Jun 10, 2012 | The Good Word, The Parenthood
It’s after nine on a Saturday night. The Hubs is out second shooting at a wedding. The house is quiet and still. I stare at the walls, the screen, knowing I need to stop working. My soul needs to be still. I keep going, tidy rooms one by one, find myself rearranging things in our bedroom. I’m avoiding getting quiet in my soul, though I know that’s where I need to be, and I hear the softest cry from down the hall:
I’m thirsty…
I’m thirsty…
I tiptoe to the door, sleeping baby curled neatly in his crib, and whisper past him toward the boy on the other side of the room, a gentle:
Come.
He is quick to throw off the sheets, tip toe out of the room, us together, quietly down the hall.
Is Daddy back yet?
No, my darling, he is still going to be gone until later.
It’s bright in here.
He squints.
I watch him eagerly drink and drink — it was no ploy to sneak from bed, he was a thirsty little soul.
He hands the juice cup back to me, well quenched.
I love you, Mama.
I love you, my boy.
I’ll see you in the morning.
Okay, my boy, I’ll walk you back to bed.
My heart feels soft and sore — these are the sweet and gentle moments that cause me to take off my shoes. Hard as parenthood may be, these are the whispers that make it worth it.
I reflect afterwards and realize, I have regularly been frustrated with this child. Perhaps scolding more than savouring. I remember this moment, well over a year ago — it was just him and me. The Hubs captured him after a nap, gently resting on my shoulder, comfortably sinking into me, pregnant and full of expectation. Seems it was easier to savour moments then.
And life right now seems more out of control. A deadline looms. A dishwasher stops, seems broken, I research dishwashers for an afternoon, sighing to think about spending money for a new one, we discover the breaker had tripped and the dishwasher is fine. My to-do list is growing instead of shrinking. I put off my first prenatal appointment because it is a reminder that I’m not in control. I’m not in control of who this new child will be — boy or girl, a small baby or a big one, easy or tough, an early arrival or a late one (though I trust for perfect timing.)
A few mornings before, I learned a prayer of mine and of many wasn’t answered the way we wanted. A family said goodbye to their Dad, husband, the night before his daughter’s birthday, the day of her high school graduation. He went the night before.
My Dad calls with the news and we both cry. I hang up the phone and long for control. I try to remember how marvelous the mysteries of God are, but they seem like bitter water.
Like the Israelities who wandered in the desert, thirsty and wandering. Out of control. They found waters, called them Marah. They were bitter waters. The Israelites complained. Moses prayed. The Lord showed him a tree, he cut it down and cast it into the waters, and then the waters were sweet. {Ex. 15}
Spurgeon said:
For suppose Marah had been sweet, then, Moses had not prayed to God, and then the tree had not been cut down, and they had never known the power of God to sweeten bitter waters. It must be an awful thing to live an unafflicted life on earth. You say it must be a very delightful thing. I have no doubt it may be from some aspects; but a person who has had no sickness, how can he have a sympathetic heart? What service can he render in cheering the people of God? If you never had any trials, I should suppose, unless something very extraordinary happened, that you would become harsh, and untender; I am afraid some would grow brutal, coarse, hard of heart. Who wishes, where others have to suffer, to claim an immunity from a blessing which brings rich consolations with it, and works eternal benefits? Beloved, this is ever one thing that sweetens Marah that it afterwards bringeth forth the comfortable fruits of righteousness. Our trials are not sent to us alone and by themselves; there is a quantum suff. grace sent with them, by which they are made available as means to sanctify us, and make us meet to be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light.
This is a part of the mystery revealed: God turns bitter to sweet. There is so, so much blessing in the process.
The Tree the Saviour hung on: the Cross, it is the tree that turns all the waters of life from bitter to sweet. The hope that this isn’t all there is, the best it yet to come. All who are thirsty, come.
But me — here, feeling out of control, I have not been thirsty. I have not wanted to drink. I have not wanted to taste and see God’s goodness. I might continue finding time here and there to read His Word — but I play it safe, and I don’t pray a prayer that will give Him a chance to answer. Would He tell me to relax? Would He tell me to be still? Would He tell me to trust?
I think so.
All of that would remind me that I am not in control.
Seems safer not to pray.
I hang up the phone with my Dad — that news fresh in my ears, my soul spins. I see a bug in the bathroom, and I spray it with whatever I can find on hand. Air freshener. Hair spray. Body splash. I don’t want to leave the room to find something to end this bug’s life — it might get away while I’m gone. I would not be in control.
HH comes to see how close I am to ready, it’s his turn to shower. I am crying and there is a bug in the bathtub, but it is not dead. I am not in control. Not even of this.
I think back to all this after giving a thirsty child a drink. I realize my frustration with this boy has more to do with me than I want to admit.
Sometimes I hide when I don’t like how things are going. Sometimes I curl up to avoid the reality that I’m not in control.
I hide from God and ignore how thirsty my soul is. I let the cares of this world steal my joy. I let fear about the future make me sad.
Childlike faith — being willing to trust God, to thank Him, to listen for His voice and obey His leading — this is where joy comes from. I am lacking in joy because I am lacking in Him. Not going to the only waters — and sweet, sweet waters they are, that can quench my soul-thirst.
The glorious truth rings true again: but if from there.
I’m reminded that honesty is good. I can be real with God. No matter where I am, if from there I seek Him, I’ll find Him. And there is no sense in me, the diseased, so desperately in need of Him, the Cure, to try to stay away.
Have you ever sat for a long time — hard at work, busy with something — and then suddenly realized you are very, very thirsty? And you go and get yourself a drink, and you marvel a bit at how silly it was, you sitting there not drinking when something to quench your thirst was so nearby. You drink and it is so good. So refreshing.
He has that for our souls. And even the softest cry — like a child who has long been in bed and suddenly realizes he is in need of a drink — will not go unanswered.
When I closed the door, my heart was so warm, after kissing that boy goodnight. He was thirsty. It took me a while longer to realize that I was thirsty, too.
xCC
Jun 8, 2012 | The Parenthood
I interrupt this quiet moment of not posting anything on the blog because we are running around like chickens to get the gallery together and the boys are acting crazy and the dishwasher just packed up to give you my favourite photo of the week.
Here ’tis.
I just love it. Love it.
That’s all I wanted to share. Back to running around…
Have a great weekend!
xCC
May 25, 2012 | The Parenthood
Among the multitude of privileges I’m enjoying, this parenthood gig is consistently giving me food for thought at the Faith table. Pull up a chair and dig in to the latest musing, if you like. It all started with this unusual, unexpected fork in the road that I like to call Being the Parent of More than One Kid. Now in my mind, and yours if you’re anything like me, Parenthood Part Two is the round where you get kind of excited about being a parent, and a little less afraid, because hey, you’ve already got one kid and he’s almost made it to his fourth birthday so maybe you’ve got some things right, right?
And you figure — no worries, kid #2, we’ll just do with you the same stuff we did with kid #1. It worked the first time around, so it’ll definitely work again, right?
Here’s the invitation to those of you who find occasional hand pops and bottom pops an offensive method of discipline for parenting to leave before you get mad at me and never want to come back. First enjoy this happy picture and then you can head out…
{One little shot from the wedding in the bush…more to come!}
Are you still here?
Think it through. I’m not trying to hurt anyone’s feelings.
Okay. If you’re sticking with me, don’t say I didn’t warn you.
In my personal experience, I found that with child number one, also affectionately referred to ’round these parts as the Bear, a little pop on the hand went a very long way. Once I could clearly tell that the Bear understood the difference between yes and no, and understood my intentions or HH’s intentions when we said No, we thoughtfully and purposefully decided that hand pops were about to be part of the equation.
Basically, in our experience, we found that a child who is too young to be reasoned with can still understand cause and effect. Bear, don’t touch that stove it’s hot and it could burn you and that would hurt availeth little, whereas, Bear, no, do not touch that stove. Do not touch that stove. Bear touches the stove even though he is clearly aware that he has been instructed not to, and gets a hand pop. Bear learns to listen, that there are consequences for not listening and not to touch the stove. (Obviously we aren’t letting our kids touch hot stoves to learn lessons, this is just an example.)
Fast forward a couple of years and another pregnancy and a nine minute delivery, it’s Tiger Tank’s turn to learn that No means No. {Which sure is hard for this Mama who just thinks her boys are the best thing since bacon-covered cherries and doesn’t really want to admit that they ever even need to hear the word No.} One little Mr. Double T has taken a special interest in the keyboard that sits in front of the desktop computer in our family room.
That keyboard cannot be moved far enough away from Double T’s hands. If it is too far away, {or too far late, as the Bear would reference a place or thing at some distance} #2 will find some sort of object — toothbrush, pencil, hammer — with which to reach those inviting little keys, so that he can gently tap? — oh no, amigo, violently bang on them.
I have observed this precious little creature, repeatedly listen and obey the word No on numerous occasions, but this blooming keyboard is just too blooming intriguing. He can’t stay away. And we use this keyboard throughout the day, every day, so moving it is not a viable option.
Some folks baby proof their house, but to a certain extent, we lean towards house-proofing our baby.
We have observed that the word No becomes of little consequence when it is not backed by some consequences. But Double T thinks hand pops are funny about half the time, so they are of little consequence.
And all this indirection is finally leading to direction: On Jet-Lag Saturday, while bless his heart, the Hubs was shooting a wedding on a hope, a prayer and a coffee, I was at home with the boys. And the more wee of the two kept finding a way to climb a stool, or seemingly thin air, to reach, and pound, on the keys of the keyboard. His precious chubby thigh got an unhappy tapping. He was removed from the situation.
He returned.
He banged.
His didn’t listen to the consistent No’s and warnings.
He precious chubby thigh got an unhappy tapping.
He was removed from the situation.
He returned.
He banged.
Twice more, this pattern continued. A none-the-wiser wee lad drawn like a moth to a flame, his brother just hoping he would chill out so he could enjoy Little Einsteins in peace, and me, immediately thinking — aren’t they all pre-programmed to respond to this stimulus with the same response?
Stimulus! Response! Stimulus, response! My ninth grade biology teacher reiterates between my ears.
Mayhaps this child is a different species entirely.
And that is where the lesson rang true.
Have you ever expected God to do the same thing for you that He has done for everybody else? Ever thought “Where are my rewards?” “Where are my well-done-good-and-faithful tokens of appreciation?”
If she has a husband, why don’t I?
If they have children, why don’t we?
If everything they ever wear comes from Banana Republic and White House Black Market, why must my budget limit me to Target and Old Navy?
Where’s my new house, sweet job, swish car, posh clothing, fill in the blank?
What if this difference is because we believers are children of the same Father — and He’s the One who knows us best?Â
I was certainly hoping our second son would sleep as nicely as the first did. Drink from a bottle without a hassle and be easy to wean. Respond quickly to discipline and learn No when it was time to learn it. But our second son is just that — our second son. Not our first. Not the Bear. Not cautious like the Bear at this age. Not calm and easily entertained like the Bear at this age. Basically, not easy like the Bear at this age.
Because the Tiger is not the Bear.
And trusting in grace to show me how, I will learn the ways of the Tiger. And instead of trying to make fair about doing things with the second the way I did them with the first, I see the glory in rather focusing on what is right for this child. I am allowed to let go of that pesky, unreasonable fairness expectation. I’m allowed to ask What is the best decision for Tiger Tank? — regardless of what the best decision was in a different country, with different circumstances, for a different kid, two and a half years ago.
Somehow I forgot this lesson, and I was thinking fair was about doing things the same way for each kid — and here is this blatantly obvious epiphany, an iridescent lightbulb, suddenly a ding and pop, just above my noggin — Oh yeah! Same isn’t necessarily best. Fair isn’t necessarily same. In this parenting gig, a path of individual decisions based on an understanding of the child, an understanding of the circumstances awaits me.
The Truth in the Word remains the same, and I trust God to guide us through this adventure. I see now — the Father who knows what’s best for each of us, even though it isn’t an equal distribution of resources, husbands, and clothing from Banana Republic. He is our Father, and in His infinite wisdom, He has chosen something other than what we might call fair.
Since the Saturday of the epiphany, Tiger Tank has begun responding to No again. It almost seems as if his digression from expected behavior was really an opportunity for me to learn a lesson. Our usual methods are bearing fruit, but I am now more watchful, more keen to observe, more willing to take hold of the reality that round 2 is very likely to look completely different from round 1, and that’s okay.
Will he give up the binker/pacifier/dummy at 18 months without a fuss?
Will he potty train at 2 and 1/2 with the simple incentive of smarties/M&Ms?
Does it really matter? If we can help this little one become the man he was created to become, everything else is secondary.
And could the Father also have that glorious goal in mind: each of us, doing all the good things He created us to do and planned ahead for us? {Eph. 2:10} Could the bumps and turns and twists and dips in our individual road maps actually be a part of His progress? His way of helping us grasp His goodness, grab hold of the Jesus who gave His life for us, gain access to the life that is hidden in Him? {Col. 3:3}
Each of my children, are different, like me, and I’m convinced that you can’t love anybody without really loving them the way they are, meeting them where they are. And the God-who-sees knows better than anyone else where each of us is.
 xCC
May 21, 2012 | A Repat, The Parenthood
We survived the journey and thank heavens we’re home. {And what do you think about the look around here by the way? Do you “get” what the red and blue stripes are supposed to be about? Please don’t say a barber shop. There are still some more tweaks for me to sort out but I didn’t want to go too wild and have you show up and think you’d lost me and someone else had taken over.}
Jet lag isn’t helping me focus on talking about one thing at the time. Sorry. The journey. Thursday night was the worst night of travel we have probably ever experienced. And honestly, it wasn’t that bad. Although the Hubs referred to it as a night from the bad place. British Airways kind of let me down. I’ve always loved them and been impressed with their service and happy when it works out for us to fly with them. But this time around, tweren’t so. Nuh-uh, it just tweren’t.
{Saturday’s instagram of the mega-tired, jet-lagged, teary-eyed, temporarily-happy-with-an-animal-cracker baby}
Would you believe that all the lighting on the place was functioning properly except for a broken sidelight directly above our seats on the plane? Now please note I’m not talking about a teency lil’ reading light. I’m talking about those bright mamajamas they turn on when it’s time for you to wake up at an unnatural hour for breakfast, because it’s really dark and 3 am but you’re headed for a new time zone and they won’t be ready to land on time if they don’t serve you your breakfast now.
So everybody’s lights were doing just fine until dinner had been served and duty free had been hollered about, and the lights were finally dimmed for sleep, and we discovered this tragic matter of disrepair while poor Blakey who had managed to sleep in the bassinet and survive all the flight attendants who just weren’t interested in using a quiet voice when they came to speak to us even though they could see his tiny little self sleeping. right. there… poor Blakey stirred at some point for some {noisy cart getting slammed into place in the galley} reason, and he woke to a nice bright light shining down on him, and we took turns trying to settle him down and I think the Hubs managed like three hours later.
But he never slept in that little bassinet again for the rest of the flight, because, ya know, a glorious luminescent sunshine was beaming in his wee face. And mine too since I was seated by the window. And the Hubs, too because even though he was on the aisle, that thing was bright.
{And in case you’re wondering, yes, we were the only family with two kids on the whole plane, seated there beneath a broken light trying to settle a wide-eyed sleepy baby while everyone else slept soundly. Ya jerks! Yes, we did think about breaking the light. I may have punched the plastic surrounding it with my fist. Twice. No, we weren’t allowed to cover it up somehow (fire hazard.) Yes, the Bear who can hibernate at any time did sleep through the whole night anyway (thank heavens.) And no, they could {would?} not change our seats. And yes, we do think a flight attendant fibbed to us about whether this had been a problem before. And. to top it off, the food was lousy. That never happens with BA!}
We had a shorter layover in London than we thought, so we just took our time collecting our lion-tired selves and changing terminals. When we told the Bear we were in London again, he said, “No we’re not! This is Gordon’s Bay!” I suppose he was confused.
The next flight just seemed really long, even though it was shorter, because it was a day time flight and there wasn’t much napping happening (although the Hubs has a magic touch for getting babies to sleep on airplanes — reason #684, why the Hubs is a Hero, and Blakey slept beside him for a while.) Another little girl who was on the flight played with the boys for a while and the Bear called some friends we made who were seated behind us and moving from the UK to the Carolinas his new pals. Very sweet.
After a taxi ride to get our car and a two hour drive, my Dad and Claudia came to the rescue, meeting us with food at our house. After the boys went to bed, we pretty much collapsed. And (#685) the Hubs got up Saturday morning to drive to New Bern and shoot a wedding. And he didn’t get home till after half past one. Meanwhile, it was all I could do to unpack the dishwasher and keep the boys from causing themselves bodily harm for a day.
I am dizzy a lot.
Off to the first of his last three days of preschool (summer break) went the Bear this morning. The Tank is taking morning naps like his life depends on it right now. And I am washing Mama Africa’s red dirt and rough sand out of the boys’ clothing, and rejoicing when it doesn’t quite come out of their socks, because I want it to still be there, be with us.
A visit to the gallery I need to tell you more about is ahead of us today. I am planning to get our house in order, one room and one day at a time. {Close your eyes if you come over.} And the Hubs is doing what he does best — juggling a task list a mile long, spinning thirty-seven plates in the air, and still managing to love the boys and me like a champ.
I’m starting to feel settled, and hopeful, and it’s good, very good, to be lowercase-h home.
xCC
Apr 30, 2012 | Stories, The Good Word, The Parenthood
It occurred to me at around 11 pm, holding a tired and jet lagged baby, just next to his little sleeping tent. He didn’t want to be rocked, he didn’t want milk. He didn’t want a song or a back rub. He definitely did not want an explanation — this is an unfamiliar place, but Mommy and Daddy are right down the hall, brother is in the room, the surroundings will feel more familiar soon, with some good sleep you’ll feel better in the morning. Can you say waste. of. breath. Not a cuddle or a stroll or a late night snack–
He just wanted to be held.
I had plenty of time to think about it, since it was my turn, sitting there doing the holding, and it occurred to me that perhaps we all feel that way sometimes.
When a friend of mine has a problem though, I’m not very good at that holding. I’m more of a come-up-with-solutions or let’s-look-on-the-bright-side kind of friend. What-can-I-do-to-help-fix-it and what-are-the-perfect-words-for-this-situation and how-can-we-solve-this-in-a-thirty-minute-phone-conversation.
But I remembered in the dark there at 11 pm, Job — declared righteous and good by the Lord — sitting in ashes and bemoaning the loss of his health, his livelihood, his family. And I remembered his friends — who just sat with him for seven days because they saw he was in so much pain. They held his problem by being present.
But once they started opening their mouths at least half of what they had to say was useless. He didn’t deserve the lot that befell him — somehow inside God’s sovereignty, it just happened. The long diatribes and arguments were a waste of breath.
And the best thing they did turned out to be the thing they did right at the start — the being present in the midst of the suffering. The holding.
Maybe this holding is a good thing for me: learning that where my pride would rather do -Â the simple act of being present can be more valuable than a heap of well-put-together words. Whether we’ve been alive sixty days or sixty weeks or sixty years, there are times when we just need to be held — held in the presence of God, and held by one another.
But we who pace in front of the microwave struggle with this concept: the truth that sometimes time is a big part of the answer. There are problems that can’t be solved in a day. There are issues that aren’t resolved with the right words. Questions that aren’t answered by Google. The things we like to call opportunities in disguise — it takes time to unravel those costumes.
The best stuff in life can’t be ordered at a drive-thru.
We can plant, we can water, but time — there has to be time for the blooming.
I pondered all this until tired baby was well-enough asleep for me to gently lay him down again. Can we learn again this long-forgotten way of being? To simply sit in the presence, in the arms of our good Father — not needing words, not begging answers, not hollering for something to change about the situation — could I trust enough to just be held? To be still and know?
And can we be the type of people who are willing to hold one another? In prayer, in presence, knowing how love is sometimes spelled?
It’s peaceful inside the room as I close the door behind me. I’m amazed to think my presence — just being there — was enough.
xCC
Mar 27, 2012 | The Good Word, The Parenthood
One of the most delightful moments of the day these days is the moment when the Hubs, the Bear and I are piled into our bed at bedtime. The Tiger is already down for the night, and the Bear gets to choose two or three stories from his Children’s Bible for us to read. It’s such a peaceful and quiet time, and, being honest, I am usually thankful that it’s the Bear’s bedtime, and my own bedtime is not too far away.
Sometimes the Bear “reads” one of the stories himself, and when that’s the case you can count on him choosing the story of David and Juh-liath. He pretty much has it memorized, although it’s a slightly abbreviated version of the story. He emphasizes the things he finds most important like the fact that Juh-liath was nine feet tall, like Da-da, and that the stone landed in Juh-liath’s forehead before that Da-da-sized giant fell down.
Hearing this precious abbreviated version of the story has breathed new life into it for me. And even if it’s told with sentences that are no more than six words long on pages that are mostly full of pictures, you could still write a book about the beautiful life lessons to be gleaned from the story.
“You’re only a boy…”
Take this moment for instance — the moment when David tells Saul he’s going to fight Goliath. The Bear always remembers this key phrase — Saul’s response to David’s willingness to take on a fight no one else in the army was willing to stand up to — “You’re only a boy! How can you fight Goliath?”
You might remember David’s brave and valiant response: “God will help me.”
And isn’t it amazing that a boy like David understood what no one else saw, even though Israel’s army had been hiding from the giant for days, and had plenty of time to think about it?
David understood that God just needed someone willing to fight — the battle was the Lord’s!
Have you ever thought that maybe we just need to be willing to stand up and face our giants and God can give us the victory?
“He tried them on, but they were too heavy.”
Picture a boy with a helmet covering his eyes, a sword and a shield weighing him down. Saul gave David his armor, helmet, and sword. David tried them on — but they were too heavy.
People will tell you to fight the way they think you should. Sometimes one of our biggest battles is learning to live out the Gospel in a world that would rather we focus on being comfortable and complacent. A world that would rather we spend money on ourselves, stay focused on being good consumers. And even the people who are a part of our army — even our brothers and sisters in the Lord — might (with good intentions) hasten us to take it easy, be safe, or provide an excuse for why we don’t need to step up and obey the calling of God on our hearts.
We cannot win our battles wearing other people’s armor. The Hubs would never have won a race in the pool if he tried to swim in someone else’s lane. Look at the boundary lines God has placed around you, fight the way you were made to fight, and watch how our redeeming God uses the things that look like limitations to bring Him more glory.
“So he picked the five stones from the water.”
Goliath had a sword. David had a slingshot. I’ve heard he picked up five stones because Goliath had four brothers. Out in the fields, tending the sheep, David didn’t learn much about wielding a sword — but he did know how to use a slingshot. And that was all God needed.
Remember when God dwindled Gideon’s army from thousands of men to just 300? Or when Moses was afraid to speak up because of a speech impediment? Isn’t it the way of the Lord — to use the weak things of the world to shame the strong? (1 Cor. 1:27} And isn’t it glorious?
“This battle is the Lord’s.”
Here we are — back where we started. With a young boy who believed what no one else would. God could’ve used the army — they could’ve defeated the giant together — but they were unwilling to come out from their tents and face him. But here comes this ruddy shepherd-boy, certain that the Philistines are no match for the God of Israel, certain that if he is only willing to stand up, the victory is secure.
What made David so certain of that victory? When all his older brothers backed down — it was as if he knew he was born to stand up. I think his declarations of faith throughout the story make it clear where the bravery came from. “God will help me.” “This battle is the Lord’s.”
“David trusted God.”
Although he might forget the couple of sentences that follow, the Bear remembers this one: David trusted God. The story ends:
David trusted God.
God helped David win.
All the people were glad.
And in the last illustration, the giant is lying on the ground and David is standing, arms stretched heavenward.
In our own lives, the enemy might send out his best troops to fight us. And the enemy might look bigger, stronger, faster (and even hairier) than you or me. But the truth is it doesn’t matter what the enemy looks like — we know that if God is for us, no one can stand against us! If God finds a heart willing to stand up for the things that matter to God, you can be sure the results will never be less than glorious.
Are you willing to face your giants and forget your limitations? {And do you believe in a limit-less God?}
xCC
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