Sometimes, prayer isn't enough.
This is an idea that I've been learning for several years now (I'm a slow learner). At one point in my life, I would've considered this statement heresy. After all, prayer is powerful, prayer is our communication with Mighty God, prayer is... everything.
But, sometimes it isn't.
I've come to grasp the idea that prayer should be our FIRST response to any situation, but - more often that I have realized in the past - it is usually not the LAST response. It is often not the ONLY response.
First, we pray.
Then, we listen.
Then, we ACT.
There are differing amounts of time that pass between each of these steps, and we are wise not to rush the process. However, more often in my own life, I'm not guilty of rushing the process, I'm guilty of stifling it. I'm guilty of stopping at step one... Saying a heartfelt prayer for someone, checking that off my list, and then getting on with my life.
Shame on me. How many opportunities have I missed by not taking the time to listen and then act on someone else's behalf? I would be ashamed to know.
"...let us not love with word or with tongue, but in deed and truth." 1 John 3:18
March 14, 2009
March 7, 2009
Rules, Shmules...
When it comes to rebelliousness, I'm a late bloomer. Most folks "sow their wild oats" in high school; a few do it in college. Me? I waited until I was in my 30s and had 3 kids.
I understand why rules exists, I just don't always believe they should apply to me. Yes, some rules are made for the protection of the public and should always be followed (kids in car seats, for example). Other rules, however, are made to punish the majority because of a minority fringe (hair cut guidelines in schools: because there are a handful of parents who would let their kids wear purple 3-foot mohawks, there must be a line drawn, and the school board arbitrarily picked that line to be above the eyebrows and the shirt collar).
I believe - right or wrong - that there is an exception to every rule. Now, I'm not talking about Biblical Truths, so don't go gettin' wadded up over a theological issue. I very much believe in absolute Truth when it comes to the Bible. When it comes to schools, companies and other earthly institutions, however, it's a different story.
Problem is that this idea was cemented in my mind whenever Paul was going through treatment. There were so many "Nevers" and "No ones" and "No Exception" policies that we blatantly ignored, that we began to believe that, as parents, WE were the ones who made the rules. The truth is that when your child is dying, there are no rules and you are willing to confront anyone who dares to tell you otherwise.
I remember my inaugural defiant act against authority. Paul had just been diagnosed, and he was having an abdominal CT done at Cook. This requires something called contrast to be mixed with clear liquid and then a certain amount taken over about a 2 hour period. They handed us his sippy cup full of contrast and told us to be back in 45 minutes for his next round. Well, on the second round of contrast, with only 15 minutes remaining, I found myself in a small waiting room with a VERY water-logged 2-year-old who was quite done with his sippy cup. The nurse kept returning to the room, holding up the sippy cup and disapprovingly looking at me. You know, like I had some power, some magical words that would make my sweet and obedient boy drink the last 6 ounces. I had just spent the last hour and a half using every bribe, threat and game I could think of to get the stuff down him. At this point, he was completely ignoring me and the cup. Of course, we were told, he absolutely HAD to drink that contrast. If he didn't, they would cancel the CT, and we'd have to come back and repeat the test another time (like some other day when he was incredibly thirsty or I had improved my mothering skills).
Well, I was not about to waste the amount of time we'd already spent in the hospital. I was determined that we would have that CT on that day. In an act of fierce protection of my son, I turned to the only other person in the waiting room (another mom) and said to her, "Not a word to anyone!" With that, I lifted that cup to my lips and guzzled the last ounces of contrast. It is one of my proudest moments as a mom! Paul was oblivious (he was busy watching the fish in the aquarium), but I was triumphant! The nurse returned, I held up the empty cup, she smiled and escorted us back to radiation.
And thus began my love of rule-breaking. It's something that I'm actually quite proud of. I'm just trying to figure out how NOT to pass it on to my kids!
I understand why rules exists, I just don't always believe they should apply to me. Yes, some rules are made for the protection of the public and should always be followed (kids in car seats, for example). Other rules, however, are made to punish the majority because of a minority fringe (hair cut guidelines in schools: because there are a handful of parents who would let their kids wear purple 3-foot mohawks, there must be a line drawn, and the school board arbitrarily picked that line to be above the eyebrows and the shirt collar).
I believe - right or wrong - that there is an exception to every rule. Now, I'm not talking about Biblical Truths, so don't go gettin' wadded up over a theological issue. I very much believe in absolute Truth when it comes to the Bible. When it comes to schools, companies and other earthly institutions, however, it's a different story.
Problem is that this idea was cemented in my mind whenever Paul was going through treatment. There were so many "Nevers" and "No ones" and "No Exception" policies that we blatantly ignored, that we began to believe that, as parents, WE were the ones who made the rules. The truth is that when your child is dying, there are no rules and you are willing to confront anyone who dares to tell you otherwise.
I remember my inaugural defiant act against authority. Paul had just been diagnosed, and he was having an abdominal CT done at Cook. This requires something called contrast to be mixed with clear liquid and then a certain amount taken over about a 2 hour period. They handed us his sippy cup full of contrast and told us to be back in 45 minutes for his next round. Well, on the second round of contrast, with only 15 minutes remaining, I found myself in a small waiting room with a VERY water-logged 2-year-old who was quite done with his sippy cup. The nurse kept returning to the room, holding up the sippy cup and disapprovingly looking at me. You know, like I had some power, some magical words that would make my sweet and obedient boy drink the last 6 ounces. I had just spent the last hour and a half using every bribe, threat and game I could think of to get the stuff down him. At this point, he was completely ignoring me and the cup. Of course, we were told, he absolutely HAD to drink that contrast. If he didn't, they would cancel the CT, and we'd have to come back and repeat the test another time (like some other day when he was incredibly thirsty or I had improved my mothering skills).
Well, I was not about to waste the amount of time we'd already spent in the hospital. I was determined that we would have that CT on that day. In an act of fierce protection of my son, I turned to the only other person in the waiting room (another mom) and said to her, "Not a word to anyone!" With that, I lifted that cup to my lips and guzzled the last ounces of contrast. It is one of my proudest moments as a mom! Paul was oblivious (he was busy watching the fish in the aquarium), but I was triumphant! The nurse returned, I held up the empty cup, she smiled and escorted us back to radiation.
And thus began my love of rule-breaking. It's something that I'm actually quite proud of. I'm just trying to figure out how NOT to pass it on to my kids!
March 2, 2009
God in a Garage Sale
I'm going to Iraq in April.
I've mentioned the Preemptive Love Coalition before... it's an organization that was begun by friends from our church who felt called first to Turkey, and then ultimately to Iraq. Their group, the PLC, facilitates heart surgeries for Iraqi children. Since Iraq doesn't have the medical facilities necessary, PLC provides the money and facilitates the trip to other countries in order for the kids to receive the life-saving surgery.
These kids have many different kinds of heart problems, but the most common diagnosis is Tetralogy of Fallot - the same condition as Whit.
We have financially supported our friends for a while now, but recently I began praying about being personally involved. For many reasons, this was difficult for me. I have to be honest... I was extremely hesitant because getting personally involved is messy, and it almost always requires a sacrifice. I'm still quite content to stay inside the safe, comfortable walls of my home and feel sorry for myself. I mean, I'm still entitled to that, right? No one would blame me, would they? Staying here and sending money is a great option.
Before I got past that hesitation, I was faced with another: my pride. I began to realize that what was overcoming my hesitation to moving outside the walls of my home was not a Godly calling, but a search for significance. What a noble thing to do: go to Iraq and help the helpless. I mean, that's something to be proud of. Look at me, everybody!! I'm making a choice to go to that "bad" place and help people. I must be very Godly. [And yet, is it really? The reality is that it's little more than a tip of my hat to the needy.... but that's another post].
I didn't want that to be my motivation. I wanted to have a heart of compassion and love for people in need. I wanted to have the desire to follow Christ's example and command to "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." (Prov 31:8-9).
My confession is that my motives are not completely pure... that part of what is pushing or pulling me to Iraq is my own ego. But I do want that to change, and I believe that God has the power to use even poorly-motivated people, and if I wait to move until my motives are completely pure, I will never move.
And my dream and my hope is that by going to Iraq, by falling in love with families who are distraught over the health of their precious child, by seeing first-hand how God is working in amazing ways, by witnessing the transformation of hearts both physically and spiritually, that I will be so captivated by God that I will come to know truth: any good in me, any ability to help another person, any so-called "sacrifice" that I am able to make, is mine only because of the power of Christ. Christ alone is able to transform my offering of filthy rags into something meaningful and beautiful.
I had a garage sale this weekend. I know that seems like a leap in blog-thought, but there really is a connection. When I agreed to make the trip to Iraq, I had correctly estimated the cost of my trip to Istanbul. However, I had mistakenly assumed that from Istanbul to Iraq would be a quick (and cheap) bus ride. [Isn't that so ignorant of me... it's like I think that the entire area of Turkey, Iran, Iraq is just all the same place. As if someone from Iraq could fly into JFK airport and then just hop on a quick bus to Texas]. Anyway, as it turns out, the trip from Istanbul to Iraq is an additional SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS! Yikes! Thus... the motivation for the garage sale: I was hoping to offset this additional expense. With the help of my very generous friend, Jen, who donated several BIG items to my cause, I thought I had a decent chance of knocking a big dent into the $700.
After we closed our doors, hauled the unsold items to the Salvation Army, and put our garage back together, I counted my earnings. Would you believe the total?...
SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS AND SEVENTY FIVE CENTS!!
Praise God! Could He be any better?
I've mentioned the Preemptive Love Coalition before... it's an organization that was begun by friends from our church who felt called first to Turkey, and then ultimately to Iraq. Their group, the PLC, facilitates heart surgeries for Iraqi children. Since Iraq doesn't have the medical facilities necessary, PLC provides the money and facilitates the trip to other countries in order for the kids to receive the life-saving surgery.
These kids have many different kinds of heart problems, but the most common diagnosis is Tetralogy of Fallot - the same condition as Whit.
We have financially supported our friends for a while now, but recently I began praying about being personally involved. For many reasons, this was difficult for me. I have to be honest... I was extremely hesitant because getting personally involved is messy, and it almost always requires a sacrifice. I'm still quite content to stay inside the safe, comfortable walls of my home and feel sorry for myself. I mean, I'm still entitled to that, right? No one would blame me, would they? Staying here and sending money is a great option.
Before I got past that hesitation, I was faced with another: my pride. I began to realize that what was overcoming my hesitation to moving outside the walls of my home was not a Godly calling, but a search for significance. What a noble thing to do: go to Iraq and help the helpless. I mean, that's something to be proud of. Look at me, everybody!! I'm making a choice to go to that "bad" place and help people. I must be very Godly. [And yet, is it really? The reality is that it's little more than a tip of my hat to the needy.... but that's another post].
I didn't want that to be my motivation. I wanted to have a heart of compassion and love for people in need. I wanted to have the desire to follow Christ's example and command to "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy." (Prov 31:8-9).
My confession is that my motives are not completely pure... that part of what is pushing or pulling me to Iraq is my own ego. But I do want that to change, and I believe that God has the power to use even poorly-motivated people, and if I wait to move until my motives are completely pure, I will never move.
And my dream and my hope is that by going to Iraq, by falling in love with families who are distraught over the health of their precious child, by seeing first-hand how God is working in amazing ways, by witnessing the transformation of hearts both physically and spiritually, that I will be so captivated by God that I will come to know truth: any good in me, any ability to help another person, any so-called "sacrifice" that I am able to make, is mine only because of the power of Christ. Christ alone is able to transform my offering of filthy rags into something meaningful and beautiful.
I had a garage sale this weekend. I know that seems like a leap in blog-thought, but there really is a connection. When I agreed to make the trip to Iraq, I had correctly estimated the cost of my trip to Istanbul. However, I had mistakenly assumed that from Istanbul to Iraq would be a quick (and cheap) bus ride. [Isn't that so ignorant of me... it's like I think that the entire area of Turkey, Iran, Iraq is just all the same place. As if someone from Iraq could fly into JFK airport and then just hop on a quick bus to Texas]. Anyway, as it turns out, the trip from Istanbul to Iraq is an additional SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS! Yikes! Thus... the motivation for the garage sale: I was hoping to offset this additional expense. With the help of my very generous friend, Jen, who donated several BIG items to my cause, I thought I had a decent chance of knocking a big dent into the $700.
After we closed our doors, hauled the unsold items to the Salvation Army, and put our garage back together, I counted my earnings. Would you believe the total?...
SEVEN HUNDRED DOLLARS AND SEVENTY FIVE CENTS!!
Praise God! Could He be any better?
February 25, 2009
Coloring Books, Bulletin Boards, and a Puffy "P"
So... we're having a garage sale this weekend. No one is more thrilled than Terrill. He's been telling me for months that there is absolutely NO more room in our attic. I say you can always squeeze in one more box.
This week I've been doing a lot of sifting through closets and drawers and cabinets. This is always a long process for a pack rat like me, but it's made doubly tedious by the fact that I don't want to get rid of anything of Paul's. This means I have to carefully flip through every page of every coloring book. If there is even one picture that he colored, it must go in the "keep" pile.
Even trash isn't trash. In the boys' bathroom drawer I found a puffy purple "P" sticker - no doubt off of some craft that Paul made at church. Can't throw that away. It stays in the drawer right next to the hydrocortizone cream and the q-tips.
A while back we got our carpets cleaned and we moved the boys' bulletin boards into the garage and never moved them back. Yesterday, I was looking at Paul's: covered in Spongebob stickers, pictures from friends, and a photo of a minor-league baseball player who was a hero to Paul. Some of the items I remember helping him put up - carefully finding just the right spot; other things I don't remember at all. And that made me think of how many moments, events and routine days that I've forgotten. So many... and that makes me mad. I'm grateful for Jack - he remembers so much more than I do. I love to hear him re-tell a story about Paul that I've forgotten.
I pulled a framed print out from behind our armoir and dusted it off for the garage sale. Then, in it's place, I put Paul's bulletin board. It made me smile to think that I was selling a work of art for pennies on the dollar and replacing it with a junkie bulletin board littered with precious items taped on by tiny fingers.... far more valuable
Last night, after Whit went to bed, Jack and I returned to the garage to continue sorting and pricing. The radio was on and I heard a song that reminded me of Paul that I haven't heard since he died. Jack recognized it, too and looked at me immediately. I almost turned it off, but decided not to. So there we were, standing in our garage, knee-deep in books, legos and kitchen utensils, hugging each other and crying. I don't think the neighbors saw us, but I can't be sure.
Reaching back in the dark corners of closets and unearthing long-forgotten items brings back some wonderful memories. It made me start to think about what I've missed out on this last year and a half without Paul: how many laughs I've missed (about 952), how many kisses and hugs I've missed (5,674), how many Nascars I haven't had to buy (37), how many times I haven't had to answer the question,"How much bites do I have to eat?" (474), how many hand-print crafts I've missed bringing home (8), how many nights I haven't had to go back to the boys room to tell them to stop talking (162), how many time-outs I've avoided giving (2).
I don't know how much money I'll make at this garage sale, but the time I've spent with Paul this week has been priceless...
This week I've been doing a lot of sifting through closets and drawers and cabinets. This is always a long process for a pack rat like me, but it's made doubly tedious by the fact that I don't want to get rid of anything of Paul's. This means I have to carefully flip through every page of every coloring book. If there is even one picture that he colored, it must go in the "keep" pile.
Even trash isn't trash. In the boys' bathroom drawer I found a puffy purple "P" sticker - no doubt off of some craft that Paul made at church. Can't throw that away. It stays in the drawer right next to the hydrocortizone cream and the q-tips.
A while back we got our carpets cleaned and we moved the boys' bulletin boards into the garage and never moved them back. Yesterday, I was looking at Paul's: covered in Spongebob stickers, pictures from friends, and a photo of a minor-league baseball player who was a hero to Paul. Some of the items I remember helping him put up - carefully finding just the right spot; other things I don't remember at all. And that made me think of how many moments, events and routine days that I've forgotten. So many... and that makes me mad. I'm grateful for Jack - he remembers so much more than I do. I love to hear him re-tell a story about Paul that I've forgotten.
I pulled a framed print out from behind our armoir and dusted it off for the garage sale. Then, in it's place, I put Paul's bulletin board. It made me smile to think that I was selling a work of art for pennies on the dollar and replacing it with a junkie bulletin board littered with precious items taped on by tiny fingers.... far more valuable
Last night, after Whit went to bed, Jack and I returned to the garage to continue sorting and pricing. The radio was on and I heard a song that reminded me of Paul that I haven't heard since he died. Jack recognized it, too and looked at me immediately. I almost turned it off, but decided not to. So there we were, standing in our garage, knee-deep in books, legos and kitchen utensils, hugging each other and crying. I don't think the neighbors saw us, but I can't be sure.
Reaching back in the dark corners of closets and unearthing long-forgotten items brings back some wonderful memories. It made me start to think about what I've missed out on this last year and a half without Paul: how many laughs I've missed (about 952), how many kisses and hugs I've missed (5,674), how many Nascars I haven't had to buy (37), how many times I haven't had to answer the question,"How much bites do I have to eat?" (474), how many hand-print crafts I've missed bringing home (8), how many nights I haven't had to go back to the boys room to tell them to stop talking (162), how many time-outs I've avoided giving (2).
I don't know how much money I'll make at this garage sale, but the time I've spent with Paul this week has been priceless...
February 13, 2009
Nothing Unusual
A few days ago, I was just minding my own business, doing some benign chores around the house. I remembered a tissue box that was empty, so I went to the bathroom to find a replacement. When I looked under the sink for the tissue, I saw something that reminded me of Paul. So I sat down on the bathroom floor and cried for 20 minutes.
I miss him more today than ever before...
I miss him more today than ever before...
February 9, 2009
Pray for Ali
I found about about Ali through the Preemptive Love Coalition a "grass roots" organization which facilitates the life-saving heart surgeries for Iraqi children (the medical facilities do not exist in Iraq, so these kids have to be sent to other countries like Israel and Turkey to receive the surgery). It has challenged me to know that the heart surgery that Whit so easily received here in the States is completely out of reach for most Iraqi kids, many of whom suffer from the exact same condition as Whit (Tetralogy of Fallot).
Ali is from Jordan, but for the past year, he and his father have been in Israel receiving medical treatment. Recently, doctors have declared that they have done all they can for him, and his father has decided to take him home to his family. Read about Ali and pray for this precious child of God.
And while you're at it, check out Jack's blog for another piece of artwork...
Ali is from Jordan, but for the past year, he and his father have been in Israel receiving medical treatment. Recently, doctors have declared that they have done all they can for him, and his father has decided to take him home to his family. Read about Ali and pray for this precious child of God.
And while you're at it, check out Jack's blog for another piece of artwork...
February 6, 2009
You know, I have to admit, I doubt myself in this new world of blogging. There are many times when I believe it's ridiculous and just a tad self-absorbed to believe that anyone really WANTS to hear my daily drudgery.
But then, I figure if you don't, then you just wouldn't read it. So, just know that while it's therapeutic for me to be "forced" to think my thoughts through enough to get them in writing, I completely understand the possibility of it all being trite and mundane to the rest of the world.
I guess that's just my way of apologizing for not having anything monumental to say.
The other day, I was working on a picture project, and I went through some old photo albums. Jack was about 2 years old and our only child at the time. It's really difficult for me to even remember only having one son. Paul and Whit weren't even a thought to us yet.
I looked at pictures of Jack sitting in the floor beside my grandmother... my grandmother who packed peanut butter crackers and cokes into a basket and took me on long walks and picnics... my grandmother who told me Bible Stories in bed at night without tiring for as long as I would ask, "just one more." ... my sweet ma-maw who passed away a few years ago.
I saw pictures of Jack in her tiny kitchen... that kitchen where she made countless batches of homemade biscuits for over 60 years... that tiny little area that always smelled of coffee and somehow became the focal point of all the huge family gatherings... that kitchen full of so many memories of my childhood (not to mention the childhood of my dad and his siblings)... that kitchen in the house which has been updated and sold to complete strangers.
I looked at pictures of Jack with my Aunt Ann, who, although she had no children of her own, always bought the perfect gifts at every celebration... my aunt who patiently listened to all my little-girl stories and worries and always had a kind word to return... my aunt who played dress up and rolled my hair like a princess... my Aunt Ann who is now suffering from Alzheimer's and doesn't even remember my name.
These pictures were taken just about 9 years ago. Nine short years, and yet so much has changed... so much that I would've never imagined. It makes me wonder what the next 9 will bring.
I know that God doesn't operate in a "time line" the way we do, and that He knows the future, but I think He was amazingly wise to not afford us that same ability. If I had known then what I know now, I.... well, I don't know how I would've coped. But, God hadn't given me the grace to cope 9 years ago because I didn't need it. He gave it to me only when I needed it.
I have been disturbed this week by a simple verse in Proverbs 31: "She [an excellent wife] smiles at the future." It disturbs me because I fear the future more than I smile at it. I fear that the cruelty of this world is not through with me yet. I fear that the next 9, 18 or 27 years could possibly be more tragic than the last.
And that's because I'm looking at my circumstances. I've got my eyes on the storm - or, in this case, just the possibility of some dark clouds looming in the distance - instead of on my Savior.
The excellent wife in Proverbs 31 smiles at the future not because her future is only full of happy things, but because she sees her future BEHIND the face of God. She knows that whatever her future holds, God's hand of provision and abundance is there. She knows that He collects her tears in a bottle and has inscribed her name on the palm of His hand. She not only knows it, but she BELIEVES it and she ACTS on it.
I know it, too. I know it because the Bible tells me it's so. I also believe it. I believe it because I've seen it in my own life.
Now, I just have to act on it...
But then, I figure if you don't, then you just wouldn't read it. So, just know that while it's therapeutic for me to be "forced" to think my thoughts through enough to get them in writing, I completely understand the possibility of it all being trite and mundane to the rest of the world.
I guess that's just my way of apologizing for not having anything monumental to say.
The other day, I was working on a picture project, and I went through some old photo albums. Jack was about 2 years old and our only child at the time. It's really difficult for me to even remember only having one son. Paul and Whit weren't even a thought to us yet.
I looked at pictures of Jack sitting in the floor beside my grandmother... my grandmother who packed peanut butter crackers and cokes into a basket and took me on long walks and picnics... my grandmother who told me Bible Stories in bed at night without tiring for as long as I would ask, "just one more." ... my sweet ma-maw who passed away a few years ago.
I saw pictures of Jack in her tiny kitchen... that kitchen where she made countless batches of homemade biscuits for over 60 years... that tiny little area that always smelled of coffee and somehow became the focal point of all the huge family gatherings... that kitchen full of so many memories of my childhood (not to mention the childhood of my dad and his siblings)... that kitchen in the house which has been updated and sold to complete strangers.
I looked at pictures of Jack with my Aunt Ann, who, although she had no children of her own, always bought the perfect gifts at every celebration... my aunt who patiently listened to all my little-girl stories and worries and always had a kind word to return... my aunt who played dress up and rolled my hair like a princess... my Aunt Ann who is now suffering from Alzheimer's and doesn't even remember my name.
These pictures were taken just about 9 years ago. Nine short years, and yet so much has changed... so much that I would've never imagined. It makes me wonder what the next 9 will bring.
I know that God doesn't operate in a "time line" the way we do, and that He knows the future, but I think He was amazingly wise to not afford us that same ability. If I had known then what I know now, I.... well, I don't know how I would've coped. But, God hadn't given me the grace to cope 9 years ago because I didn't need it. He gave it to me only when I needed it.
I have been disturbed this week by a simple verse in Proverbs 31: "She [an excellent wife] smiles at the future." It disturbs me because I fear the future more than I smile at it. I fear that the cruelty of this world is not through with me yet. I fear that the next 9, 18 or 27 years could possibly be more tragic than the last.
And that's because I'm looking at my circumstances. I've got my eyes on the storm - or, in this case, just the possibility of some dark clouds looming in the distance - instead of on my Savior.
The excellent wife in Proverbs 31 smiles at the future not because her future is only full of happy things, but because she sees her future BEHIND the face of God. She knows that whatever her future holds, God's hand of provision and abundance is there. She knows that He collects her tears in a bottle and has inscribed her name on the palm of His hand. She not only knows it, but she BELIEVES it and she ACTS on it.
I know it, too. I know it because the Bible tells me it's so. I also believe it. I believe it because I've seen it in my own life.
Now, I just have to act on it...
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