias and Keziah conned me into making popcorn, suffice it to say that there were droplets of grease splattered on his shiny stove.
He was not happy.
I did not care.
That he was not happy.
In fact, I kind of enjoyed it.
But for as firey and defensive as I usually am when he makes a rude comment about something as petty as oil residue...wating for that very moment to give my list of things accomplished today (getting three children ready for church, helping Elias with his homework, doing some laundry, making dinner, signing permission slips, filling in the calendar, working on a spreadsheet...just to name a few), I played my cards well and retreated to the bathroom, where I found myself looking like Cat in the Hat.
After getting out of the bath and realizing I had a house of sleeping people all to myself, I decided (again this will explain my insanity) to take a trip to Walmart. Not because I like the store. In fact, I have several conspiracy theories about how they manipulate people into thinking their prices are cheaper than the next guy's, but again they are only theories and they are floating in my head somewhere and could never be articulated well. I only went, truly, because I wanted to walk. While I have secretly been enjoying the cold weather, as on a good day I see that it brings us together as a family and we have more time to just sit and play or watch movies or whatever, today I had had it with not getting any exercise. And since we can't really afford a gym membership, I told myself that Walmart was free (though Walmart is never free...I spent twelve dollars and ninety six cents on batteries and a bubble necklace and a Hannah Montana glue stick and thank you cards).
I enjoyed my WallyWorld visit...it seemed to fit my "I want to be around people but don't really want to interact with them" mood. In fact, as I was standing in the check out line, I didn't even mind the lady in front of me who had tried desperately to stuff a pair of boots into a box that was clearly made for a pair of clearance-priced sandals (the picture was right there!). The cashier guy, who had perhaps smoked a little too much weed that day, was about to fall for it, when Ms. Manager, who clearly knew what was going on, decided to go and check the validity of the lady's story, as she said there were several pairs of boots in these "clearance sandal" boxes.
I didn't stick around to see the outcome, for I switched over to lane eleven by the time she returned. However, I did see the lady leave without the shoes as I waited, again apathetically and patiently, for yet another price check for the guy in front of me. And it's a good thing I didn't have an ugly chip on my shoulder because Mr. Football dude in front of me (who I secretly was theorizing was a Colts football player who could only shop at night because of all of his crazy fans) knew me from church and began asking me questions about us being missionaries. Turns out, he goes to IUPUI, a local state college, and was buying a presentation folder for his paper due tomorrow. But he could have passed for a Pro football player. And since I don't watch football and wouldn't know any of them from Adam, it was fun to pretend.
While I am being sort of funny, I am realizing as I'm processing this to cyberspace that my cynicism and apathy are rooted in it being one of those days where I keep having these thoughts, ones that are subtle, like a cat scratching at the back door, that all of the injustices of the world are just too much. It's unjust that I read a story last night that a woman in Somalia was stoned to death in front of 1000 spectators, unjust that my sister can't get her baby from China, unjust that Christian women and children are being raped and hacked into pieces in front of their loved ones in India, unjust that this very moment a woman in Africa is walking 20 miles to deliver some 50 pounds of rice that she has been carrying on her back, all for forty cents. And I know Jesus' ways are not my ways, but sometimes I can't help but wonder why on earth He doesn't just come back and get this good versus evil thing over with once and for all.
And in the crevices of my heart, the ones that believe in a God that is Sovereign and good, long-suffering, slow to anger, abundant in mercy and grace and love, I know the answer to that question.
But for the sake of delving into my state of being at this very moment, I can't help but wonder if all of the injustices are what has made me frustrated at my husband today. This morning, after they called all of us missionaries on stage to introduce us, we sat back down near the front row and shortly after, were passed "the elements" (that always makes me laugh). For the layperson of the Christian Church, that's the little wafer and tiny cup of grape juice (which Elias loves, by the way). The symbolism of course is what really matters and so there we were, having eaten our wafer (representing Jesus body given for us) and "holding our cup (the blood of Jesus shed) so that we could take it as one body." In that moment, I had this fleeting thought that what I really wanted to do with it was to dump my juice onto Thomas' lap.
No, I wouldn't have done it. Yes, it would have felt very good. Until I realized how dumb I looked (though I could have "accidentally" spilled it...hmmmm....). Anyway, I wanted to dump it on him because I was jealous. I was jealous that he got to go to this conference all week and learn about the Bible and eat amazing food and have fellowship with like-minded people all day and every day. I was jealous because, as a man, he somehow has more repoire with people. They listen when he speaks. And you could argue with me all day that I'm off on this one. But tomorrow I could give you five examples of it being true. It's just the nature of being a man versus being a woman.
Don't get me wrong. I take great honor in having the privelege of being a stay-at-home mom. I think that the gift of being a woman, with our instincts, our beauty, our mystery, and our connection with the ones we grow inside of us, is one that is insurmountable. But that doesn't mean that raising children is my "calling" in life. I have a lot of passion stirring inside of me. I have put so many things on the back burner of life because I KNOW these little people will soon be adults and I want to help them become the best adults they can be. However, on days like today, when my jealousy collides with the injustices toward women, I can't help but become angry at the person who is closest to my heart and just so happens to be a male.
When I think of the women who are victimized sexually...when I think about single moms and the workers in the tomato field in Rwanda...when I think about the old man at the mall today who kept looking at my little sister's chest...when I think about the girls at the Hannah House who have fled their homes because of abuse...when I think about my good friend who was molested by her grandfather, one man she should have been able to trust... It is then that I just feel hopeless. And my hopelessness, because I cannot fix these problems, turns into cynicism. Unfortunately, my cynicism, when not divulged, falls onto the Church...or most often and more likely, my husband...
My husband is one of the least shovenistic males I know. In fact, that was a huge reason why I married him. Because he sees us as equal. In fact, he knows that having a wife gives him another necessary perspective on life. I believe he would say that I bring stability and perhaps a little wisdom into his otherwise unrooted and scattered world. I could go on for at least a few paragraphs about what he brings into my life, but what I really want to say is that he is not my enemy. My uneasiness is not because of him, though I could also go on for several paragraphs about what drives me crazy about him! My uneasiness...my disheartened mundaneness is due in full by the fact that until Jesus returns, women, no matter how progressive the culture, will not only be exploited on levels unimaginable, but they will also not be given the high honor they are due.
And for that reason, I'm at a loss. Nonetheless, tomorrow will begin a new day. I will awake and remember, as I drive Elias to school, the woman in Africa whose children walk three miles to school. And for that woman, I will take pride in how far we have come as a country. I will be thankful for the opportunities that lay before me. And I will try to treat Thomas with the decency and respect he deserves. Not because he's a man. But because he's my husband.
Nov 4, 2008
Inspi[red]
I'm inspired a hundred times a day. Kids alone are inspirational. From the moment my one year-old wakes up, I am enthralled by his every attempt at making sense of the world. I'm even admittedly inspired when, upon entering his room in the morning and smelling the familiar dirty diaper smell, he pats his diaper and says "Poo." I know. It's truly sick. I'm no longer inspired when, picking him up, I realize that his little surprise has leaked into his pajamas and I now have to strategically maneuver him just right so that the remains will not further cake his legs, or my hands for that matter. Typically, I unravel him just so and stick him in the tub, letting the water pressure and the drain work magic in getting him clean. I'm inspired once again when he gets out of the bathtub by himself, makes his way downstairs, and starts whining at me, trying so seriously to convey his needs while I laugh at his little naked body and tangled hair that won't stay out of his eyes to save his life.
I believe that inspiration is a choice. Okay, there are those obvious times when inspiration just simply "is." Like the birth of a baby, the ocean at sunrise, falling in love, Christmas morning, the silhouettes of trees and birds and mountains, the election of the first black President...
But for all of the seemingly mundane moments that make up my day, I must choose to be inspired. So many times I go about my day, choosing to silence the God-given beauty that is screaming (literally) around me. Instead of bending down to listen to what my daughter is truly needing, I tell her for the tenth time in an hour to "hold on a second." Instead of sitting and building a castle out of blocks with my son, I pour out the blocks and hope that he'll figure it out so I can sit and pay my bills.
Today was different though. I didn't have to choose to be inspired. I came down to Bloomington, Indiana to vote. I never changed my address on my license from, oh, eight years ago, and so I got registered here by default. It just so happens that my older sister lives here and so it was a wonderful collision of purpose for the trip. Our kids are all around the same ages, some within weeks of one another, and when they play together it's like a glimpse into the heart of God, the knitting together of a family, a bond that holds tight though earthly miles, even oceans and mountains, try desperately to break it.
I got to my sister's house where my pregnant sister announced that she needed a Polar Pop. Right down the street from her house is a Circle K, home of the 69 cent beverage. I'm always up for carbonated fluid and since my husband came along, we put him on the task of taking care of the youngest three at home while we took the others with us on a walk. Elias and Garrett inline skated along the sidewalk, crushing freshly fallen leaves beneath their wheels, while Kailee went along on her scooter, her pink rainboots standing in perfect contrast to the green grass next to her. Keziah, my three year-old, who wheezled her way into going with us on the walk at the last minute, sat in the stroller asking random but smart questions and sipping on my Diet Coke whenever she slipped it from my hands without me noticing.
We arrived at the park. Elias and Garrett were unusually picking on each other. My sister and I sat on a bench and tried to interfere as little as possible, as we discussed our daughters' fashion sense, the public school system, the imminent election, and the Sovereignty of God. Ignoring the tattling boys had seemed to work as they now played together, making circles around us on a concrete ledge. All of a sudden, we heard a scream that was the kind that makes every mother's heart beat faster. It was Garrett. He had fallen. I had seen it out of my periphrial but remained unalarmed until his delayed cry made its way out of his shocked lungs. We ran to him. Blood was gushing from his head. One of us, I can't remember who (because as sisters, at that moment it was like we were one...like we were both the mother of this sweet boy), scooped him into our arms. My sister hates blood and gets quite freaked out at the sight of it, though in retrospect, she handled it quite well. All I could think about was getting Garrett home. Home would make his head better. Home offered something, didn't it? Suddenly, we were no longer one. She was now the mother again and I, the sister who was there to help make this better. I called to her to take off her (white) shirt. I saw she was wearing two shirts and we both knew the bleeding needed to stop. We draped it over his head and told him to hold it there. The short walk home seemed to take an hour, as we switched off carrying all fifty pounds of him. He kept asking me if he was going to die. "You are going to be fine," I said, hoping I was right.
Moments later, an ambulance responded to my sister's phone call. She felt silly for having called, but what else do you do when all your life you have been primed to equate gushing blood with death, or in the very least, panic? The paramedics wrapped his head and told my sister he'd need stitches. Thomas stayed with the little ones again while I, still shaking from the adrenaline rush I had just received, drove us cautiously to the Prompt Care. They stitched him up while Elias and Kailee connected dots and colored in the waiting room. I read a magazine.
Life was back to normal, so it seemed.
We left and drove to the Asian Market across the street. We grabbed all of the ingredients for Pad Thai, as well as some Indian dishes. The kids each picked out three candies from the big plastic bins. Garrett's hair remained blood-stained, looking as if he had sprayed some pink hair dye above his forehead. I kept looking at him as he bounced around the grocery store as if nothing had happend hours earlier. I kept thinking, "What if he wasn't here?" What if one of those voices could no longer be heard shouting through my sister's house? My thoughts turned to the mundane moments of my daily life: What if Ezra no longer stood at my feet as I cooked dinner? What if Keziah no longer told me how she talks to God? What if Elias didn't grab my face and kiss my lips, laughing so I wouldn't take him too seriously? What if?
Tonight I lay in bed with Keziah, thinking about the election news happening in the other room. She was distraught from the chaos of the day and couldn't fall asleep. I forced myself to be in that moment. I relaxed and let her lay on my arm, an object of security, representing protection from a dangerous and scary world...a world that would allow her cousin to get hurt. I glanced at her loosened pigtails and laughed to myself at the leaves embedded in the strands of hair that were framing her face. I buried my nose in her hair and took a deep breath. It smelled like the pumpkin spice candle burning in the other room. It smelled like the leaves she had played in earlier this evening. It didn't take much, as she lay there still on my arm, to be inspired.
I am inspired to love them better. I'm inspired to face the mundane with a renewed gratefulness for the tiny moments that make up each day of this life together, no matter how good or bad. A life that promises no tomorrows. A life that offers only this very moment.
I believe that inspiration is a choice. Okay, there are those obvious times when inspiration just simply "is." Like the birth of a baby, the ocean at sunrise, falling in love, Christmas morning, the silhouettes of trees and birds and mountains, the election of the first black President...
But for all of the seemingly mundane moments that make up my day, I must choose to be inspired. So many times I go about my day, choosing to silence the God-given beauty that is screaming (literally) around me. Instead of bending down to listen to what my daughter is truly needing, I tell her for the tenth time in an hour to "hold on a second." Instead of sitting and building a castle out of blocks with my son, I pour out the blocks and hope that he'll figure it out so I can sit and pay my bills.
Today was different though. I didn't have to choose to be inspired. I came down to Bloomington, Indiana to vote. I never changed my address on my license from, oh, eight years ago, and so I got registered here by default. It just so happens that my older sister lives here and so it was a wonderful collision of purpose for the trip. Our kids are all around the same ages, some within weeks of one another, and when they play together it's like a glimpse into the heart of God, the knitting together of a family, a bond that holds tight though earthly miles, even oceans and mountains, try desperately to break it.
I got to my sister's house where my pregnant sister announced that she needed a Polar Pop. Right down the street from her house is a Circle K, home of the 69 cent beverage. I'm always up for carbonated fluid and since my husband came along, we put him on the task of taking care of the youngest three at home while we took the others with us on a walk. Elias and Garrett inline skated along the sidewalk, crushing freshly fallen leaves beneath their wheels, while Kailee went along on her scooter, her pink rainboots standing in perfect contrast to the green grass next to her. Keziah, my three year-old, who wheezled her way into going with us on the walk at the last minute, sat in the stroller asking random but smart questions and sipping on my Diet Coke whenever she slipped it from my hands without me noticing.
We arrived at the park. Elias and Garrett were unusually picking on each other. My sister and I sat on a bench and tried to interfere as little as possible, as we discussed our daughters' fashion sense, the public school system, the imminent election, and the Sovereignty of God. Ignoring the tattling boys had seemed to work as they now played together, making circles around us on a concrete ledge. All of a sudden, we heard a scream that was the kind that makes every mother's heart beat faster. It was Garrett. He had fallen. I had seen it out of my periphrial but remained unalarmed until his delayed cry made its way out of his shocked lungs. We ran to him. Blood was gushing from his head. One of us, I can't remember who (because as sisters, at that moment it was like we were one...like we were both the mother of this sweet boy), scooped him into our arms. My sister hates blood and gets quite freaked out at the sight of it, though in retrospect, she handled it quite well. All I could think about was getting Garrett home. Home would make his head better. Home offered something, didn't it? Suddenly, we were no longer one. She was now the mother again and I, the sister who was there to help make this better. I called to her to take off her (white) shirt. I saw she was wearing two shirts and we both knew the bleeding needed to stop. We draped it over his head and told him to hold it there. The short walk home seemed to take an hour, as we switched off carrying all fifty pounds of him. He kept asking me if he was going to die. "You are going to be fine," I said, hoping I was right.
Moments later, an ambulance responded to my sister's phone call. She felt silly for having called, but what else do you do when all your life you have been primed to equate gushing blood with death, or in the very least, panic? The paramedics wrapped his head and told my sister he'd need stitches. Thomas stayed with the little ones again while I, still shaking from the adrenaline rush I had just received, drove us cautiously to the Prompt Care. They stitched him up while Elias and Kailee connected dots and colored in the waiting room. I read a magazine.
Life was back to normal, so it seemed.
We left and drove to the Asian Market across the street. We grabbed all of the ingredients for Pad Thai, as well as some Indian dishes. The kids each picked out three candies from the big plastic bins. Garrett's hair remained blood-stained, looking as if he had sprayed some pink hair dye above his forehead. I kept looking at him as he bounced around the grocery store as if nothing had happend hours earlier. I kept thinking, "What if he wasn't here?" What if one of those voices could no longer be heard shouting through my sister's house? My thoughts turned to the mundane moments of my daily life: What if Ezra no longer stood at my feet as I cooked dinner? What if Keziah no longer told me how she talks to God? What if Elias didn't grab my face and kiss my lips, laughing so I wouldn't take him too seriously? What if?
Tonight I lay in bed with Keziah, thinking about the election news happening in the other room. She was distraught from the chaos of the day and couldn't fall asleep. I forced myself to be in that moment. I relaxed and let her lay on my arm, an object of security, representing protection from a dangerous and scary world...a world that would allow her cousin to get hurt. I glanced at her loosened pigtails and laughed to myself at the leaves embedded in the strands of hair that were framing her face. I buried my nose in her hair and took a deep breath. It smelled like the pumpkin spice candle burning in the other room. It smelled like the leaves she had played in earlier this evening. It didn't take much, as she lay there still on my arm, to be inspired.
I am inspired to love them better. I'm inspired to face the mundane with a renewed gratefulness for the tiny moments that make up each day of this life together, no matter how good or bad. A life that promises no tomorrows. A life that offers only this very moment.
Oct 9, 2008
A Hug From Jesus
Every now and then I encounter one of those inspirational moments of life that reminds me that God's love is so tangible that I feel like a kid on Christmas morning...waiting to unwrap more presents because I'm sure that Santa is real and I'm absolutely positive that I will not be disappointed. For even if my heart's desire wasn't under the tree from Santa, I knew my mom and dad would always come through.
Case in point: Christmas 1988. Nine years old. Desperately wanting "Patty PlayPal," a talking doll that looked so real that one may still suffer from nightmares. I had to have her. Present after present went by. No Patty. But I knew that my hope wouldn't disappoint me. I listened as my mother said, "Well, she was just really expensive Cristi. I hope you aren't disappointed."
"That's okay," I said, lying through my fake Christmas grin. I knew that my mother pulled this every year. However, I never knew if perhaps one year she'd actually be telling the truth.
Last gift. Hidden way behind the tree (I'm guessing my mom put it out while I wasn't looking...otherwise I would have guessed its contents already). Ripping off the paper, I squealed in pure joy over my new Pal, Patty, complete with hot pink legwarmers and matching sweatband, blonde curls that would make Brittany jealous, and a little tape recorder thingy where all the magic happened, that posed as her lunchbox. I took her out of the box, held her in my arms, and ran to my mom and dad, reassuring them that they were the greatest parents in the world...at least until next week when I deseprately wanted something else.
This morning I unwrapped a different kind of gift. It was hidden in the heart of my neighbor. She is the mother of sweet Philip (see below) and a widow who spent the last month in jail over something rather ridiculous in my opinion. I was walking back from a brisk run to the bus stop, arms flailing in hopes that the bus driver would see me. Elias had run not far behind me to get on the twinkie and head to school. My neighbor caught up with me and asked me to bum five bucks, reassuring me that she'd pay me back tonight.
"I don't have any cash," I said. True as day. Didn't have a dollar to speak of in the way of cash. "Sorry."
"That's alright," She said, "not a big deal..."
I knew she probably really needed a pack of cigarettes. And I felt bad because I'm shamelessly addicted to Coke or Diet Coke (depending on the month, week, or day) and so I know what it's like to NEED something. This is the part where you legalists say that it's good I didn't have the money. As if my not having money is going to make her quit smoking.
A few minutes later, after Ezra, my 19 month-old, brought me my shoes and stood pounding on the door to go outside, I decided we would go on a walk. I walked about 20 feet to my neighbor's house and rang the doorbell.
"Did you need cigarettes?" I asked.
"Yah," She said, smiling.
"Well, I'm going for a walk and I could get you some with my card. What kind do you need?"
"Marlboro Lights in the box."
"Well, you can walk with me if you want," I offered.
She quickly grabbed her shoes and met me on the street.
On our walk we talked a lot about her life, her boyfriend, her time in jail, as well as the commonalities we shared as mothers. We discussed her cable company, her deceased husband, our sons' school, teachers, toddlers, teenagers, and sweet tea. Chit chat. That's all it was.
Then she happened to ask me about Italy. And I happened to have the opportunity to share with her "the Gospel" (for those of you to whom that sounds cliche' and you wonder what in the world I'm talking about, please bare with me) through sharing about what we will be doing in Italy, as well as what "church" in an unconventional and contextualized way looks like (AKA, your living room, a bar, a coffee shop, on the beach, etc.). At that point, she had a lot of questions, mainly about my statement "raising support." I explained to her how in the Bible, the churches sent out missionaries and supported them financially. "Since we believe the Bible is truth and we believe God is sending us to Italy, we are asking people to support us." I explained our $1/day challenge and how that if we could get 100 people to do this, that would be $3000/month and we would be very close to reaching our support goal.
We continued to chit chat. Keziah jumped on the trampoline. Ezra buried his feet in the sandbox. I scooped some sand up and poured it into a bowl, pretending to make cookies per Keziah's request. My neighbor lit up a cigarette. I sipped on what was left of my 32 ounce concoction of Coke and Diet Coke.
When it was time to go in, Connie gave me a hug and reassured me that I would be reimbursed for the cigarettes. Then she turned to me and said, "Oh, and I'm going to support you for $30/month."
"What????" I squealed. "Are you serious?"
"Yah," she said, "Why not? That's nothing."
"Oh my gosh! You know I wasn't asking you to support us, right? I would have never thought to ask you! Oh my gosh!!!!"
She laughed with me. "It's not a big deal," she said, grinning.
"It's not the money," I said. "It's that God always answers our prayers through the most unexpected encounters in life. We prayed for one supporter a week and this is just so awesome."
"I'll start supporting you with my next check," She said.
We said our goodbyes. More hugging. More giddy laughter from me.
Then I walked into my house and just smiled. I felt warm inside, like I had just hugged Jesus...saw his eyes, like a parent, charmed at my excitement over the gift I had just opened. I looked up and quietly whispered, "You are so good."
This may sound silly to some of you reading. You may wonder why I'm excited about $30/month. Let me tell you, God has humbled us for this very moment in time. We are thrilled over every person that partners with us, whether the gift is big or little. It's like a hug from God when someone believes in your vision enough to put money behind it. And this just so happens to be even better....because my neighbor, a woman who has experienced injustice on so many levels, is walking into a relationship with Jesus through the back door. She is like so many who we will encounter in Italy. She has a longing. A need. So much hurt. So many questions. But she is ripe. And while she is being "wooed" by her Husband Jesus, she is unknowingly ministering to us, her neighbors.
I am awaiting the next gift. I know, in this moment at least, that my Father, has good things in store. There will be a package behind the tree. And I'm trusting Him to bring it out when the time is right.
ps. I had to add this photo. sorry. it has nothing to do with this blog, but is necessary nonetheless!
Case in point: Christmas 1988. Nine years old. Desperately wanting "Patty PlayPal," a talking doll that looked so real that one may still suffer from nightmares. I had to have her. Present after present went by. No Patty. But I knew that my hope wouldn't disappoint me. I listened as my mother said, "Well, she was just really expensive Cristi. I hope you aren't disappointed."
"That's okay," I said, lying through my fake Christmas grin. I knew that my mother pulled this every year. However, I never knew if perhaps one year she'd actually be telling the truth.
Last gift. Hidden way behind the tree (I'm guessing my mom put it out while I wasn't looking...otherwise I would have guessed its contents already). Ripping off the paper, I squealed in pure joy over my new Pal, Patty, complete with hot pink legwarmers and matching sweatband, blonde curls that would make Brittany jealous, and a little tape recorder thingy where all the magic happened, that posed as her lunchbox. I took her out of the box, held her in my arms, and ran to my mom and dad, reassuring them that they were the greatest parents in the world...at least until next week when I deseprately wanted something else.
This morning I unwrapped a different kind of gift. It was hidden in the heart of my neighbor. She is the mother of sweet Philip (see below) and a widow who spent the last month in jail over something rather ridiculous in my opinion. I was walking back from a brisk run to the bus stop, arms flailing in hopes that the bus driver would see me. Elias had run not far behind me to get on the twinkie and head to school. My neighbor caught up with me and asked me to bum five bucks, reassuring me that she'd pay me back tonight.
"I don't have any cash," I said. True as day. Didn't have a dollar to speak of in the way of cash. "Sorry."
"That's alright," She said, "not a big deal..."
I knew she probably really needed a pack of cigarettes. And I felt bad because I'm shamelessly addicted to Coke or Diet Coke (depending on the month, week, or day) and so I know what it's like to NEED something. This is the part where you legalists say that it's good I didn't have the money. As if my not having money is going to make her quit smoking.
A few minutes later, after Ezra, my 19 month-old, brought me my shoes and stood pounding on the door to go outside, I decided we would go on a walk. I walked about 20 feet to my neighbor's house and rang the doorbell.
"Did you need cigarettes?" I asked.
"Yah," She said, smiling.
"Well, I'm going for a walk and I could get you some with my card. What kind do you need?"
"Marlboro Lights in the box."
"Well, you can walk with me if you want," I offered.
She quickly grabbed her shoes and met me on the street.
On our walk we talked a lot about her life, her boyfriend, her time in jail, as well as the commonalities we shared as mothers. We discussed her cable company, her deceased husband, our sons' school, teachers, toddlers, teenagers, and sweet tea. Chit chat. That's all it was.
Then she happened to ask me about Italy. And I happened to have the opportunity to share with her "the Gospel" (for those of you to whom that sounds cliche' and you wonder what in the world I'm talking about, please bare with me) through sharing about what we will be doing in Italy, as well as what "church" in an unconventional and contextualized way looks like (AKA, your living room, a bar, a coffee shop, on the beach, etc.). At that point, she had a lot of questions, mainly about my statement "raising support." I explained to her how in the Bible, the churches sent out missionaries and supported them financially. "Since we believe the Bible is truth and we believe God is sending us to Italy, we are asking people to support us." I explained our $1/day challenge and how that if we could get 100 people to do this, that would be $3000/month and we would be very close to reaching our support goal.
We continued to chit chat. Keziah jumped on the trampoline. Ezra buried his feet in the sandbox. I scooped some sand up and poured it into a bowl, pretending to make cookies per Keziah's request. My neighbor lit up a cigarette. I sipped on what was left of my 32 ounce concoction of Coke and Diet Coke.
When it was time to go in, Connie gave me a hug and reassured me that I would be reimbursed for the cigarettes. Then she turned to me and said, "Oh, and I'm going to support you for $30/month."
"What????" I squealed. "Are you serious?"
"Yah," she said, "Why not? That's nothing."
"Oh my gosh! You know I wasn't asking you to support us, right? I would have never thought to ask you! Oh my gosh!!!!"
She laughed with me. "It's not a big deal," she said, grinning.
"It's not the money," I said. "It's that God always answers our prayers through the most unexpected encounters in life. We prayed for one supporter a week and this is just so awesome."
"I'll start supporting you with my next check," She said.
We said our goodbyes. More hugging. More giddy laughter from me.
Then I walked into my house and just smiled. I felt warm inside, like I had just hugged Jesus...saw his eyes, like a parent, charmed at my excitement over the gift I had just opened. I looked up and quietly whispered, "You are so good."
This may sound silly to some of you reading. You may wonder why I'm excited about $30/month. Let me tell you, God has humbled us for this very moment in time. We are thrilled over every person that partners with us, whether the gift is big or little. It's like a hug from God when someone believes in your vision enough to put money behind it. And this just so happens to be even better....because my neighbor, a woman who has experienced injustice on so many levels, is walking into a relationship with Jesus through the back door. She is like so many who we will encounter in Italy. She has a longing. A need. So much hurt. So many questions. But she is ripe. And while she is being "wooed" by her Husband Jesus, she is unknowingly ministering to us, her neighbors.
I am awaiting the next gift. I know, in this moment at least, that my Father, has good things in store. There will be a package behind the tree. And I'm trusting Him to bring it out when the time is right.
ps. I had to add this photo. sorry. it has nothing to do with this blog, but is necessary nonetheless!
Aug 15, 2008
The Beauty of Failing
I will let you in on a secret.
I never title anything I write until it is finished. This is very cohesive with the way I live my life.
I remember one Thanksgiving Eve, getting a phone call from my mom, talking to her in the little office of the maternity home where I worked. We were having a normal conversation, discussing plans for the following day. Somehow it took an unexpected turn and she asked me something along the lines of "Are you using birth control?"
I felt as if I was slowly being backed into a corner. If I told her the truth...that we were doing "natural family planning" (you can all let out a little laugh about now)...then I knew what was next.
No, we aren't using birth control. Yes, we are poor and no we don't know what we are doing with our lives. Yes, we have one kid whose diapers we can't afford. Yes, we live in a tiny house the size of your living room. And yes, we are very open to bringing another child into the unknown of our lives.
Of course I didn't say all of that. I replied with a simple "No, we aren't preventing a pregnancy."
It was at that point that I heard a phrase that haunts me like my seventh grade middle school picture.
"You know, if you fail to plan, you plan to fail."
And there it was. My life in a nutshell. No "outside the box" sort of synopsis. Just the black and white. Those non-colors that I so hate to live in.
I have this thought (one that paralyzes me), that this life I am living...as a wife and a mother of three...with the dreams that I have yet to attain... will one day be viewed as a life of failure. After all, I don't title the chapters of my life until after I have lived them. Chapter One: Married and Pregnant. Chapter Two: Life in Chicago. Two more kids. Lots of grace and forgiveness. Lots and lots of love. Chapter Four: Thomas is set on fire and we all come out refined. Chapter Five: Life in Transition. Lots of questions for God.
So what if I haven't planned every step? Yes, I have failed. In so many ways. But I have watched God use my failures to humble me in ways I would have never known... and in turn, I have been given the opportunity to bless others with authenticity and messiness.
My failure to plan.
And even now, as I am writing this, I am getting a phone call from a friend who is having relationship issues with her fiance'. I find it ironic because she knows that I am (always at some point) having relationship issues with my husband. But I think that's why she feels safe letting me in. Because she and her fiance have watched Thomas and I fight. They know that when the crap hits the fan, Thomas and Cristi will lend an empathetic ear.
Because they have failed.
Because we have failed.
Some days I wake up wondering how in the world we are going to make it...financially, emotionally, spiritually... And then I hear my daughter say, as she crawls in bed between Thomas and I, just as the sun is revealing its first hint of day, "I love you Mama." I watch Elias as he picks up his brother after he falls or holds his sister's hand as she is descending the hill by our house. I laugh as Ezra spins around in circles waiting for someone to sing Ring Around the Rosy so he can say, "DAH" at the end and fall on his butt.
In those moments, I know this is what was meant to be.
I may not have planned it this way, but I will once again put to death the lies that tell me there is corresponding failure involved. Even when we plan, we often come up short. It's in us all being humble, admitting to our failures, that allow us to be free of the fear of the unknown.
I want to live in that freedom. I want to grow through my failures, not in spite of them.
As it turns out, my three (okay...two) "somewhat planned" pregnancies have allowed me the incredible opportunity to get to know three of my favorite people in the world. And as it turns out, we are "planning" to be done.
What may seem like failure to those around us is exactly what Jesus wants to use to humble the proud and give grace to the weak.
I never title anything I write until it is finished. This is very cohesive with the way I live my life.
I remember one Thanksgiving Eve, getting a phone call from my mom, talking to her in the little office of the maternity home where I worked. We were having a normal conversation, discussing plans for the following day. Somehow it took an unexpected turn and she asked me something along the lines of "Are you using birth control?"
I felt as if I was slowly being backed into a corner. If I told her the truth...that we were doing "natural family planning" (you can all let out a little laugh about now)...then I knew what was next.
No, we aren't using birth control. Yes, we are poor and no we don't know what we are doing with our lives. Yes, we have one kid whose diapers we can't afford. Yes, we live in a tiny house the size of your living room. And yes, we are very open to bringing another child into the unknown of our lives.
Of course I didn't say all of that. I replied with a simple "No, we aren't preventing a pregnancy."
It was at that point that I heard a phrase that haunts me like my seventh grade middle school picture.
"You know, if you fail to plan, you plan to fail."
And there it was. My life in a nutshell. No "outside the box" sort of synopsis. Just the black and white. Those non-colors that I so hate to live in.
I have this thought (one that paralyzes me), that this life I am living...as a wife and a mother of three...with the dreams that I have yet to attain... will one day be viewed as a life of failure. After all, I don't title the chapters of my life until after I have lived them. Chapter One: Married and Pregnant. Chapter Two: Life in Chicago. Two more kids. Lots of grace and forgiveness. Lots and lots of love. Chapter Four: Thomas is set on fire and we all come out refined. Chapter Five: Life in Transition. Lots of questions for God.
So what if I haven't planned every step? Yes, I have failed. In so many ways. But I have watched God use my failures to humble me in ways I would have never known... and in turn, I have been given the opportunity to bless others with authenticity and messiness.
My failure to plan.
And even now, as I am writing this, I am getting a phone call from a friend who is having relationship issues with her fiance'. I find it ironic because she knows that I am (always at some point) having relationship issues with my husband. But I think that's why she feels safe letting me in. Because she and her fiance have watched Thomas and I fight. They know that when the crap hits the fan, Thomas and Cristi will lend an empathetic ear.
Because they have failed.
Because we have failed.
Some days I wake up wondering how in the world we are going to make it...financially, emotionally, spiritually... And then I hear my daughter say, as she crawls in bed between Thomas and I, just as the sun is revealing its first hint of day, "I love you Mama." I watch Elias as he picks up his brother after he falls or holds his sister's hand as she is descending the hill by our house. I laugh as Ezra spins around in circles waiting for someone to sing Ring Around the Rosy so he can say, "DAH" at the end and fall on his butt.
In those moments, I know this is what was meant to be.
I may not have planned it this way, but I will once again put to death the lies that tell me there is corresponding failure involved. Even when we plan, we often come up short. It's in us all being humble, admitting to our failures, that allow us to be free of the fear of the unknown.
I want to live in that freedom. I want to grow through my failures, not in spite of them.
As it turns out, my three (okay...two) "somewhat planned" pregnancies have allowed me the incredible opportunity to get to know three of my favorite people in the world. And as it turns out, we are "planning" to be done.
What may seem like failure to those around us is exactly what Jesus wants to use to humble the proud and give grace to the weak.
Aug 12, 2008
My Elias.
I'm sitting in the dark. Alone. Only the sounds of the dishwasher. The interstate. The noise maker in the kids' room. Quiet breathing.
I want to laugh at myself...tell myself how ridiculous I am and how I am only one of millions of mothers who have sent their son off to school this week. By himself. On a bus. To a world that I know nothing of.
Kindergarten.
Me. The mom who cooks an egg while making a phone call while writing a to-do list on a white board while dusting some crumbs off the counter. But today at 2:30 p.m. I found myself piddling around the kitchen, trying desperately to find something to do with my last hour and a half without him. I went up to his bedroom and opened up the curtains and the blinds, wanting the room to be full of light for when he would arrive. At 3:00, I found myself watching home videos of him as a toddler. I noticed his hairline and his forehead. I admired his big bright eyes. I muzed at his skinny little legs, comparing them to the chunky legs of his brother who played at my feet while I stared at the TV. I couldn't cry because there was no conscious thought on which to base my tears. Just a void. A hole in my heart. I thought of moms whose children have died. At least mine would be home in less than an hour.
This isn't permanent.
This is only Kindergarten.
But it feels like so much more. It feels like the end of a chapter in which the author has much regret. It feels unknown. It feels lonely.
I got to the bus stop fifteen minutes early. I paced the street, looking over the horizon for yellow...listening for that loud sound that is unmistakenly a school bus. Finally, I saw flashing yellow lights. My heart raced. It felt like forever before it rounded the corner to his stop. He got off the bus, smiled at me, and began running with his friend toward home. No hello. No "I missed you Mama." Nothing.
This is not atypical for Elias.
While he raced his friend home, I kept yelling at him to get over into the grass. "Slow down." "Watch out for cars." I wanted to control his every move. I was so scared something would happen to him in the few moments I was able to be a parent. And if him pleading to take the bus wasn't enough, my five year-old turned to me and said, "Why did you come to the bus stop? I can walk home by myself." Knowing that Elias is not the most senstive little guy, I muzed at how incredibly independent he is becoming and how that this is such a blessing being that he is at school for eight hours. Five days a week. Thirty-two weeks a year. Eighteen to twenty-five years of his life.
Not that I'm counting.
Sometimes it takes being away from the ones we love to realize just how deep that love runs. And with Elias, my strong-willed and stubborn boy, perhaps these days will remind me of all the wonderful things about his personality that I so often neglect to tell him...for the sake of disciplining him for manipulating his sister or for talking back to Thomas or me.
So it wasn't until this evening, while things were sounding much more normal in the house (Elias was yelling at his friend, Keziah was yelling because she was left out, Ezra was screaming for who knows what... and Thomas and I were having a heated argument), that I realized that the funk I had felt all day was valid. Our friends came for dinner and Seth said to me, "Oh, this is a hard time for moms. A lot of moms like cry all week and stuff."
Oh. So this is normal. I wish they would have mentioned it in Elias' school folder, right next to the uniform policy and lunch menu. I don't know when the funk will end. I just know that I miss that boy so much. But I also know that this is the best thing for him right now. So I'll rest...even in the midst of the yuckiness I feel about life. I truly hate change. But my soul tells me that change births beautiful newness. So I will force myself to embrace it once again.
For the sake of my firstborn.
My Elias.
Jul 10, 2008
July Update: Church Planting in Torino, Italy
Greetings Dear Friends!
The year mark has officially passed and we can finally say that we are on our way to Italy in less than a year. This is both exciting and scary, as we want to be present here in Indianapolis with family and friends and yet be consistently looking toward this time next year when we will be setting up our lives in a foreign country.
On the HOMEFRONT
Thomas was recently offered a position of PRN Chaplain for Community Hospital's Hospice division! This is a huge answer to prayer for us in accord with Thomas using his gifts as well as an answer to prayer in regard to our financial needs. He'll still be working in Behavioral Health as well. In the meantime, Elias starts all-day Kindergarten and I'm going to be finishing up my work with the precious boy I've been working with for the past six months. He and his family have taught me so much. I have been blessed by Shelly, his mother, in ways she will never know. Another huge blessing is that my sister and her family of five (that will soon be growing-she's pregnant and they are adopting!) recently returned from their five-year stay in China. She and her husband will be working with Campus Crusade in Bloomington, Indiana. It has been so fun watching our kids play together.
TORINO, ITALY
Recently we received an update from Donna, a friend of ours who is with Team One to Genova, Italy, a city about two hours from Torino. She wrote about a woman who came to see her because she had heard about "The Americans" in Genova. She shared with Donna how three years ago she had a vision that a group of Americans would be coming. She has since been praying for her city, as there are very few believers. It is exciting to us that this woman received this vision and that it has come to pass. We know God is at work in Torino and we fully attend to come alongside that work when our team arrives. We want to facilitate a reproducing church!
Would you take a minute to check out the this link-it's a very short video that better explains the vision of Avant and its missionaries
The commitment of our team is three to five years. We are currently raising support to be on the field this time next year. Our budget includes our housing, insurance, ministry expenses (we will have some sort of meeting place for the Italians and we have to raise these funds as a team), and overhead costs. We have around $6000 left to raise a month. WHY SO MUCH???? Because it's Italy and because the dollar is diminishing and price of EVERYTHING (besides fruits and vegetables I hear!) is HIGH!
Thank You for reading our updates! Please feel free to contact us via email (tandcmcewen@yahoo.com) or by phone (773-484-5733)
Shalom,
Thomas and Cristi
The year mark has officially passed and we can finally say that we are on our way to Italy in less than a year. This is both exciting and scary, as we want to be present here in Indianapolis with family and friends and yet be consistently looking toward this time next year when we will be setting up our lives in a foreign country.
On the HOMEFRONT
Thomas was recently offered a position of PRN Chaplain for Community Hospital's Hospice division! This is a huge answer to prayer for us in accord with Thomas using his gifts as well as an answer to prayer in regard to our financial needs. He'll still be working in Behavioral Health as well. In the meantime, Elias starts all-day Kindergarten and I'm going to be finishing up my work with the precious boy I've been working with for the past six months. He and his family have taught me so much. I have been blessed by Shelly, his mother, in ways she will never know. Another huge blessing is that my sister and her family of five (that will soon be growing-she's pregnant and they are adopting!) recently returned from their five-year stay in China. She and her husband will be working with Campus Crusade in Bloomington, Indiana. It has been so fun watching our kids play together.
TORINO, ITALY
Recently we received an update from Donna, a friend of ours who is with Team One to Genova, Italy, a city about two hours from Torino. She wrote about a woman who came to see her because she had heard about "The Americans" in Genova. She shared with Donna how three years ago she had a vision that a group of Americans would be coming. She has since been praying for her city, as there are very few believers. It is exciting to us that this woman received this vision and that it has come to pass. We know God is at work in Torino and we fully attend to come alongside that work when our team arrives. We want to facilitate a reproducing church!
Would you take a minute to check out the this link-it's a very short video that better explains the vision of Avant and its missionaries
The commitment of our team is three to five years. We are currently raising support to be on the field this time next year. Our budget includes our housing, insurance, ministry expenses (we will have some sort of meeting place for the Italians and we have to raise these funds as a team), and overhead costs. We have around $6000 left to raise a month. WHY SO MUCH???? Because it's Italy and because the dollar is diminishing and price of EVERYTHING (besides fruits and vegetables I hear!) is HIGH!
Thank You for reading our updates! Please feel free to contact us via email (tandcmcewen@yahoo.com) or by phone (773-484-5733)
Shalom,
Thomas and Cristi
May 31, 2008
Please check out this blog... and pray!
I recently discovered a very life-changing blog that has caused me to spend much time in prayer and in tears for this family. The blogger is a phenomenal writer and if you journey with her through her story (as she tells about the loss of her daughter, as well as the loss of nicol and greg sponberg's son), you will be forever changed. She is beautifully broken. the blog site is the first on my list, but for the sake of repeating myself, it's www.audreycaroline.blogspot.com
May 30, 2008
God. Bless. You.
After reading Curious George and saying interrupted prayers, I lay between Elias and Keziah tonight in my plush queen-sized bed. Elias began saying, "Well, God bless you, Mama." I sort of laughed, not having heard this phrase in this context before. I asked him what made him say this out of the blue. He went on to tell me that the man off the interstate with the sign reading, "Hungry, Homeless, Jobless," whom he made me go to McDonald's to buy a double cheeseburger for this afternoon, had said this to him when Elias handed him the red and yellow bag of processed meat product.
So then Keziah began shouting "God bless you" at Elias, which began a "God bless you" shouting match, in which I took part and began saying, "God bless America," only because I have for the past few years found this statement rather humorous, it being taken out of global context and all.
Then Elias asked me what the phrase meant. When I broke it down into five year-old terms, it went something like, "You're saying to someone that you hope God's best for them." Okay, if I were a five year-old I'd still be confused with that answer, but it seemed to satisfy a tired Elias, so he turned his head into the pillow and fell asleep. Keziah, hyper from the medication that is treating her cellulitis (from a spider bite, mind you), continued on in her own little world, peeking her head into the living room every now and then, trying to convince us that she was scared, bored, thirsty, or sick.
Nonetheless, I have pondered tonight this phrase. I wrote an aquaintence who very recently lost her baby to SIDS and titled my email "praying for you." I thought to myself how incredibly cliche' that sounded, but honestly and truly, I had nothing else to sum up my words to her...words that without the backing of Jesus' promise of restoring all that the locusts had eaten, would be empty and shallow. I carefully typed each word, trying desperately to let her know that I was grieving with her over the loss of her boy. Even then, I felt so foolish. Who am I to write this woman who I barely know and "let her know" that "I'm praying for her." Then again, it struck me how the Spirit knows what to pray and how when we come to Him with the burdens of our brothers and sisters, He gives us the words, the utterances, the tears, the sorrow, in order to go even deeper in prayer for that person. Once we begin praying specifically for someone God lays on our hearts, I believe there is a soul connection between us and that person. We pray for her, we fast for her, we cry for her. And for the first time, we understand what Jesus meant when he said to mourn with those who mourn.
There is beauty in our emotions. Most of the time, I abhor my emotions, as they many times send me on a roller coaster ride of high and low negativity. But today I am rejoicing in them, as I feel an ounce of the pain in that mother, a speckle of brokenness in that beggar, and an abundance of love toward my children. So when I say "God bless you" tonight, please know that if you are reading this, I mean it. God. Bless. You.
So then Keziah began shouting "God bless you" at Elias, which began a "God bless you" shouting match, in which I took part and began saying, "God bless America," only because I have for the past few years found this statement rather humorous, it being taken out of global context and all.
Then Elias asked me what the phrase meant. When I broke it down into five year-old terms, it went something like, "You're saying to someone that you hope God's best for them." Okay, if I were a five year-old I'd still be confused with that answer, but it seemed to satisfy a tired Elias, so he turned his head into the pillow and fell asleep. Keziah, hyper from the medication that is treating her cellulitis (from a spider bite, mind you), continued on in her own little world, peeking her head into the living room every now and then, trying to convince us that she was scared, bored, thirsty, or sick.
Nonetheless, I have pondered tonight this phrase. I wrote an aquaintence who very recently lost her baby to SIDS and titled my email "praying for you." I thought to myself how incredibly cliche' that sounded, but honestly and truly, I had nothing else to sum up my words to her...words that without the backing of Jesus' promise of restoring all that the locusts had eaten, would be empty and shallow. I carefully typed each word, trying desperately to let her know that I was grieving with her over the loss of her boy. Even then, I felt so foolish. Who am I to write this woman who I barely know and "let her know" that "I'm praying for her." Then again, it struck me how the Spirit knows what to pray and how when we come to Him with the burdens of our brothers and sisters, He gives us the words, the utterances, the tears, the sorrow, in order to go even deeper in prayer for that person. Once we begin praying specifically for someone God lays on our hearts, I believe there is a soul connection between us and that person. We pray for her, we fast for her, we cry for her. And for the first time, we understand what Jesus meant when he said to mourn with those who mourn.
There is beauty in our emotions. Most of the time, I abhor my emotions, as they many times send me on a roller coaster ride of high and low negativity. But today I am rejoicing in them, as I feel an ounce of the pain in that mother, a speckle of brokenness in that beggar, and an abundance of love toward my children. So when I say "God bless you" tonight, please know that if you are reading this, I mean it. God. Bless. You.
Apr 21, 2008
"I Think She's Dead"
“I think she’s dead,” stated Elias bluntly and apathetically.
We found her little body all chewed up today. Her breathing had slowed and I knew she was nearing the end. The male who swam next to her I could tell had no remorse. He’d been after her since day one. I knew it on Thursday, the day after we got them, and a wave of guilt came over me as I watched “Rhino” (the name given her by Keziah, my three year-old) as her body tried desperately to come up from the sideways position that it was now defaulted to, as it lay at the top of the glass bowl, the bowl that was home to her for only five days. Until now.
Now she lay in a separate glass, as the vicious male swam happily in his own feces in the bowl. I thought she should at least spend her last minutes without the fear of all of her remaining fins being torn off by Mr. “Shard,” a name prophetically given by Elias on Wednesday when we bought him at Petsmart in Bloomington where the fish man told us you can put a male and female beta in the same bowl. Total nonsense obviously. My friend Laurie told me the same thing happened to her female. The fish people at Walmart said the same thing.
Keziah was a bit devastated, that is until she found out we would go out that very minute and buy her a new fishy. As we all discussed the state of Rhino, she kept telling us to stop talking about it. I guess denial is the first stage of grief. She never hit the other stages because within an hour she was standing in front of the endless fish tanks at Meijer with her little red balloon, waving it in front of the fish, watching as they scattered in every direction. “I want this one,” she said, pointing to the huge orange fish in the first tank. We talked her into the ones on sale four for five. We ended up with five or six odd fish, including one of those sucker ones, a water filter, and some decorative background paraphernalia. Thomas tried to sneak a little fish castle in, but I talked him out of it at the cash register, due to the fact that the fish bowl is tiny and he already bought ancient Roman ruins last week at Petsmart, home of ill-informed fish man. Of course Keziah asked about it when we got home. I played it off and her three year-old mind quickly switched over to playing dress-up.
I should mention that Rhino hung on for a while. Before we left for Meijer, I sang to her and told her to swim to the light. By the time we were home tonight she was totally gone. I haven’t asked what happened to Shard yet. But I know for sure if he hasn’t been flushed already, that he’ll spend the rest of his life alone. After we found Rhino nearly dead, Elias wanted to kill him with a knife. I questioned if this wasn’t a sign of something deeper, considering I remember that commercial for a psych hospital when I was little stating all the signs to watch out for in your disturbed child, including “harms animals.” But then it came to me that I kind of wanted to kill Shard too, just not with a knife. So then we went into the whole conversation of having grace on Shard, even though he was a viscous murderer and a potential serial killer.
Our house is still now, with our little bowl resting quietly on the top shelf of the bookshelf near the fireplace. The filter is bubbling and a whole slew of fish are swimming happily. If it weren’t for Rhino’s death, they would never know this bowl, complete with ocean landscape behind it. Sleep well new fishies. Shard is gone (although I still don’t know how “gone”) and you are free!
We found her little body all chewed up today. Her breathing had slowed and I knew she was nearing the end. The male who swam next to her I could tell had no remorse. He’d been after her since day one. I knew it on Thursday, the day after we got them, and a wave of guilt came over me as I watched “Rhino” (the name given her by Keziah, my three year-old) as her body tried desperately to come up from the sideways position that it was now defaulted to, as it lay at the top of the glass bowl, the bowl that was home to her for only five days. Until now.
Now she lay in a separate glass, as the vicious male swam happily in his own feces in the bowl. I thought she should at least spend her last minutes without the fear of all of her remaining fins being torn off by Mr. “Shard,” a name prophetically given by Elias on Wednesday when we bought him at Petsmart in Bloomington where the fish man told us you can put a male and female beta in the same bowl. Total nonsense obviously. My friend Laurie told me the same thing happened to her female. The fish people at Walmart said the same thing.
Keziah was a bit devastated, that is until she found out we would go out that very minute and buy her a new fishy. As we all discussed the state of Rhino, she kept telling us to stop talking about it. I guess denial is the first stage of grief. She never hit the other stages because within an hour she was standing in front of the endless fish tanks at Meijer with her little red balloon, waving it in front of the fish, watching as they scattered in every direction. “I want this one,” she said, pointing to the huge orange fish in the first tank. We talked her into the ones on sale four for five. We ended up with five or six odd fish, including one of those sucker ones, a water filter, and some decorative background paraphernalia. Thomas tried to sneak a little fish castle in, but I talked him out of it at the cash register, due to the fact that the fish bowl is tiny and he already bought ancient Roman ruins last week at Petsmart, home of ill-informed fish man. Of course Keziah asked about it when we got home. I played it off and her three year-old mind quickly switched over to playing dress-up.
I should mention that Rhino hung on for a while. Before we left for Meijer, I sang to her and told her to swim to the light. By the time we were home tonight she was totally gone. I haven’t asked what happened to Shard yet. But I know for sure if he hasn’t been flushed already, that he’ll spend the rest of his life alone. After we found Rhino nearly dead, Elias wanted to kill him with a knife. I questioned if this wasn’t a sign of something deeper, considering I remember that commercial for a psych hospital when I was little stating all the signs to watch out for in your disturbed child, including “harms animals.” But then it came to me that I kind of wanted to kill Shard too, just not with a knife. So then we went into the whole conversation of having grace on Shard, even though he was a viscous murderer and a potential serial killer.
Our house is still now, with our little bowl resting quietly on the top shelf of the bookshelf near the fireplace. The filter is bubbling and a whole slew of fish are swimming happily. If it weren’t for Rhino’s death, they would never know this bowl, complete with ocean landscape behind it. Sleep well new fishies. Shard is gone (although I still don’t know how “gone”) and you are free!
Jan 16, 2008
Kansas City
We are at C.O.P this week, also known as Candidate Orientation for those of you who, like me, dislike acronyms. It is basically training for the organization (Avant) we are going with to Italy. It has been an incredibly refreshing time these two weeks. For the first time in a few months, I have felt in my element. I'm so in sync with what these people are about, namely planting churches that are indigenous (led and owned by nationals and not us white folk...we are only facilitators and ministers of the gospel). I feel like I'm getting back to my roots of Christianity...the bare bones of telling unsaved people about Jesus, coming alongside of people whose hearts Jesus has already been drawing to Himself, and discipling those believers into community with one another, with the intention of them multiplying their growth and planting churches elsewhere, even to the ends of the earth.
Whew. It felt really good to write that. I'm so sorry for the wordiness. It's just that I have been stock-piling so much information and passion and because I'm around people who get this vision, I haven't been able to verbally express it. Perhaps now I'll have room in my brain for whatever else is in store these next couple of days.
Our kids are LOVING our time here, so much so that the minute they wake up they ask to go to their class (which is two doors down from our little hotel-like room). They are having a blast with kids their ages, most of which belong to a family who is on our team. This is very exciting to me and I so see God's hand in providing for our children's needs. Elias thrives on interaction with other kids. He also thrives on routine, which I have not been able to provide him these past few months. So the 8-5 routine here has brought out the best in him. Keziah thrives on getting her energy out in any shape or form, but is especially fond of the little girl here that is her age. They follow each other around, sneak candy out of the candy dish together, and play dress-up. I feel so blessed in this moment. I can't tell you how good it feels to know God has called us and that we are obeying Him. In this moment I am able to give Him my hopes and dreams and believe that His thoughts and ways are much higher than mine. However, I am also aware of the bad days that I so often have...how I so easily believe the lies that Jesus is showing me something really good just to get me excited...like someone holding a carrot in front of a rabbit and then not giving it to the poor rodent in the end. Nonetheless, today I feel that the gray lens of pessimism has been lifted and I'm abandoning all to my Father, who gives good gifts to His children.