I know, I know. Two blogs in one month. One week, even. I wasn’t really planning to write this.
But I was trying to take a nap yesterday while Jadon slept (because it was my birthday and I decided to give myself a break). God decided I didn’t really need a break. His voice started as this breath-of-a-whisper, but, as I laid there arguing about how I really just needed a little sleep because the week’s been so busy and I had already written three stories for the newspaper and I would be hosting and cooking dinner for my home group tomorrow and it was my birthday, God’s voice became the shriek of Hill Country winds that rattle our windows on days like today.
So I decided I should probably do what he said, share what’s on my heart. I hope what follows is worth a missed nap.
Sometimes, it’s really hard to imagine a great big God sitting on a great big throne, watching every tiny person in the universe melt into little puddles of people as the chaos of our lives and the lies we’ve been told—are still being told—nibbles away at who we were created to be.
Sometimes, it’s really hard to believe he’s a mighty, merciful, got-everything-under-control God.
I feel doubt sometimes, too, when I think of my friends Ben and Katrina.
Their story is difficult to tell. They’ve been married for more than five years and have been trying to have children since the day they said their vows. It hasn’t happened yet.
So, for the last year, they’ve been traveling to San Antonio for fertility treatments and some really painful procedures that they had hoped might make a difference.
They were here just last week for some tests that would determine whether they could proceed with a costly fertility treatment they had already tried once before. My Ben and I joined them for lunch before they followed me back to our home to wait for the 2 p.m. doctor’s call.
He was late calling. I laid Jadon down for his afternoon nap, and Ben and Katrina and I sat at our dining room table chatting and joking and laughing, trying not to think about the reason they were there. Katrina glanced at her watch every now and then as the minutes slid into an hour.
When her phone finally buzzed, Katrina answered it with this vulnerability that knotted my heart. Ben (her Ben) couldn’t even look at her. Fear sucked all the air from the room, so my spirit began to pray words that settled my stomach, words that I can’t even remember now.
I do remember Katrina’s feet, crossed at the ankles, and the way her heels tapped the floor in a rhythm that seemed to hold her together and the way the tips of her fingernails turned white from her grip on the phone and the way her face crumpled like a flimsy piece of notebook paper when her composure fractured.
Every one of her tears burned my face.
She ended the call and just stared at her husband for what seemed like forever, her tears pooling on the neck of her T-shirt. The pain made it so hard to breathe.
I had to leave the room.
I didn’t say a word before I walked up our stairs. I didn’t know what to say. I only knew that I could feel it inside, way down deep, a sickening pain that blazed its way through my mind and heart and soul. I watched it drink my hope like hope had never reached solidity.
Then Jadon began to cry.
I slid into his room and cradled him in my arms, trying to rock him back to sleep before his wail bruised Ben’s and Katrina’s hearts even more. I thought about a lot in those moments before he closed his eyes. I thought about how he was a gift we didn’t deserve, about how (my) Ben and I take so much of God’s favor for granted, about how he could turn it all around in a second.
I thought about what I could possibly say to keep Ben and Katrina believing. God is on his throne. He is all-powerful, even though he hasn’t opened Katrina’s womb, and loving, even though he hasn’t answered her most repeated prayer, and fair, even though millions of abortions happen every day while couples like Ben and Katrina ache for a child. He has plans to prosper us, works all things out for our good, gives us the desires of our hearts when rest in him. They were just words, and I couldn’t make them anything more.
I prayed over them before they left, told them (my) Ben and I would believe for them when they couldn’t believe anymore. They left with vacant eyes. The enemy’s lies were sneaking back in, convincing them they are broken and defective.
I’ve prayed for them all week, right around my 14th lap on the treadmill we keep in our garage. I’ve prayed that God would show them he’s a mighty, merciful, got-everything-under-control God.
The thing is—what God wedged into my heart as I dozed yesterday—sometimes, he’s not a great big God sitting on a great big throne.
I don’t mean that to say that he’s not always I AM. I mean it to say that sometimes, when death or disappointment or those splintered dreams creep into our lives, he is a small God, close enough to touch and hear and see. Sometimes, he’s right here, stroking our hair as we try to figure out what to do with so much pain, his heart throbbing right along with ours. And sometimes, that’s exactly what we need.
Oh, God, be small enough for Ben and Katrina. Be small enough for all of us.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
Friday, January 25, 2008
Perfection is so overrated
I’ve wanted to be perfect for so long.
It started 11 years ago when my mom sat us all down in the bedroom I shared with my sister and, as the shame and fear and haunting disappointment in her eyes chafed us raw, told us that my father had a 3-year-old child and another baby on the way and wouldn’t be coming back like he’d promised us.
I wanted to be perfect then, to bring him back.
I began the sixth grade rejected and wounded—a lanky kid taller than all the boys and dorkier than all the girls. I remember keeping my distance from friends, excusing myself from sleepovers and birthday parties, always afraid that people would snub me when they saw the tiny, shabby house I lived in or opened the cheap gifts my mom couldn’t afford. I needed to convince them that I was perfect—because if they believed the mirage that hid who I was deep down inside, then maybe Daddy would believe it, too.
In high school, I turned in every homework assignment and studied for every test to hold my place at the top of my class because Daddy would have to be impressed if I graduated valedictorian. I did, too. Daddy didn’t even come to the ceremony that launched me into adulthood, where I delivered my first public speech and sang a song dedicated to hundreds of happily married parents…and my mom.
So in college, I starved myself, thinking maybe if I were skinnier or prettier, Daddy might take an interest in my life. I ran six miles and limited myself to 600 calories a day the same year Daddy stopped calling.
I never, ever dreamed it would slither into my marriage and my parenting and all the years between, when I thought I’d left it behind. But here it is, gaping at me like I should have known.
Maybe I should have known.
A few weeks ago, I asked Ben to clean out the air filter in our house. The cooling/heating system had a slight rattle in its throat, and I was concerned that pipes may be getting clogged that shouldn’t be getting clogged and that we might pay for that later when the whole system quit. Knowing we couldn’t afford something like that if it happened, I used my nagging voice.
Still, he sat on that thorn for weeks, like it didn’t even bother him.
Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe it just wasn’t as important to him as it was to me.
So I listed in my journal one night all the reasons why I shouldn’t have to clean our air filter myself. I already do the dishes and wash the laundry and dust the furniture and vacuum the floors and make up the bed—even though I’m the first one up—and straighten the clutter and take out the trash when Ben forgets or oversleeps and pay the bills and take care of the baby and organize the songs for our concert and keep track of our tax records and balance our checkbook and schedule Jadon’s 15-month appointment and collect business contacts for Progeny and still manage to throw 110-percent into a more than 40-hour-a-week job.
I remember feeling a little annoyed that he could pin so much on me, that he could believe I was anything close to Super Wife or Super Mom or Super Helper.
It was a dangerous path that crept right past reality.
I thought about this for a long time. Ben and I are reading a book called Breaking the Cycle of Divorce because we both come from generations of broken marriages and affairs that caused them. So much is heaped on the shoulders of the kids who watch a parent walk out the door and never come back.
The chapter we read yesterday explained four of the 12 manifestations of divorce’s curse. One of the most destructive of those manifestations is isolation. I mentioned in my last blog that I hadn’t heard from God in a while, so it startled me a little when he spoke. His words were clear and beautiful and heart-stopping.
Here’s what he said.
“Ben never expected or will expect you to be the perfect wife. Jadon never expected or will expect you to be the perfect mom. I never expected you to be a perfect helper. Open your eyes and let go of that bar that your hands control and continue to raise every day that slips by because it is pushing you into yourself and away from all the people I have brought into your life who love you so much.”
Every word is true, and I know it now, deep down inside. I’m ready to be real and transparent and...the broken mess-of-a-woman I’ve tried to hide for so long.
I’m not perfect. I never have been. I argue with my husband. I take low shots. I sometimes forget that he carries the laundry up the stairs so I don’t slip and crack my tailbone again and that he scrubs the bathrooms until they shine because toilets make me queasy and that he carries me through the painful memories when I can’t walk through them myself.
There’ll be days when I’ll spend hours with God and days when I won’t be able to sacrifice a minute. I will be detached and mean and frighteningly selfish sometimes. I will always see 10 more pounds that I could lose.
I think sometimes I need to be reminded that I fall short of God’s glory because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t really need a Savior. I wouldn’t believe I needed one, anyway. And his strength could never sweep through my life if I didn’t have a weakness.
Thank you, Jesus, that I have never reached perfection.
Our little musician
Happy on Christmas morning
He actually did this himself
He'll never use this in his lifetime, but he sure loved playing with it
Yep. Already knows how to brush his teeth.
Somebody needs a bath
It started 11 years ago when my mom sat us all down in the bedroom I shared with my sister and, as the shame and fear and haunting disappointment in her eyes chafed us raw, told us that my father had a 3-year-old child and another baby on the way and wouldn’t be coming back like he’d promised us.
I wanted to be perfect then, to bring him back.
I began the sixth grade rejected and wounded—a lanky kid taller than all the boys and dorkier than all the girls. I remember keeping my distance from friends, excusing myself from sleepovers and birthday parties, always afraid that people would snub me when they saw the tiny, shabby house I lived in or opened the cheap gifts my mom couldn’t afford. I needed to convince them that I was perfect—because if they believed the mirage that hid who I was deep down inside, then maybe Daddy would believe it, too.
In high school, I turned in every homework assignment and studied for every test to hold my place at the top of my class because Daddy would have to be impressed if I graduated valedictorian. I did, too. Daddy didn’t even come to the ceremony that launched me into adulthood, where I delivered my first public speech and sang a song dedicated to hundreds of happily married parents…and my mom.
So in college, I starved myself, thinking maybe if I were skinnier or prettier, Daddy might take an interest in my life. I ran six miles and limited myself to 600 calories a day the same year Daddy stopped calling.
I never, ever dreamed it would slither into my marriage and my parenting and all the years between, when I thought I’d left it behind. But here it is, gaping at me like I should have known.
Maybe I should have known.
A few weeks ago, I asked Ben to clean out the air filter in our house. The cooling/heating system had a slight rattle in its throat, and I was concerned that pipes may be getting clogged that shouldn’t be getting clogged and that we might pay for that later when the whole system quit. Knowing we couldn’t afford something like that if it happened, I used my nagging voice.
Still, he sat on that thorn for weeks, like it didn’t even bother him.
Maybe it slipped his mind. Maybe he didn’t have time. Maybe it just wasn’t as important to him as it was to me.
So I listed in my journal one night all the reasons why I shouldn’t have to clean our air filter myself. I already do the dishes and wash the laundry and dust the furniture and vacuum the floors and make up the bed—even though I’m the first one up—and straighten the clutter and take out the trash when Ben forgets or oversleeps and pay the bills and take care of the baby and organize the songs for our concert and keep track of our tax records and balance our checkbook and schedule Jadon’s 15-month appointment and collect business contacts for Progeny and still manage to throw 110-percent into a more than 40-hour-a-week job.
I remember feeling a little annoyed that he could pin so much on me, that he could believe I was anything close to Super Wife or Super Mom or Super Helper.
It was a dangerous path that crept right past reality.
I thought about this for a long time. Ben and I are reading a book called Breaking the Cycle of Divorce because we both come from generations of broken marriages and affairs that caused them. So much is heaped on the shoulders of the kids who watch a parent walk out the door and never come back.
The chapter we read yesterday explained four of the 12 manifestations of divorce’s curse. One of the most destructive of those manifestations is isolation. I mentioned in my last blog that I hadn’t heard from God in a while, so it startled me a little when he spoke. His words were clear and beautiful and heart-stopping.
Here’s what he said.
“Ben never expected or will expect you to be the perfect wife. Jadon never expected or will expect you to be the perfect mom. I never expected you to be a perfect helper. Open your eyes and let go of that bar that your hands control and continue to raise every day that slips by because it is pushing you into yourself and away from all the people I have brought into your life who love you so much.”
Every word is true, and I know it now, deep down inside. I’m ready to be real and transparent and...the broken mess-of-a-woman I’ve tried to hide for so long.
I’m not perfect. I never have been. I argue with my husband. I take low shots. I sometimes forget that he carries the laundry up the stairs so I don’t slip and crack my tailbone again and that he scrubs the bathrooms until they shine because toilets make me queasy and that he carries me through the painful memories when I can’t walk through them myself.
There’ll be days when I’ll spend hours with God and days when I won’t be able to sacrifice a minute. I will be detached and mean and frighteningly selfish sometimes. I will always see 10 more pounds that I could lose.
I think sometimes I need to be reminded that I fall short of God’s glory because if I didn’t, I wouldn’t really need a Savior. I wouldn’t believe I needed one, anyway. And his strength could never sweep through my life if I didn’t have a weakness.
Thank you, Jesus, that I have never reached perfection.
Our little musician
Happy on Christmas morning
He actually did this himself
He'll never use this in his lifetime, but he sure loved playing with it
Yep. Already knows how to brush his teeth.
Somebody needs a bath
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Tipped-over toys and dirty socks
They're everywhere. Or maybe that's just all I see anymore. Jadon's toys have overtaken the house—the gameroom, the kitchen, our living room's corner. Only our bedroom escaped most of that tornado, but even when I try to retreat there for a little me-time, dirty, smelly socks run me right back out (and they're not mine—because my dirty socks don't smell).
**Disclaimer: Please don't think any of the following words reflect on my love for my family. I love my husband and my son more than any dreams or plans or pressures to have a clean house. Just know that.
I'm so tired. I feel like I'm just barely keeping my head above water. Or maybe what I feel is more like dog-paddling toward a shoreline that I still can't see, no matter how much I squint. I'm running out of stamina.
There's not enough time in my day to straighten the house that gets wrecked the moment Jadon wakes or to call my sister, who admitted she's feeling a little lonely, or to cook that semi-healthy dinner for my family or to jog a few miles to clear my head or to snuggle with my husband on our loveseat, like we used to do, or to practice the bass guitar for our concert this weekend or to write those chapters I've been sitting on for weeks or to finish designing those pages for the job that pays our bills or to even breathe.
I'm just running out of stamina.
Lately I've been looking at the lives of people I barely know, and I've been wishing for the simplicity I imagine they have. I see moms and dads picnicking with their children, and I wish I could take just one hour away from everything and let Jadon feel the park's abnormally green grass tickling the bottoms of his bare feet. I see grandmas walking behind grandchildren on bicycles, and I wish I could somehow make my grandmother mobile again. I see our neighbors and their good friends sipping hot chocolate in rocking chairs on their front porches, and I wish I had time for a friend.
And it seems like I've been meeting more and more moms who get to stay home with their children and raise them to know the Lord, and I feel a little envious that their husband's salary is enough for their family. Then every once in a while, I'll meet the woman who is checking off her list of goals as she rises up the ladder, and I feel a little envious that she wasn't asked to put her dreams on hold.
I could really let this bother me if I dwelt on it. But the thing is, I don't know their stories. They could be treading water, just like me. Some of them may even be drifting away from that shore while they try to keep their head above water.
Our pastor, Scott Heare, talked Sunday about how God really does play hide and seek. God is hiding. Sometimes we find him when we're not looking. Sometimes we find him when we're looking for him. Sometimes we look and look and look, and we don't find him anywhere.
I've been looking for God for a long time. I don't know for how long, but I do know it's been a really long time. I had stopped looking for a while. Until Scott opened my eyes to something.
He said that when we see God, it's because he wants us to see his heart. But when he's hiding from us it's because he wants us to learn something about his mind. He wants to grow us in wisdom about himself, about our circumstances, about the spiritual truths that can change our lives.
I haven't learned what I need to learn yet, so he remains hidden.
So I've been sitting around, since Sunday, thinking about what God might want to teach me by hiding. Maybe I'm supposed to enjoy the sight of tipped-over toys and dirty socks because some people don't have the joy of a family to pick up after. Maybe I'm supposed to embrace the tasks on my to-do list because some people don't have the privilege of doing for themselves.
Maybe I need to really learn what it means to surrender my pales-in-comparison life plan and exchange it for his bigger-than-any-of-my-dreams one.
So I'll keep dog-paddling toward that distant shoreline, God, until I can see you again. Really see you.
**Disclaimer: Please don't think any of the following words reflect on my love for my family. I love my husband and my son more than any dreams or plans or pressures to have a clean house. Just know that.
I'm so tired. I feel like I'm just barely keeping my head above water. Or maybe what I feel is more like dog-paddling toward a shoreline that I still can't see, no matter how much I squint. I'm running out of stamina.
There's not enough time in my day to straighten the house that gets wrecked the moment Jadon wakes or to call my sister, who admitted she's feeling a little lonely, or to cook that semi-healthy dinner for my family or to jog a few miles to clear my head or to snuggle with my husband on our loveseat, like we used to do, or to practice the bass guitar for our concert this weekend or to write those chapters I've been sitting on for weeks or to finish designing those pages for the job that pays our bills or to even breathe.
I'm just running out of stamina.
Lately I've been looking at the lives of people I barely know, and I've been wishing for the simplicity I imagine they have. I see moms and dads picnicking with their children, and I wish I could take just one hour away from everything and let Jadon feel the park's abnormally green grass tickling the bottoms of his bare feet. I see grandmas walking behind grandchildren on bicycles, and I wish I could somehow make my grandmother mobile again. I see our neighbors and their good friends sipping hot chocolate in rocking chairs on their front porches, and I wish I had time for a friend.
And it seems like I've been meeting more and more moms who get to stay home with their children and raise them to know the Lord, and I feel a little envious that their husband's salary is enough for their family. Then every once in a while, I'll meet the woman who is checking off her list of goals as she rises up the ladder, and I feel a little envious that she wasn't asked to put her dreams on hold.
I could really let this bother me if I dwelt on it. But the thing is, I don't know their stories. They could be treading water, just like me. Some of them may even be drifting away from that shore while they try to keep their head above water.
Our pastor, Scott Heare, talked Sunday about how God really does play hide and seek. God is hiding. Sometimes we find him when we're not looking. Sometimes we find him when we're looking for him. Sometimes we look and look and look, and we don't find him anywhere.
I've been looking for God for a long time. I don't know for how long, but I do know it's been a really long time. I had stopped looking for a while. Until Scott opened my eyes to something.
He said that when we see God, it's because he wants us to see his heart. But when he's hiding from us it's because he wants us to learn something about his mind. He wants to grow us in wisdom about himself, about our circumstances, about the spiritual truths that can change our lives.
I haven't learned what I need to learn yet, so he remains hidden.
So I've been sitting around, since Sunday, thinking about what God might want to teach me by hiding. Maybe I'm supposed to enjoy the sight of tipped-over toys and dirty socks because some people don't have the joy of a family to pick up after. Maybe I'm supposed to embrace the tasks on my to-do list because some people don't have the privilege of doing for themselves.
Maybe I need to really learn what it means to surrender my pales-in-comparison life plan and exchange it for his bigger-than-any-of-my-dreams one.
So I'll keep dog-paddling toward that distant shoreline, God, until I can see you again. Really see you.
Friday, November 30, 2007
sunsets and sunrises...
The house has just settled into peace again.
Jadon has been crying for an hour and a half, since I laid him down for his nap at 3:30 p.m. For the first part of that hour, I would visit his room, rub his back and gently tell him it was time to take a nap. When he chose not to listen, I just let him cry.
It’s agonizing to hear my baby cry. But I sat here, for the better part of an hour, while his scream chipped away at my heart’s resolve.
A few minutes ago, I visited his room for the last time. His eyes were swollen and puffy, his mouth twisted in a pout. I picked him up in my arms and rocked him until his heavy eyes finally closed. He whined when I put him down, but I softly stroked his cheek and back to let him know I was still there and would be as long as he needed me.
He is quiet now.
So I’m sitting here staring out our gameroom window at a sky splashed with orange and pink and blue and purple and tiny wisps of white. It’s breathtaking. Something in the beauty of a sunset has the power to move me.
I’ve been in sort of a funk lately. Haven’t wanted to go to work or participate in any extra activities or even write. I know I’m a mess when I don’t feel like writing.
I feel dry and lonely and…abandoned.
This happens every now and then, when stress and exhaustion numb me to what’s really important in life. I know it’s just a cycle that will eventually end, but it’s still a vicious cycle—because every day I look in the mirror and I see all the things I wish I could change about myself. I look at the mess piling up in my home and the son I have to leave every day when I go to work and I begin to believe that I’m not a good wife or a good mother.
I look at my life and all the dreams that seem so far out of reach, and it’s enough to make me give up trying.
It’s an awful place to be.
Maybe it all started as we got closer to Jadon’s first birthday. It’s hard to believe he’s a year old already. He’s charming and infuriating all wrapped up into one. He is beginning to get an attitude and likes to throw fits when he’s not able to get or do something he wants. He now stands 31 and a half inches tall and weighs 21 pounds. He says Mama, Daddy, Jake (for Uncle Jake), hey, hi and duck. On good days, he’ll say his own version of “Thank you.” He never says “Please.”
We celebrated his birthday on Thanksgiving Day with a Curious George themed party. Jadon enjoyed opening his (way too many) presents and enjoyed even more playing with each one—especially his drum sticks and the small guitar. He’d pluck the strings of his guitar and look at his daddy and me to make sure we’d heard him, then would smile from ear to ear when we clapped for him. He is our precious, happy boy, safe in our love, secure in our protection.
At his party, I found myself thinking about how quickly time has slipped away. A year ago, Jadon was only weeks old, and Ben and I were stumbling through this parenting thing. A year ago, I leaned on my friends and family to help me get through the emotional period that follows the birth of any child.
A year ago, my grandmother was talking and laughing and feeding herself and was able to hold a baby Jadon in her arms during his first Christmas.
How much has changed in a year.
I’ve always struggled with the passing of time and getting older. I’ve never really wanted to get older—been a little scared of it, I guess. Having a child makes it seem like time speeds even faster than it used to. I don't like that I can't remember how it felt to hold a still, tiny baby in my arms just so I could breathe his baby scent. I don't like that my life has become so busy that I no longer have time to lean on friends and family when my emotions get the better of me. I don’t like that I can’t talk to my Memaw anymore, that she won’t laugh at Ben’s cheesy jokes, that she can’t even use a fork anymore. I don't like that she won't be able to hold Jadon ever again. But I know it’s part of life.
And the sunset has reminded me of something.
Just before the night’s darkness, God shows us something beautiful—so we’ll remember it when the night seems too long. And the sunrise…well, it’s made all the more beautiful the blacker the night. I think Jesus is a lot like the sunrise.
Oh, God, show me the sunrise.
Jadon's birthday breakfast
His first cupcake
Mmmm. That was good.
The table spread
The awesome cake
Amazingly, this did not result in an injury.
Presents, presents, presents!
The family after Jadon's first birthday party.
Christmas is coming!
Jadon has been crying for an hour and a half, since I laid him down for his nap at 3:30 p.m. For the first part of that hour, I would visit his room, rub his back and gently tell him it was time to take a nap. When he chose not to listen, I just let him cry.
It’s agonizing to hear my baby cry. But I sat here, for the better part of an hour, while his scream chipped away at my heart’s resolve.
A few minutes ago, I visited his room for the last time. His eyes were swollen and puffy, his mouth twisted in a pout. I picked him up in my arms and rocked him until his heavy eyes finally closed. He whined when I put him down, but I softly stroked his cheek and back to let him know I was still there and would be as long as he needed me.
He is quiet now.
So I’m sitting here staring out our gameroom window at a sky splashed with orange and pink and blue and purple and tiny wisps of white. It’s breathtaking. Something in the beauty of a sunset has the power to move me.
I’ve been in sort of a funk lately. Haven’t wanted to go to work or participate in any extra activities or even write. I know I’m a mess when I don’t feel like writing.
I feel dry and lonely and…abandoned.
This happens every now and then, when stress and exhaustion numb me to what’s really important in life. I know it’s just a cycle that will eventually end, but it’s still a vicious cycle—because every day I look in the mirror and I see all the things I wish I could change about myself. I look at the mess piling up in my home and the son I have to leave every day when I go to work and I begin to believe that I’m not a good wife or a good mother.
I look at my life and all the dreams that seem so far out of reach, and it’s enough to make me give up trying.
It’s an awful place to be.
Maybe it all started as we got closer to Jadon’s first birthday. It’s hard to believe he’s a year old already. He’s charming and infuriating all wrapped up into one. He is beginning to get an attitude and likes to throw fits when he’s not able to get or do something he wants. He now stands 31 and a half inches tall and weighs 21 pounds. He says Mama, Daddy, Jake (for Uncle Jake), hey, hi and duck. On good days, he’ll say his own version of “Thank you.” He never says “Please.”
We celebrated his birthday on Thanksgiving Day with a Curious George themed party. Jadon enjoyed opening his (way too many) presents and enjoyed even more playing with each one—especially his drum sticks and the small guitar. He’d pluck the strings of his guitar and look at his daddy and me to make sure we’d heard him, then would smile from ear to ear when we clapped for him. He is our precious, happy boy, safe in our love, secure in our protection.
At his party, I found myself thinking about how quickly time has slipped away. A year ago, Jadon was only weeks old, and Ben and I were stumbling through this parenting thing. A year ago, I leaned on my friends and family to help me get through the emotional period that follows the birth of any child.
A year ago, my grandmother was talking and laughing and feeding herself and was able to hold a baby Jadon in her arms during his first Christmas.
How much has changed in a year.
I’ve always struggled with the passing of time and getting older. I’ve never really wanted to get older—been a little scared of it, I guess. Having a child makes it seem like time speeds even faster than it used to. I don't like that I can't remember how it felt to hold a still, tiny baby in my arms just so I could breathe his baby scent. I don't like that my life has become so busy that I no longer have time to lean on friends and family when my emotions get the better of me. I don’t like that I can’t talk to my Memaw anymore, that she won’t laugh at Ben’s cheesy jokes, that she can’t even use a fork anymore. I don't like that she won't be able to hold Jadon ever again. But I know it’s part of life.
And the sunset has reminded me of something.
Just before the night’s darkness, God shows us something beautiful—so we’ll remember it when the night seems too long. And the sunrise…well, it’s made all the more beautiful the blacker the night. I think Jesus is a lot like the sunrise.
Oh, God, show me the sunrise.
Jadon's birthday breakfast
His first cupcake
Mmmm. That was good.
The table spread
The awesome cake
Amazingly, this did not result in an injury.
Presents, presents, presents!
The family after Jadon's first birthday party.
Christmas is coming!
Friday, October 19, 2007
fall brings romance...
I love this time of year.
This morning, as I walked out to my car at 6:30, I just had to stop for a brief moment and fill my lungs with the crisp, clean air. It was still dark, and I could see the stars shining clearer than they have shone in a long time, no visible humidity between them and me. Thank you, God, for fall…and all the memories that surround this time of year.
Some people say spring is the best season because of new birth and blooming flowers and budding trees. My season is fall.
So many life-changing events have happened in the fall. I met Ben in the fall of 2000, when I was a sophomore at Texas State University in San Marcos. We were kids then, 18 and 19, and still had so much to see and do and learn before God would bring us together as more than friends. I remember he showed up to the Baptist Student Ministry, where I was co-worship leader, an hour late and his hair was all disheveled, and I thought, "He's kind of a dork, but in a cute sort of way…" and how we agreed to keep things on a friendly level to lessen whatever pressure we felt from our summer get-to-know-each-other e-mails.
We began "officially" dating in the fall of 2002, my senior year of college, and were soon engaged once God's will was made unmistakably clear. I remember late nights and early, early mornings combing through wedding magazines as I sat in my Editor-in-Chief office waiting for the last pages of The University Star to print so I could go to bed, and the nights Ben would meet me at campus and walk me to my car to make sure nothing happened in the 200 feet I had to walk between the Star office and my parking spot.
We married Oct. 11, 2003, right on the cusp of fall, and moved to San Antonio that year, where I secured my first "real" job as a reporter at the San Antonio Express-News. I remember snuggling on our hand-me-down couch and reading articles together from a marriage magazine—a gift subscription from a college friend—after a long day at work, and jogging from our apartment to a local high school or detouring through neighborhoods and dreaming of our first home together.
Jadon was born Nov. 19, 2006, during our first Thanksgiving holidays spent in a house we could call our own. I remember wrapping him tightly in layers and layers of blankets to protect him from the wind's chill and driving home from the hospital on all the back roads at a maximum speed of 25 miles an hour—because we were carrying precious cargo.
So many life-changing events.
Ben and I just recently celebrated our four-year anniversary and added another memory to the storehouse we already have. A couple in our church booked three nights for us at a lakeside resort in Conroe, Texas. It was a refreshing time of reconnection—time that we haven't had since Jadon was born. While we missed our son and the smiles he brings to our days, we had a beautiful time enjoying each other.
Now I'll remember walking hand-in-hand through Old Town Spring, a place I haven't visited since I was a kid, and playing with toys with which we haven't played since we were little and sitting on a wooden porch swing with our arms around each other. I'll remember watching the sunset from a pier while we munched on roast beef sandwiches and Sunchips and eating strawberry cereal bars on a balcony overhanging the water. I'll remember battling massive tree roots on the miles of trails we biked at Huntsville National Park, and the way I laughed when Ben's wheel caught on an especially large root and sent him flying over the handlebars onto the sand.
So many beautiful moments.
I was chatting with an old college friend on myspace the other day, about purity and marriage and what we expect from the people we would "seriously" consider for marriage. He is marrying a beautiful woman in November, a woman who has forgiven his past and what he did before Christ delivered him at 19, a woman who has embraced the future promised by his new life in Christ. It made me think about Ben and me and how we talked about our mistakes as we prayed about God's will for our relationship, how we discovered that some mistakes were harder to let go of than others, how we fought hard to forgive and forget. Here is some of what I told my friend:
"We had 'the talk' early in our courtship, and I remember feeling just a little bit cheated for a very short time—until I realized that my (future) husband held my heart like it was fragile and special and beautiful, while many other men did not possess the kindness or respect to do that. It was a mistake in his past. I'd like to say it was a mistake that only happened once, but the reality is, he was caught in it for a while.
"But the fact that my (future) husband had made this mistake in the past—for which he had asked God's forgiveness—did not lower him in any way in my eyes and heart and mind. He was pure in every sense of the word, and I believe God made my heart see him that way. He loved the same God I loved. He loved people in a way I'd never seen. He loved me. He listened. He told the truth. He followed through. He had unshakable faith. He fought for me. He let me dance. He was daily reaching for and searching and seeking to live into the truths of God. That was enough for me.
"I don't believe God sees our mistakes as, 'OK, this one's dishonored his father and mother, this one doesn't carve out any Sabbath time, this one wants what his best friend has, this one's not a virgin…' He sees them as forgiven and erased."
We all bring to the table past mistakes. We could still be living in our mistakes. I struggle with mine every day. Jadon has opened our eyes to the human tendency toward making mistakes, though he is so young (11 months today). He has begun hitting us back when we tell him he can't play with something—just to see what we'll do, and his little lip will poke out when he realizes it was a mistake. When he loses his balance while walking (yes, he started walking—or running, really—a week and a half ago), or when Ben pushes him over just to have a good laugh, Jadon will throw himself on the floor, bang his head and release a frustrated scream before he realizes he's made a mistake getting angry. He falls off furniture all the time, though we have told him that climbing on and off is probably not the safest activity in which a baby could engage, and we let him so he will learn to be more careful (that's not bad parenting, is it???).
His mistakes might seem small in light of ours, but God uses simple pictures to teach us. We feel the same remorse that our son feels when we lash out at God because we feel he is holding something back from us. There is a reason Solomon speaks so often about the dangers of anger in the Proverbs. And I believe that God lets us fall sometimes when we take things into our own hands—because He wants us to learn that He's only concerned with our wellbeing and safety.
I believe that with any forgiveness comes shades of forgetting. When Jadon smacks my hand in defiance of discipline, then collapses, crying, into my arms and plants a kiss on my nose or mouth (his aim has improved a little), I know that he is sorry for what he's done. And as I hug him close, his offense fades from my memory. It's the same way with God.
If we could just forgive each other that same way.
In the four years we've been married, I can say that I've forgotten most of Ben's past mistakes—and the ones he's made since we've been married. There are some that creep back in when the enemy finds my guard down, but in times like those, I remember the reason I married Ben in the first place, the reason I would marry him all over again today.
Ben is one of the purest, most holy men in the world, or at least of the ones I know.
That is enough for me.
Jadon riding in a car at Chuck-E-Cheese's with his girlfriend.
He sneaks a kiss when he thinks no one is looking.
Keepin' it real after his sneaky kiss
The family at Evans and Esther's wedding
Group picture at the New Braunfels Children's Museum
I don't think he has a cowboy bone in him.
Visiting space with Mama.
This morning, as I walked out to my car at 6:30, I just had to stop for a brief moment and fill my lungs with the crisp, clean air. It was still dark, and I could see the stars shining clearer than they have shone in a long time, no visible humidity between them and me. Thank you, God, for fall…and all the memories that surround this time of year.
Some people say spring is the best season because of new birth and blooming flowers and budding trees. My season is fall.
So many life-changing events have happened in the fall. I met Ben in the fall of 2000, when I was a sophomore at Texas State University in San Marcos. We were kids then, 18 and 19, and still had so much to see and do and learn before God would bring us together as more than friends. I remember he showed up to the Baptist Student Ministry, where I was co-worship leader, an hour late and his hair was all disheveled, and I thought, "He's kind of a dork, but in a cute sort of way…" and how we agreed to keep things on a friendly level to lessen whatever pressure we felt from our summer get-to-know-each-other e-mails.
We began "officially" dating in the fall of 2002, my senior year of college, and were soon engaged once God's will was made unmistakably clear. I remember late nights and early, early mornings combing through wedding magazines as I sat in my Editor-in-Chief office waiting for the last pages of The University Star to print so I could go to bed, and the nights Ben would meet me at campus and walk me to my car to make sure nothing happened in the 200 feet I had to walk between the Star office and my parking spot.
We married Oct. 11, 2003, right on the cusp of fall, and moved to San Antonio that year, where I secured my first "real" job as a reporter at the San Antonio Express-News. I remember snuggling on our hand-me-down couch and reading articles together from a marriage magazine—a gift subscription from a college friend—after a long day at work, and jogging from our apartment to a local high school or detouring through neighborhoods and dreaming of our first home together.
Jadon was born Nov. 19, 2006, during our first Thanksgiving holidays spent in a house we could call our own. I remember wrapping him tightly in layers and layers of blankets to protect him from the wind's chill and driving home from the hospital on all the back roads at a maximum speed of 25 miles an hour—because we were carrying precious cargo.
So many life-changing events.
Ben and I just recently celebrated our four-year anniversary and added another memory to the storehouse we already have. A couple in our church booked three nights for us at a lakeside resort in Conroe, Texas. It was a refreshing time of reconnection—time that we haven't had since Jadon was born. While we missed our son and the smiles he brings to our days, we had a beautiful time enjoying each other.
Now I'll remember walking hand-in-hand through Old Town Spring, a place I haven't visited since I was a kid, and playing with toys with which we haven't played since we were little and sitting on a wooden porch swing with our arms around each other. I'll remember watching the sunset from a pier while we munched on roast beef sandwiches and Sunchips and eating strawberry cereal bars on a balcony overhanging the water. I'll remember battling massive tree roots on the miles of trails we biked at Huntsville National Park, and the way I laughed when Ben's wheel caught on an especially large root and sent him flying over the handlebars onto the sand.
So many beautiful moments.
I was chatting with an old college friend on myspace the other day, about purity and marriage and what we expect from the people we would "seriously" consider for marriage. He is marrying a beautiful woman in November, a woman who has forgiven his past and what he did before Christ delivered him at 19, a woman who has embraced the future promised by his new life in Christ. It made me think about Ben and me and how we talked about our mistakes as we prayed about God's will for our relationship, how we discovered that some mistakes were harder to let go of than others, how we fought hard to forgive and forget. Here is some of what I told my friend:
"We had 'the talk' early in our courtship, and I remember feeling just a little bit cheated for a very short time—until I realized that my (future) husband held my heart like it was fragile and special and beautiful, while many other men did not possess the kindness or respect to do that. It was a mistake in his past. I'd like to say it was a mistake that only happened once, but the reality is, he was caught in it for a while.
"But the fact that my (future) husband had made this mistake in the past—for which he had asked God's forgiveness—did not lower him in any way in my eyes and heart and mind. He was pure in every sense of the word, and I believe God made my heart see him that way. He loved the same God I loved. He loved people in a way I'd never seen. He loved me. He listened. He told the truth. He followed through. He had unshakable faith. He fought for me. He let me dance. He was daily reaching for and searching and seeking to live into the truths of God. That was enough for me.
"I don't believe God sees our mistakes as, 'OK, this one's dishonored his father and mother, this one doesn't carve out any Sabbath time, this one wants what his best friend has, this one's not a virgin…' He sees them as forgiven and erased."
We all bring to the table past mistakes. We could still be living in our mistakes. I struggle with mine every day. Jadon has opened our eyes to the human tendency toward making mistakes, though he is so young (11 months today). He has begun hitting us back when we tell him he can't play with something—just to see what we'll do, and his little lip will poke out when he realizes it was a mistake. When he loses his balance while walking (yes, he started walking—or running, really—a week and a half ago), or when Ben pushes him over just to have a good laugh, Jadon will throw himself on the floor, bang his head and release a frustrated scream before he realizes he's made a mistake getting angry. He falls off furniture all the time, though we have told him that climbing on and off is probably not the safest activity in which a baby could engage, and we let him so he will learn to be more careful (that's not bad parenting, is it???).
His mistakes might seem small in light of ours, but God uses simple pictures to teach us. We feel the same remorse that our son feels when we lash out at God because we feel he is holding something back from us. There is a reason Solomon speaks so often about the dangers of anger in the Proverbs. And I believe that God lets us fall sometimes when we take things into our own hands—because He wants us to learn that He's only concerned with our wellbeing and safety.
I believe that with any forgiveness comes shades of forgetting. When Jadon smacks my hand in defiance of discipline, then collapses, crying, into my arms and plants a kiss on my nose or mouth (his aim has improved a little), I know that he is sorry for what he's done. And as I hug him close, his offense fades from my memory. It's the same way with God.
If we could just forgive each other that same way.
In the four years we've been married, I can say that I've forgotten most of Ben's past mistakes—and the ones he's made since we've been married. There are some that creep back in when the enemy finds my guard down, but in times like those, I remember the reason I married Ben in the first place, the reason I would marry him all over again today.
Ben is one of the purest, most holy men in the world, or at least of the ones I know.
That is enough for me.
Jadon riding in a car at Chuck-E-Cheese's with his girlfriend.
He sneaks a kiss when he thinks no one is looking.
Keepin' it real after his sneaky kiss
The family at Evans and Esther's wedding
Group picture at the New Braunfels Children's Museum
I don't think he has a cowboy bone in him.
Visiting space with Mama.
Friday, October 5, 2007
Trials and errors
I'm exhausted. My eyes burn, my head aches and my heart is all knotted up inside. So much has happened in the last week, and it still weighs heavily on me.
Our hard drive decided to crash Tuesday.
It was perfect timing. I mean, I had almost finished a 17-page query letter outlining my novel that I was going to send to publishers by the end of the month. I was editing the last 10 chapters of the book before closing it for good. Ben and I had just finished recording number 22 of the 25 songs we're considering for Progeny's next album.
Perfect timing.
I won't even mention the thousands of pictures and video clips of Jadon's milestones...or the time-consuming tax records that I started back in January...or the words to all the new songs Ben and I had written...or all the Web projects Ben has built in the last year.
Mentioning it all just makes me sick to my stomach.
I was driving home from work yesterday, listening to some songs that usually boost my spirits...and I only felt this terrible despair because we had exhausted our last hope of retrieving the files...and I couldn't stop thinking about all the time we had wasted on those projects, all the months we had lost. I couldn't hold back my angry tears or the words that tumbled from my mouth: "Why would you do it, Lord, when all of this work was for You?!!"
He didn't answer me. But with morning's light, I have found a faint glimmer of understanding.
I was reading through my 432-page novel for the last time. Maybe God wanted me to carefully comb through it again, make it the best it could be, before submitting it to publishers. Maybe the query letter wasn't quite as good as it will be now that I've had some practice writing one. Maybe God wanted to tweak some of the songs Ben and I have written for our second album, and He only wanted us to look more carefully at them. Maybe he knew Ben could build better Web sites now that he's done so many.
Maybe He wanted to show us how dependent we are on technology.
I told God that if He didn't retrieve the data on our hard drive, I was going to step away from my book--and Progeny's second recording project--for a year. But I know in my heart that's not what He intends me to do. He wants me to keep pressing on, until I have completed the task(s) He has laid out for me. Lord, let me be more diligent, more intentional, a better steward this time around.
I was telling a friend today that with all the family stuff that's been going on in Ben's and my life, the problems with my job and this on top of it all, I've had to fight not to harden my heart, a self-protection tactic I learned as a young child. I think it's only in the aching, in the really feeling the sorrow in our hearts, that we can truly experience all God intends to teach us in a trial.
And He will use technology. So be sure to back up your files.
In the meantime, I'm thankful that I have a roof over my head and a world-class husband and beautiful child with whom I can share it.
Our hard drive decided to crash Tuesday.
It was perfect timing. I mean, I had almost finished a 17-page query letter outlining my novel that I was going to send to publishers by the end of the month. I was editing the last 10 chapters of the book before closing it for good. Ben and I had just finished recording number 22 of the 25 songs we're considering for Progeny's next album.
Perfect timing.
I won't even mention the thousands of pictures and video clips of Jadon's milestones...or the time-consuming tax records that I started back in January...or the words to all the new songs Ben and I had written...or all the Web projects Ben has built in the last year.
Mentioning it all just makes me sick to my stomach.
I was driving home from work yesterday, listening to some songs that usually boost my spirits...and I only felt this terrible despair because we had exhausted our last hope of retrieving the files...and I couldn't stop thinking about all the time we had wasted on those projects, all the months we had lost. I couldn't hold back my angry tears or the words that tumbled from my mouth: "Why would you do it, Lord, when all of this work was for You?!!"
He didn't answer me. But with morning's light, I have found a faint glimmer of understanding.
I was reading through my 432-page novel for the last time. Maybe God wanted me to carefully comb through it again, make it the best it could be, before submitting it to publishers. Maybe the query letter wasn't quite as good as it will be now that I've had some practice writing one. Maybe God wanted to tweak some of the songs Ben and I have written for our second album, and He only wanted us to look more carefully at them. Maybe he knew Ben could build better Web sites now that he's done so many.
Maybe He wanted to show us how dependent we are on technology.
I told God that if He didn't retrieve the data on our hard drive, I was going to step away from my book--and Progeny's second recording project--for a year. But I know in my heart that's not what He intends me to do. He wants me to keep pressing on, until I have completed the task(s) He has laid out for me. Lord, let me be more diligent, more intentional, a better steward this time around.
I was telling a friend today that with all the family stuff that's been going on in Ben's and my life, the problems with my job and this on top of it all, I've had to fight not to harden my heart, a self-protection tactic I learned as a young child. I think it's only in the aching, in the really feeling the sorrow in our hearts, that we can truly experience all God intends to teach us in a trial.
And He will use technology. So be sure to back up your files.
In the meantime, I'm thankful that I have a roof over my head and a world-class husband and beautiful child with whom I can share it.
Tuesday, September 25, 2007
Love should be enough...
This week has been bittersweet.
Most weeks are like that anymore, mostly because of Jadon and the joy and challenge he brings to my life. So I’ll start with that.
I am convinced that we have the easiest, best, sweetest baby in the world (I know you other mothers will disagree!). Our band had a last-minute gig Saturday, at this charming little restaurant in Helotes (Northwest San Antonio). Since the show was so last-minute, we hadn’t been able to arrange for anyone to watch Jadon. But the stage area had room enough for a playpen, so we set it up, put in a few toys and hoped he would do well during our first set. He never complained once! He stood holding the side of the playpen watching us play, sometimes even singing along. He never cried once. The second hour-long set was the same. After our show was over, people kept coming up to us commenting on what a great baby we had on our hands. God has blessed us with the most amazing child ever.
He even started dancing during the song, “Jadon’s Lullaby,” much to the entertainment of our crowd. He knows that one by heart. Mama sings it to him often.
So, with part of the tip money we made, we bought him a new toy that he played with for about five minutes.
Don’t get me wrong. We are still working on discipline and teaching Jadon what he can and cannot touch (computer cords) or eat (floor fuzz) or drop on the floor (papers on top of the filing cabinet). He still gets smacked—often. But he is one of the most laid back, flexible, people-loving babies I’ve ever seen. He’s visited many church nurseries in the last few months, and he will play with or be held by anyone.
My son has turned 10 months old. With each passing month, it gets harder and harder to believe that he is really that old. He is a little man, all rambunctious and rowdy and wild. Yesterday he kept climbing into this saucer chair and then spinning around to face me with this big, triumphant smile on his face, as if to say, “Look what a big boy I am.” I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time because he’s so smart, but he’s growing so fast. I want to hold on to the baby as long as I can, but he is quickly being replaced by a little boy.
Jadon took his first few steps about two weeks ago—without holding on to anything. He still prefers holding on to something, but sometimes he’ll forget to hold on, and he’ll walk a few steps, then remember. He likes to stand by himself, and then squat to pick things up and then stand again. I tell him that’s got to be harder than walking! All those squats!
He’s finally sitting again in the bathtub. A couple of months ago, he was trying to crawl in the tub. Ben turned his back to grab something, and Jadon did a face plant in the water. I think it was a traumatic experience for him, and, since then, he hasn’t wanted to sit in the water but will stand and make us wash him as he stands. But my wild boy has finally forgotten that trauma, and he sat again for the first time this week.
We’ve been working on teaching him to feed himself. Right now he just does it with his fingers, but he’s interested in the spoon and takes it away occasionally. He’ll stick it in his mouth and then make a funny face when he realizes there’s no food on it.
He’s had a few new experiences this month. We’ve taken him bike riding. He loves it. He hates wearing the helmet, but I think it’s the cutest thing ever!
I also let him sit in the grass (previously avoided because we have a bit of a problem with scorpions out here in the Hill Country). He didn’t like the prickly feel, so he tried not to touch it with his arms or his legs. Since he was in shorts, he sat there doing a jackknife (isn’t that the ab exercise we all used to hate in athletics?) until he fell back into it. Then he just lay there looking at me, his face saying, “Please, Mama, come get me out of this weird thing.” Seriously, though, he loves being outdoors. Sometimes I just open the doors and windows and let him stare outside, and he’ll cry when I close them. So silly.
And then, he went to Corpus for the first time. It was a business assignment, so we didn't have enough time to visit the beach, but we did get some cool pictures.
I so miss the baby who used to lie in my arms, content to be with Mama, but I’m enjoying watching this remarkable boy and his daily discoveries.
Ben and I have been talking a lot lately about love. Like what did Paul mean when he said, “Love always perseveres” (1 Corinthians 13:6) and that faith, hope and love remain, “but the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13)? What does it really mean to have no fear in love, to be made perfect in love (1 John 4:18)?
I’ve been watching my extended family fall apart. Just crumble like piles of stone stacked too high. My heart has been so heavy. I was up half the night praying for my two sets of aunts and uncles who are toeing the line of divorce.
I am far from a Christian scholar. But I have to believe that God intended love to be enough, that John Lennon (The Beatles) really did have it right. Love should be all we need.
Why else would He tell His disciples that the greatest of all the commandments was to “love the Lord your God will all your heart, soul and might, and love your neighbor as yourself.”
And what does that mean, really?
Somewhere along the way, I think we have stopped giving the kind of love God always wanted us to give—the kind of love that always perseveres, the kind of love that fosters no fear, the kind of love that’s wrapped up in faith and hope and sacrifice. We give a self-serving love, a more convenient, fair-weather love that stands in the good times but crumbles in the storms. I am guilty of this, too.
This kind of love is destroying our tradition of marriage. We are passing a new definition of love to children who will “take the easy way out,” just like we did.
It really is a slow fade down the slippery slope of destruction. That’s the way our enemy intends it, because then we don’t notice when things begin falling apart. But marriages don’t dissolve in a day. Children don’t become their parents in a day. Generations don’t make the same mistakes in a day.
But we can turn the enemy’s game around. Spin it right around on his horned-red head (that’s bad theology, but isn’t that how every kid who grew up in the Southern Baptist Church sees the devil?). If we would only choose to love more deeply.
Our pastor, Scott Heare, sort of solidified the whole heart, soul and might thing for me during a Sunday sermon weeks ago. He said God wants all our love—the emotional (heart), the spiritual (soul) and the physical (might or strength). We talked this week about strength and how our world sees strength as how much we can bench press or how many burdens we can handle without our eyes leaking. But Jesus showed us real strength in the way he submitted his life to His Father. Real strength is found on our knees.
What if we chose the kind of love that holds a husband tightly when he’s been out too late drinking too much, instead of voicing our disgust on an already-dark night while our children are listening just outside the door? What if we chose the kind of love that offers a safe place to land for a husband who’s gone astray? What if we chose the kind of love that said, “Your healing is more important than mine,” if only for a little while.
What if we chose to love with mercy?
I believe marriages would be stronger for it. God, let it be so in my marriage. For the sake of my children and the generations that follow.
Most weeks are like that anymore, mostly because of Jadon and the joy and challenge he brings to my life. So I’ll start with that.
I am convinced that we have the easiest, best, sweetest baby in the world (I know you other mothers will disagree!). Our band had a last-minute gig Saturday, at this charming little restaurant in Helotes (Northwest San Antonio). Since the show was so last-minute, we hadn’t been able to arrange for anyone to watch Jadon. But the stage area had room enough for a playpen, so we set it up, put in a few toys and hoped he would do well during our first set. He never complained once! He stood holding the side of the playpen watching us play, sometimes even singing along. He never cried once. The second hour-long set was the same. After our show was over, people kept coming up to us commenting on what a great baby we had on our hands. God has blessed us with the most amazing child ever.
He even started dancing during the song, “Jadon’s Lullaby,” much to the entertainment of our crowd. He knows that one by heart. Mama sings it to him often.
So, with part of the tip money we made, we bought him a new toy that he played with for about five minutes.
Don’t get me wrong. We are still working on discipline and teaching Jadon what he can and cannot touch (computer cords) or eat (floor fuzz) or drop on the floor (papers on top of the filing cabinet). He still gets smacked—often. But he is one of the most laid back, flexible, people-loving babies I’ve ever seen. He’s visited many church nurseries in the last few months, and he will play with or be held by anyone.
My son has turned 10 months old. With each passing month, it gets harder and harder to believe that he is really that old. He is a little man, all rambunctious and rowdy and wild. Yesterday he kept climbing into this saucer chair and then spinning around to face me with this big, triumphant smile on his face, as if to say, “Look what a big boy I am.” I wanted to laugh and cry all at the same time because he’s so smart, but he’s growing so fast. I want to hold on to the baby as long as I can, but he is quickly being replaced by a little boy.
Jadon took his first few steps about two weeks ago—without holding on to anything. He still prefers holding on to something, but sometimes he’ll forget to hold on, and he’ll walk a few steps, then remember. He likes to stand by himself, and then squat to pick things up and then stand again. I tell him that’s got to be harder than walking! All those squats!
He’s finally sitting again in the bathtub. A couple of months ago, he was trying to crawl in the tub. Ben turned his back to grab something, and Jadon did a face plant in the water. I think it was a traumatic experience for him, and, since then, he hasn’t wanted to sit in the water but will stand and make us wash him as he stands. But my wild boy has finally forgotten that trauma, and he sat again for the first time this week.
We’ve been working on teaching him to feed himself. Right now he just does it with his fingers, but he’s interested in the spoon and takes it away occasionally. He’ll stick it in his mouth and then make a funny face when he realizes there’s no food on it.
He’s had a few new experiences this month. We’ve taken him bike riding. He loves it. He hates wearing the helmet, but I think it’s the cutest thing ever!
I also let him sit in the grass (previously avoided because we have a bit of a problem with scorpions out here in the Hill Country). He didn’t like the prickly feel, so he tried not to touch it with his arms or his legs. Since he was in shorts, he sat there doing a jackknife (isn’t that the ab exercise we all used to hate in athletics?) until he fell back into it. Then he just lay there looking at me, his face saying, “Please, Mama, come get me out of this weird thing.” Seriously, though, he loves being outdoors. Sometimes I just open the doors and windows and let him stare outside, and he’ll cry when I close them. So silly.
And then, he went to Corpus for the first time. It was a business assignment, so we didn't have enough time to visit the beach, but we did get some cool pictures.
I so miss the baby who used to lie in my arms, content to be with Mama, but I’m enjoying watching this remarkable boy and his daily discoveries.
Ben and I have been talking a lot lately about love. Like what did Paul mean when he said, “Love always perseveres” (1 Corinthians 13:6) and that faith, hope and love remain, “but the greatest of these is love” (1 Corinthians 13:13)? What does it really mean to have no fear in love, to be made perfect in love (1 John 4:18)?
I’ve been watching my extended family fall apart. Just crumble like piles of stone stacked too high. My heart has been so heavy. I was up half the night praying for my two sets of aunts and uncles who are toeing the line of divorce.
I am far from a Christian scholar. But I have to believe that God intended love to be enough, that John Lennon (The Beatles) really did have it right. Love should be all we need.
Why else would He tell His disciples that the greatest of all the commandments was to “love the Lord your God will all your heart, soul and might, and love your neighbor as yourself.”
And what does that mean, really?
Somewhere along the way, I think we have stopped giving the kind of love God always wanted us to give—the kind of love that always perseveres, the kind of love that fosters no fear, the kind of love that’s wrapped up in faith and hope and sacrifice. We give a self-serving love, a more convenient, fair-weather love that stands in the good times but crumbles in the storms. I am guilty of this, too.
This kind of love is destroying our tradition of marriage. We are passing a new definition of love to children who will “take the easy way out,” just like we did.
It really is a slow fade down the slippery slope of destruction. That’s the way our enemy intends it, because then we don’t notice when things begin falling apart. But marriages don’t dissolve in a day. Children don’t become their parents in a day. Generations don’t make the same mistakes in a day.
But we can turn the enemy’s game around. Spin it right around on his horned-red head (that’s bad theology, but isn’t that how every kid who grew up in the Southern Baptist Church sees the devil?). If we would only choose to love more deeply.
Our pastor, Scott Heare, sort of solidified the whole heart, soul and might thing for me during a Sunday sermon weeks ago. He said God wants all our love—the emotional (heart), the spiritual (soul) and the physical (might or strength). We talked this week about strength and how our world sees strength as how much we can bench press or how many burdens we can handle without our eyes leaking. But Jesus showed us real strength in the way he submitted his life to His Father. Real strength is found on our knees.
What if we chose the kind of love that holds a husband tightly when he’s been out too late drinking too much, instead of voicing our disgust on an already-dark night while our children are listening just outside the door? What if we chose the kind of love that offers a safe place to land for a husband who’s gone astray? What if we chose the kind of love that said, “Your healing is more important than mine,” if only for a little while.
What if we chose to love with mercy?
I believe marriages would be stronger for it. God, let it be so in my marriage. For the sake of my children and the generations that follow.
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