It happens everytime. It's an undeniable fact of life. There aren't too many sure things in this world, but this is one of them: the first day of kindergarten causes tears. Now, to the less experienced person, it would be logical to assume that it's the kids doing the crying (or perhaps, even the teachers), but the strange and surprising truth is that it's the MOMS.
Tuesday of this week was my third and final first day of kindergarten. It was met with the usual first-day excitement: everyone in the house is up early, breakfast is substantial, clothes are carefully laid out from the night before, and everyone seems to be watching the clock in anticipation. (Now if your home is like mine, then you already know that next week will be a sharp contrast: I'll have to roll the kids out of bed, throw a pop-tart at them, dig through the dirty clothes to find a "cleanish" pair of socks, and we'll all be watching the clock in desperation!)
The first day of kindergarten is definitely special. It is a once-in-a-lifetime milestone that must be captured on film in some capacity. It is the beginning of growing up for our children and letting go for us moms. I read somewhere that some women don't do it at all, and few women do it well, but that letting go of our children is the most delicate and important thing we can do. I can say that it's completely unnatural, it tears open a mom's heart, and it requires more discipline and self-control than I will ever have without the intervention of the Holy Spirit.
But Whit did fine. He strolled right into the classroom, found his seat, and began cutting and glueing like a pro. As I squatted down next to him to tell him what a big boy he was, I realized he wasn't listening, and I was just an intrusion now. It was time to go.
As I left the school, I was crying for many reasons: sadness that my "baby" was no longer a baby, gratefulness that I knew I was leaving him with a godly woman and teacher who is truly called to this agegroup, and fear of what awaits him that I can no longer protect him from.
I was crying because Whit was growing up. And I was also crying for Paul... who won't.
August 28, 2008
August 14, 2008
Hope and Tenacity
I was doing a word study on HOPE recently, and I found this verse from Job 13:15:
Though He slay me, still I will hope in Him. Nevertheless, I will argue my ways before Him.
We all know the story of Job: God had allowed the enemy to take all of his prized possessions from him... ALL of his children were killed, his houses were destroyed and all of his material possessions and slaves were gone. Satan even took away his health (I've always found it interesting that nothing ever happened to his wife. She stuck around to nag poor Job).
So, in the midst of every imaginable earthly tragedy, Job declares that even if God goes one step further and kills him, his faith will remain intact. I have to admit, I've wondered what I would do in the face of tragedy. Whenever we sing certain songs at church ("Forever I'll love you, Forever I'll stand)... I have a hard time. Will I? What if that popular theory is wrong... the one about the believers being taken up to heaven BEFORE the tribulation? In the midst of all the Bible says will occur in those times, would I be one whose "heart is hardened"?
But Job knows - he knows with certainty, because he's in the middle of it all. He can claim that even if God kills him, he'll still believe, because he's already experienced things far worse than death... and his hope is still in the One and Only.
So, the part I really love is the next line... "Nevertheless, I will argue my ways before Him."
After declaring his unwaivering faith, Job follows up with a big BUT. "I will love You forever, LORD, but I'm still going to pour out my complaint to you because I want my situation to CHANGE!"
It's as if he's saying, "I love You, LORD, but I don't like what You're doing."
How many times has this been EXACTLY what I've felt? And here is the incredibly faithful Job saying it perfectly for me.
Though He slay me, still I will hope in Him. Nevertheless, I will argue my ways before Him.
We all know the story of Job: God had allowed the enemy to take all of his prized possessions from him... ALL of his children were killed, his houses were destroyed and all of his material possessions and slaves were gone. Satan even took away his health (I've always found it interesting that nothing ever happened to his wife. She stuck around to nag poor Job).
So, in the midst of every imaginable earthly tragedy, Job declares that even if God goes one step further and kills him, his faith will remain intact. I have to admit, I've wondered what I would do in the face of tragedy. Whenever we sing certain songs at church ("Forever I'll love you, Forever I'll stand)... I have a hard time. Will I? What if that popular theory is wrong... the one about the believers being taken up to heaven BEFORE the tribulation? In the midst of all the Bible says will occur in those times, would I be one whose "heart is hardened"?
But Job knows - he knows with certainty, because he's in the middle of it all. He can claim that even if God kills him, he'll still believe, because he's already experienced things far worse than death... and his hope is still in the One and Only.
So, the part I really love is the next line... "Nevertheless, I will argue my ways before Him."
After declaring his unwaivering faith, Job follows up with a big BUT. "I will love You forever, LORD, but I'm still going to pour out my complaint to you because I want my situation to CHANGE!"
It's as if he's saying, "I love You, LORD, but I don't like what You're doing."
How many times has this been EXACTLY what I've felt? And here is the incredibly faithful Job saying it perfectly for me.
August 10, 2008
The Search for Significance
I turned 40 yesterday.
40.
That sounds old.
I don't think it's any coincidence that I would turn 40 and in the same month my "baby" would start kindergarten. God's funny like that.
I've spent this past year praying about this month... about how I would spend my time once all my boys are in school "full time." Do I want to go back to work full time? Part time? Volunteer work? PTA? Go on some mission trips? The possibilities are endless, and yet I don't want to get sucked in to a bunch of piddly tasks that leave me frustrated and have no eternal significance.
I have to admit, I miss the hospital. Ironic, isn't it? The place I hated when Paul was alive, is now the place I miss. But I know it's just Paul that I miss... that place was where I spent so much time with him. Some of it was awful, but some of it was fun, too.
So, on the morning of my birthday, I was enjoying some quiet time in bed (thanks to Jack being vigilant to keep Pepper and Whit occupied as long as possible), and I was thinking about the possibility of volunteering at Cook. I found myself considering what tasks and responsibilities I could realistically handle as a mere "volunteer." At one point, I came to the conclusion that since it would be a 2 hour drive up and back, it would be senseless for me to do just "any" task... something that anyone who lived close by could do. I mean, why would I waste all that time just to disinfect toys or clean up the playroom? Anybody could do that. I want to do something more, something.... significant.
And then it occured to me: the backwardness of my state. To truly volunteer, to really serve someone, there is no task that's too menial. True servanthood is born out of love for those whom you're serving... not out of a search for your own significance. One is completely selfless, the other completely selfish. If I volunteer at Cook - or anywhere for that matter - with the intention of accomplishing something noble, something that makes me feel important or needed, then I am doing it for myself. But if I'm doing it out of true love and compassion for those I'm serving, then I am not just a volunteer, but a servant.
"...but whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave; just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve..." Matthew 20:28
So... here's my 40-year-old dilemma: how do I spend my time wisely and keep an eternal perspective in all that I do, and yet selflessly serve in any capacity, regardless of how menial?
I'm not sure, but I think, somehow, LOVE is at the root of it all. True, selfless, sacrificial love.
I've got a long way to go.
Life was so much easier when I was 20...
40.
That sounds old.
I don't think it's any coincidence that I would turn 40 and in the same month my "baby" would start kindergarten. God's funny like that.
I've spent this past year praying about this month... about how I would spend my time once all my boys are in school "full time." Do I want to go back to work full time? Part time? Volunteer work? PTA? Go on some mission trips? The possibilities are endless, and yet I don't want to get sucked in to a bunch of piddly tasks that leave me frustrated and have no eternal significance.
I have to admit, I miss the hospital. Ironic, isn't it? The place I hated when Paul was alive, is now the place I miss. But I know it's just Paul that I miss... that place was where I spent so much time with him. Some of it was awful, but some of it was fun, too.
So, on the morning of my birthday, I was enjoying some quiet time in bed (thanks to Jack being vigilant to keep Pepper and Whit occupied as long as possible), and I was thinking about the possibility of volunteering at Cook. I found myself considering what tasks and responsibilities I could realistically handle as a mere "volunteer." At one point, I came to the conclusion that since it would be a 2 hour drive up and back, it would be senseless for me to do just "any" task... something that anyone who lived close by could do. I mean, why would I waste all that time just to disinfect toys or clean up the playroom? Anybody could do that. I want to do something more, something.... significant.
And then it occured to me: the backwardness of my state. To truly volunteer, to really serve someone, there is no task that's too menial. True servanthood is born out of love for those whom you're serving... not out of a search for your own significance. One is completely selfless, the other completely selfish. If I volunteer at Cook - or anywhere for that matter - with the intention of accomplishing something noble, something that makes me feel important or needed, then I am doing it for myself. But if I'm doing it out of true love and compassion for those I'm serving, then I am not just a volunteer, but a servant.
"...but whoever wishes to become great among you shall be your servant, and whoever wishes to be first among you shall be your slave; just as the Son of Man did not come to be served, but to serve..." Matthew 20:28
So... here's my 40-year-old dilemma: how do I spend my time wisely and keep an eternal perspective in all that I do, and yet selflessly serve in any capacity, regardless of how menial?
I'm not sure, but I think, somehow, LOVE is at the root of it all. True, selfless, sacrificial love.
I've got a long way to go.
Life was so much easier when I was 20...
August 1, 2008
A Bronze Plaque and Imperfect Plans
I got the plaque today.
It's been over a year, and we still don't have a permanent headstone for Paul. There's a good reason. It's that simple word: permanent. We knew we had one shot to make this what we wanted, but we weren't sure what we wanted.
After 3 different companies, umpteen different designs and countless detail changes, we finally made a decision. It wasn't an easy one: bronze or granite?... big or small?... lower case or capitals?... race car or not?... border or plain? How do you sum up someone's life in a 9" by 11" piece of stone?
We finally decided on a bronze plaque (which we ordered on-line) set inside granite (which we'll have to have done here in Waco by another company). After we exhausted the poor plaque designer by making more changes than humanly possible, we placed our order and.... waited. Waited for the 4 weeks it took to get the plaque in our hands. And it came today...
... And there's a problem. The first set of quotation marks around the scripture verse is missing. The second set is there, but not the first. I double checked to make sure it was correct in the design, which it was. So... just one of those production mistakes.
Which is actually quite appropriate, don't you think? I mean, no matter how much you plan, or how much you fret over the details, sometimes things just don't turn out like you expected. Proof of the limits of our "control" because, ultimately, things are out of our hands.
Mistakes happen. Life isn't perfect, and you can't predict when those unexpected bumps in the road (or deep, dark chasms) will find you. So we spend our time trying to prevent them or, when they do happen, trying to fix them.
Maybe I'll keep this "blemished" plaque as Paul's headstone to remind me of the imperfectness of life. On second thought, why the heck do I need a plaque to remind me of that? I wake up with that knowledge every morning.
Maybe I just haven't gotten my full 8 hours the past few nights, and I need to go to bed and email my complaint to the bronze company in the morning.
There I go... making plans again.
It's been over a year, and we still don't have a permanent headstone for Paul. There's a good reason. It's that simple word: permanent. We knew we had one shot to make this what we wanted, but we weren't sure what we wanted.
After 3 different companies, umpteen different designs and countless detail changes, we finally made a decision. It wasn't an easy one: bronze or granite?... big or small?... lower case or capitals?... race car or not?... border or plain? How do you sum up someone's life in a 9" by 11" piece of stone?
We finally decided on a bronze plaque (which we ordered on-line) set inside granite (which we'll have to have done here in Waco by another company). After we exhausted the poor plaque designer by making more changes than humanly possible, we placed our order and.... waited. Waited for the 4 weeks it took to get the plaque in our hands. And it came today...
... And there's a problem. The first set of quotation marks around the scripture verse is missing. The second set is there, but not the first. I double checked to make sure it was correct in the design, which it was. So... just one of those production mistakes.
Which is actually quite appropriate, don't you think? I mean, no matter how much you plan, or how much you fret over the details, sometimes things just don't turn out like you expected. Proof of the limits of our "control" because, ultimately, things are out of our hands.
Mistakes happen. Life isn't perfect, and you can't predict when those unexpected bumps in the road (or deep, dark chasms) will find you. So we spend our time trying to prevent them or, when they do happen, trying to fix them.
Maybe I'll keep this "blemished" plaque as Paul's headstone to remind me of the imperfectness of life. On second thought, why the heck do I need a plaque to remind me of that? I wake up with that knowledge every morning.
Maybe I just haven't gotten my full 8 hours the past few nights, and I need to go to bed and email my complaint to the bronze company in the morning.
There I go... making plans again.
July 17, 2008
The Pain of Change
Without a doubt, our family has changed in this past year since Paul's death. I can think of some specific ways that each of us is different now - some good, some not so good.
I, for one, am more introverted, less optimistic about the future, much more likely to feel sorry for myself, but I also have a clearer perspective of eternity.
I believe that the Lord is always "working" on us - always orchestrating our circumstances in order to grow us into something more, bring us closer to Himself, and prepare us for a greater earthly purpose.
My problem is that growth requires change and change is difficult. It necessitates the humility to admit the need for change and the discipline to make the change happen. It is much easier to settle for the way things are. Or worse, to let the inertia of my circumstances pull me into a bitter, unhappy heap of a person.
To grow, I must fight against the "gravity" of nature - the desire to complain, to feel sorry for myself, to compare my plight to others, and to let anger and disappointment control my life.
And yet, in the last year, I can see that - left to my own way - that is the very direction I would go. In fact, I've gotten down that road on numerous occasions. It's a downhill road, you understand, so you can be well into it before you even realize it. Then, to get off it, you have to backtrack by climbing uphill. It's a lot of work - mentally and emotionally.
Truth is, there's nothing special about the one year mark. I wasn't any more sad about Paul that day than any other day. But it is a good reminder to reflect back over this year - to admit my mistakes and my need for change, to ask the Lord for the wisdom and the discipline to take the road of growth, to remember Paul and all I learned from him, and to commit to not wasting his life or his death.
My soul cleaves to the dust;
Revive me according to Your word.
I have told of my ways, and You have answered me;
Teach me Your statutes.
Make me understand the way of Your precepts,
So I will meditate on Your wonders.
My soul weeps because of grief;
Strengthen me according to Your word.
Remove the false way from me,
And graciously grant me Your law.
I have chosen the faithful way;
I have placed Your ordinances before me.
I cleave to Your testimonies;
O LORD, do not put me to shame!
I shall run the way of Your commandments,
For You will enlarge my heart.
Psalm 119:25-32
I, for one, am more introverted, less optimistic about the future, much more likely to feel sorry for myself, but I also have a clearer perspective of eternity.
I believe that the Lord is always "working" on us - always orchestrating our circumstances in order to grow us into something more, bring us closer to Himself, and prepare us for a greater earthly purpose.
My problem is that growth requires change and change is difficult. It necessitates the humility to admit the need for change and the discipline to make the change happen. It is much easier to settle for the way things are. Or worse, to let the inertia of my circumstances pull me into a bitter, unhappy heap of a person.
To grow, I must fight against the "gravity" of nature - the desire to complain, to feel sorry for myself, to compare my plight to others, and to let anger and disappointment control my life.
And yet, in the last year, I can see that - left to my own way - that is the very direction I would go. In fact, I've gotten down that road on numerous occasions. It's a downhill road, you understand, so you can be well into it before you even realize it. Then, to get off it, you have to backtrack by climbing uphill. It's a lot of work - mentally and emotionally.
Truth is, there's nothing special about the one year mark. I wasn't any more sad about Paul that day than any other day. But it is a good reminder to reflect back over this year - to admit my mistakes and my need for change, to ask the Lord for the wisdom and the discipline to take the road of growth, to remember Paul and all I learned from him, and to commit to not wasting his life or his death.
My soul cleaves to the dust;
Revive me according to Your word.
I have told of my ways, and You have answered me;
Teach me Your statutes.
Make me understand the way of Your precepts,
So I will meditate on Your wonders.
My soul weeps because of grief;
Strengthen me according to Your word.
Remove the false way from me,
And graciously grant me Your law.
I have chosen the faithful way;
I have placed Your ordinances before me.
I cleave to Your testimonies;
O LORD, do not put me to shame!
I shall run the way of Your commandments,
For You will enlarge my heart.
Psalm 119:25-32
July 14, 2008
One Year
I always loved being Paul's mom. It was, perhaps, the most significant role I've played in my life thus far.
July 1, 2008
Broken Promises and Long Walks
I am really cherishing these morning walks with Jack and the dog. It's hot and there's poop to pick up, but it's great "talk time" with my eldest son. Tomorrow will be our last such walk as Whit will finish up reading camp and will be joining us on Thursday. Not that I'm not looking forward to adding my youngest son to the routine, it's just that "talk time" will probably turn into "fight time" over the leash, which direction to go, or who gets to kick the empty water bottle laying in the street.
Anyway, during today's walk with Jack the conversation somehow turned to the idea of broken promises... those promises we make with every intention of following through, only to have unforseen and uncontrollable circumstances deem keeping the promise impossible.
It reminded me of this memory of Paul, which I shared with Jack:
I don't remember the date or even the time of year, I just remember it was one of Paul's many in-patient surgeries. I'm pretty sure it was for the purpose of putting in a new port because they were using a peripheral IV (that had already been placed in his arm) to administer the medicine.
Anyway, as we were waiting for our "turn," Paul informed me that he did NOT want me to leave him until he was asleep. I promised him that I would stay with him until he received the "sleepy juice." Now, you must know that it is Cook "policy" to administer a drug called Versed to patients while the parents are with them. This drug is supposed to make them feel "drunk" and not really care that they are being ripped from their mother's arms. (They supposedly don't remember the experience. Let me assure you, however, that the parent remembers every harrowing moment of it)! Once they are in the OR, they get Propaphal, which is what makes them go to sleep. However, Paul had had Versed in the past, and it did absolutely nothing for him... he was still very much aware that he was being taken away, and he still very much cared. So...Terrill and I always insisted that we be with Paul until he received the Propaphal. Depending on who the anaesthesiologist was that day, this task ranged from simple ("Is that the way Paul likes to do things? Well then, no problem!) to extremely difficult ("I'm sorry, ma'am, but administering that drug outside the OR is a very unsafe thing to do. We only have the safety of your child in mind when we say that this is against our policy"). I won't go into how the conversation went whenever the doctor had this attitude.... let's just say that I don't ever recall NOT breaking Cook's "policy."
I will never forget that day that the anaesthesiologist was a very dear man named Dr. Byrd. He was more than happy to comply with Paul's desire to stay with me until asleep. I placed Paul up on the gurney, Dr. Byrd told the nurse the amount of medicine to administer, and then he left. Now, keep in mind that Paul had done this same drill numerous times. This routine was just as familiar to him as soccer practice is to most kids his age. He watched the white medicine flow through the tubing and into his arms and expected to fall asleep within seconds. Instead, he looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm not sleepy." When Dr. Byrd returned, he was amazed that Paul was not out given the amount of drug the nurse had administered. Then, he examined Paul's IV and found the problem: his vein had blown. He showed me the "puddle" of medicine just pooling in Paul's arm underneath the skin. I don't remember exactly what he said next, but it involved me leaving. I knew I had to go immediately or I wouldn't be able to go at all. I kissed Paul, looked into his eyes, apologized repeatedly and left the room.
While I waited for Paul during the surgery, I held onto the hope that maybe enough of the drug had gotten into his system so that, even though he was awake, perhaps he would not remember the separation. The surgery went fine, Paul's recovery was typical, and we were back in his hospital room by mid-afternoon. Paul never mentioned the botched pre-surgical job, so I broke the ice. Holding on to my "memory loss" hope, I asked, "Paul, do you remember when you left me for surgery?" I will never forget his reply: "You mean, when YOU left ME." I was crushed. I apologized profusely and asked him if he understood. Of course he did. Would he forgive me? Of course he would. And like the sweet child that he was, he never mentioned it again.
I don't know exactly why I'm re-hashing this particular memory. Maybe it's just a chance to talk to Jack about the times when we just can't keep our promises. Perhaps it's to remind myself to be careful about the promises I make to others. Maybe it could be that I need to learn from Paul's example and forgive those who've let me down. Or maybe I just miss my Paulie.
Anyway, during today's walk with Jack the conversation somehow turned to the idea of broken promises... those promises we make with every intention of following through, only to have unforseen and uncontrollable circumstances deem keeping the promise impossible.
It reminded me of this memory of Paul, which I shared with Jack:
I don't remember the date or even the time of year, I just remember it was one of Paul's many in-patient surgeries. I'm pretty sure it was for the purpose of putting in a new port because they were using a peripheral IV (that had already been placed in his arm) to administer the medicine.
Anyway, as we were waiting for our "turn," Paul informed me that he did NOT want me to leave him until he was asleep. I promised him that I would stay with him until he received the "sleepy juice." Now, you must know that it is Cook "policy" to administer a drug called Versed to patients while the parents are with them. This drug is supposed to make them feel "drunk" and not really care that they are being ripped from their mother's arms. (They supposedly don't remember the experience. Let me assure you, however, that the parent remembers every harrowing moment of it)! Once they are in the OR, they get Propaphal, which is what makes them go to sleep. However, Paul had had Versed in the past, and it did absolutely nothing for him... he was still very much aware that he was being taken away, and he still very much cared. So...Terrill and I always insisted that we be with Paul until he received the Propaphal. Depending on who the anaesthesiologist was that day, this task ranged from simple ("Is that the way Paul likes to do things? Well then, no problem!) to extremely difficult ("I'm sorry, ma'am, but administering that drug outside the OR is a very unsafe thing to do. We only have the safety of your child in mind when we say that this is against our policy"). I won't go into how the conversation went whenever the doctor had this attitude.... let's just say that I don't ever recall NOT breaking Cook's "policy."
I will never forget that day that the anaesthesiologist was a very dear man named Dr. Byrd. He was more than happy to comply with Paul's desire to stay with me until asleep. I placed Paul up on the gurney, Dr. Byrd told the nurse the amount of medicine to administer, and then he left. Now, keep in mind that Paul had done this same drill numerous times. This routine was just as familiar to him as soccer practice is to most kids his age. He watched the white medicine flow through the tubing and into his arms and expected to fall asleep within seconds. Instead, he looked at me and said, "Mom, I'm not sleepy." When Dr. Byrd returned, he was amazed that Paul was not out given the amount of drug the nurse had administered. Then, he examined Paul's IV and found the problem: his vein had blown. He showed me the "puddle" of medicine just pooling in Paul's arm underneath the skin. I don't remember exactly what he said next, but it involved me leaving. I knew I had to go immediately or I wouldn't be able to go at all. I kissed Paul, looked into his eyes, apologized repeatedly and left the room.
While I waited for Paul during the surgery, I held onto the hope that maybe enough of the drug had gotten into his system so that, even though he was awake, perhaps he would not remember the separation. The surgery went fine, Paul's recovery was typical, and we were back in his hospital room by mid-afternoon. Paul never mentioned the botched pre-surgical job, so I broke the ice. Holding on to my "memory loss" hope, I asked, "Paul, do you remember when you left me for surgery?" I will never forget his reply: "You mean, when YOU left ME." I was crushed. I apologized profusely and asked him if he understood. Of course he did. Would he forgive me? Of course he would. And like the sweet child that he was, he never mentioned it again.
I don't know exactly why I'm re-hashing this particular memory. Maybe it's just a chance to talk to Jack about the times when we just can't keep our promises. Perhaps it's to remind myself to be careful about the promises I make to others. Maybe it could be that I need to learn from Paul's example and forgive those who've let me down. Or maybe I just miss my Paulie.
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