Jonathan's birthday

Twenty-three years ago, on this day, I was giving birth to my fourth child, my beautiful brown-eyed boy.

It took me four tries to get a brown-eyed baby, but finally he arrived, the baby who looked like the baby I'd always imagined, the baby who resembled some of the old baby pictures of me.

Our babysitter, Debi, was with the other three kids, who were five (almost 6), four, and two (almost 3).

Jonno was the only one of our babies who was actually born at The Birthplace, that calmer, homier facility adjacent to the hospital.  It has since been shut down, in favor of keeping all births closer to emergency technology in case of complications.

Oddly, I don't remember much about leaving for the hospital, but it was sometime Saturday evening.

The Birthplace had regular beds, not hospital beds.  They were covered with quilted bedspreads.  It was all done in homey florals, with wallpaper borders and golden oak rocking chairs.  Today's homebuyers would sigh at the hopelessly out-of-date decor, nothing gray, nothing white, nothing stainless steel.  I think the idea was to escape a clinical, antiseptic look.  Personally, I thought it was charming, and comforting.

I took a bath while I was laboring.  They had a bathtub, and I tried to relax in a warm bath.

By Sunday morning, I was tired, and the labor continued.

In all my deliveries, I never had an urge to push.  I didn't ever dilate much past 8 cm, either.  I'd just get to 8 cm, and then it would stay there.  In the first three deliveries, they finally told me to push, even though I was only measuring 8 cm.  I did, and it was hard, and it hurt a lot.  It takes a lot of mental fortitude to push, inflicting that kind of pain on yourself, when you don't have any urge to push.

Finally, when Laura was born, (my third time around), I asked for a shot of novocaine (xylocaine?) at the point of exit.  This helped immeasurably.  So, I approached Jonathan's birth with the expectation that I would again have a shot of novocaine, for much needed help and relief in the final moments before birth.

However, I also hoped that I would develop an urge to push this fourth baby out.  I'd read everything about birth that I could find, and all the authors assured me that if one is patient and gives nature a chance, the body will eventually heave the baby out of its own volition.

At about 10:30 a.m. on Sunday morning, August 27, 1995, after something like 14 hours of laboring at the hospital, no sleep, and no food, I sat in a golden oak rocking chair and cried with exhaustion.

My midwife came in and told me that we could put an end to this dreary business, if I would just only push.  So I finally agreed to get on the bed and exert myself.  I said, "Can I please have a shot of novocaine, so I will not be so afraid?"

She said, "No.  It's still too early.  You will tear if we give you novocaine right now."

The bed was flatter than a hospital bed.  It didn't crank up into a supportive sitting position, nor did it have arms that flipped down for me to grab.  I sort of missed the hospital beds I'd had for my other three deliveries.

Meanwhile, Debi had taken the other three kids to church.  Everybody at church knew I was having a baby.  They prayed for us.  Jonathan's birth was covered by the corporate Sunday morning prayers of our church.

I told my midwife that I didn't want to push until I had a shot of numbing local anesthetic.  I told her I was afraid to push without that shot.  She told me I had to push until the baby's head crowned, and then she would give me the shot.

I was unhappy, but I complied.  I pushed until his head crowned.

"There's your baby's head!" she cheered.  "Do you want a mirror to see?  Do you want to feel his hair?"

"No!"  I replied, "I want my novocaine now."  Seriously, I am convinced that she thought she was going to be able to distract me into pushing him out without the shot.  I was mad.  She finally gave me the shot, and a few minutes after 11 a.m., my beautiful baby boy came into the world.  After the midwife delivered his head, Shawn pulled him the rest of the way out and cut the umbilical cord.  I remember he had the most delicious, plump little shoulders.

I took a long nap after that, while Shawn held our new son against his bare chest and watched TV in The Birthplace's living room.

That is the story of Jonathan's birth.  I am so thankful for this beautiful child, this gift from God, this son born on a Sunday, full of promise and hope, covered with blessing.

David's Graduation

We enjoyed David's graduation.  I will share a few pictures.

He wore a gold tie and yellow socks, so as not to clash with the green on his gown.  His precious in-laws presented him with that beautiful chess set as part of their graduation gift to him.

I love this picture.  

It captures the playful little boy I used to scoop up and carry close to my heart.  

Except, he's really tall now.

So pensive.

And it culminated with a Happy Mother's Day, besides!

God is faithful.

God is good.

Saturday night

I'm feeling very thankful tonight.

Because this handsome, heroic guy

helped me clean windowsills today.

And by "helped," I mean he manned the vacuum.  Actually, first he used the central vac, until it wouldn't reach anymore.  Then he journeyed down and retrieved his vacuum from the basement, to finish every far nook and corner.  He did such a good job that when I came behind him with spray cleaner and paper towels to polish the next layer, there wasn't much left to wipe off.

We've had an incredible number of spiders this year, spiders and webs by the dozen, every single night.  I haven't been able to keep up.  Then I got seriously behind.  My windows were terrifyingly infused with cloudy white webbing, dangling black egg sacs, and the crusty remains of fly entrees.  Whenever I thought, "I ought to open up those windows and get after that," my next thought was immediately, "Nope.  Not when I'm home alone, I'm not getting after that."

My HERO helped me overcome this.

Spider-extinguisher.  Web-obliterator.  Insect-refuse-eradicator.  Rescuing hero and lover of my soul.

Thank you.

Fresh air blew through the house for the rest of the day.  The sills gleam, shining white.

It was a good day.  I will sleep well.

Parenting with no guarantees

Recently I watched an online video called, "Gospel Parenting," by one of the Tripp brothers. (Confession: I don't know the difference between the Tripp brothers.)  It was really good.  Really good.  I agree with him 100%. (Confession: I only watched half, because it was incredibly painful.)

Why would a person watch parenting videos, after it's over, after it's too late?

Oh, the guilt.

Oh, the regrets.

I tried, I really did.  I loved my children wholeheartedly, and still do.  More than anything, I wanted them to grow up loving and serving Jesus.  I also wanted to get some sleep sometimes, and to have a reasonably clean, organized home.  I also wanted peace within family relationships: obedience, and siblings who did not fight with each other.  Wanting these things--rest, order, peace--sometimes resulted in selfish parenting, parenting from a heart that was personally unhappy with the way things were, rather than because I was trying to teach my children about the grace of God through Christ.

Mr. Tripp speaks about this other kind of parenting: parenting the heart, intentionally, with an emphasis on grace and redemption.  I actually tried to do this.  I read some Tripp books before it was "too late."  I tried to learn and implement grace in the way I related to my children, but I wasn't very good at it.

I messed up.  A lot.

And yet, I still hold out hope.

Because it isn't about me.  Even if I had been a perfect parent, which is an unfeasible goal, there would be no guarantee.  Because we do not save our children.  Jesus saves our children.  We can try to parent a heart ("Shepherd your child's heart," Mr. Tripp teaches) -- but it is only God who can change hearts.  Only the Father can draw a soul into His eternal kingdom.  Praise God, it depends on Him and not on me.

This is not to excuse mistakes and failures, but it is to hold out hope.  We have an almighty, sovereign God who loves the world (John 3:16) and desires that everyone would understand the truth and be saved (1 Timothy 2:3-4).  If God is for us, who can stand against us (Romans 8:31). . . or against the children we love?

There is a thing.  I'm sure I used to fall into it myself.  It's this thing where we look around at the people with the prodigal sons and daughters, and we analyze what they did wrong, so we can be sure we don't do that.

We bring all these charges:
They let their kids eat too much sugar.
They let their kids watch too much TV.
They don't monitor what their kids are doing on the computer.
They don't let their kids get dirty.
They hover over their kids.
They don't pay enough attention to their kids.
They put their kids into too many extracurricular activities.
They work all the time, and don't do anything with their kids.
They don't have family devotions.
They make family devotions long and boring.
They spank.
They don't spank.
They punish for irrational things.
They are angry all the time.
They don't explain consequences clearly.
They think their kids are always right.
They don't follow through with what they say they will do.
They skip church.
They buy their kids everything they want.
They get their kids out of trouble when they should let them learn a lesson.
They let their kids take their phones to bed.
--And on and on and on--

It's a litany of explanations for parental failure.  We analyze and evaluate, and then we determine that we will not fall into any of those errors, so we will be assured that our children will grow up to be smart, beautiful, God-fearing, productive citizens with good jobs, who will always have the best of relationships with us, because we have parented so effectively.

But there is no guarantee.  No guarantee.

I've been on both sides: the side of self-righteous judgment of other parents, and the side of spectacular failure of my own.  (I am sure, under the sovereign rule of God, that this is no accident.)

It's the sin of Job's friends.  Job's friends looked at Job's suffering, and they were horrified to see his pain.  This is how their minds processed it:  "Job is suffering terribly.  I am not suffering the way Job is suffering.  I do not want to suffer the way Job is suffering.  Clearly, Job is being punished for a grievous sin.  I will not commit a grievous sin, because I do not want to experience such horrible suffering.  I will exhort Job to confess his sin and repent of it, so that God can end his suffering."

Do you see?  Do you see the parallel?

We want to know how we can control outcomes, so we look at other people's misfortunes, and we determine that we will not make the mistakes they made that got them there.  Like Job's friends, we want to consider the parents of rebellious children and assure ourselves that we have not made the mistakes that landed them in their predicament.

Job said again and again that he was blameless, that he had not sinned.  We know absolutely that he was not a sinless man, because all men are sinful.  There is no-one who is righteous apart from the grace of God.  Job was not implying that he was a perfect person.  What he meant was, "I've not done anything in particular that God is trying to teach me not to do.  I've not sinned more--and, in fact, I've possibly sinned less--than you, my friends."

This made his friends crazy.  Why?  Because they wanted to be able to know that they were exempt from the risk of going through what Job was going through.

As parents, we want to know that we have done all the things to make us exempt from going through what the parents of prodigals go through.

But there are no guarantees.  It isn't about our performance as parents.  There is no legalistic formula that parents can follow to get perfect kids.

Now, there is value in learning from other people's mistakes.  Certainly.  Similarly, we cannot take the truth that, "There are no guarantees," and use it as justification for not trying to do our best.  We have to try to teach and influence to the best of our ability, by the grace of God and the power of the Holy Spirit.  Sometimes we will do well, and sometimes we will falter, and regardless of our performance, outcomes will vary.  But we have to strive--with God's help--to discern a good path and walk it, because our actions are what we, personally, are accountable to God for.  We are accountable for our actions, not the outcomes of our actions.

If we love our children and faithfully do our best to shepherd them, repenting of our errors and asking for forgiveness, God will be glorified in our efforts, regardless of how our children turn out.

If we parent selfishly and badly, and are unrepentant about our shortfallings, then that is on us.  Even if our children turn out well, growing up to love and serve the Lord, their success does not vindicate us.

I don't know anything.  What I thought I knew, I suspect was not right--at least, not entirely.  I know I was sometimes harsh when I should have been gentle, and I sometimes caved in when I should have stood fast.  At times, I cried when I should have laughed, and I despaired when I should have trusted in the Lord.  I also loved my children deeply, worked hard, poured out as much as I could, and seriously prioritized their needs.  I made intentional efforts to teach them about Jesus and to get them involved in places where they would be encouraged in the faith by others.  I prayed without ceasing.  I tried hard, and sometimes I still fell flat on my face.

All the advice I have at this point is based on what I wish I had done better:

• Be gentle and kind.  Encourage.
• Learn and model humility.  
• Remember how much Jesus has forgiven me, and extend that same grace.  
• Always hope, because God is faithful and good.  
• Be thankful, and let thankfulness overflow in observable joy.  
• Thank God for the future.
• Trust God, because everything is in His hands.

Well look at that. 30 years.

Shawn and I have now been married 30 years.

Shannon, Laura and Matthew came out over the weekend to commemorate the milestone.

Schubert was beside himself with joy.

We did bonfires, roasting hotdogs and marshmallows, making s'mores.

This is a sadly lacking photo, but I wanted to document Jon's presence with us.

One golden afternoon, Lu took us over to the park and photographed us.  Now we will be able to remember what we looked like, after 30 years of marriage.
(Disclaimer: Lu took the photos, but I edited these, and she may or may not approve of the edits, so don't judge her on them.  The edits are just my way of inserting my personal memories of the emotional feel of the day.)

Wow.  Can you believe 30 years?

( I didn't edit this one)

If you liked this, you might also like:

How I met your father

A love story

My beauty strategy

So.

It is said that, over time, dog owners transmorph to look like their dogs.

Growing up, I had a Boston terrier.  This made me insecure and paranoid.  When you have a dog that is known for being "so ugly, it's cute," it is not a comforting thought that you might conform to that ugliness in your own appearance, eventually--even if it is supposedly a "cute" ugliness.

As an I adult, I decided to get the prettiest dog I could find, in hopes of improving my own appearance by osmosis.  This is my style of beauty therapy, my kind of strategy.  No waxing, tweezing, tinting, contouring, highlighting or wrapping for me.  No, I just want to sit and hold a dog, thank you.

Piper was a gorgeous dog.  Dear little Pi.

Then we got Schubert, who is as cute as a dog could possibly be.  He's not "pretty," exactly, but he is absolutely darling.

This gave me hope.  As I go out with my aesthetically stunning dog, and reap compliments (once at the vet, another dog owner looked past his own pup to our little Schu and said, "That is seriously the cutest dog I have ever seen"), I have hope that the aesthetics will rub off.

The other night I was brushing Shubert's teeth before bed.  Shawn holds him for me in our hallway, and I brandish the toothbrush.  Wielding a brush laden with poultry-flavored toothpaste, I looked at these two guys that my heart throbs for, and I noticed:

Shawn is the one who looks like Schubert.  Shawn.  Not me at all.

Oh well.

Grape juice and the stomach flu

There's a thing going around the internet right now: They tell you to drink grape juice to prevent the stomach flu.

Well.

Yes, grape juice is supposed to change the ph in your digestive system so the stomach flu germs can't grow there.  That is my ultra-scientific explanation and interpretation.

It must be 100% grape juice, no juice mixes or artificial flavors.  Welch's is often named (and may be behind the whole thing).

You have to drink your grape juice before you exhibit symptoms, if it is going to work.  Do not--I repeat do not--drink a bunch of grape juice after you have begun vomiting.  Dark purple is not a good vomit color.  For heaven's sake do not give 100% grape juice to a vomiting child, if you value your towels, bed linens and carpeting.

The first to fall will fall.  This preventative is a family thing: when the first person gets sick, as soon as the first person gets sick, everyone else should start drinking copious amounts of grape juice.  By copious amounts, I mean an 8 oz. glass with breakfast, lunch and supper.  That's a lot of sugar.  Cut out all other sources of sugar.

I actually tried this recently, and it seemed to work.  Hallelujah!

I love grape juice.  I love the way it looks, the way it smells and the way it tastes.  When I tried this preventative, it was actually a bit late for prevention.  Although I'd not vomited, I was definitely feeling very funky, and things were "off" to the point where I would not be able to claim the label "prior to symptoms."  However, when I poured up my first glass of grape juice, even the wafting scent seemed to calm my stomach a little bit.

A memory flooded my consciousness, a memory of childhood stomach flu.

When I was a child and I came down with the stomach flu, my Grandpa Rainbow always used to appear on the doorstep with a brown paper bag of presents to cheer me on my day home from school.  I remember this.  My bedroom had a window that looked back at the portico outside our front door, and I remember hearing the shuffle of someone walking up to the door as I listened listlessly on my bed.  I remember hearing the doorbell ring, and my mother conversing with the visitor in the front hall.  Then my mother would come into my room with the brown paper bag of gifts.

Usually there was a small craft or activity, something I could do quietly in bed while I was recovering.  Once there was a Laura Ingalls Wilder book, On the Banks of Plum Creek.  Always, there was a bottle of Welch's grape juice, just for me.  I assumed that this was simply because Grandma and Grandpa Rainbow knew how much I loved grape juice.  Now I'm wondering if they knew something special about grape juice.

My mother (who valued her towels, bed linens and carpets) would never let me have the grape juice right away.  "This is too strong for you," she would say.  "Does it even appeal to you?" she would ask.  Well, it did.  Still, I had to wait before she would let me have it.  I remember it as one of the first and best things I imbibed as I was getting better.  I remember the luxurious pleasure of a glass of grape juice and a soft boiled egg on white toast.  I had forgotten, but I recently remembered.

Oh, my dear old grandfather, with his floppy cap and the slight hunch of his shoulders.  He'd float up to the house in his big old boat of a green Chrysler, faithfully deliver the goods to the front door, and then go back to his car and float away.  What a blessing to have a grandfather and a grandmother who cared when I was sick and did what they could to cheer me up.

Dear Lord Jesus, thank you for Grandpa, who was so kind and faithful.  Thank you for Grandma, who probably had the inspiration to send him out on the mission in the first place.  And thank you for the grape juice, the fruit of the vine, that made me feel so much better.

Full heart, exceedingly full.

A lot has been going on.

Now and then I have an idea for a blog post, and then it evaporates.

I want to write a post about the Holy Spirit, but it probably belongs on Seeking Wisdom.

My health has been a bit pesky of late, but that belongs on To Sleep.

Today will be scattered, more of a diary entry than a blog post.  Messy.  Incoherent, perhaps.

Back when we went on our trip to Zion National Park for our 25th Anniversary,  I never finished writing about it.  I hope I can get at least one more decent post out of our trip to the redwoods, before the images and memories fade.  I need to write about the Best Hike in the World.  The exuberant man on top of his camper.  The white-faced, black-eyed teenagers near Patrick's point.  Our secret discovery of barking seals, spouting whales and swooping eagles.  Cooking Petrale sole at the Trinidad Inn.  The man in the elevator who asked us, "Sprechen Sie Deutsch?"  The midnight desk clerk at Embassy Suites Dallas Airport.  The British lady who needed some help with her walker, coming off the airplane in Chicago.

So many pictures in my mind.  So many stories.  So little time.  So little energy.

Lupus.  Bah.  And the bills that go with it.  Boo.  And the insurance companies that consistently deny claims the first time they are submitted.  Hissssssss.

In April, Shawn and I went to the beach, the Atlantic Ocean, and spent some time with David and Ashton.

In May, Jon and I went to Minnesota and saw Aunt Nunie as she was packing up to move out of 2715 Wingfield.  We said good-bye to Great-Grandma Herbold's historic house.

Also in May, Shawn and I went to San Francisco and the redwood forests of northern California.  Within two months, I touched the water in the oceans on both our east and west coasts.

This is not my life.  I am a run-of-the-mill housewife.  I do laundry, clean toilets, and shop at Aldi.  I am not a big traveler.

But wait.  There's more.

In June, Shawn and I went to Georgia.  (We also crossed through a corner of Alabama, adding two more states to my list of places I've been.)

We met Ashton's lovely family, and David asked Ashton to marry him, out in the pasture, under the spreading oaks.  She said yes!

It was a happy, happy time.

Oh, the plans He has for them.  The plans He has for us all.

Smiles all around.  We all smiled up a storm!

If the engagement was this joyful, we'd better hold onto our hats when the wedding day arrives!

Distance

I have been thinking about the concept of distance lately.

I hate it.

I mean, I really hate it.

Physical distance, emotional distance, geographical distance, even theological distance.  These are the things that keep us from intimacy, from love, from knowing and caring and doing for one another.

So many things in life drive us apart, break our fellowship and our unity in big ways and small.  Children grow up without knowing their grandparents or their cousins.  Time is lost, and relationships with it.  It seems as though these things will never be restored.  What does God mean about giving back the years of the locusts?  When the pain is in the now, eternity seems a whimsy, too far off to carry weight, and within that thought we see yet another curse of distance.  

Leaden hearts weighing down our lungs, we sometimes try to breach distances, while other times we just give up, defeated, because it is too hard to work out the schedule, the money and the tolls on energy and health that result from long journeys.

I hate being far from people I love.  I don't think this is a sin, no more than hating cancer or car accidents or earthquakes or violent crime.  God allows all these things into various people's lives at particular times, for particular reasons.  We have to accept and trust, but we don't have to like the tragedy. 

Admittedly, there are times when you can appreciate a bit of space.  Being quiet and participating in periods of solitude are healing to a burdened soul.

Solitude and isolation are not the same thing.  Neither are space and distance. Perhaps the difference is whether you choose it, or whether it is forced on you against your will.

Then, of course, you have to consider the sovereignty of God, and surrender to what He gives you.  But if distance is a result of the fall, the curse of sin, at least there must be hope that one day distance--like disease, war, fear and grief--will no longer plague our weary hearts.

God places the lonely in families...

(from Psalm 68:6, NLT)

Do not be afraid, for I am with you.  

 I will gather you and your children 

from east and west.

(Isaiah 43:5, NLT)

On that day I will gather you together
    and bring you home again.

(from Zephaniah 3:20, NLT)

I will bring them home again 

to live safely in Jerusalem. 

They will be my people, 

and I will be faithful and just toward them 

as their God.

(Zechariah 8:8, NLT) 

And this most beautiful story:
So Boaz took Ruth, and she became his wife. And he went in to her, and the Lord gave her conception, and she bore a son. Then the women said to Naomi, “Blessed be the Lord, who has not left you this day without a redeemer, and may his name be renowned in Israel! He shall be to you a restorer of life and a nourisher of your old age, for your daughter-in-law who loves you, who is more to you than seven sons, has given birth to him.” Then Naomi took the child and laid him on her lap and became his nurse. And the women of the neighborhood gave him a name, saying, “A son has been born to Naomi.” They named him Obed. He was the father of Jesse, the father of David.
(Ruth 4:13-17, ESV) 

God is near to us.  He is near to all who call on Him in truth.  He is near to the brokenhearted and saves those whose spirits are crushed.  He promises never to leave us nor forsake us.  God made us and placed us in this world, into time and space, in various places at specific times so that we would seek Him, grope our way towards Him, and yet He is not far away from any of us.

God is near.  He is not far.  He wants to gather us together under His soft, feathery wings and shelter us, care for us, comfort us, restore us.

And he who was seated on the throne said, 

“Behold, I am making all things new.” 

(from Revelation 21:5, ESV)

 

Family E-union!

We had a wonderful Fathers' Day.  I enjoyed it so much, I felt a little guilty.  I hope my joy did not infringe on Shawn's day.

Shawn and Jon sang a duet in church.  Jon played the piano.  How does it work out that I reap all the benefits on these deals?  On Mothers' Day, Jon played the piano and sang a solo, and I got to enjoy it.  On Fathers' Day, Shawn had to do half of the singing himself, and again, I got to enjoy it.

Then Jon came over and grilled us delicious steaks.  I put a cherry pie in the oven (Shawn's favorite).  And the high point of our day: a GROUP SKYPE with all the kids.

Don't forget Jon! He's the tiny face between Shawn and me in the bottom panel.

And this is so typical.  As I checked through the screenshots I'd taken, of course I found one where they all pulled faces.  How did they all know to do this in the same picture?  It must have been the one where I said, "One, two, three... smile!"

21 years ago (or, "You forgot my birthday!")

Twenty-one years ago, my son David turned three.  But to tell this story, one must really go back twenty-two years, when he turned two.

David turned two, and I don't remember much about it.  David turned two in the spring after a very difficult winter, and the fact that we survived was the overwhelming point.  But yes, David turned two.

Approximately four months after David turned two, Laura turned one, and there was a cake and a modest celebration.  I do not believe that Laura's birthday was what instigated the trouble.

Two weeks after Laura turned one, Shannon turned four.  Shannon had a party, a princess party with quite a few little girls filling the house.  There were dress up clothes, play jewelry, treats and party bags, games, candles and singing.  After the party was over, the family enjoyed a rather rustic cake that I had tried to make in the shape of a castle, with lollipops topping the four turret-y things on the corners, supposedly like flags.  We have rather a famous picture of David crying his heart out because he wanted the orange lollipop.

The morning after Shannon's party, David came sobbing to the breakfast table, proclaiming, "You forgot my birthday!"

I had a momentary panic.  He was two, not even quite two-and-a-half.  Yet, he was convinced that we had forgotten to celebrate his birthday.

Could I reason with him and help him remember the cake he'd had back in May?  I considered his moist red face and decided to try working the other direction.

"We didn't forget your birthday, Davey," I assured him.  "Your birthday is not until May."  I picked him up and carried him to the calendar on the wall.  "See," I showed him, "It is October right now . . . " I paged through the calendar, showing him October, November and December, explaining that we had to finish all these months, then even buy a new calendar, before we would get to May again and celebrate his birthday.

He settled reluctantly, and all was well until the end of December which was complicated by (1) my birthday and (2) the purchase of a new calendar.  "You forgot my birthday!"  David wept in despair.

"Oh honey," I explained, "this is the new calendar, but we have to go through all these pages before we get to May, when your birthday is.  Your birthday is in May."  I demonstrated how we count days off, starting with church on Sunday each week, and at the end of the grid of boxes for one month, we would turn the page to the next month.

He sort of relaxed.

In February, Shawn had his birthday, which resurrected the trauma.  Like clockwork, the next morning Davey arose in tears, "You forgot my birthday!"  Trying hard to be patient, I explained again.  He looked very suspicious.  He was watching closely now.  At random times throughout March and April, distress arose, and David desperately accused me, "You forgot my birthday!"  Again and again, I took him to the calendar and showed him the picture for May.  "Not until we get to this page, the May page. Your birthday is in May," I told him.

At some point in the middle of April, it occurred to me that we would soon be turning the page to May, and David's birthday would still be 22 days away.  My heart shriveled in my throat.  My hands began to sweat.

When Shawn got home from work, I told him, "We are going to have to celebrate David's birthday on May 1.  He's been waiting for it since last October, and he is beside himself.  When the calendar flips to May, if he doesn't get a party, he will be sure that we have totally disregarded his birthday."  Shawn thought it would be a good learning experience for David to wait.  He was not the one who had been fielding all the anxiety for the last six months.  I pleaded.  I prevailed.

I don't even remember what kind of a party it was.  Maybe it was Elmo; maybe it was cowboys?  I suppose I could figure it out if I pulled out my picture bins and searched.  I do remember that there was a table full of little boys, and a colorful paper table cover.  David wore Oshkosh denim overalls and a red striped shirt, and his blue eyes were literally glazed over with thrill.  It was his birthday, his actual, real, long-anticipated birthday, the very day.  Well, not really.  It was May 1.  But it was the day he had been waiting for so long.  He stood intensely in his chair at the end of the table, rising above his guests, memorizing the colors, the smells, the burning candles on his cake.

"It's your birthday, Davey," we cheered.  "It's your birthday!"

You have never seen a child listen to the singing of the birthday song and blow his candles out with more pageant and solemnity.  His face was white, his eyes were glassy, and his hair shone like gold under the dining room light.  With all the fiber of his nearly three-year-old consciousness, he intently drank in every last moment of the event.

I wonder if he thought it was the only birthday he'd have in his life?  I probably had not explained that we each get a birthday every year we are alive.

Legacy words

Back in September, I had a lupus flare.  It was bad.

At one point, I thought I was going to die.  Of course, nausea always knocks me for a loop and makes me feel tremendously aware of my mortality.  I probably was not nearly as near to death as I felt, but notwithstanding, I thought I was going to die.  Nausea, purging digestive system, fever, chest pains, headache, backache, shortness of breath, congestion, ringing ears, heart palpitations, dizziness, swollen glands and lymph nodes, you get the idea.  I remember sitting in the bathroom with my head against the wall and tears running down my cheeks because I was sure I would never hold a grandbaby in my arms.  My thought was, "I wanted to write them each a letter, but I guess I didn't get the chance."  I was thinking about my beloved children.

I told God, "It's okay.  It's okay.  You are sovereign. You can take better care of them than I can."  And of course He can.  I have failed more often than I have succeeded, and He is the one who holds them in the palm of His hand.  He is the one who knew their life stories before they were born. He is the almighty God of power and wisdom and might.  It truly is okay, even though it may not have been what I was hoping.

Then I recovered!  I've been doing quite well.  I might still be around to play with the grandchildren after all, and tell them that I love them, and nurture them with the grace and patience I lacked as a young mother.  I would be so grateful to be able to do that.

Most days, I don't think about writing each of my children a letter (the way I did when I thought I was dying), a letter full of all the important things I should have told them, celebrating their gifts and abilities, exhorting them to surrender their weaknesses to Christ to be transformed into their most powerful assets.  You don't remember that the roof leaks except when it's raining, right?

Today I want to write a general letter, something for all my children.  No personal secrets will be addressed here, nothing private, just my heart desire for my children, my family.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * 

Dear ones,

How I love you.  Not a day goes by when I don't think of each of you, multiple times.  So many things bring you to mind: a container of food in the refrigerator, the shiny black piano, the adorable dog, a book on a shelf, a song, a sweatshirt, a container of moisturizer, a candle, a blanket, a TV show, a scent in the air outside, the slant of the sun through a window, a photograph (of course).

My love is flawed.  I made many mistakes, for which I am grieved.  Perhaps as you grow older and experience more of life, you will be better able to understand and to forgive me.  Please try to remember good things, fun times when we laughed around the table over plentiful meals, late nights when you came into my room to talk as I lay in bed before I fell asleep, times when life was vibrant and hope was natural and we had victories, successes, joy.   Remember how I read you the Chronicles of Narnia and broke down weeping every time Aslan wandered into a sentence, much to your consternation.  Please remember how hard I tried, understand how much I loved, and believe how hard I prayed.

Oh dear children, forgiveness is so important.  We must all forgive one another as God has forgiven us.  Forgiveness is grace, and we cannot live without it, because none of us is without need of being forgiven.  We all mess up, we all make mistakes, we all sin, and therefore we all stand in need of grace from God and from each other.

Forgive those who have hurt you.  People hurt each other; it is the way of a fallen world.  The Bible tells us that love covers over a multitude of sins.  Anger and condemnation do not fix sin.  The only way to overcome sin is by loving, so love, give grace, forgive.  I am not yet proficient at this, but I am learning, and the more I learn, the more I discover the blessings of grace and forgiveness, both given and received.  Jesus died so we can be forgiven, and so we can forgive.  It is costly to forgive, but it is priceless to be forgiven.

Another thing: never judge God by those who call themselves Christians.  Many have claimed the name of Christ but have not walked according to His purpose or His plan.  Jesus said that all men will know who His disciples are because of their love for one another;  yet, people constantly fall short of loving one another.

So here is my advice:  Read your Bible.  Read it often.  Read all of it, not just your favorite parts.  Read it with an open heart, praying that God will reveal Himself and His truth through His Word.  Please do not claim that God doesn't speak to you, if you are not reading His Word.  Read your Bible and listen for God's voice, seek His face.  Then, on the basis of God's Word, be discerning about those who call themselves Christians.

I guess what I'm trying to say is this: Use the Word of God to determine whether people are really God-followers.  Do not use people who claim to be Christians to determine whether God is relevant or good or real.  People are so fallible, even the ones who are honestly trying to do what is right.  People must never be your standard of measurement.  Only scripture should be your standard of measurement.

At the same time, be diligent in your own life.  The famous Oswald Chambers book is called My Utmost for His Highest.  The title alone is a worthy sentiment.  We must strive in the utmost to accurately reflect the glory of God to a fallen world.  Although we should not measure the worth of God by the worth of His people, we must recognize that the world will do this, and as bearers of His name, we must pray daily that He will shine His love, compassion, kindness and glory out through our lives.  We are ambassadors for Christ, the only "Bible" many people will ever read.

Too often, churches lambaste their congregations with admonishments to go out and share the good news of the gospel, but I think they fail to realize that it is not our glib recitation of a gospel acrostic that will bring people to a saving knowledge of Christ.  It is Christ in us, the hope of glory, the beauty of God revealed in the redeemed lives of His loving saints.  Live a life worthy of the Lord who has called you.

I know, I know.  I have failed in this task seemingly countless times.  I have been unforgiving, bitter, critical and angry.  I have lost my temper, and I have failed to trust the Lord.  I have been unloving and unkind; I have both spoken and acted in sin.  I have been prideful, arrogant, haughty, and I have also been fearful, discouraged and despondent in the manner of one who must have no faith at all.  And yet, when I confess my sins, He is faithful and forgives me, cleansing me from all my unrighteousness.

I think you can learn something from my experience here:  Never give up on the power of God's forgiveness.  You may need to humble yourself over and over again in asking for it, but never give up, because He promises that He will never stop forgiving and cleansing.  He is so pleased when we come trembling before Him in humility, asking for His help to do what we can never do in our own strength.  He loves us so deeply, we will never understand, but we must run to Him in faith.

Lastly (there is much more I'd like to say, but I have gone on far too long, so I will end with this), seek His joy.  God wants us to have fullness of joy.  Jesus came to bring us abundant joy.  Although He warns us that in this world we will have trouble, although the New Testament is full of words to encourage perseverance through suffering, still: Knowing God is truly the way to joy.  In fact, it is the only way to true joy.

Psalm 37:4 (ESV) says, "Delight yourself in the Lord, and He will give you the desires of your heart."  This is a most beautiful and potent promise.  Be careful in how you apply it; it does not say, "Delight yourself in the Lord, and then as a reward He will give you whatever you wanted in the first place."  No!  It says that when the Lord Himself is your delight, then He will give you the desires of your heart.  One might surmise that if the Lord is your ultimate delight, then your ultimate desires are related to His presence in your life, the opportunity to apprehend His glory, and the coming of His Kingdom.

Ezekiel 36:25-27 speaks of how the Lord promises to give His people new hearts that are inclined to love Him and to follow Him, actually cutting out our hearts of stone and replacing them with hearts of flesh.  Pray for that kind of heart.  Pray that God will make you love Him--delight in Him--desiring what He desires, rejoicing in the things that cause Him to rejoice.  

Pray that the Lord will mold your heart to love righteousness and hate evil, and that even in hating evil, you will be filled with His compassion and lovingkindness for a lost and blinded world.  Pray that you will be like Jesus: faithful to the Father, tender toward the oppressed, and courageously confrontational when those who bear His name do so in an unworthy manner.  Pray that He will be real to you, that He will show you signs of His presence and goodness every day, that He will reveal His beauty and His way through His Word (and pray that He will give you an unquenchable thirst for His Word).  Pray that He will fill your heart with assurance of His love and His faithfulness and the inevitability of the completion of His Kingdom, that you will have steadfast hope resulting in daily joy.

Don't worry about this life.  Comforts will come and go.  There will be times of plenty and times of want, times of safety and times of oppression, times of gain and times of loss.  In His strength, you can weather it all, and through it all there is hope, and His constant abiding presence.  Nothing and nobody can ever take away your hope, the faith with which He has imbued you, or His abiding presence.  And when we arrive at the end, everything will be okay, marvelous, in fact.  At the end, we will live with Jesus in perfect paradise, forever, and there will be no more danger, fear, pain, sorrow, shame or death ever again.  All the brokenness of this world will pass and be replaced with comfort, safety, health, light, love and everlasting life.  He promised, and He is faithful.  So be joyful and hope in the Lord.

With all my heart,
mom

a photo journal of Christmas 2014

The stockings were hung by the chimney with care.

They all dressed in Hawaiian shirts.  

This is a blurry picture because I was not able to get an un-blurry one.

David eats the protein bar that I put in his stocking.  

The others received Lindt Lindor Truffles.

Shannon enjoys a cup of Christmas coffee.

Jon hangs out with the Schu.

Laura and Matthew sit in the sunshine.

The sunshine was fantastic that morning.

Shawn ponders the events to come.

A Christmas morning fire.

Christmas is pretty much the only morning we have a fire.

A funny picture of Piper.

The egg-bake was not done, so we were killing time

after opening the stockings, 

which had a fight-the-virus theme this year

(medicines, tissues and cough drops).

The gingerbread house

that Jon and Shanny decorated,

posing in front of spaghetti squash.  Ha!

Jon and Shannon wait patiently.

David, a.k.a. "Mr. Christmas," 

works on distributing people's presents

from under the tree.

Another shot of "Mr. Christmas,"

taking his duties seriously.

...and yet more to go...

The angel atop the tree says, 

"Be sure to get the right gifts to the right people."

Random decorations.

Remember, killing time while the egg-bake bakes.

Dad wants to get in on

the Mr. Christmas thing.

I do not know what Laura is doing with her shirt.

So many amazing things about this picture.

I leave it to you to notice them.

Dad inspects his packages.

A sax and dumbbells because

David is in the house.

Some of our Christmas cards 

form a Christmas tree on the wall.

Soon I will do something more permanent

on this wall.

Wondering how she'd get this home on the plane.

It's okay.  It turned out to be a carry-on suitcase.

Curiouser and curiouser.

So... who has more anticipation,

do you think?

I like this picture because it shows

Mr. Christmas,

the fire,

the tree,

the sun streaming through the windows,

and at least a piece of nearly everyone.

Finally a delicious breakfast.

Oranges, fruitcake and egg-bake.  Yay!

Back to the task of opening presents.

I do love the sunlight in this picture.

What a glorious day.

A very cute shot

of a very cute dog.

Are we having fun yet?

Jon is a champion wrapper.

(It was a beautiful fountain pen with ink cartridges.)

He knew what it was right away!

Some of us needed an explanation.

A tee-shirt with the Greek alphabet 

and all the things the letters stand for in science.

A dog's life.

And the reason why we have blankets on our furniture.

No more presents here.

So. On about 12/23, I realized I'd made a mistake, 

and was short a gift for Jon.

He got a box of chocolate dipped granola bars

to even the count.

Periwinkle is nice on Shannon.

How do you like it with the Hawaiian shirt?

I tried to make

a small lap quilt for Laura

out of fabric squares

from her wedding centerpieces.

Poor Matthew asked for a scarf and got a face mask.

The online picture was not representative.

He was a good sport and said it would be useful 

when he rides his bike to school.

My favorite shot of the day.

He asked for a sweater vest.

I did not know that this is how he would wear it.

A random shot of Christmas in our living room.

So it doesn't feel left out.

David played lovely carols.

Oh yes, and I was there too.

So I don't feel left out.

My boys and me (David!).

A better behaved shot.

the papa and the mama

haha.  I finally realize that the candles are crooked and fix them.

with the newlyweds

They wanted me to hold both dogs.

That is a big armload of dog.

A private moment in the sun.

And... Jon is ready

for Second Breakfast.

Random decorative shots.

Keeping it festive.

The dining room, all decked out.

What, pray tell, is that?

Aha!  The gravy boat from my discontinued china

that my kids hunted up

and bought me for my birthday...

awaiting the gravy from the

Christmas roast beast.

An afternoon game of Pandemic.

Highly recommended, cooperative game.

Shannon whips up some creme brulee

for Christmas dessert.

It's gluten free.

Christmas dinner.  

My boys are incorrigible.

No valid excuse exists
for Jon's facial expression.

David is a ham.

(**Matthew is not incorrigible.**)

Do you see the new gravy boat?

And now:

A Creme Brulee Vignette

Shannon is really good with a blow torch.

She glazes that sugar just gorgeously.

Cracking through the glazed shell

to the creamy goodness below.

After dessert, we sat around in the living room 

and listened to David play Christmas music on the piano.

We were too tired to take many more pictures.

And that was Christmas 2014.

A blessed day of family togetherness,

a day to remember our Savior's birth.