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.
Nov 4, 2008
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.