What cruel wacko came up with the absurd idea that breathing through childbirth could be a good thing? Lamaze. How much unnecessary torture has been endured for that little inspiration? When I was pregnant with Caitlin, Bob and I dutifully attended Lamaze classes.
I remember the instructor having our husbands pinch us with increasing pressure, so we could practice "breathing" through the pain. I'm embarrassed now that I was even a part of the whole herd-like mentality that bought into that claptrap.
When the day of her birth finally came it slowly became the most excruciating pain I'd ever felt. Of course, Bob "The Coach" was right there with me, telling me how much better I'd be doing if I would just breath the way "we'd" practiced. I hated The Coach. To top that off, my brilliant doctor had estimated Caitlin would weigh about six pounds and she weighed in at just under ten. I was sure I would never be able to sit down again, certain my once long strides would be forever reduced to short shuffles.
Before we left the hospital I was given a little booklet that detailed her expected development. At one week she should be able to do such and such, at two weeks this, and so on. I became obsessed with this booklet. I was constantly testing her, making sure she was progressing normally in every respect.
One day when I was putting away laundry, I happened to notice an old Mr. T mask that Bob had worn to a Halloween party. Curious to see how Caitlin would react, I put it on and knelt down to talk to her. I got my face about the distance that the booklet estimated she could bring into focus and.... she let out a scream different from anything I'd heard before or since. I immediately ripped the rubber mask off my head (practically scalping myself in the process).
Bob came tearing in from the other room to see what had happened. Knowing he would never understand my "experiment," I stuffed the mask under me and sat on it. Bob asked what had made her scream like that? I looked suitably stumped and said I had no idea. Unfortunately, he spotted a little tuft of Mr. T's mohawk underneath me and demanded to know what it was. I brought it out, acting completely baffled as to how it had gotten there.
"I can't believe you would actually want to scare a newborn baby! What is wrong with you?"
"It was just an experiment...turns out she's a little bit of a racist, that's all...," I tried to joke.
Bob was not amused. He took Caitlin from me and left me sitting there. Whatever. An innocent "experiment" had ruined our day. It wasn't easy being first time parents. Always worried that we weren't doing everything just perfectly. Worried that we were somehow going to "mess up" and ruin her for life.
I think about how we were then (almost 23 years ago!) and am amazed how far we've come. God knew how much we had to learn before He could give us Brett. Now, just when we need to be there for each other the most, Bob and I are a true team--I don't hate The Coach anymore. I know Bob does everything he can to make my life as easy as possible and I try to do the same for him. We are in it together and together we are trusting God to give us the peace, strength and wisdom for the rest of the journey.
"Do not be anxious for anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thangsgiving, present your requests to God and the peace of God which transcends all understanding will guard your hearts and mind in Christ Jesus." (Phil. 4:6-7)
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Tuesday, April 21, 2009
One of the most difficult things to accept about Brett's prognosis was being told that it was unlikely he would ever respond to us in any meaningful way. You mean we'll be tending to his every need (for the rest of our lives!) and never get so much as a smile in return? That seemed almost unbearable to me.
The day they gave us the "low down" on Brett, they ushered Bob and I into a little room with a long conference table. They put a box of Kleenex in front of us (not exactly a hopeful sign). Various specialists filed in and took seats around the table. Each of them spoke about Brett's deficiencies in their various fields of expertise. It was all way over our heads, they may as well have been speaking in Greek for all the sense it made to us. Bob never uttered one word. What was there to say? Thanks for being so thorough? For dashing every hope we might have had that you could have been wrong about him?
At the very end of their long technical spiel, they asked us if we had any questions and I asked if there was any chance he would be normal. The female neurologist that answered seemed very exasperated with me, as if I'd been caught not paying attention in class. Had I "checked out" or what? Of course there was no chance of his being normal. I didn't ask any more questions, it seemed to me like the less we understood the better we'd be able to accept it all.
I especially did not want to believe Brett was blind. As soon as we were able to bring him home from the hospital I plopped him in front of the television to "watch" Baby Einstein tapes. I played them over and over. "Doesn't it seem like he's watching it?" I'd ask everyone that came to see him. It's amazing how much you can talk yourself into believing something that you really, really want to believe.
He was about five months old when I took him to see the ophthalmologist. I was sitting in the examining chair with Brett on my lap while he took various items out of his little black bag. He had lights, bright colored cards, strips of black and white cloths and other trinkets. He peered into Brett's eyes and tried to get him to follow a light or track some of his gadgets. I could see that Brett wasn't passing any of the exercises.
"He doesn't seem very interested in them, does he?" I asked.
"It's not a matter of interest," the doctor answered. "It's a matter of instinct."
Whatever! He instinctively knows he's not interested, okay?
We were both silent as he put all his gadgets back in his bag and wheeled over to his computer to input the sad results. I've learned to sense when I won't like the answers, and so I don't ask the questions.
I knew it was time to stop playing the Baby Einstein tapes when I'd gone from wondering which one I thought he enjoyed the most to which one seemed to make him cry the least. Thinking of Brett's lack of response to us made me think of how guilty I am of not responding to God's devotion to me. Everyday my needs are met, mercies are given, grace is extended, encouragement is given (often in delightful and unexpected ways), and He is with me. Yet how often do I acknowledge Him throughout my day?
I am quick to run to Him when sadness overwhelms me or worries overtake me, but what about the rest of the time? What's really cool about acknowledging God's goodness is that He has made us to benefit from it. Praise and thankfulness lift us up and strengthen us. Numerous current best sellers (Christian and secular alike) are now acknowledging the emotional and mental benefits of gratitude. "In everything give thanks; for this is God's will for us in Christ Jesus." (1 Thess. 5:18) God doesn't ask us to give thanks for everything but in everything, trusting in His sufficiency and promise to work it for good (Rom. 8:28) and He is very good at using broken pieces to make something beautiful.
I know I won't entirely see the beauty God is creating with Brett's "broken pieces" until I reach our eternal home, but for now, I will rest in the assurance of His promises.
The day they gave us the "low down" on Brett, they ushered Bob and I into a little room with a long conference table. They put a box of Kleenex in front of us (not exactly a hopeful sign). Various specialists filed in and took seats around the table. Each of them spoke about Brett's deficiencies in their various fields of expertise. It was all way over our heads, they may as well have been speaking in Greek for all the sense it made to us. Bob never uttered one word. What was there to say? Thanks for being so thorough? For dashing every hope we might have had that you could have been wrong about him?
At the very end of their long technical spiel, they asked us if we had any questions and I asked if there was any chance he would be normal. The female neurologist that answered seemed very exasperated with me, as if I'd been caught not paying attention in class. Had I "checked out" or what? Of course there was no chance of his being normal. I didn't ask any more questions, it seemed to me like the less we understood the better we'd be able to accept it all.
I especially did not want to believe Brett was blind. As soon as we were able to bring him home from the hospital I plopped him in front of the television to "watch" Baby Einstein tapes. I played them over and over. "Doesn't it seem like he's watching it?" I'd ask everyone that came to see him. It's amazing how much you can talk yourself into believing something that you really, really want to believe.
He was about five months old when I took him to see the ophthalmologist. I was sitting in the examining chair with Brett on my lap while he took various items out of his little black bag. He had lights, bright colored cards, strips of black and white cloths and other trinkets. He peered into Brett's eyes and tried to get him to follow a light or track some of his gadgets. I could see that Brett wasn't passing any of the exercises.
"He doesn't seem very interested in them, does he?" I asked.
"It's not a matter of interest," the doctor answered. "It's a matter of instinct."
Whatever! He instinctively knows he's not interested, okay?
We were both silent as he put all his gadgets back in his bag and wheeled over to his computer to input the sad results. I've learned to sense when I won't like the answers, and so I don't ask the questions.
I knew it was time to stop playing the Baby Einstein tapes when I'd gone from wondering which one I thought he enjoyed the most to which one seemed to make him cry the least. Thinking of Brett's lack of response to us made me think of how guilty I am of not responding to God's devotion to me. Everyday my needs are met, mercies are given, grace is extended, encouragement is given (often in delightful and unexpected ways), and He is with me. Yet how often do I acknowledge Him throughout my day?
I am quick to run to Him when sadness overwhelms me or worries overtake me, but what about the rest of the time? What's really cool about acknowledging God's goodness is that He has made us to benefit from it. Praise and thankfulness lift us up and strengthen us. Numerous current best sellers (Christian and secular alike) are now acknowledging the emotional and mental benefits of gratitude. "In everything give thanks; for this is God's will for us in Christ Jesus." (1 Thess. 5:18) God doesn't ask us to give thanks for everything but in everything, trusting in His sufficiency and promise to work it for good (Rom. 8:28) and He is very good at using broken pieces to make something beautiful.
I know I won't entirely see the beauty God is creating with Brett's "broken pieces" until I reach our eternal home, but for now, I will rest in the assurance of His promises.
Thursday, April 9, 2009
I have a very clear memory of the first time I met my best friend's beloved Granny. I was appalled, to say the least. There was a vacuum cleaner in front of a chair she invited me to sit in and she told me to move that "pecker" out of the way and have a seat. She told Tammy about some hoodlums that had thrown a rock through one of her windows---she had ran outside with an unloaded shotgun and threatened to "blow their balls off". She vowed to "crap in a bucket for a week" so she could mix it with lye and spread it on top of the wall behind her house... that oughtta make them think twice about climbing over it onto her property! Tammy spent many nights at her house and always insisted on sleeping in the same bed with her. As Tammy got older the extra weight coupled with the slightest movement would cause the slats to fall out and the mattress to come crashing down. Numerous times a night, they would be jarred awake with a sudden drop to the floor whereby they'd have to get up, pick up the mattress, put the slats back in and remake the entire bed. After several bouts of this Granny commented that she'd hate to be a married couple trying to "get a piece" in that bed. Listening to her, it occurred to me that my mom might not even want me hanging out at Granny's. What would she think if she heard how she talked? The sad part is, at the time, Granny's crass language blinded me from seeing how much she loved Jesus and how very much her life must have pleased Him.
To understand the depth of my dismay at Granny's coarse words you need to know a little bit about the excessively prudish upbringing I had. The f-word was strictly forbidden in our household. The f-word was f- a-r-t. Notice I spelled it out, I have yet to ever utter it...why start now?. Too bad I can't say the same about the other f-word. It was ingrained into me that f-a-r-t was one of the foulest words in the English language. It was never to be uttered and certainly never to be indulged in. Unmentionable body parts were simply referred to as your "privates", anything more descriptive than that was not allowed (even butt was a bad word). Acting and talking in a lady-like fashion was of supreme importance.
How sad it is to judge on outward appearances! "Man looks at the outward appearances but the Lord looks at the heart." (1 Sam. 16:7) Granny probably knew her Bible better than most preachers. She was totally in love and dependent upon her precious Jesus. She was always serving others: cooking meals for sick people, tending to children that needed tending to and giving generously to anyone that asked (even though she had practically nothing of her own). Most touching and revealing of all was how eagerly she embraced death. "Yea, though I walk through valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..." Granny never experienced fear; only an eager anticipation to finally be with her Savior. She was the embodiment of Paul's words: "I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far.... for me to live is Christ but to die is gain." (Phil. 1) The day she was told she had cancer and most likely didn't have much longer to live she flitted around her tiny house gleefully exclaiming how "glorious" it was going to be! Thankfully, she kept a journal. It is one of Tammy's most treasured possessions. By the world's standards she had nothing (education, wealth or status), yet she wrote over and over how content and thankful she was. Tammy was recently re-reading some of her journal entries and was touched anew by her complete reliance on the Lord. After escaping an abusive, alcoholic husband she spent the rest of her life working hard in a factory to support her three children. Undoubtedly she picked up her salty language from those long hours in the factory. Though she had much to complain about, she never did. Tammy thinks she probably lived with her cancer for a long time, as she mentioned her pain often in her journal. She died just three weeks after the day she finally admitted that she would like something for the pain. Those last days she loved for Tammy to sit by her bedside and sing hymns to her. Her favorite was the Old Rugged Cross:
"On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,
The emblem of suffering and shame;
And I love that old cross where the dearest and best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.
So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.
O that old rugged cross,
so despised by the world,
Has a wondrous attraction for me;
For the dear Lamb of God
left His glory above
To bear it to dark Calvary.
In that old rugged cross,
stained with blood so divine,
A wondrous beauty I see,
For ’twas on that old cross Jesus suffered and died,
To pardon and sanctify me.
To the old rugged cross I will ever be true;
Its shame and reproach gladly bear;
Then He’ll call me some day to my home far away,
Where His glory forever I’ll share."
To understand the depth of my dismay at Granny's coarse words you need to know a little bit about the excessively prudish upbringing I had. The f-word was strictly forbidden in our household. The f-word was f- a-r-t. Notice I spelled it out, I have yet to ever utter it...why start now?. Too bad I can't say the same about the other f-word. It was ingrained into me that f-a-r-t was one of the foulest words in the English language. It was never to be uttered and certainly never to be indulged in. Unmentionable body parts were simply referred to as your "privates", anything more descriptive than that was not allowed (even butt was a bad word). Acting and talking in a lady-like fashion was of supreme importance.
How sad it is to judge on outward appearances! "Man looks at the outward appearances but the Lord looks at the heart." (1 Sam. 16:7) Granny probably knew her Bible better than most preachers. She was totally in love and dependent upon her precious Jesus. She was always serving others: cooking meals for sick people, tending to children that needed tending to and giving generously to anyone that asked (even though she had practically nothing of her own). Most touching and revealing of all was how eagerly she embraced death. "Yea, though I walk through valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil..." Granny never experienced fear; only an eager anticipation to finally be with her Savior. She was the embodiment of Paul's words: "I desire to depart and be with Christ, which is better by far.... for me to live is Christ but to die is gain." (Phil. 1) The day she was told she had cancer and most likely didn't have much longer to live she flitted around her tiny house gleefully exclaiming how "glorious" it was going to be! Thankfully, she kept a journal. It is one of Tammy's most treasured possessions. By the world's standards she had nothing (education, wealth or status), yet she wrote over and over how content and thankful she was. Tammy was recently re-reading some of her journal entries and was touched anew by her complete reliance on the Lord. After escaping an abusive, alcoholic husband she spent the rest of her life working hard in a factory to support her three children. Undoubtedly she picked up her salty language from those long hours in the factory. Though she had much to complain about, she never did. Tammy thinks she probably lived with her cancer for a long time, as she mentioned her pain often in her journal. She died just three weeks after the day she finally admitted that she would like something for the pain. Those last days she loved for Tammy to sit by her bedside and sing hymns to her. Her favorite was the Old Rugged Cross:
"On a hill far away stood an old rugged cross,
The emblem of suffering and shame;
And I love that old cross where the dearest and best
For a world of lost sinners was slain.
So I’ll cherish the old rugged cross,
Till my trophies at last I lay down;
I will cling to the old rugged cross,
And exchange it some day for a crown.
O that old rugged cross,
so despised by the world,
Has a wondrous attraction for me;
For the dear Lamb of God
left His glory above
To bear it to dark Calvary.
In that old rugged cross,
stained with blood so divine,
A wondrous beauty I see,
For ’twas on that old cross Jesus suffered and died,
To pardon and sanctify me.
To the old rugged cross I will ever be true;
Its shame and reproach gladly bear;
Then He’ll call me some day to my home far away,
Where His glory forever I’ll share."
There was no doubt who Granny considered the "dearest and best", no doubt how much she longed for the day He would call her to her "home far away, where His glory forever" she'd share.
Misjudging Granny reminds me of Jesus' words to the religious windbags of His time: "Woe to you, teachers of the law and the Pharisees, you hypocrites! You clean the outside of the cup and dish, but inside they are full of greed and self-indulgence." (Mt. 23:25) There are so many of us that look clean on the outside yet sadly, "self-indulgence" describes us to a tee. We are chiefly concerned with our own outward appearance, our own comfort and all the "stuff" it takes to make us comfortable while the inner self gets largely ignored. How many of us could embrace death so gleefully or love and trust our Lord as completely as Granny did?
Wednesday, April 1, 2009
I was having one of those days that could have easily evolved into a full blown pity party. I resolved to count my blessings before all was lost. I'd start from the ground up: "Thank you Lord for my feet, that I have ten toes and ten toe nails...". From there my mind wandered away from my prayers of thanksgiving to thinking about all the various indignities that come with age.
I have a memory of my Grandma sitting in her easy chair holding a magnifying mirror and plucking her whiskers. It was a little bit unsettling for me. I remember feeling sad that she had whiskers. She had a very tough life and it didn't seem fair that on top of all she had to deal with she had to spend so much time tending to her whiskers as well. It didn't seem fair that my other Grandma was seemingly enjoying the whisker-free "Life of Riley" either.
One day, I got up the nerve to ask her why she thought she grew those whiskers.
She answered that all women grow whiskers when they get older.
Privately, I wasn't buying that. As I said, I'd never seen any whiskers on my other Grandma's face. But...if it made her feel better to think all older women had whiskers, then who was I to point out the error of her thinking?
She told me I'd get a chance to experience them myself when I got older.
I didn't believe that for a minute either. I didn't take after that side of the family so I figured I wouldn't grow whiskers like them either.
My friend had gotten a little lax in her "bleaching". Her little son was watching her intently one day and commented that she was "almost a man" with the "mustache" she was growing. He said it like it was something to aspire to...that he'd be very proud of her when she finally achieved her full "man" status.
Fortunately, I know why God made us to deteriorate in all these outrageously ghastly ways: because it makes us long for Heaven and our new glorified bodies all the more. I'm currently reading a wonderful book about Heaven and it's getting me really excited to experience it. In fact, I'm tempted to dash out to the garage and start the car (just kidding, Babe).
The book points out that "God uses suffering and impending death to unfasten us from this earth and to set our minds on what lies ahead" and that "every culture has a God given innate sense of the eternal--that this world is not all there is."
C.S. Lewis observed, "If you read history, you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next. The Apostles themselves, who set on foot the conversion of the Roman Empire, the great men who built up the Middle Ages, the English Evangelicals who abolished the Slave Trade, all left their mark on Earth, precisely because their minds were occupied with Heaven. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim at Heaven and you will get earth 'thrown in': aim at earth and you will get neither."
The author reminds us that every day 250,000 people either go to Heaven or Hell. "The best of life is a glimpse of Heaven, the worst of life is a glimpse of Hell."
Just think... the best times we've ever had...the most tension free, loving family get togethers, the thrill of new love, the gratefulness and love we feel for our closest friends that sometimes threaten to overwhelm us, the best laughs, the most exciting vacations, the most breathtakingly beautiful sights...all of this, just a foretaste of what Heaven will be like!
Back to counting my blessings (I'll start with my head this time)..."Thank you, Father, that I can CHOOSE what I think about, that I have the ability to 'set my mind on things above' (Col 3:2)and to 'think on things that are pure and lovely' (Phil. 4:6)".
I think the pity party was effectively "rained upon".
I have a memory of my Grandma sitting in her easy chair holding a magnifying mirror and plucking her whiskers. It was a little bit unsettling for me. I remember feeling sad that she had whiskers. She had a very tough life and it didn't seem fair that on top of all she had to deal with she had to spend so much time tending to her whiskers as well. It didn't seem fair that my other Grandma was seemingly enjoying the whisker-free "Life of Riley" either.
One day, I got up the nerve to ask her why she thought she grew those whiskers.
She answered that all women grow whiskers when they get older.
Privately, I wasn't buying that. As I said, I'd never seen any whiskers on my other Grandma's face. But...if it made her feel better to think all older women had whiskers, then who was I to point out the error of her thinking?
She told me I'd get a chance to experience them myself when I got older.
I didn't believe that for a minute either. I didn't take after that side of the family so I figured I wouldn't grow whiskers like them either.
My friend had gotten a little lax in her "bleaching". Her little son was watching her intently one day and commented that she was "almost a man" with the "mustache" she was growing. He said it like it was something to aspire to...that he'd be very proud of her when she finally achieved her full "man" status.
Fortunately, I know why God made us to deteriorate in all these outrageously ghastly ways: because it makes us long for Heaven and our new glorified bodies all the more. I'm currently reading a wonderful book about Heaven and it's getting me really excited to experience it. In fact, I'm tempted to dash out to the garage and start the car (just kidding, Babe).
The book points out that "God uses suffering and impending death to unfasten us from this earth and to set our minds on what lies ahead" and that "every culture has a God given innate sense of the eternal--that this world is not all there is."
C.S. Lewis observed, "If you read history, you will find that the Christians who did most for the present world were just those who thought most of the next. The Apostles themselves, who set on foot the conversion of the Roman Empire, the great men who built up the Middle Ages, the English Evangelicals who abolished the Slave Trade, all left their mark on Earth, precisely because their minds were occupied with Heaven. It is since Christians have largely ceased to think of the other world that they have become so ineffective in this. Aim at Heaven and you will get earth 'thrown in': aim at earth and you will get neither."
The author reminds us that every day 250,000 people either go to Heaven or Hell. "The best of life is a glimpse of Heaven, the worst of life is a glimpse of Hell."
Just think... the best times we've ever had...the most tension free, loving family get togethers, the thrill of new love, the gratefulness and love we feel for our closest friends that sometimes threaten to overwhelm us, the best laughs, the most exciting vacations, the most breathtakingly beautiful sights...all of this, just a foretaste of what Heaven will be like!
Back to counting my blessings (I'll start with my head this time)..."Thank you, Father, that I can CHOOSE what I think about, that I have the ability to 'set my mind on things above' (Col 3:2)and to 'think on things that are pure and lovely' (Phil. 4:6)".
I think the pity party was effectively "rained upon".
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