Waiting...For You

Here I am, God.  The world around me feels like it's falling apart, and I'm waiting for you to fix it.

When I miscarried before I got pregnant with Harlow, you taught me not to hold onto anything too tightly.  Hold it all loosely, you said.  And I learned it, Lord, but then I forgot, and I've dug in my nails again, and I'm waiting for you to say that I don't have to loosen my grip on anything.  I'm waiting for you to say I've learned enough for a lifetime.  But here we are again, and even though you won't speak, I feel you.

I feel you plucking my fingers, one by one, and telling me to stop holding on so tightly.

I've been here before.  I've met you right here, broken and scared at the foot of your request to surrender and throw my trust upon you.  And last time, I fought. 

But this time, I know better.  I might be waiting around forever for you to tell me I can have things my way.  So like Abraham, I'll follow you up the mountain.

Because you're good.

And I'll lay down what matters most.

Because you're faithful.

And I'll be willing to lose it all.

Even if you don't send a ram at the last minute.

No, I'm not going to wait around for you to pry it from my hands.  You can have it all--it doesn't belong to me anyway.  And even though the world is chaotic, and you seem to be missing in the midst of it--

Like C.S. Lewis says, I'm here.  And I'll get up.  And I'm intending, though it feels like you've forsaken me.  When I feel powerless before the world, I'll remember--

There is power on my knees.  There is power in your Name.

For I know you're good.  And I know you hear me and you see me and you love me.

And I'll thank you for every moment of comfort that you've allowed me to have and every provision you've chosen to give.

You're good, God.  Let the whole world know!  I give it up!  I give up the wait for your answers and the downfall of wrong and my need to feel good and my longing to feel comfortable.  Give me you.

Give me you.  Give me all of you.  You are what I want, and you are what I need, and without you, none of the rest of it matters because it isn't forever.  But you are.

So take it all.  Take everything, if you want.  And I'll keep moving.  Keep intending.  Keep living.  Keep waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for you, Lord.  And I'll wait forever, Lord, if I have to.

Because you're what I want--and that's a wait that will be worth it.

Waiting...For More

Lord, can't I just have everything I want?  Some days, it feels like you leave me hanging in need.  There's so much to pay for, worry about, satisfy--I need more.  More of everything to help my heart and my eyelids rest a little more easily at night.

 

You say you'll meet all my needs, but what about my need to relax and feel like the world won't crumble around me if I look away for two seconds?  Isn't that need just as real as my need for water and food?  For what good are physical provisions if my mind is too preoccupied with when you'll provide next?

 

And then, I remember.  Manna.  When you carried your people out of their known world and into the unknown wilderness, you didn't leave them hanging for what they needed.  There was never the promise ofmore, just enough.  You showed up every day and every night for them with just enough.  You didn't let them keep any extra for a "rainy day."  You knew there wouldn't be any "rainy days," so you shriveled up their stockpiles, for what was the point of them?  They weren't going to need them.

 

And is that what you mean when you shrink us down to our barest bones of provisions?  Maybe it's your way of saying, You don't need this.  I've got you covered.

 

Even though you gave them what they needed every day, oh, how they complained that it wasn't tasty enough!  Give us something different, God!  Your provisions are boring me!

 

Oh, God, is that what I'm saying to you when I want more?  I don't mean it in that way.  It's just that sometimes, I find it scary to trust you.

 

Why does it feel that way?  It shouldn't.  I think of David and the stones you provided in the brook to take down Goliath--he took five, but he only needed one.  You provided a loss of appetite for the lion when Daniel spent the night in his den.  You provided a cone of protection around Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego in the furnace.  You provided a lamb on Mount Moriah to take Isaac's place.  You provided wood for Noah's ark, grain for Ruth and Naomi, loaves and fish for a multitude.  You provided a baby in a manger, a calming of the storm, a sacrifice for our every sin.

 

You look after the needs of the sparrow and the blooming of the flowers.  You're watching me, too, and keeping tabs on what my mind and body need most to keep going in this season of wandering and waiting.

 

The Israelites didn't spend the rest of their lives in the manna state.  At last, after a long period of waiting, you did give them more.  You gave them a Promised Land, bounteous and plentiful, with the manna stopping only once their feet had crossed over the threshold.

 

Oh, Lord.  Your provisions--why should I complain about the lifelines you give while I await the day that my worries and cares will be but a memory?  How could I be sick of your gifts?  The proof that you see me and hear me?

 

Maybe it's my own fault that I find it hard to rest and relax.  And maybe you'll keep shrinking my stockpiles until I finally learn the concept that I'm in your hand, and you're not going to let me drop.

 

Lord, I'm waiting.

 

Waiting.

 

Waiting for the day when you'll decide to give more.

 

But in the meantime--your manna?  It's enough.

Waiting...For A Downfall

Oh, Lord.  There's so much that seems wrong in the world and so little that seems right.  It's one of those seasons where every time I'd like to turn right, everything else goes left.  It's almost enough to give up sometimes and say, forget it.  I'll just do what I want because following you and following the rules only seems to bring me more heartache and difficulty.  Why do you make it so hard to follow you?  Why do you keep blessings for those who chase after you so far out of reach?

 

Once upon a time, you seemed quicker to set things right.

 

The prodigal son had his fun, to be sure, but then he got a pigpen.  He was reduced to slop and mud, and it was enough to bring him home.  Running home, that is.  He had done something wrong, and you made it right.

 

David was an adulterer, a killer, and a liar, and his comeuppance came in the loss of the child he conceived with his mistress.  A grief that buckled his knees and retaught him how to pray and beg for your mercy.  His wayward heart was no match for your bold switch of discipline, and he was reborn unto you.

 

Saul murdered those who loved you, and you met him plain as day on the Damascus Road.  You flattened him and blinded him until he gave into the concept of you.

 

I've read how you can quiet money changers with the flip of a table.  You've silenced a nation with waters of blood, painful boils, and swarms of locusts.  You've parted an entire sea for your children and then sewn it back together to drown the chariots of their enemies.  You've flooded the earth to rid it of sin, sent a disobedient prophet into a fish belly, and penalized the entire world over the failed temptation of a piece of fruit.

 

It should be so simple that the downfall of wrong satisfies the good of you, Lord, and makes everything right.

 

But why do you makes us wait for that downfall?  Why do you make the wronged wait so long for things to be made right?

 

And yet, there's some kind of magic happening behind the scenes of the wrongs that hang around too long.  There's some reason Joseph didn't lose his mind or end it all during the years and years he waited for justice in the dungeon.  There's a reason Paul's writings in his prison cell are some of the most magnificent and memorized pieces of Scripture or that his words are loaded with the most powerful charges to faith, gratitude, and holiness. 

 

There's a reason that the wrong Jesus patiently endured shook the earth to its very foundation.  And there's a reason it rewrote the future for those of us who choose to believe.

 

You always right the wrongs, don't you?  Eventually.  But in the meantime, I see you giving all the tools the wronged need until you straighten it out.  You never leave us truly helpless while we wait for you.

 

And those who wait the longest in the hardest of situations--

 

Aren't they the ones who make the biggest difference?  Who have the greatest impact?  And though it seems like your hand is harshest upon them, perhaps it's because you find them favored? 

 

Maybe you won't make it all right with pigpens or slop or blindness or pain.  Maybe you'll make it all right by showing the world that those who love you can sit in a pile of wrong with their heads held high.  Maybe you want the world to see that "all right" can coexist with madness.

 

Maybe you won't deliver the justice with the violence of a thunderous storm, but in the quiet, commanding assertion by the lowliest and most wounded of all that there's nothing to be worked up about--for this isn't how it will end.

 

Oh, my heart, Lord--it is waiting for you.  And it's waiting.

 

Waiting.

 

Waiting for the downfall of whatever won't bow to you.

Waiting...To Be Healed

There's pain, God.  Everywhere.

There's physical pain--daily sticks to see if the blood sugar is normal, pokes to make sure the blood is okay, pricks to give medicine.  There's the chronic ache of a back that started after a car wreck and still won't go away.  There's stomach pains that can't be appeased, migraines that won't surrender.  There's lupus and cancer and literal broken hearts.

Then there's the emotional pain--figuratively broken hearts, though they often feel literal.  There's losing pregnancies, losing grown children, losing parents.  There's watching someone you love fight a disease you'd gladly take on as your own.  There's watching your child go back and forth between two homes, with no understanding for why mom and dad are so angry with each other.  There's signing of divorce papers, signing over of rights.  There's addiction and guilt, regrets and remorse for every second of the day.

We hurt, God.  And we want to stop hurting.

I want you to be the Lord of Lazarus!  The one who calls us from the grave and gives us life again!  For oh, how wonderful it would be to never have to let go or say goodbye.  Be the one who tells the lame to walk, so we can run and tell the news of your glory!  Be the God of Job, who though capable of taking everything away, can give everything back twice over.  Be the Lord at the well and the Lord drawing the line in the sand, who meets us in our brokenness and carefully sews us back together.

We want to be healed.  To be cured and whole.  To consider heartbreak and misery merely nothing but a memory, and one we don't recall well.

C.S. Lewis called pain your "megaphone," one you use to "rouse a deaf world."  And while I understand your need to get our attention and the effectiveness of pain, couldn't you take it away once we turn to you?

Sometimes you do.  Sometimes you wipe it all away, like the ailments that fell away at the touch of your cloak.  But for others, it's slow and monotonous.  For some, it never happens until this life becomes another.

So I have to stop and remember--healing is a process that's different for everyone, for we all have different combinations of hurts and different makeups that respond differently to those hurts.  It's like the babies I take care of in the hospital.  What's the first thing the parents ask us?

When will my baby be well enough for me to take home?

We can't ever answer that, especially on the first day.  We can give ballpark numbers and typical paths, but the truth is that every baby is different, and every baby heals differently.  I can't tell them if their baby will sail through perfectly and never need a blood transfusion or a round of antibiotics or oxygen.  I can't tell them if their baby will hit every roadblock and setback imaginable, with everything from a high-frequency jet ventilator to steroids to a perforated bowel to eye surgery.  No two paths to healing are exactly alike.  But what I can assure the parents is that babies don't stay in our unit forever.  One way or another, healing comes.

And I watch those parents wait.  I watch them come every day and bring milk.  I watch them change those first diapers with their breath held tightly, deathly afraid of pulling too hard on a tube or wire.  I watch them hold their babies for the first time and feed the first bottles.  I watch their faces fall when they hear that they can't go home this week like they hoped, for the baby briefly stopped breathing.  I wait with them.  I cheer them on and remind them that one day, these days of leaving their babies to sleep in a hospital when they go home at night will soon be nothing more than a memory.

Sometimes healing comes when the baby doesn't have to fight anymore and can slip silently away to the heavens in the rocking arms of his aching mother.

But healing comes.  Always.

And God, I see that the process that gets us to healing is just as important as the healed state itself.  For it is the pain and the waiting and the two steps forward and three steps back that make us hardy and refined.  It makes us who we are.

And so Lord, I'll take what you give.

I'll take the casts and the pokes and the pain and the brokenness that it takes to get me well enough until I'm Home.

So I'm still here, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for you to heal.

Waiting...For An Answer

I can't hear you, God.  Are you there?  I search for you every day and every night, but I can't see you or feel you.  Every urge within me compels me to believe you've gone away and left me, but I've been here before, and I know it isn't so.  And while I long for you to answer me, I understand that sometimes, this is what you do.  You observe.  You're in the room, refusing to speak, refusing to intervene, and refusing to let me know why.

I know you could give me what I want at the drop of a hat.  You could.  But you're not.  Which means there is a reason.

Why does your silence always feel like abandonment?  It shouldn't be so.  I think of Esther.  You never spoke once in her entire story--your name is never named.  But you're there.  You're written in the pages, in every comma, in every period, in every black-inked letter that swoops into the desperate cries for you to save.  They don't ask where you are, even though you're quiet.  You're in the ear of Mordecai, capturing every threat of murder before it becomes a reality.  You're in the jeweled golden crown atop Esther's mane, which has been placed for such a time as this.  You're in the room when she kneels in prayer with her handmaidens, in the throne room when she begs the king for aid.

Your answer is in a stake of impalement.

You're there, unspoken as it may seem.

I think of Joseph.  Again, we never hear your voice when the world seems to be falling apart for someone who doesn't deserve it.  But you're there.  You're in every colorful stitch of the coat that makes him favored and yet hated.  You're in the bottom of the well, where he's left for dead, and in the slavery cart where he's promised life, captive or not.  You're in the house of Potiphar and in his dark, unmerited dungeon of despair.  You're in the feast and the famine, in the Egyptian throne room.

Your answer is in an embrace between a traitor and betrayed.

You're there, quiet as you may seem.

I think of the 400 years of silence in the Bible, when the world longs for you to come and save them.  It's a black-out period of no seeing or hearing from the living God.  But you're there.  You're in the wings of the heavens, crafting the perfect plan for redemption.  You're in the belly of a girl, growing fingers and toes and a heart that beats for the soul of mankind.  You're in the dirt of the dusty road to Bethlehem, in the occupancy of every inn.  You're in the moos of the cows and the constant ache of a labor pain.

Your answer is crying in a manger.

You're there, tiny and helpless as you may seem.

I think of Jesus, kneeling before you in the Garden of Gethsemane, begging you to change your blueprint of salvation.  We don't hear you speak to your own Son.  But you're there.  You're in the footsteps of the guards, in forty pieces of silver, and in the cold kiss of betrayal.  You're in the cuff upon his wrist and in the denying words of Peter.  You're in the release of Barrabas and in the hand-washing of Pilate.  You're in the crack of every whip, the point of every thorn, the steel of every nail.  You're in every drop of blood, in every bead of sweat.  You're in the dying belief of a criminal and the darkening of the clouds.  You're in the ripping of the curtain, the splitting of the rocks, and the final breath of Love.

Your answer is an empty tomb.

You're there.  You're here.  No matter how long your answers take.  You're in every detail, for even in your silence, you don't let go of control.

And so, in your silence, I'll listen.  I'll look for you.  I'll search the patterns of your mysteries with the entirety of my heart.

I'll be here on my knees, waiting.

Waiting.

Waiting for you to answer.

Don't Know Much About (Erasing) History

I completely understand when people choose to be apolitical on social media.  I'm right there with you--I try my best to avoid it, too.  Everyone has an opinion, and it's often an opinion deeply rooted and unwilling to be removed.

 

Not every opinion should be removed.

 

But there's a heaviness in the air this week.  We feel it in our own home, hundreds of miles away from Charlottesville.  Our family is extremely burdened by the news of what happened over the weekend.  Our hearts break for Heather Heyer's family, for the others who were wounded, and for the implications this has for the hatred that has thrived in our country.

 

When the darkness moves in is when the Church should rise and shine.  But I have been deeply disturbed and disappointed by some of the responses to Charlottesville in my newsfeed.  The most common "Christian" posts in reference to it simply argue, "Well, we shouldn't be trying to erase history."

 

That's it?  That's all you have to say?  We shouldn't be erasing history?

 

If you're going to respond, where is the response about love?  The response against hatred?

 

Really?  The only place you're going to go is the "erasing history" route?

 

Okay, okay, I'm not following the importance of your stance, so let's find some common ground here.

 

I saw one person posting about not erasing history because, she admonished, it will cause us to forget who we are and where we've come from.

 

I agree.  That's absolutely right.  But our points of view differ when it comes to which history we're talking about because I'm not talking about some statue.

 

First, let's back up.

 

I come from an area of the US where one of the most telling signs of your faith is whether or not you vote Republican and where you stand on abortion.  It's in whether or not you opposed the March for Women and on what color lives you think matter.  It's in whether you eat Chick-fil-a when it makes a statement against gay marriage or whether you insist on Merry Christmas over Happy Holidays. 

 

Things that make us feel like we're living out the Gospel (let's see...what does that say again?), but are really only parking spaces for our political stances.

 

And when something like Charlottesville happens--something where we can respond by living out the Gospel--I get so frustrated with the members of the Church who choose to respond only how it benefits them politically--no matter what side of the aisle they may be on.

 

It's disheartening to see Christians finding their political voice to be full of courage and their spiritual voice to be full of cowardice (or masquerading one as the other).

 

Why aren't we seizing this perfect opportunity to show the world what Jesus is like?

 

The Jesus we sing to on Sunday morning. The Jesus we fight so hard to keep in schools.  The Jesus we hope returns quickly.  The Jesus we say everyone needs--where is he in this sudden fight against erasing history?

 

I'll tell you one thing I've observed:

 

The only history being erased is the history of who Jesus was and what he stood for.

 

Jesus didn't fight for statues (he wasn't much into graven images anyway)--he fought for the downtrodden and the wounded.  He didn't condemn the brokenhearted for feeling hurt or offended--he came to bind them up.  He didn't overlook the sick or the weary--he comforted them and healed them.

 

He loved.

 

Love was his mission, and love was his greatest commandment--love God.  Love others.

 

And have we forgotten?  Have we taken an eraser to the fact that it wasn't the homosexual or the adulteress or the abortionist or the tax collector who sought to bring Jesus to his demise?

 

It was the Church.

 

People like us, who don't miss a Sunday (or the Sabbath), who didn't like that Jesus didn't want to play by their rules.  People who didn't like grace or the fact that he loved everyone.

 

Ironically, it wasn't the "sinners" who appeared to be threatened by Jesus but the "saints."

 

Do we forget that?

 

Are we the ones erasing history?  The most important piece of history to ever exist?

 

In refusing to put aside our political and legalistic agendas, we're putting him to death a second time.  We're putting his legacy to death.

 

When the Women's March happened several months ago, there was a lady in my state who ran a yarn store who refused to sell pink yarn to anyone wanting to make a hat for the march.  It violated her beliefs, she said, to sell to people who didn't agree with her.  She was offended that anyone would use her material for something that didn't line up with her religion.

 

And yet, I've seen Christians roll their eyes and yell, "Stop playing the victim card!" when the black, Muslim, and Jewish communities voice being offended by racist acts.

 

I've seen the Christian community destroy Bill Clinton for his affair and excuse Donald Trump's.  Trump is a Christian, they say [FYI, the Clintons say they are, too].  He's forgiven.  The Bible is all about forgiveness.  [I guess forgiveness only applies when it's your candidate.]

 

Consider if there was a statue of someone who was a pioneer for LGBT rights.  Would Christians be quick to preserve that history?  Or would Christians petition for its removal because, well, "JESUS. GOD.  HOMOSEXUALITY BAD, BAD, BAD."

 

These days, Christians don't allow themselves to be wrong.  Period.  There's a painful lack of humility (and I'll include myself in that). And right now I see a group of Christians digging in their heels to support a chaotic and hateful president because they would never want to admit they were wrong.  So they have made up reasons that his behavior is okay in the name of humanness and mercy and whatnot, but hear this...

 

If everyone else doesn't get to use the humanness excuse when they mess up, you don't get to either.  Being a Christian does not give you the right to distort and rationalize poor choices or disgraceful stances.  We're either all flawed and need to be better about owning our mistakes, or nobody should have to be accountable.  You can't have it both ways.

 

I don't care what political implications are involved in denouncing what happened in Charlottesville.  What I care about and hope other believers care about are the implications for our reputations as Christians if we choose to sit passively by.  And that doesn't necessarily mean making a Facebook post about it.  I couldn't care less if you do that.  But understand that our nation is hurting and broken and full of hatred and hopelessness.  We don't need another political stance or another defense for things that don't really matter.

 

I'm sick of seeing someone's political party [and that goes for any side] being more important than their chance to witness.

 

I have had a lot of fear about posting anything like this because I know that, while my blog doesn't have a massive following, it's decent, and its audience is primarily made up of people who will likely disagree with me.  I hope I won't lose readership because of this, but I really might.  And that's just something I'm going to have to be okay with because I feel very passionately that we are quickly becoming a disgrace to the name of Christ.

 

If you take away nothing else, hear this:

 

If you're of the mindset I'm speaking against, I don't think you're a bad person.  Hear that? I don't think you're a bad person.  I don't believe in bad people, I believe in bad choices and misguided beliefs. I love you. God loves you.  God loves the ones who feel slighted by your indifference.  And my greatest desire is that everyone gets to know that awesome love He has for each of us.  It's changed my life, and I long for it to change everyone else's.  I long for the world to know that God chose us when we weren't good enough by any standard, and I want Christians to stop acting like God used a more lenient blueprint when He died for us than He did for everyone else. 

 

We need Jesus to show up in you.  In me.  We need hands and feet that will love and serve one another, regardless of our backgrounds or race or whatever else.

 

Because our history is this and this alone:

 

While we were still sinners, Christ died for us.

 

He already paid the price.  May we not quiet the power of his legacy of loving the world, even when it wasn't ready to love him back.  May we not put him to death once again because his message isn't convenient or doesn't line up with a specific political party or agenda.

 

Let's save the American history for our classrooms and save the spiritual history for how we treat others.  Show others that love conquered all on a cross.

 

Because if there's a history worth fighting for, it's that one.

 

Class dismissed.

Fatty Unforgiveness

I think I've stopped and restarted this post a hundred times.  Not this exact post, but a form of it.  I've wanted for years to do a blog about forgiveness and how to best go about it, but I never can quite get the engine going after a few paragraphs.

 

I think it's because even after all these years as a Christian, I haven't had the faintest clue about the keys to successful forgiveness.

 

It's a hard concept.

 

My weaknesses surely outnumber my strengths when it comes to my spiritual profile, but I always felt like God bestowed a fiftieth of what He should have when it came to my forgiveness abilities.  I'm not good at it, and I never have been.  Even when forgiving the small offenses, I'm operating more on the level of a kindergartner than a college student.  For most of my life, the rule has been that if you do something to me or someone I love, you're out.  I don't enjoy feeling hurt, so I'd rather have a small group of trusted people in my life than a large group of iffy peers.  It's the simplest way.

 

But it isn't the godly way.

 

So all right, God, I've said.  If you want me to forgive, then it comes with conditions.  I want apologies--good ones.  I want 180-degree changes.  I want sucking up, or else no deal!  It's the smartest way.

 

But again, that isn't really what we're called to do either.

 

You can cite Scripture all day long to support a theory that forgiveness depends on repentance and apologies and a softened heart, and I'm here to tell you, I don't buy it.  As much as I enjoy withholding grace and forgiveness for my own sick satisfactions, I don't believe God ever intended us to have such strict requirements for living free and unburdened by what others have done to us.

 

But how do I say that and explain that when the circumstances really suck?  Sure, I've dealt with some unfortunate things in my life where I'm [still] navigating the world of forgiveness,  but it's nothing compared to what some people have been through.

 

And every time I've tried to write this post, that's one thing that stops me.  I'll think, I've sort of got this figured out.  But what if someone were to come to me and say, "I've had someone molest me.  I've been raped.  Someone murdered my child.  Someone really hurt me, and it messed me up.  It messed my family up."  Does what I've crafted in a lesson about forgiveness make sense for these people?  And the answer is that I fear that I would be laughed in the face for my all-too-overly-simplified version of one of God's greatest charges.  If it can't be helpful all the way around--from the smallest insult to the most evil ruination--I have backed away and deleted what I had.

 

But the question never stops gnawing away at me--how do we learn to forgive and move forward when someone hurts us--apologetically or unapologetically?

 

I want it to be a clear answer.  Something magical--something that provides overnight success.  I think of my favorite character in the Bible, Joseph, and how he managed to have such grace and forgiveness for his brothers, who treated him so terribly. 

 

Genuine forgiveness.  It is possible.  

 

There's got to be a secret--and yet, nothing is really outlined in the Bible about how he came to that place.  It reads: his brothers want him dead and he ends up in prison blah blah blah Potipher's wife blah blah blah second in command in Egypt and poof! He cries tears of joy when he is reunited with these would-be murderers, bestows grace upon them, and all is well.

 

What happened in the in-between?

 

Did an angel dip him in a pool of holiness?  Did he develop amnesia?  Did he have a lobotomy?  Did the Men in Black erase his memory with that little stick thing?

 

And then an answer came quietly to me a week or so ago.

 

There is no easy answer, no magic step.

 

The best way I know to describe it involves what you might consider an eye-rolling analogy to weight loss.

 

But hear me out...

Many of us are on a constant quest to lose weight and improve our health.  For some, that's five pounds of bloat that revisit us from time to time (and definitely during the holidays), and for some, that's hundreds of pounds accumulated from a lifetime of poor choices or a bad hand of genetics.

 

And we all want a quick fix, right?  To snap our fingers and be improved.  To be the best versions of ourselves.

 

But the truth is, those "overnight diets" are often only compatible with minor weight loss needs--water weight, usually.  Think of the water weight loss crowd as those who have minor forgiveness needs--only a little work for a short time nips the problem in the bud, and while it may return periodically, it's always easy to remove.  That's because the weight isn't serious; it's temporary.  It isn't harmful to our health, and we can very simply pretend once it's off that it never even happened.

 

And then there are those of us (raising my hand here!) who become loaded down with fatty, fatty unforgiveness.  The kind that may have been originally not our fault but that we have exacerbated and worsened by our unwillingness to do anything about it.  When it becomes evident that the work is going to be really hard and overwhelming, it becomes convenient to ignore the problem and reach for what tastes good--those words of negativity about the wrongdoer that are so juicy and flavorful.  Words we crave because they bring a temporary euphoria, only to leave us feeling worse off once it passes.  We may refuse to do any sort of movement or exercising of what might be some inner hidden strength because it's easy to sit around and hope something changes.  And as it piles up, it becomes a problem for how well our hearts can function.  We become ineffective, unhealthy, unrecognizable, and it might even do us in.

 

In the not so distant past, I've experienced some serious unforgiveness obesity that, for a time, I ignored and became complacent with.  I could blame it on my circumstances and anything else I wanted, but the reason it was sticking was entirely my choice.  And now I have set out on a mission to shed what I've allowed to clog up my heart, and I'd love to share what's helped me along.

 

First, I've had to stop reaching for the things that naturally taste good to me.  If criticisms are the cheeseburgers, then compliments (or even in some cases silence!) are the fruits and vegetables.

Only one category originally felt delicious, but I have been making a concentrated effort to pick the healthier option.  Not everyone will be able to reach for the compliment (let's call this the *gag* kale, shall we?), and for good reason!  But aiming for whatever the more positive option may be has started to change my taste buds.  The veggies are no longer so terrible because I've acquired a taste for them.  Indulging in the other still happens because, of course it happens.  I'm human.  But the hard work is starting make a change, and it has started making those choices simpler.

 

Second, I've had to do some moving.  Not anything crazy or marathon-ish.  But I've had to make myself get out of my comfort zone.  If being a couch potato is expecting the person who wronged you to come around and do something nice for you, then lifting weights is doing something nice for them (or again, just refraining from doing something mean--baby steps here, people!).  Once you find the strength to do the smallest of movements, it may become easier to do something bigger, especially if you choose to make it more of a habit.

 

Third, at one point, I did have to see a specialist.  When I first started going through my separation and divorce, I needed lots of help navigating my feelings, and I feel no shame in saying that I went to counseling.  It took sifting through a few personalities to find the one that was right for me, but once I found him, he helped me toward a much more promising path of progress.  And while I haven't had to see him in years, I still have some of his wisdom tucked away for when a rough patch pops up.  If your situation is really difficult and the weight isn't budging, it can be helpful to have someone who knows what they're doing guide you along.

 

And lastly, I've had to give myself lots of time and patience.  It may never be perfect...because goodness knows that I never will be.  I think in many ways, God intended forgiveness to be hard because it proves how awe-inspiring His forgiveness for us is.  To consider the pain that we cause Him and the ease with which He continues to love us will forever be a mystery to me.  And it serves as a reminder of how imperfect I am, for as much as I have wanted those who have hurt me to be thought of for their imperfections, I see my own failures when I fight to move forward.  It has been a humbling few years to see how God levels the playing field with our shortcomings, and He is good to remind me that I'm no better or worse than those who struggle alongside me in this world.

 

As a final thought, I wish to recall a blog post I read several years ago about a woman struggling to forgive her husband for having an affair.  If only I could remember the site to give credit where it's due (and so you could read it for yourself--it was beautifully done), but I'm afraid it's slipped away from my memory.  She wrote of her reluctance to let her anger toward him go but how God molded her heart with a simple everyday chore: making the bed.  As she made her bed every morning, she intentionally prayed for the ability to forgive him.  As the bed would be messy every morning and in need of a cleanup, so would her heart and attitude need the daily tidying.  Forgiving him had to become a habit and a frequent choice. 

 

And I think that is the biggest takeaway here for me.  As much as I'd like it to be as easy as saying that I forgive someone and the slate is wiped clean, it will take lots of actions for me to make that forgiveness a reality and keep it a reality.

 

God has dealt kindly with me as I've muddied along.  For a time, I was angry, and He allowed me to be because it was what I needed.  May we never forget that the God who desires holiness from us also created the nooks and crannies of our humanness and allows us grace to process things that are complicated.  Expecting too much of ourselves too soon can lead to resentment and setbacks, so I take great comfort in reminding myself that God is patient with me, and I should be patient with me, too.  But now, the time for anger has expired.  And while I have had to learn many lessons in the last few years (and feel like I should be due a break!), I can feel Him nudge my heart and say, "Let's go a little further."  We've learned algebra, and now it's time for calculus; the challenges never stop.

 

And so, from one recovering overfat-with-unforgiveness Christian to another, I hope that you realize that it doesn't have to be this way.  You don't have to be this way.  Don't let the power of what someone else did poison the core of who you are.  There is a you beneath the weight that deserves to feel lighter.  A you that deserves to feel free.  A heart that deserves to function the way it should.  Your ability to have peace should stop depending on the downfall of someone else, and I hope that you take very seriously what could happen to who you are if that becomes your soul's greatest longing. 

 

You can be way better than that.

 

So put down the cheeseburger--I know it tastes fulfilling, but trust me, it isn't.  And choose to reach for some veggies.  Choose to reach for something healthier.  Choose to make the bed. 

 

Choose to forgive.

Benning's Birth, Our Crazy Summer, and More!

Hellooooooo, arrows!!!

I couldn't believe when I sat down to type this this morning that I haven't done a single new post this entire calendar year!  That sure speaks to how insane our year has been!

First, although we've updated like crazy on our Facebook accounts about Benning's first three months with us, I haven't said a word about him on the blog!  And because I tend to be [slightly] obsessed with people's birth stories, I thought I would share a little about his.

Rewinding to early March....

I had been cruising along on a great path to what I had assumed would be a full term delivery, just like Harlow's.  I was still working out, still working, and growing what I feared would be a humungo newborn because my poor stomach stuck out like a giant torpedo from about ohhhh 26 weeks on.  

And then, at 33 weeks, I started to feel funny one day at work.  I didn't feel BAD, just off.  I called my doctor's office (since they are basically two feet from where I work), and she suggested that I come on in.  Lo and behold, I was apparently already contracting and progressing, so she classified me as "threatened preterm labor," put me on a host of medicine to calm everything down, and sent me home for the weekend on bedrest (and with a steroid shot I had to give myself).

Y'all.  Can I just be honest and say that I had never in my 8 years of being an RN had to give an IM shot to an adult (hellooooo I work in baby world), and my first EVER to give to an adult was to MYSELF.  Hooey.  That was nasty and painful and I did some sort of disgusting scream/laugh/cry while I did it and for like fifteen minutes after.  I was like, this is it.  This is where it ends.  With me being a big baby sobbing on the bed convincing myself that my leg is going to fall off from this cursed steroid shot.

But it all worked!  The meds calmed down my contractions and slowed my progression, so I was sent back to work with restrictions, told I had a 50/50 chance of having a preemie, and assured that I would DEFINITELY not make it to my due date of 4/28...and probably wouldn't make it to April.

So we waited with bated breath.  Week after week, I kept progressing, but he stayed put.  Every shift I worked, they told me I wouldn't make it through the twelve hours [and I think the Labor and Delivery girls sometimes kept a room reserved for me! Ha!], but I did.  Shift after shift.  Day after day.  Week after week.

And when we closed in on 39 weeks, I started to panic that this baby was going to be born on the interstate because I had progressed so far.  All it was going to take was one final nudge, and he was going to be here.  So we scheduled an induction for 4/24--safely within 39 weeks and when my doctor could be there to deliver him.

And wouldn't you know it?  I made it all the way to my induction!  But I was so far along in the process, it took a broken water, an inch of Pitocin, less than four hours (at 11:59 am) and two contractions of pushing, and Benning Wilde Parker was in my arms.

Oh happy day!  He was perfect in every way possible!  He was 8 lbs 9oz, which wasn't nearly as big as I'd been afraid of, and he was healthy, crying, and absolutely beautiful.  I snuggled him once he'd gotten weighed and while my doctor attempted to finish my delivery and then...

She couldn't get the placenta to come out.  She wasn't panicked, but I could tell she was trying to make sure I didn't panic.  She told me it was coming out in pieces, but that they were getting it.  There was lots of painful stomach mashing, and then she had my nurse call out to the desk for a shot of methergine.  I looked at her working away and said, "Am I hemorrhaging?"

"Not yet," she said.  "You've lost about 500 mL at this point [0.5 liter], and I just want to make sure you don't lose much more."  They quickly came in with the shot, gave it in my leg, and the awful stomach mashing continued.  She told me she was going to do a curretage [a D&C without the D], to make sure she got everything, and then mid more stomach mashing, I started seeing stars.  I was either going to throw up or pass out, and I was still holding Benning.

"I feel bad," I said, trying to be as loud as I could.  "I FEEL BAD," I said again, much louder.

"You do?" my doctor asked.  I yelled at Brooks to come over to get Benning, someone tossed me an emesis basin, and I got sick and fell backwards on the bed.  Suddenly there was lots of commotion in the room and lots of new people working on me.  Someone told me they were going to start another IV.  There was a cart by the bed.  I heard something about a blood transfusion.  More stomach mashing. Lots of pressure and pain.  More nausea.  Antibiotics were ordered.  Something about a balloon and packing.

I looked at the clock and it had already been almost an hour since he'd been born when Brooks finally asked from the couch, "Is she okay?"

They said I was stable now but that I had lost 1500mL of blood [500mL is the preferred max with a non C-section delivery], so clinically, a pretty significant postpartum hemorrhage.  She told me that she was glad the balloon [which was placed to hold pressure to stop the bleeding] and packing were working so that I "didn't have to see her surgical skills" that day.  Yikes! I was scared and exhausted and felt awful.  Because I was now chained to the bed with a drain, a catheter, an epidural, and two IVs, I was told I couldn't go upstairs to postpartum and would remain exactly like I was for the next 24 hours.  And for those of you reading who are in the medical field, here is what my schedule looked like:

-Methergine pills every 6 hours to make me contract and stop bleeding [THIS HURT LIKE A WORD I CAN'T SAY ON A CHRISTIAN BLOG]

-IV antibiotics every 8 hours

-hourly fundal massages [AKA a beating to my abdomen]

-a blood transfusion at 1am over 2 hours

-feeding my baby every 3 hours

The pain from the afterbirth contractions was far and away the worst pain of my entire life.  It made my toes curl, and I apologize to anyone who was in the room that day and heard me cussing under my breath at the pain.  And the only medicine that helps me with that kind of pain [Motrin, I love you], I couldn't have because of all of my bleeding.  I was M-I-S-E-R-A-B-L-E all night long.  I didn't sleep at all. I couldn't move.  I missed Benning's first bath.  I couldn't enjoy holding or snuggling him.  I couldn't enjoy visiting with my family.  And all I could have all night was Sprite [I think I drank like six of them].

Luckily, some of my NICU friends came and "kidnapped" Benning in the middle of the night to snuggle him, so that I could try and rest.

By the 24 hour mark, my doctor freed me from the IVs, drain, packing, and balloon, and even said I could eat [!!!].  I was finally going up to postpartum...buuuuut I still couldn't have my Motrin until another 24 hours had passed, so that meant still lots of pain.

I relished being in a quiet room upstairs.  I held Benning as much as I could and enjoyed kissing him and cuddling him.  I spent one more night in the hospital, and before Brooks went home to get some sleep, he cleaned me up, washed AND dried my hair with the blow dryer, put me in actual PJs instead of that awful hospital gown, and even spritzed perfume on my wrists-- you know, because he thought it might make me feel better :).

We were home the next day and by the end of the week, I was feeling so much better. (It wasn't all over though...at 9 weeks postpartum on 6/30, I was still having some issues, and they found out from an ultrasound that I STILL had placenta in me more than two months later. I had to have a second D&C that same day. Whew!)

It wasn't at all how I'd expected delivery to go, and I hated that it ruined my ability to enjoy that first day with him, but all's well that ends well.  We have a beautiful, healthy boy who NAPS.  AND SLEEPS ALL NIGHT LONG.  IN HIS CRIB.

And now I'm knocking on every piece of wood I can find ;).  But really, he's a delightful, squishy fella.  He's busting off the growth charts, smiling and laughing, and already rolling from belly to back and tripod sitting at 3 months!  

He is strong and happy, and aside from some nasty spitting up from some reflux, he is an absolute dream.  And for those so interested in how we chose his name, we went with a "movie star name" theme. So now we have a Harlow (as in Jean Harlow) and a Benning (as in Annette Bening...just an extra "n"), with Wilde coming from Oscar Wilde. We do call him Benning and not Ben, although Harlow likes to call him "Benny Boo" :). 

I get asked all the time how Harlow is doing in her new role as big sister.  She's exactly as I thought she would be--fabulous!  

She is a little mommy to him.  She is great at giving him his pacifier, tries to make him smile when he cries, and her greatest downfall is how slow she is to obey because she can't stop kissing him.  We had a few days of "wanting to sit in Mommy's lap like Benning does" and the like, but overall, she has transitioned as well as I knew she would.  

She has had an exciting few months herself!  Just two weeks or so after becoming a big sister, she took a big girl trip to Rome with her dad, then graduated Pre-K, turned 5, learned how to really ride [and enjoy!] her bike, got her first loose tooth, spent a week in NYC and saw the Statue of Liberty, spent a week in Florida with us, and is now ONE WEEK away from starting Kindergarten. Whew! Where did my baby girl go? 

Admittedly, I'm not as excited as I should be for her to start school because I can't believe how fast time is moving. I want her to grow up but I also really, really don't. All of those beautiful baby teeth we worked so hard to cut are about to fall out and make room for those ginormous adult teeth that are likely to grow in crooked and spell the need for braces. She'll be gone every week day. No more sleeping in with leisurely breakfasts together or long hours by the pool watching her perfect her "cannitball." It's finally here: big kid world. Homework and backpacks and addition and subtraction. Dress codes. New friends and teachers. Reading. Early bed times. Oh the things that await! Ready or not, sink or swim, here we come!!

Once we settle into a new routine, I have some personal lessons I've learned that I'd love to find the time to share with you. But until then, we'll keep juggling all the pieces that make up our crazy, exciting, and fun life right on into the fall. 

Until next time, arrows....

Xoxo,

Chels