A Year Ago, My Prayers Changed By: Sarah

A year ago my prayers changed. 

I had spent the two years prior telling the Lord what my timing was, telling Him what I needed.  What I wanted was what He should have wanted for me.  After disappointment, after disappointment, after disappointment I became a little disenchanted with prayer.

I have been on my knees, praying in utter desperation and have been denied.  And my trust wavered.

I have been pregnant 8 times and I have three amazing children.    Each loss, though, resulted in time spent contemplating God’s relationship with me and my relationship with Him.

For the past 3 years my husband and I have hoped and prayed for another little one in our home.

I wrestled with the Lord.  I tried over and over again to make Him understand.

Trusting others is no easy task.  When my kids walk up or down stairs, I still turn to each of them and tell them to be careful on the stairs.  Yes.  Even my eleven year old, who has become quite proficient at walking.  I just don’t trust that they will be careful on their own without my warning.  Anytime my husband disciplines our children I hover near by, ready to step in, just in case he doesn’t know what to do.  Umm.  He’s a vice principle of a school and a veteran elementary teacher.  He knows discipline.  I could see this pattern continuing as I counseled with the Lord.

But a year ago my prayers changed.  I stopped wrestling and I submitted.  I conceded that God had more foresight for my life than I.  I didn’t necessarily do this willingly.  I had no other recourse than to relinquish control.

 I came to this conclusion after many experiences, and many moments pondering and listening to this talk, which spoke so directly to me.  She had 3 children already.  She wanted more.  She had been denied.  She began feeling all of the same things I had been feeling. 

Her humility and willingness to trust the Lord was so impressive to me.  She promised to do whatever was asked of her and I was scared to offer this kind of prayer.  I doubted my own dedication, my ability to keep a promise like that. 

So when I spoke to the Lord this time I told Him the size of my family was in His hands.  I cried.  And then I made plans for myself that didn’t include another person in our family.

At first I had to remind myself quite often that I was leaving this in the Lord’s hands, but soon the peace of that decision overtook me.  The Lord confirmed to me over and over again that He knew best.  I felt still small stirrings inside that let me know that trusting was a happier road. 

And I began to look forward, making plans to embrace the next stage of my life with all of my children in school full time.  Nothing I came up with felt right but I continued my search for my new place in the world.

And then a few months ago, out of the blue, I took a home pregnancy test and got a positive result.  I was stunned, to say the least.  I actually began laughing hysterically.

I’m so grateful that I didn’t continue my wrestle with the Lord.  The past year could have been lived in turmoil; my resentment building and that dark shadow that follows loss of faith could have become a permanent fixture.  Continuing that fight wouldn’t have changed the outcome, but it sure would have affected the quality of my life, my family’s life and my relationship with my Savior.

This brings me to one of my all time favorite quotes from C.S. Lewis from his book Mere Christianity:

“Give me all of you!!!  I don’t want so much of your time, so much of your talents and money, and so much of your work.  I want YOU!!!  ALL OF YOU!!  I have not come to torment or frustrate the natural man or woman, but to KILL IT!  No half measures will do.  I don’t want to only prune a branch here and a branch there; rather I want the whole tree out!  Hand it over to me, the whole outfit, all of your desires, all of your wants and wishes and dreams.  Turn them ALL over to me, give yourself to me and I will make of you a new self---in my image.  Give me yourself and in exchange I will give you Myself.  My will, shall become your will.  My heart, shall become your heart.”

I continue to hesitantly offer the Lord my life, branch by branch, working toward the trunk and roots of my desires, wishes and dreams.  With each piece of myself I give up, I find more peace and more happiness.  When new wrestles begin, I hope I can remember to stop wrestling and start trusting.

A Breath of Fresh Air By: Sarah

• 
  
• As I walked into the warehouse store, clutching Isaac's hand tightly, I was anticipating the rest of the day. We had a limited amount of time to shop, get lunch and get Isaac to preschool. I was lost in my thoughts of calculating the day ahead, staying on time, and keeping everything and everyone under control.  
• I was focused. I was driven. I was not to be diverted.

• As I crossed the parking lot, ready to enter the doors, a rather ordinary looking middle aged man was leaving. He wasn't taller than 5'9" or 5'10". He was wearing a pressed plaid shirt which was tucked neatly into his jeans which were held up with a black leather dress belt. He was bald on top and his remaining graying hair was neatly clipped around his ears and cut short and tidy in the back. His gray mustache was trimmed conservatively above his upper lip and he wore a nondescript pair of glasses. He was the spitting image of normal, mediocre.
• I probably wouldn't have even taken notice of him or his shopping cart full of bulk items, except for the fact that as he exited the store, he took off at a sprint for about 10 feet, hopped on the back of the cart, and this 55-ish year old man rode his cart, 8 year old style, all the way to his car.

  And in that surprising moment I stopped and watched him. And I envied him. That he could give himself permission for gratuitous fun. To be carefree.

  I love the idea of being carefree. Not all the time, but I crave more of those moments.

  I want to feel the euphoria of belly laughing. Everyday, catch my breath, make eye contact with the cause of my laughter and then belly laugh all over again.

  

  
  Even as I write this I find myself thinking of ways I could be more carefree with my children, because it would benefit them to see their mom having fun, because it would build and bond our relationships. But the guy at the store didn't have any kids with him. He was riding that cart because... Well I don't know why. Maybe for no reason at all but that it was fun and it felt good to fly through the parking lot like that. And I think that's what I was envious of.

  Every once in awhile I want to do something, not because it is productive, but because it is a breathe of fresh air into a structured life.

  The struggle is knowing or remembering what that thing is that makes me feel that way, and then giving myself permission to do it..
• I want more of the feeling that flows over a person when they lie down at the top of a grassy hill and roll down, giggling, grass flying, not worrying about dirt or grass stains.
• I want more of the feeling that fills your souls when you throw your head back and ride the shopping cart full throttle through the grocery store parking lot. 
• And I want to do it because I want to do it. Not because it is the responsible thing to do, or because my kids will think I'm silly. I spend so much energy trying to keep it all together and sometimes I just want to let it all go.
• I spent my adolescence trying to "find myself" and I spent the last twelve years losing myself.
• I adore that I lost myself in my husband 12 years ago. And I savor how I lost myself all over again each time I welcomed a new baby into our home. I love that I lost myself, and I wouldn't change it for all of the world.
• I am not the same person I was. I thank God that I have changed. I love how I have grown and deepened. I have learned so much.  In that time I have discovered how talented and hard working the man I married is. I have learned where each of my kids' tickle spots are and what each of their distinct personalities need from me in any given moment. But, since losing myself 12 years ago I've been thinking lately, perhaps it is time for me to discover this new person in me.  What makes me laugh?  What satisfies my creative urges now?  What is it that makes me feel free?
• And it is going to be so fun figuring me all out.

New Perceptions By: Sarah

Things are not always how we perceive. 

One year, when John was teaching 3^rd grade, he dressed up as Frankenstein for Halloween.  His costume was awesome.

I couldn't find the Frankenstein picture, so her is his Halloween
Costume from this year, with the kids as minions 

Unfortunately, Halloween was the first day of school for a large group of African refugees.  One of whom was placed in John’s class.  Many in this group had never even seen indoor plumbing.  I’m not sure who’s bright idea it was to start these kids on Halloween day, but they did, and this poor little girl, who spoke no English, entered her first day of school in America to meet her new teacher, Frankenstein, and her classmates, an assortment of devils, fairies, and other gory and fantastical creatures.  Not long into the day’s festivities a student approached John and said, “Mr. Kelly, the new girl is coloring her face with green marker.” 

I can’t even begin to imagine what that little girl thought of her new environment.  With what she knew of the situation, coloring her face with marker made perfect sense.

By 18 months, my girls were both early talkers and exceptional communicators.  When Isaac was 18 months old, I started to notice some differences.  Isaac had very few words.  The discrepancy was disturbing, and when I voiced my concern to anyone from friends and family to my pediatrician they all chalked it up to the fact that he was a boy and had big sisters to talk for him (which they did!).  By the time he was three I really began to worry.  He still had very few words and wasn’t stringing them together to make sentences.  He became frustrated very easily and spent about 70% of the day tantruming and fighting with me.  Needless to say, I was not enjoying parenting and I felt horribly guilty.  One word from me at the store could send him into a fit that would force me to leave the store.  I felt captive in my home, never knowing which Isaac I would get when we went out.  Sometimes he was compliant, affectionate, and charming, other times he was angry, defiant, and lashed out at me violently.  Often times I would return from what was supposed to be a short trip to the grocery store in tears and exhausted having bought nothing.

I was doing all of the stuff the experts say to do, but none of it was working, so I concluded I must be doing it wrong.  I was failing and it was dispiriting and publicly humiliating.  People would point at us and whisper or not whisper and just say what a horrible boy I had.  Others would try to discipline Isaac for me.  I heard, “Just give him to me for a weekend, I’ll straighten him out for you.”  Or, “Are you sure he doesn't have a chemical imbalance?”  I'd receive looks of disapproval when I lost my temper and when I was patient.  Nothing I did was right to anyone looking on.  

I felt like a complete failure.  As he was judged by others, my heart broke for Isaac.

One day the girls were talking about ice cream and Isaac flew into a rage, screaming and yelling at them.  He kept shouting, “I NOT SCREAMING, I NOT SCREAMING!” and a light turned on in my head.  I thought, "He isn't HEARING them".  The problem was solved and I was ready for a course of action.

I took him to our pediatrician and recounted the “ice cream vs. I scream” exchange I had witnessed.  At this particular appointment Isaac threw a fit and the doctor finally got to see first hand what I had been trying to explain for so long.  His tantrum was big enough to draw the front desk receptionists back to the exam room to see if everything was okay.  He bit me and drew blood.  He kicked and screamed and, defeated, I began to cry.   The doctor gave me a recommendation for a hearing test and an ENT for Isaac along with a lot of sympathy and compassion.  

I went to the hearing test very confident that Isaac’s diagnosis would be hearing loss due to multiple ear infections in infancy.  I actually felt relieved.  My elementary school was a magnet school for the deaf, I have deaf cousins, and a friend with deaf children. I had seen first hand happy, healthy, confident children and adults who were deaf.  It would be a challenge, but we could handle it.

So when his hearing test came back completely normal, I have to admit, I was devastated.  I know that sounds weird, but I was.  This put the blame for his behaviors back on my parenting.  I WAS failing.  It WAS my fault.   I had no answers.  No course of action. 

When my pediatrician received the results from the ENT, she proposed that a speech and language pathologist test Isaac.

That experience is a whole blog post all in itself.  I’ll just say that we spent more time trying to pry Isaac off the door handle of the pathologist’s office while he screamed, “I’M DONE!  TAKE ME HOME MOMMY!”   than actually testing Isaac.  I also cried at those appointments.

His final diagnosis:  Developmental Delay with a significant delay in receptive language.  Many of his symptoms aligned with a disorder called “Auditory Processing Disorder” which, very simply put, is like dyslexia for the ears.  (Testing for this disorder isn't done until a child is 7-8 years old)

Nothing had changed and everything had changed.  I realized that the reality of Isaac’s world was very different than I had perceived.  Isaac still threw colossal fits, but I stopped thinking that I was doing everything wrong and that Isaac was doing everything wrong.  I finally understood that Isaac spent most of his time guessing what was being communicated to him, which left him feeling frustrated and defensive.   And because of this he had learned bad habits and negative coping skills.  In a sense, I stopped "coloring my face green with a marker".

I stopped feeling enraged at his tantrums and instead felt compassion.   (Most of the time at least) Which was a huge relief for both of us.  I believe our love for each other deepened during this time and I finally was able to get to know Isaac.

He still was put on time out, tantrums weren’t tolerated, but with a change in perception, the rage and despair I felt was gone.  

This solved half of my problem.  

To all outsiders he looked like a normal, very naughty and spoiled little boy.  And I felt just like this woman:

 (http://www.mamamia.com.au/clickablewomen/her-husband-had-an-accident/).

 I wanted to pin a sign on Isaac saying, “I have a delay.  Sometimes it makes me feel mad, frustrated, and scared, so I act angry to protect myself.  I’m working on it.  Be patient with me.  Love me anyway.”

Discussing this with another mom who has children with special needs, she advised me, “The most important people in his world now know what Isaac needs.  The next battle is learning how to let go of the people that don't want to understand.”

So I’m working on letting go.

That being said...

I can’t tell you how many times a simple encouraging smile from a stranger watching me struggle has saved me (and probably Isaac too.)

Grateful By: Sarah

Early morning hours spent pondering 

Attempting to walk a mile in so many others' shoes 

I know the fit isn't exact, but the experience is unique 

I wonder how to be productive with these heavy loads 

I wonder how to make sad...beautiful 

I ask how

And the answer is a feeling that swells from deep within 

And the only name for it is crude and oversimplified 

'Gratitude'

Not the kind thrown in at the end of a sentence as you turn to leave, with no eye contact

But the gratitude of long held embraces that include white knuckles, because if you let go you might fall 

The kind where attempting to speak it out loud leaves your soul searching for words that were never invented

The kind of gratitude that saves from despair

Strange gratitude, that somehow includes tears and grief all lumped together with peace and assurance

And all this turmoil and anguish and joy and contentment can come together because of Drops of Blood shed in a garden 2000 years ago

And I ponder this

 
And. I. Am. So. Grateful.

No More "At Least" By: Sarah

When John and I were first married I insisted on a fresh Christmas tree.  I loved the fresh tree smell: being at the tree lot, standing out in that dark snowy night air, holding up each one in search of the perfect shape, bartering with the sketchy tree salesman like you would a car salesmen. Real trees are tradition.  Real trees create family memories.  No fakes for my family. 

But then the real tree thing became a huge stressor.  Paying out 50$ or more during the Christmas season became one more strain on our already taut budget.  Once we got it home dry needles were strewn throughout the house as we struggled to heave the beast through the tiny doorframe, then we had to string lights on those sharp, sappy, branches for HOURS while the kids could only sit and watch eventually losing interest and disappearing to their rooms.   All of this caused some (ahem) serious discussions between my spouse and I, as he was not nearly as committed to the real tree experience as I was.

After a few years I finally relented and we purchased a fraudulent, fake, artificial tree.  While I didn’t want to admit it, it was really nice to “open the box and put up the tree” and for the first few years I told myself, “Well, at least we have a tree.” And I thought I was being positive.

This past year our youth group went canoeing.  One of the young men was having serious anxiety about getting into the boat.  Like a for real anxiety attack.  He finally got himself into the boat and then started to panic so he returned to shore after a very short time.  When he got out of the boat he said, “I hate that I am this way.”    Then he said, disappointed, “At least I got in the boat.”  

The sound of that phrase rang in my ears as if he had given himself a sharp backhand before complimenting himself.  And ever since, the sting of my own “at least” has wounded me over and over again.

Panic and Anxiety have plagued me since the moment I saw sweet little Miles in the water.   One benchmark for healing I set for myself was taking my kids swimming.  I would go to the local rec center and stand by the glass doors and watch other children swimming and I’d get that familiar feeling of foreboding, the sinking in my chest, the racing heartbeat, and my arms would start to go numb down to my fingers and I’d know that a panic attack was working its way out.And I’d leave.  I’d sit in the car, frustrated with my inability to control the physical reaction that came no matter how firmly I told myself everything was okay.  I’d say, “Well, at least I tried.”  Recognizing the attempt.  Acknowledging my failure. 

After a few months of this I was finally in the water with my kids.  I’d stand in the water neurotically opening and closing my fists fighting backs tears and fighting the urge to pull every kid out of the water who stayed under water for more than 5 seconds.   And I’d say to myself, “I hate that I’m like this.”  And then I’d say to myself, “ At least I’m here.”

I watched my kids one day, amazed at their resilience: splashing, laughing, enjoying themselves with no fear.  And I internally celebrated their achievement.  With no strings attached.  I thanked God that they were able to get back in the water. 

Then I realized the damage “At Least” was doing to me and instead of saying, “At least I am here.”  I said, “I am here.  After everything I have been through, I am here.”

And it felt like a cleansing breath of fresh air.

Try it.  Take your most often said “at least” phrase and lose the “at least”.

“At least I did the dishes.”

“At least I made dinner.”

“At least I showered today.”

“At least My husband loves me.”

“At least I didn’t yell at the kids today.”

“At least My family knows I love them.”

It feels like a completely new message and it feels really good.

Driving Bus By: Jenny

I used to drive a 'bus' (a large van) for a small elementary school. It's a private school and there are a little more than 30 students that go there. Many of the children that go to this school  come from a home where addictions to drugs, alcohol or gambling are very common. The children would all talk to each other in the mornings or in the afternoons as I drove them to their destinations. They would share stories about the chaos at home: family members in and out of jail, violent arguments, teenage siblings having babies, court dates, or late night parties. My heart would break for each of these kids as  I got to know them and their own personal story. They carried burdens that I have never had to carry. 

There was one particular second grader who seized my heart. He was spunky and feisty. He was curious and mouthy. He was usually in trouble and he made me laugh with his antics. He drove me crazy, but I grew to love this little man.

One morning he got on the 'bus' and confided to me in a voice that sounded much too grown up for a  seven year old, “My mom moved out of our house, Miss Jenny. She left because I'm so bad.” His mom had left his step-dad, his baby brother and him because....I don't know why. But she left. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

My eyes filled with tears, “Oh, honey. You're not a bad kid. That isn't why your mom left.” 

My tongue was unable to form the words of comfort that I wanted to convey. What words could I give to this little, tender, rejected second grader? You can't replace a mom with a bus driver. 

The weeks went on, he went back to being the zany, wild little kid, with a band aid plastered over his heart. After  a little more than a month, he got on the bus one morning and he chirped to me, “My mom is meeting me at my bus stop after school today, Miss Jenny!” It was the first time he would see his mom since she left.

My heart leaped and danced and cheered and I said, “That's great!”

That afternoon as we neared his stop, I looked into the rear view mirror. His forehead was pressed up to the window and he was chanting to himself, “Please be there. Please be there. Please be there. Please be there.”

We pulled into his stop. 

She. 

Wasn't. 

There. 

My chest felt like it was going to cave in, my eyeballs burned, my toes curled and grabbed at the bottom of my shoes and my stomach muscles tightened. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

“She's not here.” His voice was final, solemn, very matter of fact. 

Trying to be hopeful and optimistic, I said, “Maybe she's just running late. We can wait for her.” 

We both knew that wasn't true.

“No, Miss Jenny. She isn't coming.”

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

His shoulders slouched, he stared straight ahead trying to compose himself. The kindergartner sitting next to him timidly patted his shoulder, “It's okay. My parents lie to me all the time too.”

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

*****

In the book The Hiding Place by Corrie ten Boom, she shares an experience she had with her father when they were traveling on a train together:

“And so seated next to my father in the train compartment, I suddenly asked, "Father, what is sex sin?"
He turned to look at me, as he always did when answering a question, but to my surprise he said nothing. At last he stood up, lifted his traveling case off the floor and set it on the floor.
“Will you carry it off the train, Corrie?" he said.
I stood up and tugged at it. It was crammed with the watches and spare parts he had purchased that morning.
“It's too heavy," I said.
“Yes," he said, "and it would be a pretty poor father who would ask his little girl to carry such a load. It's the same way, Corrie, with knowledge. Some knowledge is too heavy for children. When you are older and stronger, you can bear it. For now you must trust me to carry it for you.” 

*****

There I sat, watching this second grader, a boy, dragging a man-size suitcase of sorrow off the bus. He seemed to be pulling his leaden luggage behind him as he turned and said, “See you Monday, Miss Jenny.” 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch.

Fortunately, this isn't the end of his story. Unfortunately, I don't know what the end of his story is. I am sure it is full of grace. I am sure it has tears and anger. I am sure there are tender mercies. I am sure there will be triumphs and failures.

I have had plenty of time to think of my little bus passenger and this experience (4 years). I still tear up when I think of his pleading and his little head pressed against the window. Honestly, I still don't have an answer. I can't explain why. 

Ouch. Ouch. Ouch

And so this is when I think of all that I do know. I do know Jesus Christ can carry our burdens. I know He does this, not out of obligation or duty, but because of His immense love for us. I know that there is an eternal plan, a perfect plan, His Plan. I know that I am a part of that plan. I know that my little man, my little second grader, whose tough exterior melted my heart has a part in His plan as well. Although I lack understanding, I know that all those hurts can be our strengths through the Atonement. 

I pray and think of my little man often. I pray for guardian angels to help him carry his luggage on his journey. 

During this holiday season, I challenge you to help someone burdened down with baggage. Please share it with us! How have you helped others with their luggage? How has someone helped you?

Beautiful Disaster By: Sarah

When I consider the life and death of Christ I have often tried to place myself in the shoes of those surrounding him.  If I had grown up next to him, would I have joined the crowd that threw him out of Nazareth when he announced his divinity?  Would I have followed, that very moment, if I were hard at work in the Sea of Galilee when Jesus called, “Come, follow me.”  

Would I have slept at the gates of Gethsemane as he bled from every pore?  

Christ at Gethsemane By Carl Heinrich Bloch

And when he was taken and crucified would I have believed that all he did was for naught?  Would I have thought that all was lost? 

I can only imagine the prayers of Mary the Mother of Christ.  I can only guess what Mary Magdalene’s heart spoke to God.  

The Pieta' By Michelangelo

I can only speculate at the pleading desires of the apostles, who loved their master deeply, when they saw Him, bloodied and beaten, carrying that cross up to Calvary.  

CHRIST ON THE ROAD TO CALVARY - GIOVANNI BATTISTA TIEPOLO

They must have begged for divine intervention.  They must have wondered if God had forgotten them.  They must have said, “This cannot be.  This cannot happen.”  And yet it did.  Why must have engulfed their minds day and night.

After Miles passed away I spent months in a fog, wondering why.  I had moments of clarity, when the depression would lift and I could feel the spirit speak to me and in one of these moments of clarity I wrote this:

It is as we rise from the most difficult and heartbreaking trials that we finally see, actually experience, that the Lord can make more out of us than we could ever make of ourselves.  If left to ourselves we would always avoid the deep valleys and briars and thorns.  We would never choose the heartbreak and the feelings of intense loss, so the Lord chooses them for us.  And as we fall we question, “Why this?”  “Why now?”  “Why me?” While the Lord keeps quietly, lovingly chanting, “Trust me.  Trust me.  Trust me.  This will be beautiful.”  And as you rise from the ashes of the fire you think, “I never knew I could FEEL like this.  I never knew I could love so deeply.  I never knew, Lord.”  And you are changed.  Eternally.  Not necessarily for the ‘happier’ but for the holier.  Which was the goal all along.

“For a seed to achieve its greatest expression, it must come completely undone.  The shell cracks, its insides come out and everything changes.  To someone who doesn’t understand growth, it would look like complete destruction.” –Cynthia Occelli

 

If the seed didn’t break open and destroy itself, it would never be anything but a seed.  But we weren’t made to only hold potential.  We were made to break open, grow, and become. 

God doesn’t hold us in his hands, commenting on what pretty seeds we are.  He nourishes us with love, blessings, and yes, adversity, and trials.

The fact of the matter remains:

Christ had to suffer to atone.  He had to die to be resurrected.  If the Greatest of All condescended to this, can we not expect a portion of the same for our own mortal existence? 

And if His vast suffering created mercy and His brutal death produced eternal life, then how can we not expect the product of our suffering to not have some portion of radiance, especially if we are His?

Perhaps, like those surrounding Christ during His mortal life, we are not in the middle of a disaster, but instead are witnessing ourselves being saved.