The Perceived Suckiness of the Plans of God and Silencing the What-Ifs...

For years, October 30^th glared at me from the calendar.  Every day that approached was like another page turning in “The Monster at the End of This Book” (see THIS for more details—with pictures!).

This year, I’m not sure what’s different…Is it the pace of life? Is it the fact that physically, this year has left me feeling pretty spent (and marginally emotionally uninvested)? Is it the fact that I am finally, truly at peace with a clearer understanding that my daughter—who would be turning 9 this year—is, beyond the shadow of a doubt, with my Savior? 

I generally have my prayer time on my commute to work. I feel like I can have an unadulterated, uncensored, frighteningly-but-beautifully frank conversation with the Lord, free from pretense or interruption (with the glaring exception of the occasional eruption of road rage). This morning, we talked about Hannah…about the fact that my concrete beliefs that there is a Heaven, that Jesus is there, and that my daughter is with Him, are probably the only reason I have survived the loss of my firstborn. Without that knowledge, without knowing Him (in as broken of a way as I do), I would be lost. Even with that, there were days the despair was so heavy that I wanted to end it all. I will never, ever forget those days of darkness…there really is nothing like it. It’s like living in a state of suffocation…but not quite enough that you get the bliss of unconsciousness. It’s scary, because all you want is to be extinguished; however, your own faith keeps you from pulling the trigger yourself. You just pray that something else kills you (I can’t tell you how many times I prayed my heart would just explode). It’s the hardest thing a soul can go through…And we survived.

We made it (oh, the fear that goes into making that actual statement…there is no pride there, trust me. There is simply the acknowledgement and gratitude of the Spirit of God that kept us from self-destructing). I’m not sure how I didn’t off myself, or how David didn’t lock me up (or why he hasn’t as of today…I’m not ruling it out as a possibility at some point in my life, LOL), other than by the grace of God.  And how thankful am I, for that grace? If not for the grace of God…I wouldn’t be here. Jericho wouldn’t be here.

When I think of all of the joy that would be missing from the world, without that little boy…

God is good, y’all. He sustains us, even at our weakest, our most unlovable, our most vulnerable. He doesn’t walk away, even when we yell at Him in our anger. He doesn’t give up, even when we don’t want to breathe. He stays, even when we are unfaithful.

His ways are not our ways. His plans don’t make a lot of sense to us…and who are we, to think that they have to? I had a friend who recently said, “I’m sick of being told that God has a plan for all of this. If this is His plan, His plan SUCKS.”

After I took a few steps to the side, so as to avoid the proverbial lightning strike (God doesn’t really do that…I hope), I didn’t really say anything back to her. I just told her that I understood. It’s true…to us. Sometimes His plans just suck. Going into heart failure sucked.  It sucked, to lose my daughter. It sucked, when my husband lost his job. Those years of unemployment/underemployment? THEY SUCKED. Finding out I had cancer this summer? IT SUCKS. Do I think that God sits in Heaven, intentionally inflicting pain on His constituents? No…but I certainly think He uses it to draw us into Him. He takes these things…these results of living in a fallen world that hates His children…and He recognizes that they hurt. Jesus wept when His friend Lazarus died. He wept, even when He knew what was to come. He cried because it sucks when your friends die…even when You’re the Son of God. Jesus cried in the Garden of Gethsemane. Why? Because He knew what was to come…He knew it would hurt…He knew it would separate Him from His Father…and He knew it was gonna suck, BIG TIME. Sometimes, God’s plans just suck.

(It’s at this point that I recall how many times I got into trouble for saying something/someone totally sucked, in elementary-junior high-high school. Never really broke that habit.)

Even though things are arduous (fancy-talk for “sucky”), it’s only for a little while in the grand scheme of things. There is always, always, ALWAYS another side to the battle. There’s a break in the storm; even hurricanes eventually come to an end, although they seem insurmountable in the process. 

It WILL get better, because He is. HE IS.

We have that truth—the truth of The Great I Am. Sometimes, those two little words are all we can wrap ourselves around in the middle of the chaos…

I spent about an hour on the phone with my Mama the other day. She’s taught me a lot, and I feel like she’s lived a lot of life in a few years. I’m sure I’ve aged her a few decades on my own, although you’d never know it to look at her—she’s super snazzy!!!! I’d like to be more like her, when I grow up. We discussed the fact that this summer was pretty much a great big pile of poo. Seriously—getting cancer (albeit, “the good kind”) really trashed most of my plans. It took up all of my vacation time, rendered me unable to tend to my garden (big waste of $$), made me unable to really have too much fun (minus my concerts—those were a blast), and I am STILL dealing with trying to get my meds regulated. She took quite a bit of care of me and JD during that time; the emotional toll of being told mid-surgery that your child (even a grown-up child) has cancer is pretty great….even when it’s “the good kind” (that phrase!). If not for the ever-changing antics of JD (and my concerts), I’d like to forget most of this summer. So would my mother. She really took my diagnosis hard, and I think she still struggles with the aftermath. Every 6 months for the next 2 years, I will have tests; because of the high reoccurrence of this kind of cancer, I’ll probably have labs to monitor my thyroid levels for the rest of my life (also, to maintain the dosage of replacement medication that I have to take).  That’s a lot to ask of a person as a patient; I think it’s more to ask of that patient’s mother. My mom has held my hand through 10 of my 11 surgeries; it’s safe to say that this one was the hardest on her.  Cancer is a kind of chaos that requires clinging to “I Am.” Even the “good kind” of cancer wreaks havoc on a mother, when it’s her child. My mom really hit her knees through this process, and I know her prayers have been heard.

Mom and I talked about my fears and frustrations in our phone call. The change of seasons…grayer days…gloomy weather…the ever-approaching end of the month…It all affects me, emotionally and spiritually. I look for ways to escape; I find myself dealing with irrational fears. I don’t want to go anywhere; I just want my blanket and a fireplace screensaver on Netflix. I eat more, and I make bad choices. I’m more introspective and less social; I bake more, and channel my lack of adventure into a recipe book. The irrational fears are a problem. The “what ifs” go from a murmur in the back of my brain to a screaming chorus in my head that makes me paranoid about everything, and there is a daily battle to keep it in check. You could say that my natural crazy gets “turnt up,” and it’s a problem. Mom talked to me about prayer, and I said that I wondered if it’s the natural fear associated with Halloween that I’m subconsciously picking up on? She said it’s not…it’s this time of the year. She’s right.

Not having a birthday party to celebrate is a nagging constant in my brain and in my heart…I’d be lying if I didn’t admit that it hurts. This time of the year makes me more emotionally sensitive. I HAVE to disassociate; I have to unplug. I have to make myself stay off of Facebook for a few days; I have to stop reading the news (I think I need to do that, regardless of the time of the year). There are 29 days each fall where the clock is pounding in my head…where was I, what was I doing, what was Hannah doing? Only in the past 3 years has that improved, and that is honestly because having a toddler means that I don’t have time to climb down that rabbit hole. It’s an unfair pressure to say this about my son, but he has, in so many ways, pushed me to a different place of healing where Hannah is concerned. You simply, physically, cannot focus on the sadness and on what you missed, when there is a child that takes up most of your attention. Days become markers on the calendar, rather than the overwhelming emotional valleys. Life forces you to move through and walk forward, rather than stopping (notice I didn’t say “move on.” That’s another discussion).

That’s not to say there aren’t pauses, and that there aren’t moments where it hits…that there aren’t moments like this morning, where I wonder what would have been? What would she be like? I have no idea…

But I know what her brother is like.

And I suspect that had she made it…had she survived…he wouldn’t be here (we wouldn’t have tried again, because of the damage I sustained to my heart. I really don’t think David would have wanted to risk another pregnancy, and I think I would have been reluctant to, as well). God has a plan for that little boy that we have yet to have a clue toward…

I think the greatest way to celebrate Hannah’s birthday is to thank her…Having her, knowing what motherhood felt like, loving someone so strongly and having that blessing to hold in my arms, was the greatest gift I’ve ever been given outside of my salvation. She has an eternal impact on my life and on my soul, and I am grateful for the chance I had to hold her. My son is in no way, shape, or form, a replacement for her…but he IS a response to her. I knew that I knew that I KNEW that we were meant to be parents after Hannah died, and we pursued that dream until it became a reality…The reality known as Jericho.

What we have does not replace what was lost…and focusing on our present is the best way to honor the past.

So, on October 30^th, I’d like to say that the day will go on as mostly “normal:” David and I will both go to work; JD will go to daycare. We have a meeting scheduled that afternoon, and I may convince David to go out to dinner; otherwise, we will treat the day as any other. At the end of the day, though, I will get a candle out of our coat closet. It’s a Birthday Cake candle, made by a mother in Kentucky who lost her son. I light it one day a year, on Hannah’s birthday.  I will light that candle, and we will pause…we will hold our son a little tighter, and maybe keep the bedtime ritual a little more relaxed…We will kiss our boy, and we will be thankful for the love we have, for the grace of God, and for the beauty of knowing the peace of the Great I Am…We will marvel at the good, the bad, the sometimes-perceived “suckiness”, and the overall, misunderstood awesomeness of the plans of God….And we will cling to the verse that David chose as our wedding verse, because every year, it just becomes more and more clear that only He fully knows what He is doing; all we know is that we can rest in His plans because above all, He is a good God:

9. However, as it is written: “What no eye has seen, what no ear has heard, and what no human mind has conceived” the things God has prepared for those who love Him—I Cor. 2:9 (NIV)

TED Talks and parental guilt...

Time flies…

13 months ago, I gave birth to a beautiful baby boy…and I unknowingly got on this strange, crazy, incredible roller coaster of parenthood.

I mean, sure, people tell you it’s insanity…but you never realize it until it’s your turn. And once you’ve started it, there’s absolutely no looking back.

Not that I’d want to.

It’s terrifying-scary-amazing-wonderful-hilarious-trying-miraculous-and...all of the above.

And it teaches you just how much you truly have to rely on God for every breath.

I’ve also realized that nothing induces more guilt on you, than parenthood. I mean, seriously—every complaint that someone has about something you have, or every brag that you hear about something you don’t or couldn’t do—every little thing causes you to step back and say to yourself, “Oh, man…I don’t do it like that. Is there something wrong? Am I doing it wrong? AM I GOING TO TRAUMATIZE HIM FOR LIFE?!?!?!?”

I heard on a TED Talk that when you yell and scream at a baby/toddler, that it affects the part of the brain that controls impulses, that later on, leads them to turn into serial killers. And then I read that if you ignore your child (i.e., time-out), that it has the same effect on their brain as if you had physically abused them. So now, I’m like, freaking out about yelling at David in front of the baby—does it bother JD? I have to stop yelling—I mean, I’m a total yeller who was raised by yellers. It’s all we know; David is NOT generally a yeller, but I’ve kind of turned him into one…AM I TURNING MY SON INTO A SERIAL KILLER?!?!?!?!?!

I know, it sounds preposterous. But these are the paranoid ramblings of MEEEEE! And these are the things I worry about in the middle of the night…

And of course, there’s no yelling “at” JD at this point. There is, however, immediate separation if he does something like grab my glasses, while he’s sitting on my lap (with a firm “NO!”). There is also a firm “NO!” when he’s into something he’s not supposed to be, and the occasional tap on the hand (for the dangerous stuff), along with a quick pick-him-up-and-move-him. Distraction is the best form of correction, as discipline in any form is kind of pointless.

I’m a stress-yeller, and I have to stop it…I have to remove many words from my vocabulary, as he’s begun to repeat things (i.e., “Ball!” “Duck!”).  If he can say those things, I’m guessing he will learn to repeat several choice words that sound similar…and I need Jesus!!! So, language and tone are a definite work in progress, and trying to tell certain people in our lives to begin that process in THEIR lives is not going well…Ugh.

So, JD is standing now…he’s working on molars…he’s repeating words, and he fully understands his first complete sentence: “What’s this?”  Yep—he gets it! He even used it, in context, in front of the Parents As Teachers lady, who was totally impressed. Yep—he’s a genius, but not a freak-show-kind-of-genius. He’s a let’s-encourage-this-but-stay-normal kind of genius. He doesn’t have any food allergies that we know of (praise GOD!) and he eats anything he can get his hands on. We took our time introducing “regular” foods, and are just now starting to give him actual meals instead of pureed food. He’s independent; he’s able to spot something, get it, focus on it and play with it, and get into whatever he wants. I love how he surveys a room, picks someone or something, stares them down, and eventually, rewards them with a smile. He’s quite popular wherever he goes, and I find myself becoming increasingly protective.  

Can I just keep him in a bubble? This world is overwhelming…endless stories of abuse, kidnapping, drugs—I barely want to step outside, as an adult. I understand my parents’ protectiveness so much more; thank God I was raised in a world that didn’t have the Internet! We’re ALREADY talking about computer privacy issues, and he’s not even walking yet!!!! JD is fascinated with our phones and tablets, even though we don’t let him play with them; they make toys that hold your phone in them, and interact with apps!! ALREADY!!

There are little boys in my neighborhood that play football in the backyard.

That’s what I want…

Play in the backyard; ignore the TV. Make friends in person, not on Facebook. Play baseball, football, soccer…play with the dog or go fishing with Auntie.

The world has presented a platter of fears that my brain just wants to feast on…drugs, violence, crime…How do I prevent any of it from touching my son? He’s the joy of my heart; I can’t even look at his picture without smiling. I want to preserve his innocence forever…but reality is bigger than me.

But it’s not bigger than God.

Raising a child, I’m learning, takes more trust in God than I ever thought…I have to believe that the One Who gave him to us, will take care of him…that He will teach us how to raise him in a Godly way, in a truthful, holy way…I have to trust that our motives and our directions are anchored firmly in His Word and in His plan. Faith outweighs fear, and I believe that…I believe that He holds us, regardless of where we are in life: brand-new and shiny, or old codgers waving canes…

The roller-coaster of parenthood has one consistent track throughout the twists and turns: Jesus. He doesn’t change or fade; He doesn’t leave us hanging. Both Rescuer and Challenger, He sends us out to walk on the ocean…to live in a restless, turbulent world…and He asks us to simply believe He will save us.

My son belongs to Him…my husband belongs to Him…And, because I believe Him, I belong to Him.

The world tells me that I’m messing everything up…it constantly undermines my decisions or tells me I’m not good enough. Jesus takes my pennies of faith, and He moves mountains with them. He takes my mustard seeds, and He uses them to somehow implant faith and hope into my son. He takes my prayers…my tiny, quick, conversations with Him…and He invests it into my marriage, my home, and my family.

Thirteen months ago, out of the very center of my being, came the fruition of years of prayer, tears, and love…He gives us what we need to raise this child for Him. The world can have their research, their lectures, and their materials. I have the Word of God, and it tells me that He’s got this.

That’s all I need to know…

Educating the Tiny Human in the Light of the Big, Scary "F"

There are things that as a parent, I have to wonder about even now. My little guy won’t see kindergarten for a long time, but when he gets there, what will he encounter?

One of the programs at my office exists to help children with learning issues. Some of these issues are related to vision; some are related to processing, and some are related to motivation. Although it’s foreign to me, some kids just don’t like to read.

That is one of my worst fears for my son.

Books opened up my universe. They expanded my imagination, they blew the doors off of my house. Books were my escape. To this day, I hate getting rid of books (even if it’s just to download the electronic version of the same story); I tell my husband, “But they’re my friends!!”  He laughs at me.  He didn’t have the same experiences I had growing up. He didn’t have a teacher that read to him every single day, or a parent that made sure the homework got done. I had teachers who hugged me and challenged me to do more, be more, read more, see more—I set records for books that I’d read, and when it came time to take those pesky ACTs, my reading comprehension score more than made up for my paltry math score.

Too bad I don’t get to read for a living!!!

Anyway, one of my current job responsibilities involves processing the outside medical records before the attending doctor reviews the chart. In doing so, I frequently come across schoolwork, and it almost always makes me emotional.  Today, page after page with a huge, red-lined, circled “F” marked the pages on this little person’s work. 

My heart breaks for this one.

Actually, my heart breaks for a lot of them, but this one stands out.  I understand the need for a grading system. I understand why that big, red “A” on my papers made me smile; I remember the pride of the gold star. And maybe it’s different for some kids—maybe they don’t mind the big, red “F.” Maybe they don’t feel the sting, the humiliation, the sense of worthlessness. Maybe they’re used to it.

I’m not.

Being branded with an “F” is the earliest kind of bullying, to me. It’s the earliest form of the destruction of self-esteem…it’s the earliest form of belittling, of knowing that you don’t measure up.

I had a year in school, during which I did my homework , but I didn’t turn it in. I can’t remember if it’s the same year my parents were married, or if it was the year before; I know my teacher was Mrs. Gately, and that she was kind. I also can’t remember if that was the year we first realized that I couldn’t see the blackboard? All I know, is that I got my first “D” on my report card, and I literally wanted to kill myself. Seriously.  My little world ended.

I was out on the playground, and I was so distraught that I stupidly dropped myself through the monkey bars. In doing so, my head went backwards, and I smacked it on one of the bright, yellow bars. Right between my pigtails.

I’ll never forget how much that hurt; I didn’t black out, and I didn’t cry; I was so shocked that all I said was “Ow!”  I don’t believe the latchkey worker noticed how badly I was hurt. I remember my mother’s face, when she saw the back of my head later that evening, and that she immediately got on the phone with someone who got a verbal beat-down. I remember the enormous knot on the back of my head, and I remember my mother not caring about my “D.”

I didn’t get into trouble. All she cared about was my head.

That’s one moment in my childhood that shines brightly, in feeling that my mom understood me—that she thought I was important because of who I was, not because of my grades.  I didn’t get another bad grade until high school, and it was legitimate. I was doing all of my work; I was simply lost in pre-calculus. Intensive tutoring brought that grade from a “D” to an “A” in one quarter, and my grades remained good until my Freshman year of college, when a social life became my Waterloo…but I digress.

I’ll never forget that first “D.” I was crushed and scared of being punished. I knew I could do the work—I just didn’t feel like turning it in. I have, to this day, no idea why I didn’t turn my work in. Not a clue. But I remember that grade, and the dread that went with it.

Do these children feel that? My heart breaks for the child that gets beaten down with the big, red, circled “D” or “F.” Do they understand the importance of the grades? More than that, do they understand that they are worth so much more than a letter on a page? Do they have parents that love them enough to challenge them, and understand them enough to know when to back down or when to get help?

This is making me re-think the education of my child. How will we approach it? How will we approach the bad grade, or the good grade? Will we succeed in teaching him that his grades do not define him; however, the work ethic he learns while pursuing academic excellence, will follow him throughout his life?

I hope he loves to read…

I hope he loves to learn…

If the big, scary, red letter “F” ever dares to appear on his schoolwork, I hope that he feels it…but not too much. I hope that it does bother him, because I want him to want better…but I want it to be for him, and not for me. I don’t want him to seek the “A” for “Mom’s Approval.” I want him to chase the “A” and find joy in not only the achievement, but in the quest. It’s a treasure hunt, of sorts, and I want him to see the fun of it.

I don’t believe in Outcome-Based Education. I don’t believe that everybody wins, and that everybody should get a medal for participating. Sometimes, my son will win; sometimes, he will lose. I hope that every time, he tries—to me, that’s the most important thing. I want him to understand competition, success, failure; but I don’t want him to be defined by it. If he tries, if he puts his heart into it and does his best, then I don’t care about the letter on the paper. If that little heart that tried so hard is crushed by the big, scary letter “F,” though, I may have to confront a teacher. I don’t believe any child that tries their hardest deserves an “F.” “D,” perhaps. But if they’ve tried, they haven’t failed; it’s only when they roll over and give up that the letter “F” is appropriate. That’s a failure.

I have so much to learn as a parent, and even more to learn as my son’s primary educator. May my biggest goal always be to teach him to love to be taught; to always reach for the next level; to keep trying until he gets it; and that the journey to education is a prize, in and of itself…May his heart never be frightened into apathy by the big, scary, red letter “F”…May his failures only serve to motivate success…and may we as parents be an encouraging, sometimes driving, force…