When my weakness surfaces
it's a Monday morning with opaque sky, early blur,
and I don't summon any gladness to
help us see better,
and I don't find it in myself to bend today
into what it should be.
And we all need me to; it's in the job description.
Parents create, it's what we do,
but today I tore down
yesterday's masterpiece; the last
thing in the world I wanted.
It's wonderful and also a problem
that children are new and fresh
and attended by often-tired people
who, unfortunately, grew up.
You pull me young, and I pull you older, but slowly I hope.
Forgive me, my so-little ones,
my cares are far too many
and I pull too hard.
When my strength at last comes forth
the leaves are falling
steady down with rain,
making piles
of delight and mess,
and I've had some quiet and
some help-prayer,
and I can bend low to
find what is true again.
Parents mend,
it's what we do--
but only the mended can.
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Showing posts with label parenting. Show all posts
Wednesday, October 9, 2013
Wednesday, June 5, 2013
done.
It's been an interesting few months. Not long ago, I had this sinking, constant feeling that I was in control of nothing. My temper surprised me, my irritation was an addiction, little things exhausted me. Something had to give. I suppose I should elaborate on the feeling of lack of control: I couldn't control the timing of the adoption or make myself feel all the things I thought I should or make our daughter progress any faster in her journey, I couldn't make Silas any easier in the throes of toddler behavior, I couldn't seem to make myself any more patient with very long question and answer sessions with Nicky, it felt like I was going nowhere at work, and I continued to feel the loss of some things that are better not described here.
I was feeding the wrong wolf; I can see that so clearly now. The answer was not to keep shoving my feet into the shoes that just don't fit, or to force anything else, really. It was to find something I could be proactive about and get to work on it.
Turns out I'm a pretty controlling person. (It's been disappointing to realize this.) I honestly think it was God's hand, directing me to simply let go. Stop forcing. Fill my mind with other things. So I did: I took a leap and started a new job that was demanding of my time and energy, and my wonderful partner in life took up a lot of slack in the process. He wants me well too, and I love him for it.
I think one kind of tiredness is a cure for another kind of tiredness. It's the difference between your hands aching because you've been clenching your fists all day and your feet aching because you've been running with a purpose. That good tired when you fall into bed, when you've earned your sleep. I've found a lot of rest in getting good and tired, and I feel better. My mind feels like it's waking up, more than before.
As for those lack of control things: I've seen our daughter blossom under Ricky's calm and relaxed care, I've learned to enjoy my Silas again, and I now look forward to that moment when Nicky runs in the front door with his million questions and observations. Of course I still get frustrated from time to time, but I don't wear it like a heavy overcoat these days. Thanks be to God; I can say it with my whole heart.
I don't think the issue was ever actually about my children. Sure, parenting is such hard, self-exposing work, but there are other things in my life that felt wrong for such a long time that I was trying to keep plugging away at, and that created a toxicity that had to come out somewhere.
There are still things I don't know what to do with, but not everything is fixed right away (or at all, perhaps.) I can carry on. I've come to believe that it's okay to put things on a shelf and distract myself with the good. When the right time comes, I'll feel compelled to take them down, examine and work through them. In the meantime, I'm not forcing anything. I'm not enslaved to anyone's formula. I'll try to be better at listening, knowing we're all carrying quite a load around.
It comes back to this, over and over: walk gently through the world. Look for the goodness of God. Rejoice when you find it; rejoice with the people around you who see it too. Whoever they are, wherever you find them.
So I'm trying to look around, all the while feeling quite vulnerable and oh-so-tired. We're all in some stage of healing I suppose.
I was feeding the wrong wolf; I can see that so clearly now. The answer was not to keep shoving my feet into the shoes that just don't fit, or to force anything else, really. It was to find something I could be proactive about and get to work on it.
Turns out I'm a pretty controlling person. (It's been disappointing to realize this.) I honestly think it was God's hand, directing me to simply let go. Stop forcing. Fill my mind with other things. So I did: I took a leap and started a new job that was demanding of my time and energy, and my wonderful partner in life took up a lot of slack in the process. He wants me well too, and I love him for it.
I think one kind of tiredness is a cure for another kind of tiredness. It's the difference between your hands aching because you've been clenching your fists all day and your feet aching because you've been running with a purpose. That good tired when you fall into bed, when you've earned your sleep. I've found a lot of rest in getting good and tired, and I feel better. My mind feels like it's waking up, more than before.
As for those lack of control things: I've seen our daughter blossom under Ricky's calm and relaxed care, I've learned to enjoy my Silas again, and I now look forward to that moment when Nicky runs in the front door with his million questions and observations. Of course I still get frustrated from time to time, but I don't wear it like a heavy overcoat these days. Thanks be to God; I can say it with my whole heart.
I don't think the issue was ever actually about my children. Sure, parenting is such hard, self-exposing work, but there are other things in my life that felt wrong for such a long time that I was trying to keep plugging away at, and that created a toxicity that had to come out somewhere.
There are still things I don't know what to do with, but not everything is fixed right away (or at all, perhaps.) I can carry on. I've come to believe that it's okay to put things on a shelf and distract myself with the good. When the right time comes, I'll feel compelled to take them down, examine and work through them. In the meantime, I'm not forcing anything. I'm not enslaved to anyone's formula. I'll try to be better at listening, knowing we're all carrying quite a load around.
It comes back to this, over and over: walk gently through the world. Look for the goodness of God. Rejoice when you find it; rejoice with the people around you who see it too. Whoever they are, wherever you find them.
So I'm trying to look around, all the while feeling quite vulnerable and oh-so-tired. We're all in some stage of healing I suppose.
Sunday, December 2, 2012
they just do
We survived round one of sickness here, but now we're firmly ensconced in round two. It's Little Miss this time, with a slight fever, congestion, a cough and sad, watery eyes. Ricky's not feeling great either, and has a really busy work week ahead. I'm trying to figure out how to do the whole work thing tomorrow. (It's times like these that the idea of quitting my job for a season sounds mighty appealing. I would miss it, but I would not miss figuring out childcare/calculating how many days I can call in. I can't remember the last time I called in for any reason other than the kids being sick. And I only do one shift a week! Sheesh.)
So, there's that. We also put up our Christmas tree and some decorations yesterday, and started our new tradition of opening up one book a day until Christmas, and reading it together. I haven't cleaned up the decorating aftermath mess yet, and Silas has broken one ornament so far today, and eaten the heads off two or three candy canes. Christmas is prettier at night, eh?
Last night I loved taking Little Miss to see the tree, her very first Christmas tree, and seeing her eyes widen a bit as she reached out her hands, and Silas exclaiming "oooooh, beautiful" when he saw it, and just watching Nicky put ornaments on the tree, no matter how close together he clumped them, and Ricky teaching him how to properly fluff a tree (that man is particular about fluffing Christmas trees, let me tell you.) I just sat back and enjoyed the scene. I'm learning.
So, there's that. We also put up our Christmas tree and some decorations yesterday, and started our new tradition of opening up one book a day until Christmas, and reading it together. I haven't cleaned up the decorating aftermath mess yet, and Silas has broken one ornament so far today, and eaten the heads off two or three candy canes. Christmas is prettier at night, eh?
Christmas (the parent version anyway) is stress, with pockets of grace and beauty that surprise and delight. It's sweeping up little green pine needles and broken bits of a shiny red ornament, and letting them plug in the lights again, just because they're beautiful and it makes them so dang happy. It's re-discovering old memories, and it's making up for old memories. It's a big to-do list and plenty of grumbling under my breath, and sitting in wonder, taking lessons these little ones who don't have to try yet, they just do.
Tuesday, September 18, 2012
two stories
Open your eyes to the bigger story.
Because there are always two stories: the one that is right there, obvious, and apparent. The one that seems inevitable. The one you don't have to try very hard to see.
The other story hides. It hides under a scrunched up, crying little face, again. It hides under your heavy sighs as you bounce and rock, and try to not feel anything because you're getting weary of the rollercoaster. This is never-ending, you think in those moments.
But it's not. It will pass. See how she smiles, on her tummy, reaches her hands out to bright, colorful objects; stares at the bright turquoise wall you both painted a few weeks before she came? Things do change, but it's so slow that you can't see it until afterward. So look back, and see.
Remember when she slept 20 hours a day? When she was never happy, never calm, unless she was asleep? And now she smiles at people. You play with her, for goodness' sake. She doesn't awake with a start, not every time. Remember when Silas was always in her face, and you had to guard her from his curious, not quite gentle ways? Look at him now, how he pats her on the back and brings her bottle.
There is a hole in your heart, and so you feel it. You're grieving the loss of things that every baby should experience, in a perfect world. It used to be an hour at a time, now it's more like three, and soon enough you'll be looking back on it all. Telling a story is the reward for living it.
I'm not going to lie and say that everything will be okay, because I honestly don't know. All I can say, in sincerity, is that it will pass.
You can pray for the faith to believe it will be okay. There is that.
It's not any of the stories that swirled around in your mind before. It's so real right now, that you kind of want to sabotage it because it's scary as hell. Every day you have to lay down that fear, or it will eat you alive. You didn't know what a mirror this would be, but here it is.
Right now, this story is mostly about humility, and accepting help, and family. You don't do this on your own; neither does she. It's a story about burdens, and dividing the load. It's a story about a different kind of love. It will be about more, but for now this is what it is.
So don't worry about things like bonding and visits and what-ifs. Just do the little things. Maybe she'll eat some banana again today, perhaps not cry when you do floor play time. Maybe you'll bite your tongue and count to ten when Silas is head-butting your legs while you make dinner. Maybe you'll take time to just lay with him while he takes his nap, to kiss his unruly little head. Maybe you'll listen carefully to Nicky while he talks about school, and maybe you'll notice again how Ricky's coming into his own as a father in a whole new way and smile with gratefulness for all of it.
These are the little things that make up a bigger story.
Because there are always two stories: the one that is right there, obvious, and apparent. The one that seems inevitable. The one you don't have to try very hard to see.
The other story hides. It hides under a scrunched up, crying little face, again. It hides under your heavy sighs as you bounce and rock, and try to not feel anything because you're getting weary of the rollercoaster. This is never-ending, you think in those moments.
But it's not. It will pass. See how she smiles, on her tummy, reaches her hands out to bright, colorful objects; stares at the bright turquoise wall you both painted a few weeks before she came? Things do change, but it's so slow that you can't see it until afterward. So look back, and see.
Remember when she slept 20 hours a day? When she was never happy, never calm, unless she was asleep? And now she smiles at people. You play with her, for goodness' sake. She doesn't awake with a start, not every time. Remember when Silas was always in her face, and you had to guard her from his curious, not quite gentle ways? Look at him now, how he pats her on the back and brings her bottle.
There is a hole in your heart, and so you feel it. You're grieving the loss of things that every baby should experience, in a perfect world. It used to be an hour at a time, now it's more like three, and soon enough you'll be looking back on it all. Telling a story is the reward for living it.
I'm not going to lie and say that everything will be okay, because I honestly don't know. All I can say, in sincerity, is that it will pass.
You can pray for the faith to believe it will be okay. There is that.
It's not any of the stories that swirled around in your mind before. It's so real right now, that you kind of want to sabotage it because it's scary as hell. Every day you have to lay down that fear, or it will eat you alive. You didn't know what a mirror this would be, but here it is.
Right now, this story is mostly about humility, and accepting help, and family. You don't do this on your own; neither does she. It's a story about burdens, and dividing the load. It's a story about a different kind of love. It will be about more, but for now this is what it is.
So don't worry about things like bonding and visits and what-ifs. Just do the little things. Maybe she'll eat some banana again today, perhaps not cry when you do floor play time. Maybe you'll bite your tongue and count to ten when Silas is head-butting your legs while you make dinner. Maybe you'll take time to just lay with him while he takes his nap, to kiss his unruly little head. Maybe you'll listen carefully to Nicky while he talks about school, and maybe you'll notice again how Ricky's coming into his own as a father in a whole new way and smile with gratefulness for all of it.
These are the little things that make up a bigger story.
Wednesday, June 13, 2012
spiritual
I wake up rested and refreshed, and climb out of bed quietly so my sleeping children don't wake up. I make coffee and head outside to enjoy the fresh morning air while I read, think, and pray. I spend time thanking God for all I'm blessed with, I evaluate my heart and motives, I ask for forgiveness and help, I listen. I'm still. I read words that soothe, convict, encourage, inspire, break down, build up. I look up and they're awake. I smile, feeling centered and ready for the day. Off we go.
Yeah, that's my morning fantasy. Here's the reality:
I wake up because Silas is trying to put my glasses on my face. He hands me my phone, saying "lo? lo?" and I smile, blinking and sitting up. I think about coffee immediately. Ricky is leaving for work; kisses me goodbye. I hear the sounds of Superhero Squad coming from the office. I pull back my hair and head for the kitchen, heat up milk for Silas and remind Nicky that we're trying to start off the day with reading, not watching a show. "Well the day always starts with breakfast!", he proclaims, and I assure him that's coming. Penny stands at the back door. I let her out, and retrieve Silas' milk. He settles into a big chair to drink it; I pat him on the head. Nicky sits on the couch with his storybook Bible and starts to read about Joseph. I start some coffee. Silas drinks half of his bottle, throws it on the ground and climbs on top of Nicky, shuffling his pages. More protesting. Time for a diaper change. Nicky's now playing in his room. I sigh, say "Okay, we'll read later when you're less distracted." Silas plays, but when I stand up to go get my coffee and make some breakfast for everyone, he immediately starts crying. I go back. We play Ships--Nicky has built all the controls out of click-blocks. They dance around: toddler squats and robot moves. I smile and think this is so good. I get up again, they follow me. There is whining. I make toast with peanut butter and honey by request, pour orange juice, slice bananas. I stir cream into my waiting coffee, toast a bagel for myself. Silas, meanwhile, has eaten two bites and thrown the rest on the floor. All done! he signs triumphantly. I tell him he is going to sit there for a few minutes, and give him his milk to finish. I sip, and I read this:
quotes from Brian McLaren, Naked Spirituality
Yeah, that's my morning fantasy. Here's the reality:
I wake up because Silas is trying to put my glasses on my face. He hands me my phone, saying "lo? lo?" and I smile, blinking and sitting up. I think about coffee immediately. Ricky is leaving for work; kisses me goodbye. I hear the sounds of Superhero Squad coming from the office. I pull back my hair and head for the kitchen, heat up milk for Silas and remind Nicky that we're trying to start off the day with reading, not watching a show. "Well the day always starts with breakfast!", he proclaims, and I assure him that's coming. Penny stands at the back door. I let her out, and retrieve Silas' milk. He settles into a big chair to drink it; I pat him on the head. Nicky sits on the couch with his storybook Bible and starts to read about Joseph. I start some coffee. Silas drinks half of his bottle, throws it on the ground and climbs on top of Nicky, shuffling his pages. More protesting. Time for a diaper change. Nicky's now playing in his room. I sigh, say "Okay, we'll read later when you're less distracted." Silas plays, but when I stand up to go get my coffee and make some breakfast for everyone, he immediately starts crying. I go back. We play Ships--Nicky has built all the controls out of click-blocks. They dance around: toddler squats and robot moves. I smile and think this is so good. I get up again, they follow me. There is whining. I make toast with peanut butter and honey by request, pour orange juice, slice bananas. I stir cream into my waiting coffee, toast a bagel for myself. Silas, meanwhile, has eaten two bites and thrown the rest on the floor. All done! he signs triumphantly. I tell him he is going to sit there for a few minutes, and give him his milk to finish. I sip, and I read this:
Couldn't independence be not the ending point, but an adolescent transition period between childish dependence and mature interdependence? If we succeed in being independent, never needing God's help, couldn't that simply mean that we haven't tried anything very significant or challenging? Could it mean that we've never experienced the miracle of synergy with God, where we find God's strength flowing through us?"Book, book", Silas points to the ipad. I put it up high, take another sip of coffee, and let him down. Penny happily eats his leftovers. We have a doctor's appointment in two hours, but for now we're going outside to enjoy the cool morning air, water the flowers and play in the sandbox before it gets too hot for little toes. What's funny, what's God, is that I do feel soothed and convicted, encouraged and inspired, broken down and built up.
There are days, of course, when we wish there could be some other system. We wish there could be a way of developing patience without delay, courage without danger, forgiveness without offense, generosity without need, skill without discipline, endurance without fatigue, persistence without obstacles, strength without resistance, virtue without temptation, and strong love without hard-to-love people. But it turns out there is no other way.
The Creator has created the right kind of universe to produce these beautiful qualities in us creatures. And among these beautiful qualities is interdependence--the ability to reach out beyond ourselves, to ask for help from others and from God, and to offer help when we are able. The whole shebang is rigged for mutuality, for vital connection.I will probably yell several times today. I won't feel very spiritual. I will feel like I'm trying to sprint in a sand-dune. I will laugh, sigh, and hide in the bathroom. I'll try to keep a dialogue going with God all the while; that's the goal. Sometimes life feels like practicing, but it's the real thing, all the time.
quotes from Brian McLaren, Naked Spirituality
Wednesday, May 16, 2012
igniting passion
I'm blogging through Kathy Escobar's fantastic series, Rebuilding after Deconstructing, in an effort to clarify some things for myself, to share my story, and to encourage forward motion. This is so not about whining or placing blame, or picking on any person or institution. Just the story of God and me, up to now... abridged.
Lately I've been thinking quite a bit about how to transition from the journey inward to the journey outward. It's so easy for me (probably for anyone) to get stuck in a place of constant self-examination and evolve toward narcissism rather than personal growth and giving back. I think I've been where I needed to be, and up until very recently, where I needed to be was on that inward journey. From what I can tell, the important thing is to pay attention to the stirrings in my soul--and for a little while now the stirrings have been calling me outward. I'm actually really excited about it--this is the fun part, right? I've had to dig through a lot of junk to get to this point, but I do believe I am finally getting somewhere. Whew.
I dream of a life where my passions and daily routines are intertwined. In some ways, I already have that. I've learned to be passionate about my family; to see my mothering as a ministry. I've learned to commune with God throughout my day, in the mundane, the exciting, the sweet, the tiresome. I'm learning to stop clutching onto my life; that to engage in the moment seems to create more time, but to cling to minutes and to-do lists (my default) is to lose the day swiftly and have nothing of substance to show for it. I'm learning to approach life more openly. All of those things are good, and I want more of the same.
There are some things I dream about, most of which I've been dreaming about for a long time:
- seeing my kids grow up in a spiritually, physically, and emotionally healthy home; setting an example of that myself
- midwifery, when the time is right
- giving comfort and quality care as a nurse
- growing our family through foster care and adoption
- cultivating a healthy marriage
- finding a way to translate personal growth into ministry (finding my niche in the church? or something outside of it? I don't know yet.)
The word "healthy" is in there a lot. For so much of my life, I haven't been internally healthy. I've been trying and failing to play a part that wasn't even super well-defined in my head; trying to understand a God I had placed in a box (and who was placed in a box for me.) So I absolutely had to deconstruct. It's funny, looking back on it now--of course I had to. Something had to change.
This part is about laying groundwork while maintaining the basics. For me the basics are prayer, honesty, evaluation and re-evaluation, kindness to self and others (basic is not synonymous with easy.) I feel a lot of potential energy, welling up and waiting for the right time to spring into action. I'm figuring out that I won't ever have it all together, but that's no reason to not pursue things I care about or to stop working on myself. Both matter, both are needed.
Each dream has it's time, but I can honestly say that everything on that list has a foundation in my life right now, to varying degrees. My marriage has gotten so much better over the last few years, because of some difficult conversations, some beautiful experiences, shared sorrow and joy, simple kindness, and a lot of intention from both of us. It's an ongoing process, and an amazing one! I see my kids growing up without un-necessary stress (so far) and fiercely want to preserve that. I hope our home remains a haven for them, always. Nursing is a small part of my week (just one day) but I try to give it 100% of my energy when I am there. Midwifery feels a way off still, but I did recently join a study group with an experienced midwife who is a wealth of knowledge, to, as she put it, "keep the dream alive." Foster care and adoption is right in front of us; the process could begin at any moment. The hows and whens are unknown, but it feels like the time for that dream is now. I really hope so. I feel "expectant" :)
And as far as ministry things go, that is pretty cloudy to me at this point. All I know is, I feel passionately that Christians need to be talking about their journeys in a way that is real, honest, and spacious. Having some sort of framework for this process has been so helpful for me. I would love to give people a safe space to ask their questions and share their hopes out loud (shaky voices and all), or even just have a way to be in the church if the songs or crowds or sermons are daunting because of where they are in their spiritual journey. If going to service is too much, maybe they could have a place to go that's a little safer, where someone is waiting to listen. Maybe it's a small group thing, maybe a Sunday morning thing, maybe even a blog thing-- I'm not sure. I would just like to cultivate that vision, to be there for my brothers and sisters that are wounded--not so much to offer my own wisdom although I'll gladly share my journey. Just to let them know they're not alone; that maybe God really is all they hope he is.
I like the idea of adding new passions to long-standing ones, as life happens. As I learn.
I like the idea of adding new passions to long-standing ones, as life happens. As I learn.
Monday, February 20, 2012
on fear, parenting, and old wounds
A few nights ago Nicky casually mentioned to us that he hopes he doesn't go to hell.
My heart sank and I felt a bit like picking up the phone and yelling at whoever felt entitled to make this word a part of my five year old son's vocabulary. How dare you.
But we just looked at each other, and looked at Nicky, and started asking questions. What is hell? What is heaven? And he gave us his answers; bits of information gathered from here and there; his best making sense of it. And I felt relieved to hear that he doesn't really fear hell, not in the way that I fear he will.
As a child, I was pre-occupied with the supernatural in an unhealthy way, because I was exposed to things that truly terrified me. Books about demon possession. Casting out of demons at church. My movie and music intake was carefully restricted to the most innocent content out there, but I read, and saw things that were far more terrifying because I couldn't dismiss them as fairy tales and scary stories. I had a child's partial understanding and way too much information to process. I would pull blankets over my head even in the middle of summer, lulling myself into a feeling of safety so I could sleep. And being the highly sensitive and introverted child that I was, I didn't mention much of this to my parents. No amount of checking under the bed for monsters was going to help.
I've managed to leave this weird obsession (and some other childhood cripples) behind, but they will always be a part of my story. And now I see my son's story unfolding. I see God's love in his heart in the most pure and beautiful ways, and I am terrified of what other people will tell him, and show him, about God. And also what I will tell him, and show him, about God.
We talked about how God is love, the one who invented love. A little bit about heaven and death. This is the age, I suppose, where you start tiptoe-ing around the hard subjects, carefully introducing and praying for wisdom with a new kind of desperation.
I do not know what to tell my son about hell. I don't know what I believe about it. What I do know is that in all my letting go of my crippling fears, my us and them mentality, my Christian outsider identity, my unacknowledged sense of superiority.....that I feel God's love in a more profound way than I ever did when I was younger and Knew It All.
I was that girl--the one who ran through her house, looking in rooms and under beds and outside because she woke up to a strangely quiet house and was terrified that she might have missed the Rapture. I've laughed with friends who had this same experience, but it's dark humor. God came for your parents, and your siblings, and left you behind. You are not good enough.
Does Jesus live in your heart? Did you sin since the last time you prayed? If you were in a car accident tonight, would you meet Jesus or Satan when you woke up? Heaven's gates or hell's flames? (Cue smoke and red lights, you know what I'm talking about.....)
What if?......I would ask my parents over and over, inventing different scenarios. What if this? Would I go to heaven then?
I stand watch over my son's heart. He is growing up in a different kind of Christian culture, thank God. But well-meaning people will still plant seeds of fear in his heart. We all fear losing control of our children's intake. In Christian circles, usually people talk about fearing exposure to sex and drugs and foul language. (I hope for my kids to have a healthy sexuality that's not peppered with guilt and shame, to not ever be enslaved to any substance, and to know the beauty of a well-timed cuss word but to have a whole vocabulary of other words to use as well, but that's not really what this post is about.)
What I fear more than anything is what he will need to un-learn. I will surely teach him things and later slap my forehead and wonder what I was thinking. Because culture changes and we do flow with it, whether we like to admit it or not. I keep thinking about this part though-how the Bible says that Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever. In my own life, I have always been captivated by him. Most people are, in some way or another. It's the whole I'd be a Christian if it wasn't for the Christians thing. I was given so much good in my childhood, and I was given some confusion. Jesus has always been the constant, and so I know he will be for my children as well.
Knowing him, and his love, really is what keeps me trying. I've wanted to throw in the towel so many times, because of culture. But he remains in all his simplicity, preaching his revolutionary message over and over to the walking wounded. And in all my learning and un-learning, he has been there with me. He redeems whatever needs to be redeemed.
Help, help, help.
My heart sank and I felt a bit like picking up the phone and yelling at whoever felt entitled to make this word a part of my five year old son's vocabulary. How dare you.
But we just looked at each other, and looked at Nicky, and started asking questions. What is hell? What is heaven? And he gave us his answers; bits of information gathered from here and there; his best making sense of it. And I felt relieved to hear that he doesn't really fear hell, not in the way that I fear he will.
As a child, I was pre-occupied with the supernatural in an unhealthy way, because I was exposed to things that truly terrified me. Books about demon possession. Casting out of demons at church. My movie and music intake was carefully restricted to the most innocent content out there, but I read, and saw things that were far more terrifying because I couldn't dismiss them as fairy tales and scary stories. I had a child's partial understanding and way too much information to process. I would pull blankets over my head even in the middle of summer, lulling myself into a feeling of safety so I could sleep. And being the highly sensitive and introverted child that I was, I didn't mention much of this to my parents. No amount of checking under the bed for monsters was going to help.
I've managed to leave this weird obsession (and some other childhood cripples) behind, but they will always be a part of my story. And now I see my son's story unfolding. I see God's love in his heart in the most pure and beautiful ways, and I am terrified of what other people will tell him, and show him, about God. And also what I will tell him, and show him, about God.
We talked about how God is love, the one who invented love. A little bit about heaven and death. This is the age, I suppose, where you start tiptoe-ing around the hard subjects, carefully introducing and praying for wisdom with a new kind of desperation.
I do not know what to tell my son about hell. I don't know what I believe about it. What I do know is that in all my letting go of my crippling fears, my us and them mentality, my Christian outsider identity, my unacknowledged sense of superiority.....that I feel God's love in a more profound way than I ever did when I was younger and Knew It All.
I was that girl--the one who ran through her house, looking in rooms and under beds and outside because she woke up to a strangely quiet house and was terrified that she might have missed the Rapture. I've laughed with friends who had this same experience, but it's dark humor. God came for your parents, and your siblings, and left you behind. You are not good enough.
Does Jesus live in your heart? Did you sin since the last time you prayed? If you were in a car accident tonight, would you meet Jesus or Satan when you woke up? Heaven's gates or hell's flames? (Cue smoke and red lights, you know what I'm talking about.....)
What if?......I would ask my parents over and over, inventing different scenarios. What if this? Would I go to heaven then?
I stand watch over my son's heart. He is growing up in a different kind of Christian culture, thank God. But well-meaning people will still plant seeds of fear in his heart. We all fear losing control of our children's intake. In Christian circles, usually people talk about fearing exposure to sex and drugs and foul language. (I hope for my kids to have a healthy sexuality that's not peppered with guilt and shame, to not ever be enslaved to any substance, and to know the beauty of a well-timed cuss word but to have a whole vocabulary of other words to use as well, but that's not really what this post is about.)
What I fear more than anything is what he will need to un-learn. I will surely teach him things and later slap my forehead and wonder what I was thinking. Because culture changes and we do flow with it, whether we like to admit it or not. I keep thinking about this part though-how the Bible says that Jesus is the same yesterday, today, and forever. In my own life, I have always been captivated by him. Most people are, in some way or another. It's the whole I'd be a Christian if it wasn't for the Christians thing. I was given so much good in my childhood, and I was given some confusion. Jesus has always been the constant, and so I know he will be for my children as well.
Knowing him, and his love, really is what keeps me trying. I've wanted to throw in the towel so many times, because of culture. But he remains in all his simplicity, preaching his revolutionary message over and over to the walking wounded. And in all my learning and un-learning, he has been there with me. He redeems whatever needs to be redeemed.
Help, help, help.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Father's Day
Happy Father's Day, Ricky!
Thanks for loving these little guys so well;
for giving of yourself every day.
You make me so proud.
I love you!
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Nicky's Big Challenge
The toy, by the way, was one that he came home with after an outing with his Ita. We've been feeling lately like he just has way too many toys and doesn't even care about most of them, so that's where the idea for the challenge came from. The last time we did this we got him to poop in the potty (finally!), so we know the power of bribery for this kid.
I feel torn sometimes. I want him to know the value of money but I don't want him to worry about money. There will be plenty of time for that later. I want to give him incentives for helping out around the house, but I also don't want him to feel entitled to them for every helpful thing he does. I'm working on finding the balance, as usual. It's somewhere between carefree and responsible, which is another way of saying childhood and adulthood I suppose.
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