Of Fighting to the Pain

My brother, in a recent blog post, challenged believers to not only be willing to die for Christ, but, even more so, to be willing to live for him.  This is such a painful reminder because, for many reasons, it seems so much easier to do the former.

When we die for Christ, our firm stand for Who He is and for the Word of His love is our final act.  A resounding glory and testament to the source of our faith.  We do not find ourselves remaining on this earth to "live with the consequences" of our unwavering solidarity in Christ.  A martyr, instead, travels directly from his final battle in Christ's name to the arms of his very Savior.  There are no stops between.  A death for a cause and eternal life at the throne of our Creator.  How beautiful.

But when what follows after our stand is not an earthly death, but life, a life wherein we have lost our pride and all we have built for ourselves has come crashing around us, this seems, often, a fate worse than death.

Much as it is stated in the famed The Princess Bride, a fight "to the pain" is not even comparable to death.  As Christians, a battle to the pain for our Savior leaves us with perfect ears to hear the mocking, the insults, the unanswerable questions of faith which leave us broken, crying out to God, the only source of healing. 

A life lived in unwavering commitment to our Christ is one we hardly recognize, for it is difficult to find in our neutral society.  One where it's ok to wear the name, as long as you don't play the game too hard. 

This is why being a martyr seems so easy at times.  I know how to die for Christ - say the word in the right place and it's all over.  But how do I live for Christ; truly, whole-heartedly, live?  That is a question which is, decidedly, more difficult to answer.

Of Growing Old

"I think this place is too hip for us."

That's what my husband said when we left Pink Swirl this evening.  True, the glittery tables, hot pink walls and posh white (faux) leather furnishings were definitely not how we'll be decorating our living room anytime soon, but sometimes, just sometimes, I like to imagine I'm still young and cool (well, okay, let's not pretend I was ever cool) enough to hang out where the "hip" kids are. 

Then I realize we're the only ones silently cursing the lack of high chairs and realize maybe he's right.

It's also been an interesting feeling lately when I find myself watching my annoyingly cute Disney shows (my "guilty pleasure") and relating more to the parents than the kids.  'Tis a sad day, indeed.

When did I get so old?  I'm willing to bet it was the day I gave birth to my first child.  Or I suppose I could date it further, to the morning that second pink line showed up on the little white stick.  

Either way, I'm here.  I suppose I might as well embrace it.  Next stop: mini-vans and mommy-jeans.  (And my teenage self finds it sad that the above actually sounds really nice).

Of Hair

I just knew, from the moment I learned I was growing a boy in my womb, that he would have a head of hair, just to spite me and the fact that I had to wait a whole two years before I could stick a barrette on the head of my darling girl - and even that only stays for (maybe) ten minutes before sliding right out.

Sure enough, out came my Emmett with adorable stick-straight hair poking out all over.  From the first time I saw him, that precious hair (besides the obvious anatomy structures) has been what distinguished him as a boy.  It just has that little-boy look to it.  And I love it.

I love the way it feels, soft and fuzzy, after a bath; how it glitters with hidden flecks of gold when the light hits it just right; the way it sways loosely when we dangle him upside down and he giggles away; I even love the little baby comb-over we do in the back to hide his bald spot.

I will definitely shed a tiny tear when I have to take scissors to that boy's adorable locks.  But for now I simply let it run wild and loose, just like my little crawler himself.

Of Busy

I had one of those mommy moments today.  One of those moments when I see myself in my daughter and it makes me want to weep from sorrow at the innocence in her words which reflect my failure as a parent.

While riding in the car, she tossed her Glo-Worm to the floor and declared, "I don't want my baby."

"Oh, I'm sorry to hear that.  You don't want your baby?"

"No, I'm busy."

There was a distinct stabbing in my gut.

When we arrived at home, her all in fits because we didn't get to visit the park as she had hoped, I encouraged her to retrieve her baby, to carry it into the house and she screamed, repeatedly, "I don't want it!  I'm busy!  I'm busy!  I don't want it!"

Is this what she hears?  When I listen to myself say, once again, "Not right now, baby, Mommy's busy" or "Mommy can't, sweetie, I'm busy,"  is this what she hears?  "I don't want my baby."

I would cry myself to sleep tonight nursing this wound if I wasn't able to remind myself that by the grace of God, I can be renewed.  I can step out of this shell of busy and embrace my life, a simpler, more joy-filled, purposeful life.  Away from "busy."

May I be more cautious with the words I leave lying around in which my daughter can soak.  I mourn for my failures which she may find herself repeating.

Redeem this mess, O, Lord, and begin a new cycle in me - one of appreciating those I love and savoring the un-busy.

Of Tidbits

Today's happenings . . .

• After three weekends worth of travels, we finally made it to church again.  Like a breath of fresh air.

• We are officially the parents of a crawler.  Our little guy has finally learned to coordinate his hands and his knees and is raring to jet-set around this house.  Vacuuming daily?  Check. 

• Everyone napped at the same time.  Most everyone woke up well-rested.  The youngest member of the family, who may have been rudely awakened by a screaming sister (see below) was not quite as content as the rest of us to find himself no longer asleep.

• Philip (whom I referred to as "The Baby Whisperer" when I our children were newborns and would instantly fall to sleep on his chest after wriggling unhappily next to me) has proven his merit as The Toddler Whisperer as well.  While our daughter, who slathered herself with sunscreen after awaking from her nap a tad early, was plopped into the bathtub screaming, per her most recent routine, Philip looked her in the eye, encouraged her to take a deep breath and had her playing with a ball in the tub within minutes.  By the end of the bath she was happily giggling about the ducky which squeaked when squeezed.  Reason #9853 why I am glad I married this man.

• My husband made chocolate chip pancakes for dinner.  #9854.

• We taught Micaiah to play Old Maid.  While there are handicaps allotted for her age, of course, she actually did remarkably well.

• I had the pleasure of hearing Micaiah yell, "Fi, Fi, Fo, Fum!" while playing "Giant" with her Daddy while I put Emmett in his P.J.'s.  That girl always knows how to make a momma smile - whether she means to or not.

• There was a good amount of tickling, wrestling and happy screams for a solid ten-fifteen minutes before bed-time.  File under "Moments Treasured."

A day well-spent.

Of Spring

The dawn of April invited along the true birth of spring.  Gone already are the lion days of March, clinging with the final, bony fingers of winter to the bitter chill of the clouded air.  For two blissful days now, I have enjoyed the spreading of a thin blanket over grass, newly green, only recently recovering from the harsh farewells of the previous season.  My chubby-thighed son sitting his plump, diapered bottom atop the blanket and grasping greedily for the final thin blades of a dying yellow. 

Micaiah, too, is eager for this new season of warmth and brilliant rays of sunlight.  Days lie ahead of running in the yard, chasing iridescent, quickly dissipating bubbles as they dance along the airy afternoon.  She spreads her wings, imagination soaring as she tweets her beautiful bird-song.  Quickly changing her mind, her legs begin a gallop; her mouth opens in a hearty, "Yee-haw!"

And I, I lay on my back, soaking in the heat of the dying sun as twilight gleams.  My son, still resting on the bright green blanket, pounds on my chest - reminiscent of an unnecessary performance of CPR. 
Yes, son, I feel it - in this moment, I am truly alive.

Of Being an April Fool

When I was younger, my parents got a thrill out of duping their intellectually inferior little ones every April 1st.  Whether it was making my sister cry out of fear my dad would lose his job, terrifying us into thinking we would have to walk all the way to Pizza Hut when our car had "run out of gas" or making my sister cry by telling her she couldn't go to Girl Scout camp (or some such event), they got a kick out of their brilliance.

It wasn't until they made my sister cry and my brother angry by shoving cream pies in our faces that they finally gave up the ghost and swore off all future semblances of pranks against their children.  Apparently we weren't very good at taking a joke.

Even though they declared the end of an era, I continued to keep my guard up every year following, just in case.  I couldn't believe my prankster of a father would so quickly give up his old ways.  True to his word, though, he has not attempted another cry of "April Fool's" since that fateful pie-in-the-face day during my fifth-grade year.

In college I tried to hold on to his jokester ways and pass along the fun.  It wasn't until someone gave me a little taste of revenge did I realize I still, apparently, can't take a joke (Thanks, Tiffany, for opening my eyes).

While I, for the most part, have learned to be comfortable in my own skin, confident in who I am, it would appear one of the shreds of insecurities which remain would be my extreme discomfort at finding myself the butt of anyone's joke.  You can ask my husband, being laughed at is one of my biggest pet peeves.

It would appear I have passed this insecurity on to my daughter, as well.  For some reason, every time she uses the potty, she always gives me the most stern and annoyed of faces, declaring angrily, "It's no funny!"  And before you can ask, I do not routinely laugh at my daughter in the bathroom.  I have no idea why she feels the need to yell this every day.  It's just another of her quirks.

So, there you have it.  Next time you visit, don't laugh at the girls of the house and you'll be just fine.